Espressheauxs - Say You Can’t Sleep

You’re not depressed. You just need $250,000 in your bank account.

Should I write a little some some for Jack abbot even tho I’ve never seen the show. The fics I read on here are scrumptious and have left me inspired

---

Happy black history month and fuck trump

The yearning!!! 😭🥹

Companionship | pt. 9

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: You try to move on, until your phone rings.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: Y’ALL ARE SO NICE TO ME!! I may not be able to answer everyone (especially on reblogs), but I appreciate you all so much😭💜

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: age gap, angst, foul language, panic attack, feelings, talk of death (adamson)

not beta read

Every thought screamed for him to turn around and run back into the apartment. It clawed at his insides that he had majorly fucked up. The pieces of the Visa card dug into his palm, sharp and unforgiving. You had cut it up. He had thrown your agreement and your payment in your face and you had already cut the Visa card up.

Michael kept walking, and walking, too embarrassed to turn around. Hot feelings buzzed in his chest, torn between guilt and something that burned unrequited.

Had it really been unreciprocated when you had basically admitted to it? Shame flushed through Michael’s system.

He had wanted to be a good person and not allow someone far too close to half his age to get tangled in his mess. In him. It would not be fair, to you most of all. He had just wanted to walk into your apartment, check to see if you were okay and then end the agreement, even when not having you in his company was the last thing he wanted.

He ended up tearing any hope to shreds. It was not even fair for him to have had any hope, but if you had pushed? I would have given it a chance, the thought stung and bile churned in his stomach. But he had been a fool and fucked it all up anyways.

The thoughts racing through his head felt jumbled and chaotic. Guilt and shame for how it had ended, for how he had hurt you, and something like relief. If you hated him, then there would be nothing to pursue and you would move on. Move on. It felt like acid in his mouth.

This was all for the better, he tried to tell himself. He could hardly imagine anything working between you anyways — between the age gap, the swirling insecurities he had with it, and all the skeletons in his closet. Not to mention his general avoidance of his feelings, or the kind of emotional intimacy long term relationships required. He fucked up anything serious he had ever found himself in. You would have gotten hurt regardless. It was better to rip the bandaid off early and let you go.

A longing sat heavy in his chest, an itch to reach out. A call. Just a call. Just to hear your voice and bathe in the way you had a knack for calming him. Was it weird that he wanted to seek you out even after all he had said? Over some stupid impulsive words strung together by his insecurities over the whole thing. A complete instinctive response to shield his heart from something real. Something that might matter. Something that might hurt.

But he had made it hurt all on his own.

—

Days blurred together, the pain in your hand acting as the only buoy that kept you tethered to your reality. You wanted to sink beneath the waves, let your heartbreak drown you, but the thoughts made you feel even more pathetic.

I didn’t even really know him, your mind sneered. How can you mourn what wasn’t even there?

Perhaps it had been that fact that you had grown to trust him, or the feelings flickering in your heart and in your belly at the very thought of him. Something had clearly been brought to life in your late night conversations, wandering eyes and lingering touches and you hated yourself for it. For the butterflies that still invaded your insides at the thought of his lips against yours, bubbling up your throat until you wanted to scream.

You had to kill the feelings and move on. You only allowed yourself one more day of misery before trying to pick up the pieces.

Every time you caught sight of your hand, edges stitched together, you thought of him. Of how you wished your heart had been more cleanly cut so the jagged edges did not get caught on any wandering thought, forcing you to feel it even more. Forced his stupid handsome face to center stage in your head, the way his eyes softened—

You wondered how the hell you were going to stitch up that wound.

Marsi came by after you had ignored her texts for a few days, showing up with a bottle of wine and junk food.

“I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but it might make you feel better?” Marsi asked when you opened the front door.

You frowned, but let your friend in.

“I texted Erin since she might’ve been able to help with this sort of situation, but apparently she’s in Greece right now. With Craig The Hedgefund Guy.”

“Good for her.” You said monotonously.

Marsi raised an eyebrow, “So…did he not want to cancel the agreement in favor of anything else?”

“No, he wanted to cancel the agreement.” You huffed out.

Marsi waited patiently.

“He just didn’t want me.” You shrugged. “Thought I was just interested in his money.”

“Well, he has been—”

“I know, Marsi. I know.” Your throat got tight in embarrassment. “I just want to forget about it.”

“I’m happy to distract you with my poor excuse of a love life and my dumb professor.”

“Please.”

—

It had been a week. More than a week. Your healing cut was beginning to itch. You had scheduled an appointment with Dana back when you had been in the ER, but you did not want to go back. You had called up your PCP to schedule to get them removed instead. You just had two more days and you could put it all behind you.

There had been distractions in the end of year exams that you had been able to lose yourself in. Late nights became even more common, studying and trying to forget. Your heartbreak had yielded to anger, though the lines between them blurred enough that one was the other and you had a hard time figuring out which was which.

You sat on your bed, hoping that you would perhaps get so tired that you would pass out so you would not have to be alone with your thoughts. The anxiety of your exams was just increasing your turmoil even more.

Time is healing my hand, time will heal this too.

Sitting criss-cross on your bed, your laptop in front of you, you tried to focus on the numbers on the spreadsheet. They blurred together due to the late hour.

Your phone buzzed beside you, and your eyes flickered to see who it was. Your heart lurched into your throat at the sight of Michael’s name.

Heart already beginning to pound, a small amount of heat lighting your skin on fire, your hands beginning to grow clammy. You stared at it, before taking a long blink and rubbing your eyes. Surely, your eyes were playing tricks.

Opening them again, his name still sat there and the buzzing continued. It was late, nearly midnight, and a fear took root. Why is he calling?

With slight hesitation, you reached to answer it before it went to voicemail. The silence of your room was suddenly invaded by the sound of Michael crying. Heavy breathing trying to find rhythm, and panic bloomed from your fear.

You swallowed and just listened. Words got stuck in your throat, and the red hot anger that had been biding its time made you flinch to hang up. How dare he call you out of all people when he was in the middle of a panic attack. Did he not remember the scathing words he had said? Completely ending your agreement, your obligation to talk to him?

Had it been obligation? Or had it been care? Your mind whispered somewhere in a dark corner.

“I-I’m sorry—” he whispered, his voice cutting through the hyperventilated breaths like a siren’s call across the sea of your uncertainty.

Your heart thudded, but you let out a long breath, your edges softening.

“Just take a deep breath, Michael.” You said, trying to pull any sort of emotion from your voice. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not o-okay.” He hiccuped on a sob. “Fuck, I don’t even know why—”

You hushed him.

“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry. I had to take a patient off a ventilator—” He sucked in a sharp breath. “He was—he was gone, but fuck—I didn’t—it felt like—” He resorted back to his tears.

The sound of his desperation clawed through the heat of your anger, finding the soft spot beneath and latching on, sinking its teeth deep. Your own tears welled up. All the frustration, the sorrow, the anger, the heartbreak and your own brutal desperation tangling together in your throat, tears burning your eyes. You cried with him.

With your cheeks wet and sobs crashing through your body, you held your phone tightly to your ear, wishing instead it had been Michael you were holding close. Stupid, foolish girl.

“It brought me back to having to let Adamson go…it felt like I was reliving it all over again.” His breathing still came quickly. “I had to give up on him to save a little girl…and she didn’t even make it.”

Your own sadness bled into your empathy, “Michael…I don’t know what you need me to say. I’m sorry.” Your voice was hoarse. “Just breathe with me.”

You tried to take a deep breath through your nose and back out through your mouth, but it got caught somewhere in your chest. You cried harder.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t—fuck. Today was rough. It was bad. I—I didn’t know who else to call. I needed to hear your voice.”

A part of your heart warmed and you rubbed your eyes. Your thoughts blurred with a thousand questions and a million protests.

“I’m sorry if I’m overstepping. I should—”

“No…stay.”

The line grew quiet, but it didn’t cut off. You had the fleeting thought to hang up and not allow any of it to get any more complicated than it already was, but you could not bring yourself to. You held onto your phone like a life preserver in the storm.

It took several minutes before your breathing began to slow and the tears to dry, and rational thoughts seeped back in. He took a long breath in on the other side.

“I’m really sorry for everything I said.” Michael whispered. “Fuck, that was so wrong of me to do to you.”

“It really hurt.” You told him simply. “I thought—I just—is that really what you think of me?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, it isn’t. I didn’t know how to deal with my feelings, or how the agreement was making me feel. And I took it out on you. That was incredibly unforgivable of me.”

You swallowed, “It was getting complicated, that wasn’t what you signed up for.”

“No, it wasn’t.” He agreed. “It still doesn’t absolve me for everything I said.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

He sighed, “Thank you for picking up anyway.”

You stayed silent, unsure exactly what you wanted to say.

“But the agreement is over. Nothing more to tie us together.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“I don’t want this…distance between us. Even if that means we’re just friends. But I can understand if you want nothing more to do with me.” He said.

You bit your lip, “I can’t just forget what you said, not yet. But I don’t want you to go anywhere, either. I want to figure this out.”

He paused on the other end, “Did you get your stitches out yet?”

“No. I have an appointment with my PCP.”

“Come by the hospital instead? We can start there?”

You thought about it, about seeing him. About the possibility of finding sturdy ground with him again and the possibility of letting something grow without the hindrance of an agreement. Or any external pressure.

“Are you working tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“I originally scheduled to come by tomorrow after work.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Something like hope grew back in your chest.

[ Next ]

Companionship taglist: @queenslandlover-93 @clementine111002 @virgomillie @emily-b @kaygilles @lt-jakeseresin @imonmykneessir @kniselle @gabsgabsvaz @rosiepoise88 @calivia @holdonimwalkingmysnail @valhallavalkyrie9 @blahkateisdone @shadowhuntyi @fuckalrighty @elli3williams @yournerdmodziata @i-know-i-can @dickheadturner @dcgoddess @pittobsessed @glamorizethechaos @blueb33ry-cat @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange @burningpenguinwitch @evienorville @equallyshaw @heyysolsister @justrandomthougt @babygirlagenda

Dr. Robby taglist: @cherriready @seeyalaterinnovator @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @bxxbxy @18lkpeters @flyinglama @hagarsays @mayabbot @anakingreys @happyfox43 @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd

(50 tags have been reached with the combo of all three taglists, so unfortunately The Pitt taglist for this series will be added in a reblog right after this is posted - I’m sorry if this is an inconvenience!)

Companionship | pt. 11

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: A first date and a whole lot of sexual tension.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: Y’all really know how to make a girl feel special!! Thank you for all the likes, comments and reblogs!! You guys have been real troopers through the whole slowburn portion!! Now we move on to (mostly) better things for these lovebirds😌

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: age gap, jitters, anxiety, mild angst (it’s literally just who I am at this point lol), mild fluff, alcohol, talk of Adamson

not beta read

A complex flurry of emotions whirled around in his chest, thoughts exchanging between this is good and this is very bad. One wrong move and he could destroy it all, or he could actually make something real out of it.

It was equally thrilling and terrifying.

He remembered Dana’s eyes on his back as he left on time, skipping out right after giving report to Abbot, after avoiding her questions for over an hour. The curious eyebrow raise from Langdon as McKay had whispered something to him, or the way Princess hovered while you were still present. The way Jack so clearly looked like he wanted to say something, no doubt hearing something in passing from Dana, or the rumor mill buzzing through the hall.

They only got more obvious as the weekend got closer.

“You’ve been leaving consistently on-time recently, boss. Even Abbot noticed.” Dana said with a quirked brow and a knowing smile, “Have anything to do with that pretty girl in here earlier this week?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He lied smoothly, “What girl?”

Dana laughed. “The one you rolled right over McKay to help a few weeks ago? A simple stitch job and you took it. Must be special. Even got her back right away to get them taken out.”

Michael hummed, already knowing that Dana was likely seeing right through him. “Wasn’t Gloria just down here explaining satisfaction scores? You know, making sure each patient is seen and heard.”

“With just her?”

He tried to temper the blush, “Was it? Can’t remember everyone I’ve helped.” He glanced from his computer screen to the opening ambulance doors. “Oh, look at that. Gotta go!”

“Saved by the bell!” Dana called after him.

Langdon approached him later, bouncing on the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets. They had just stabilized a patient and were waiting for Garcia to come and consult.

Langdon blew out a puff of air, “So that woman was totally checking you out the other day.”

Barely sparing him a glance, Michael removed his gloves, “That so?”

“Totally!” Langdon told him eagerly, before flickering his eyes across his face, “There was something there.”

Michael hummed indifferently.

McKay piped up from the side, “Called her a VIP, if I remember right.”

It was hard to miss the way Perlah and Princess exchanged a glance.

“Come get me when Garcia gets here.” He said, departing from the trauma room looking for something to busy his hands — or just keep everyone from asking any more questions. The gossip was never likely to stop, but he hated being the center of it.

It seemed like things never stayed quiet long, since Dana found him sometime later, crossing her arms across her chest.

“VIP, huh?”

Michael let out a long sigh, glancing at the clock and hoping his shift would end already.

—

Michael asked to pick you up, and you accepted easily, pacing around your apartment in heels and the dress you had borrowed from Erin. You half wished you had been able to drive yourself, distract your mind with music or some random radio show, and the lull of Pittsburgh traffic.

He arrived a few minutes early, and knocked on your door, and your heart lurched into your throat. It took a few beats of your heart to steady yourself. It was only Michael.

But now feelings are known and there is no more hiding.

Perhaps that was a good thing.

When you opened the door, he was standing there with a bashful smile and flowers. Lavender, purple hyacinth, and baby’s-breath with green foliage holding it all together. You momentarily forgot to breathe, looking from the flowers in his hands then to his face, face lax with dumb disbelief — a thousand words swirling in your mind immediately going silent.

“You got me flowers.” You said, more so from shock rather than a statement of fact.

“I got you flowers.” He said, trying to gauge your reaction. “I wanted this to be proper, but I haven’t been on a date in forever—”

“They’re beautiful.” You breathed out, ignoring the storm in your chest. “No one’s ever gotten me flowers before.”

Surprise crossed his face momentarily. “That’s a shame. You definitely deserve them.”

A warmth rose to your cheeks, before moving to the side, “Come in. I’ll get a vase.”

Do I own a vase?

He stepped into the apartment, handing the flowers over, watching as the smile lit up your features. You inhaled the scent of them, closing your eyes to savor it. They smelled sweet, with the calming aroma from the lavender, and you sighed in contentment.

“You look beautiful.”

You stopped, looking at him, ignoring the way your ears grew hot, “Thank you. You look—”

Grey chinos with a light tan cardigan buttoned over a white shirt. His long, dark grey woolen coat was left unbuttoned, looking effortlessly in the area between elegant and casual. A carefree sophistication that even in Erin’s expensive dress you felt out of place. His beard was trimmed neatly, hair combed carefully, with a smile that clouded your thoughts.

“—really good.”

He blushed.

You moved into the kitchen while Michael stayed in the tiny foyer, hands in his pockets. You grabbed a pitcher to fill with water, unable to quickly find a vase. The water pitcher would do.

On the drive, you had such an urge to grab his hand. The sight of him with one hand on the wheel, the other loosely hanging off the bottom of it, a relaxation seeping from his posture, made your mind lurch into overdrive. You felt rigid beside him, thinking of a hundred thousand things, overthinking anything you could say — should say — that would have been commonplace for any normal first date.

But you already knew those things.

The silence was riddled with tension, thick and unchecked. The way his fingers flexed on the steering wheel, or lingered when he turned the volume up or down, eyes not-so-subtly looking over at you periodically. Each time it felt like he was stoking a fire low in your belly.

He opened his mouth to trade small talk until you arrived at the restaurant, and the low timbre of his voice cooled the anxiety in your chest and fanned the flames in your abdomen. You felt far too hot in your coat, buzzing with anticipation, with nerves, with wanting.

Peregrin was an elevated, classic, modernized eatery, that felt mildly out of place on the street corner — decorated in fairy lights, hues of blue and grey, and sharp, deliberate angles. It had overpriced appetizers and an overhyped atmosphere, but everything you had heard about the food had been good things.

Your table was ready when you walked in, a few minutes early for your reservation, and you absorbed the interior quickly. Refurbished dark wood floors, light cream walls, a brick wall accented on the far wall, copper fixtures and large windows overlooking the Allegheny River.

The waitress eyed you when she arrived to take the drink order, but was discreet in her assessment. The feeling of being criticized hit you like a freight-train. Once upon a time, you would have thought the same, questioned the girl's sanity or the man's intentions — but now you sat knowing both. As big of an age gap as it was should have given you more pause than it did, but you had already danced around the edge of it long enough. You had run far enough, and you were tired of allowing your own feelings coming second place to those around you.

You tuned it all out. You had to. You had to.

You smiled at him, “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

Relief flooded his face, looking back at you. “I have too.”

You both knew you were not talking about the food.

“I hope work was not too chaotic this week?” You ventured, opening the menu.

He chuckled lightly, “Everyone’s been pestering me about the mysterious girl all week.”

Your face warmed, “Oh no, I didn’t cause too much of a stir, did I?”

“I think I created it myself,” he said, pulling out his glasses, “wasn’t exactly as subtle as I would have liked to be when you came in.”

You paused long enough, staring at him, for Michael to look up over his frames at you. Warmth pooled lower and you took a sip of your ice water to try to snuff it.

“Wasn’t my intention.” You said tightly, “Didn’t know that was the hospital you worked at.”

“I’m glad you did.” His lips dipped momentarily. “Not that you got hurt, but—”

“Yeah, me too.” You offered a smile, bringing your wild thoughts to heel.

He smiled, looking back at the menu, “How’re your classes going?”

“Good, actually. Still busy trying to stay on top of everything, but it’s good.”

He rubbed his hand along his beard, the light catching several of the greys, “You know, I’d like to say something…about that…without being too forward.”

You raised a careful eyebrow, your lungs stalling.

“I…still want to help you.” Michael said, brown eyes watching you intently before caving and looking back to the menu. “With school, your bills.”

“Michael—”

“I know, I know.” He said quickly, “No ulterior motives. You wouldn’t owe me anything. Just because I want to. Because I have more than the means to do so.”

You hoped the dim lighting did not give away the way you flustered. “That’s—I don’t think—I can’t accept that. It’s…not right. I don’t want to use you.”

“You wouldn’t be.” He assured, one side of his lips quirking up. “I’m offering.”

You frowned, “It just reminds me of what you said; that I wouldn’t be here unless you were paying me. I—that’s not what I want you to think. That’s not how I want to feel.”

Michael’s tiny smile disappeared, and he just stared at you, gears clearly turning over in his head. He opened his mouth, but the waitress returned to take your order, interrupting him. Scribbling down on her notepad completely unaware — or just unfazed — by the tension now collecting at the table.

When she departed, you were both silent.

You chewed your lip and avoided his eyes.

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” He finally said, removing his glasses to rub his eyes. “I don’t feel that way about it. I know you would be here without it.”

“Are you sure? I feel like money will just complicate this again.” You met his gaze. “I don’t want to burden this with money, or insecurities, while we’re still figuring it out.”

Michael nodded in what you hoped was understanding. “You’re right, but it’s a standing offer. If you ever need it, it’s there.”

You let out a long breath, “Thank you.”

He sipped the white wine he had chosen for you both, glancing out the window at the sunset.

Part of you felt endeared that he still wanted to help out, but the money felt like an unnecessary weight to add to your shoulders. You did not want to hinder the relationship budding between you, or give him any reason to second guess your intentions.

“I’m glad we’re here.” Michael told you, offering a smile.

“I am too.” You grabbed your wine glass and raised it. “To second chances?”

He clinked his glass with yours and grinned.

—

When the food arrived, you were trading light banter. It felt easy, uncomplicated, despite the warm feelings invading your chest and working their way to your heart. You tried to take a breath, slow it all down, but they thrummed beneath the surface. He was polite, except the occasional way his eyes took you in — eyes lingering over the exposed bit of skin of your chest that the dress made obvious, wandering slowly back up to your eyes.

Those eyes were going to set you on fire.

You laughed, “That reminds me of when we were all on lockdown—”

Michael grew silent, a faraway look in his eyes, completely unaware of the rest of your sentence, or the way you stopped short.

“...you with me?” You asked softly, running your fingers along his hand until you were holding it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really realize how much the pandemic affected you.”

He blinked rapidly at you, before trying to shrug it off, clearing his throat. “It usually doesn’t.”

“I know it took its toll on the healthcare system, I wasn’t trying to make light of it.” You told him earnestly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I lost my mentor.” He said quietly, looking down at his food. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I had to make a choice, and it didn’t end up really mattering.”

You squeezed his hand. “I’m really sorry. Adamson? Tell me about him.”

Michael looked up at the sound of the name, momentarily surprised by you remembering it.

“He was a force. Reliable. Took me under his wing not long after my residency and showed me just about everything I know. He always knew what to say, a trait I wish I had.”

You nodded along.

“Great doctor, even better man.”

“I can see how much you admired him. How long since he passed?”

“Three years about two months ago.” He said.

“I’ve never met him, but I don’t think he would want you to carry it with you like this. You said last week that it was for a little girl, and I know she didn’t make it either, but I’m sure he would’ve wanted you to try. If he was as great a man as you say, I doubt he’d want you to feel guilty over it. If he showed you everything you know, then surely the decision you made would have been the same one he would have.”

The words hung heavy in the air — and Michael’s eyebrows scrunched together while he digested them. He squeezed your hand tightly and a tear slipped from his eye.

“...thank you.” It was quiet. It was raw. It was unmasked.

You brushed your thumb over his knuckles and smiled softly.

He wiped away the tear quickly and cleared his throat, “So you said school was almost done. Is this your last semester?”

“Yeah, just have to finish out my classes, and then I’ll be graduating in two months.”

“Damn, you’re almost done.”

You moved your hand from his back to your lap, twisting a bit of pasta onto your fork. “I try not to count down the days. But then I’ll have to get my certification, then I’ll finally be a CPA.”

His smile was easy, “Congratulations.”

“I haven’t graduated yet.” But your lips moved upwards anyway.

“You’ve put in a lot of hard work, you should be proud of yourself.”

Your cheeks burned, “Thank you.”

The check came, and you only tried to glance at it once before you reined the thoughts in. He grabbed your hand when you got up from the table, his touch equally holding you steady and sending your thoughts back into a whirlwind. Heat had your heart racing, thoughts without any pure intention slipping in and making you blush deeper.

You intertwined your fingers instead of saying anything.

In the car, the conversation continued easily, though Michael reached for your hand again and held it throughout the drive. It felt like pieces were slotting into place, and it felt good to not pretend. To allow yourself to feel the feeling coiling around your heart. To accept his attention, his intention, without feeling like there was anything hindering you.

When they arrived at your building, he got out to walk you up. You went to protest, but the warmth was back rolling around in your stomach and you closed her mouth. Instead, an excitement was building.

He spoke first when you reached your door, “I had a really good time tonight.”

“I did too.” You were grinning. “Thank you for our first official date.”

He smiled, dark brown eyes flickering to your lips and back to your eyes. Your breathing picked up to keep up with your racing heart, and you glanced at his mouth. When your eyes returned to his, he was already leaning in.

You accepted the kiss eagerly, curling one hand around the front of his coat, the other moving to his hair. He took the invitation, bringing a hand to your cheek and pulling you closer, pressing his other hand to the small of your back.

Something bloomed deep in your chest, and you savored the taste of him while you could. He pulled back before it delved any deeper, though he held you still against him.

“Goodnight,”

“Goodnight, Michael.”

There was a fear of being known, but you were both finally letting the light in.

[ Next ]

want to join any of my taglists? shoot me a message!

Companionship taglist: @queenslandlover-93 @clementine111002 @virgomillie @emily-b @kaygilles @lt-jakeseresin @imonmykneessir @kniselle @gabsgabsvaz @rosiepoise88 @calivia @holdonimwalkingmysnail @valhallavalkyrie9 @blahkateisdone @shadowhuntyi @fuckalrighty @elli3williams @yournerdmodziata @i-know-i-can @dickheadturner @dcgoddess @pittobsessed @glamorizethechaos @blueb33ry-cat @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange @burningpenguinwitch @evienorville @equallyshaw @heyysolsister @justrandomthougt @babygirlagenda

Dr. Robby taglist: @cherriready @seeyalaterinnovator @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @bxxbxy @18lkpeters @flyinglama @hagarsays @mayabbot @anakingreys @happyfox43 @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @girl-obsessed-with-things @laurenkate79 @woodxtock @rosie-posie08 @artsymaddie @partofthelouniverse

(50 tags have been reached with the combo of all three taglists, so unfortunately The Pitt taglist for this series will be added in a reblog right after this is posted - I’m sorry if this is an inconvenience!)

most of the heavy angst is over — they still suck at feelings, but they’re learning😊

as we get closer to smut territory, I get more worried it won’t live up to y’all’s expectations lol (😭)

This fic was a masterpiece from start to finish. Wow!!!!

don't worry baby (8)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 18.k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, angst, emotional trauma, past interfamilial abuse and neglect, references to disordered eating, verbal harassment. not beta read, all mistakes are mine. didn’t reread, just needed to get it out.

It had been almost three months since Florence. Since the yacht. Since the article. Since Livia’s venom and the silent splash of a phone being tossed into dark water like penance.

It's the end of May now, almost June.

Sticky New York heat pressing against windows that refused to close all the way. Frances McDormand, the dark cat sprawled in front of a rotating fan like she paid rent. And Harry—Harry Castillo, once a name associated with corporate blood sport and too many $10,000 suits—now woke up in soft cotton shirts and made her coffee before speaking a word.

They lived in a loft now.

His penthouse had become unusable—paparazzi parked like permanent fixtures out front, cameras hidden in planters, strangers calling her name like it belonged to them. The final straw had come after a man—angry, middle-aged, face red with thirty years of grievance—broke into her and Maya’s apartment two days after they returned from Italy. He'd shouted about restitution, called her father a thief, and said she should pay the price.

He didn’t make it past the hallway. Danny handled the fallout. But that was it. She packed up everything that night. Maya too. The two of them sitting on the floor with takeout containers and three half-full boxes, looking at each other like the girls they’d been in that apartment didn’t exist anymore.

Now, Maya lived in a sunlit walkup with a balcony that faced a mural of Aretha Franklin and a bodega that sold homemade plantain chips in brown bags. Danny had found it. Helped her sign the lease. Pretended he didn’t care when she called him sweetheart and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

And her? She moved in with Harry. Into the loft. His loft. Exposed brick. Massive windows. Low leather furniture. A kitchen that smelled like citrus and wood and had knives sharper than her oldest fears. It was peaceful. In a way that felt rebellious. And more than that—more than safe, more than new—it felt private. There were no paparazzi. No late-night interviews. No articles. Just the creak of hardwood beneath bare feet and the click of Frances jumping onto the couch like she owned it.

The first morning, she woke up to the sound of birds outside the window and Harry brushing his teeth beside her. They shared the mirror now. She used the left side. He used the right.

She stood on her tiptoes to spit. He always offered her the water glass first. Sometimes they bumped elbows. Sometimes he kissed her cheek, mint on his breath, hand resting on the curve of her hip like it had always belonged there.

She wore his shirts to bed now. The soft ones. The ones with faint holes near the collar or sleeves stretched out from years of being rolled up. She didn’t wear shorts unless she had to. Just the shirts and her underwear and the faint scent of cedar that lingered in his drawer.

Harry Castillo, in his fifties, spent most mornings with one sock on, his glasses sliding down his nose, and a soft frown as he tried to navigate a French press while she sat on the kitchen counter eating a peach. Not just any peach. A perfect one. Heavy with juice. Skinned slightly from the pressure of her thumb.

“Don’t drip on the floor,” he’d mutter without looking.

She’d smirk. And let it run down her wrist.

“You’re a menace,” he said one morning.

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You worship it.”

That got him to glance up. His salt-and-pepper hair was messy, his shirt half-buttoned, his expression one of a man who had fought empires and now couldn’t stop watching juice trail down the soft inside of her wrist.

He walked over. Took the peach from her. Bit it. Then kissed her sticky mouth. Frances meowed like an old woman disgusted by affection. They both ignored her.

Some days were slow. Painfully, beautifully slow. They’d read on opposite sides of the couch, legs tangled, her feet resting on his thigh while he absentmindedly ran a hand over her ankle. Frances slept on the back cushion behind their heads, occasionally shifting just to prove she still hated sharing attention.

She burned toast almost every morning. And he let her. She insisted on folding laundry while watching old ‘70s thrillers with subtitles she didn't speak the language of. And he let her.

They bickered about dishes but never raised their voices. Harry always said she stacked the cups wrong. She told him he was old and picky. He kissed her anyway. On the temple. On the shoulder. On the mouth if she let him catch her.

He still got up before her most mornings. Still made coffee before she asked. Still whispered baby when he thought she was still asleep. Sometimes she wasn’t. Sometimes she just wanted to hear it.

One night in late May, they hosted Maya and Danny for dinner. Well—hosted was a generous term. Harry grilled on their rooftop garden that hadn't had any safety measures since the 70s. She made a salad that was mostly just leaves with balsamic and too much cheese. Maya brought wine. Danny brought flowers and pretended they weren’t for Maya until she rolled her eyes and kissed his cheek.

It was hot that night. The windows were open. Harry had sweat at his temple and she wore a sundress with tiny buttons that kept slipping open near the chest. He noticed. Of course he did.

“You do that on purpose,” he muttered when they were alone in the kitchen.

“Do what?”

“Wear that thing and pretend it’s an accident when the buttons pop.”

She turned. Leaned against the counter. “You’re the one who keeps buying me these.”

He stepped closer. Slid a finger beneath the strap. “You wear them too well.”

She didn’t respond. Just tipped her chin up and let him kiss her again. Soft. Slow. Like there was nowhere else in the world to be. Frances stared from the counter like she was about to report them to the building manager.

At night, they lay tangled. Fan humming. Sheets kicked halfway down the bed. She slept in his arms most of the time. Leg over his hip. Fingers tracing the line of hair at the center of his chest like it meant something. It did. He never said it, but it did.

Sometimes she read in bed while he answered emails. Sometimes he fell asleep before her and she just stared at him. At the lines in his face. At the way his hair curled behind his ear. At the scar on his nose he never explained.

He’d said “I love you” a dozen times since Florence.

Once during breakfast when she spilled coffee on his lap and apologized like it mattered. Once after a fight that wasn’t really a fight—just silence that lasted too long and ended with him saying, “I’m not mad. I just don’t know how to be soft sometimes. But I’m trying. Because I love you.” And once at 2AM, in the dark, after a nightmare left her shaking so hard she cracked a glass trying to get water. He’d pulled her to his chest and whispered it again and again until she stopped flinching.

She said it back every time. But it didn’t have to be said. Not really. Not when he rubbed her back absentmindedly while she watched a documentary about octopuses. Not when he kept a bottle of her shampoo next to his own even though he used bar soap. Not when he cleaned Frances’s litter box without being asked. Not when he looked at her like she was sunrise and sanctuary and the first thing in decades he hadn’t already planned for.

She woke up one morning to the sound of Harry swearing under his breath.

“Shit.”

She blinked awake, groggy. “What?”

He was at the bathroom sink, glasses askew, toothbrush in hand.

“Cut myself shaving,” he muttered.

She padded over barefoot, hair messy, shirt hanging off one shoulder.

“Let me see.”

He turned, jaw tilted slightly. There was a nick under his chin. She dabbed it gently with a tissue. Then kissed it. Then stepped back and said, “You look like an expensive history professor who flirts with married women.”

He squinted at her. “You’re unwell.”

“You’re hot.”

He rolled his eyes. But he smiled. And when she leaned up on her toes to brush beside him, shoulder to shoulder, foam in her mouth and their arms bumping, Harry Castillo—king of quiet rage, legend of business and ruin—looked down at the girl beside him and thought, This. This is the whole damn point. Harry didn’t say it out loud. Didn’t need to.

Just watched her as she brushed beside him, their reflections overlapping in the fogging mirror, toothpaste smudged at the corner of her mouth like war paint. She was humming something—off-key, tuneless, maybe not even a song. Just sound. A sound that only existed here, in this room, in the morning, with his old toothbrush vibrating quietly between his molars and her pink one clutched like a dagger.

She spit. So did he. She rinsed, wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, and kissed his shoulder before walking barefoot back into the bedroom. Her shirt was slipping again. He let it.

He rinsed last. Adjusted his glasses. Then reached for the tiny towel she always insisted on hanging on the hook he never used before she moved in. He wiped down the sink. It was a recent development. A routine, of sorts.

He didn’t used to wipe the sink. Now he did. Because she noticed when he didn’t. Because she kissed him on the cheek when he did. Because somehow, the wipe of a towel and the scent of her mint toothpaste and the sound of her humming nothing in particular had become the holiest part of his day.

The morning rolled on. There was no work meeting. No call. No reason to check his email but he did anyway—just out of muscle memory. He grunted at something on the screen. Said Jesus Christ at another. Then closed the laptop and tossed it onto the couch like it had personally offended him.

She was curled up in the armchair across the room with a bowl of cereal and a spoon too large for the bowl, watching a rerun of a British cooking show where every contestant cried when their meringue collapsed.

Harry walked over, grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the chair, and tucked it around her legs without asking. She didn’t say anything. Just looked up and smiled. Then fed him a bite of her cereal.

He made a face. “Is that...almond milk?”

She nodded. “We ran out of your kind.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She grinned. “You’ll live.”

At noon, she left to pick up flowers. It wasn’t for anything in particular. Just because she’d seen some wild peonies at the corner bodega and thought they’d look good next to the coffee machine. She came home with two bundles—pink and blood orange—and a package of sticky notes she didn’t need.

Harry was sitting on the floor when she got back, rearranging the books on the bottom shelf of the built-in like it was a life-or-death situation. He had his glasses on and a pen tucked behind his ear, even though he wasn’t writing anything.

“What are you doing?” she asked, amused.

“Someone moved Letters from a Stoic next to Norwegian Wood.”

“So?”

“It’s thematically violent.”

She snorted.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Those flowers for me?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

“Partial truth.”

She set them in water while he made another espresso he didn’t need, and they stood in the kitchen for a while—not talking, just drinking, just existing. She looked over at him—socks, shirt half-tucked, a faint smear of pen on his hand from writing something earlier in his notebook—and thought, You’re so much softer than you know.

It was later—way later, when he was in the shower and Frances was curled up on his pillow like she’d claimed it—that she saw it. She was scrolling. Aimlessly. One of those early evening doomscrolls where the light was changing and the room smelled like lavender and Harry had just shouted something about how the shampoo was empty even though it was not. And there it was.

“Castillo Turns 55: A Look Back at the Billionaire’s Rise, Fall, and Silence.” —The New Yorker.

She blinked. Paused. Scrolled back up to the article. She didn’t click. She didn’t need to. The photo was recent. Harry in a dark coat. Expression unreadable. Hands in his pockets like always.

Her stomach fluttered. Fifty-five. He hadn’t said anything. Not once. And it was this week.

She glanced toward the bathroom. Steam fogged the crack beneath the door. His voice—low, raspy—was humming something old and terrible. Probably Elvis.

He hadn’t said a damn thing. Of course he hadn’t. Because Harry didn’t like attention. Didn’t like celebrations or singing or surprise parties or anything that made people look at him longer than they had to.

Which meant…she was absolutely planning something. The next morning, she started a list. She didn’t tell him.

Just opened a fresh page in her notes app and titled it: Operation: Old Man’s Birthday (Do Not Let Him See This)

Under it, she typed

Invite: Francesca, Luca (maybe), Maya, Danny

Location: Home (safe, intimate)

Cake? (He says he hates sweets but eats mine)

Gift?

Music?

Do I invite his sister?

She stared at that last line for a long time. Then added a space beneath it.

Pros:

She might be the only blood family he has

He’s mentioned her exactly three times, which is more than Lucy

Maybe he’d want her there, even if he doesn’t know it

Cons:

He hasn’t spoken to her in years

He might actually kill me

Might ruin the mood

Might make him shut down

Might make him remember something he doesn’t want to

She sighed. Backspaced the whole thing. Then re-typed it again.mShe didn’t delete the list. She didn’t move it. She just left it open in the background like a quiet question.

Over the next few days, she got sneaky. Not lying—not really. Just careful. She asked him things like “what kind of cake do you hate the least” while pretending to talk about a TV show. She bought candles but hid them in a drawer under her spare socks. She asked Maya to help distract him on the day-of, to make sure he didn’t randomly decide to cancel and go for a six-hour walk in Central Park like he did on bad press days.

Maya agreed with exactly three smiley faces and one grandpa emoji. Danny offered to buy a dozen chairs. She told him there would be six people total. He replied, Fine. I’ll still wear a suit.

That Thursday, Harry asked her why she kept rearranging the fridge magnets.

She blinked. “Just bored.”

“You spelled spleen.”

“I like the word.”

“You spelled it twice.”

She shrugged. “One for each of yours.”

He squinted. “Are you okay?”

“I’m excellent.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. Then leaned in, kissed her forehead, and mumbled, “You’re a weirdo.”

She googled his sister that night. Didn’t tell anyone. Just lay in bed beside Harry—his arm around her waist, his breathing deep and even—and searched her name in the dark.

Isidora Castillo. Married. Two kids. Lived upstate. Social media set to private. One blurry photo from a fundraiser five years ago. Nothing else.

She stared at the screen for a long time. Harry had only mentioned a few times. He hadn’t spoken her name. But he had smiled. And then stopped. And then changed the subject. She closed the screen. Stared at the ceiling. Didn’t sleep much that night.

The next day, he brought her coffee in bed. She was already half-awake, cheek pressed to his pillow, dreaming of something too warm to remember. He set the mug on the nightstand. Sat down beside her. Ran a hand down her back in slow, sleepy strokes.

“Baby,” he whispered.

She cracked one eye open. He was shirtless. Hair wild. A smear of toothpaste near his temple like battle paint. She laughed. He leaned down. Kissed her shoulder.

“You were twitching,” he murmured. “Thought you were dying.”

She groaned. “Just fighting my enemies in REM.”

He smiled. Then pulled her closer. And just like that—everything settled again.

She still hadn’t decided about Isidora. The party was only a few days away. The cake was ordered. The drinks planned. The music soft and curated and free of anything too happy. Francesca had offered to make a toast. Luca swore he wouldn’t. Maya said she’d bring flowers, and Danny promised to behave. But still—his sister. A name that lived in silence. A woman he hadn’t seen in over a decade.

That night, as they sat on the couch—her feet in his lap, Frances purring like judgment behind them—she asked quietly, “Do you think people can change without reaching out to the ones they hurt?”

Harry looked up from his book. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Just thinking.”

He stared at her for a moment. Then said, softly, “Sometimes reaching out feels like opening a wound you spent years trying to stitch shut.”

She nodded.

“Sometimes the people you hurt…don’t want to hear from you.”

She swallowed. He set the book down. Touched her ankle.

“I haven’t spoken to my sister in fifteen years.”

She looked at him. He wasn’t angry. Just tired.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “She just...didn’t understand. And I didn’t want to explain.”

She reached for his hand. Held it. Harry leaned in. Kissed her wrist. And whispered, “I should’ve told her I missed her.”

Her heart cracked. Not loudly. But deep. That night, she typed one final addition to the list: Invite Isidora? She didn’t decide. Not yet. But the fact that she was even asking? That was a beginning. And Harry—who held her closer that night, who whispered you twitch in your sleep like you’re fighting for us—

Well. He didn’t know it yet. But he was about to have a birthday. And for once in his life—

He wouldn’t have to fake the smile. Not this year. Not with her. Not with the days falling into each other like warm laundry, one after the next, quiet and domestic and full of small, glittering moments that didn’t make headlines but meant everything.

It was two days before his birthday. He didn’t know it. Of course he didn’t. He knew the date, technically. Knew it in the way Harry knew all things—gruffly, quietly, with a sigh. He didn’t care for birthdays. Didn’t want gifts. Didn’t want fuss. He said he’d already had too many. Said he’d rather ignore the number and drink his coffee in peace.

So she let him. Pretended right along with him. And secretly, she planned the whole thing anyway. The morning started the same as most. Frances yowled like a Victorian ghost outside the bedroom door because Harry forgot to feed her on time.

“I have to breathe before I serve you,” he muttered, half-asleep, dragging himself out of bed in boxer briefs and one sock.

She stayed curled beneath the covers, watching him shuffle down the hallway like a man twice his age and three times as dramatic. She heard the rustle of the treat drawer. The clang of her metal bowl. Harry’s voice, exasperated, already talking to the cat like she paid rent.

“You eat better than I do. You live better than I do. You’re not even grateful.”

Frances meowed in agreement.

He shuffled back five minutes later, hair sticking up, glasses crooked, coffee already in hand. She sat up, smiling.

“Your fanbase grows stronger every day.”

“I’m held hostage in my own home.”

“By a ten-pound feline.”

“She's fifteen pounds and fully demonic.”

She leaned over and kissed his temple.

“You like her.”

He didn’t respond. But he scratched behind Frances’s ear later when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Later that afternoon, she did it. Sent the email. An email she stole from Harry's list of contacts. Just a few short lines. Nothing fancy. No emojis. Just enough to say I'm planning something for Harry. I think he'd want you there, even if he doesn't know it yet.

To: isidora.castillo@email.com

Subject: Harry

Hi. I know this might be unexpected. I’m planning something for Harry's birthday. He doesn’t know. I thought maybe...if you were able to come. Quietly. No pressure. Just thought you should know.

She sat with it for a moment. Hovered. Then hit send. Then closed the laptop before she could regret it.

She didn’t tell Harry. Instead, she made pasta. The simple kind. Garlic. Olive oil. Too much chili flake. Harry walked in from the laundry room, where he was grumbling about mismatched socks like it was a moral failing, and stopped short at the smell.

“Are you seducing me with carbs?”

“Would it work?”

He paused. Then walked over. Looped his arms around her waist from behind. “I’d sell state secrets for a good penne.”

She smiled. He kissed her shoulder. And that was that.

The day after, she bought string lights. Also a lemon tree in a pot too big to carry by herself. She had to bribe the delivery guy with a twenty to lug it up to the rooftop. She texted Maya a photo of it from the stairs,

You: This might kill me but it’s cute

Maya: If you die under a lemon tree for this man I’m telling everyone it was on purpose

That afternoon, Harry spent three hours reorganizing his bookshelf because he was tired of seeing all the spines like a lineup of failures. She watched from the couch, flipping through a magazine, as he sat cross-legged on the rug muttering things like, “This belongs in this section,” and “Why do we have three copies of The Unbearable Lightness of Being?”

“You bought them.”

“Then I clearly have problems.”

She slid off the couch and crawled across the floor to him. Wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. “You’re turning into a weird old man.”

He leaned back into her.

“I’m already there.”

That night, she got an email back. From Isidora. It was short. Tentative. But warm.

I’d like to come. If you’re sure he’d want that. I can be in the city Saturday afternoon. I’ll stay nearby. I don’t want to intrude.

She stared at it for a long time. Then whispered with a smile, “Fuck.”

Harry looked up from the couch, where he was frowning at a puzzle she didn’t know he’d started.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You said something.”

“Talking to Frances.”

Frances, on the windowsill, flicked her tail in betrayal. Harry narrowed his eyes. “You’re scheming.”

She crawled over, kissed him once, and said, “I’m always scheming.”

He grunted. But let it go.

Saturday morning came with soft rain. It drizzled over the windows in thin, quiet streaks. Harry was still in bed, shirtless, arm flung across her waist, one leg tangled between hers like gravity had a personal stake in her staying put. She checked the time. 7:48. Checked her phone.

Maya: I’m on snack duty right? I’m bringing the lemon chips.

Danny: Frances is banned from the cheese board. I will not be taking notes.

Francesca: Do we dress up or pretend it’s casual? Because you know me.

She smiled, tucked the phone away, and went back to pretending to be asleep. Harry shifted behind her. Grumbled, “Stop moving.”

She stayed still. By noon, the rain had passed. Harry was in his office, door open, on the phone with someone he referred to only as a vampire in Zurich. His voice was low, tight, full of clipped sarcasm and verbal knives.

She watched him from the hallway for a moment—glasses perched low, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in that don’t test me way that made most men wilt. He noticed her. Mouthed, Come here. She walked over. He pulled her down onto his lap, still on the call, and let his hand rest on her thigh while he said something about international compliance laws. She leaned her head against his.

And whispered, “You’re very sexy when you’re threatening people legally.”

He squeezed her knee. Didn’t miss a beat on the call. That evening, Harry went to the corner store for wine and oranges because he ate the fruit like it was going out of style.She used the time to sneak up to the rooftop.

The lemon tree was already there, still in its comically large pot, looking smug. She brought the string lights up next, one long loop at a time. Hung them from the rusted metal trellis with zip ties and silent prayers. The breeze smelled like fresh concrete and whatever plant was blooming down on the sidewalk.

She stood in the middle of the rooftop for a moment. Hands on hips. The sky was a soft purple now. The city buzzing beneath. She thought of Harry. Of the way he rubbed his eyes when he read for too long. The way he touched the small of her back when they crossed streets. The way he leaned into her hand when she brushed his hair back. Like a cat. Like a man who hadn’t let himself be held in years.

She thought of the cake downstairs in the fridge. Of the candles hidden in the sock drawer. Of Isidora, arriving tonight. Of how much Harry had changed—and hadn’t. Of how he loved her. Quietly. Deeply. In every wordless way.

She pressed her fingers to her lips. And whispered, “Happy almost birthday, old man.”

Then got to work. She finished stringing the last loop of lights just as the sky dipped fully into that soft, summery dusk—blue bleeding into lavender, the kind of light that forgave everything. Their rooftop garden had never looked better. The lemon tree sat proudly in the corner like it had always belonged, the string lights casting a honey glow over the mismatched chairs and the long wooden table she and Maya had thrifted last month.

There were little details everywhere. A bowl of clementines. Tiny gold place cards she wrote out in her best almost-cursive. Cloth napkins folded like someone who’d once watched a YouTube tutorial and mostly remembered it. The cake was downstairs in the fridge. Lemon again.

Because Harry had once said, in passing, “I'm a citrus man.”

It was almost seven when she heard Danny’s feet on the stairs.

Maya trailed behind him, both of them slightly breathless, carrying a case of wine, two bouquets, and a tiny tin of anchovies because Harry’s a freak and likes them on crackers. There's things that remind her that the man she's with is really decades older than her. 

“Go!” she hissed from the rooftop entrance, waving them up. “He’s in his office. He doesn’t suspect anything.”

Danny grinned. “I’m honestly shocked. He usually suspects everything.”

“Because usually you act suspicious.”

“Rude.”

Maya stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “You look like a someone about to propose.”

She laughed. “I feel like one.”

“Where is he?”

“In his office. Still thinks it’s just dinner for the two of us.”

Danny was already uncorking a bottle. “You are not emotionally prepared for how smug he’ll be when he finds out you pulled this off.”

“Shut up and light the candles.”

About an hour later downstairs, Harry was finishing up an email with his glasses perched on the end of his nose and his mouth doing that thing it did when he was technically not grumpy, but close.

She leaned against the doorway. “Come upstairs. Five minutes.”

“Can't.”

“I'm finishing up an ema—”

“It’s warm out. The sky’s nice. Come on.”

He grunted. But got up anyway. Muttered something about “damn good weather and you not taking no for an answer” while following her up the stairs in socked feet and a soft navy button-down she’d ironed that morning.

“You look nice,” she said, glancing back.

He adjusted his glasses. “You ironed my shirt. I feel like I’m going to prom.”

“You kind of are.”

“Prom didn’t have wine.”

“Depends where you went.”

He stepped onto the roof. And stopped.

Danny was lighting the last of the tealights, Maya holding the lighter steady while balancing a glass of wine in her other hand. The table was glowing, the light pooling in soft circles, and the people waiting all looked up at once. Francesca, barefoot in a white linen dress, raised her glass. Luca smiled, already slightly flushed from wine. James—Harry’s driver—stood near the lemon tree, arm slung around his wife’s waist.

And at the far end of the table stood Isidora. She looked older than the last time he’d seen her. But only a little. Still the same eyes. Still the same posture. Still his sister.

Harry didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Silent. The kind of silence that sat heavy in the chest.

Then she stepped forward. Just two paces. Enough.

“Happy birthday, big brother.”

His jaw moved like he was going to say something sharp. But it never came. He walked over in three strides. And hugged her. One arm. Then both. Tight. The kind of hug you don’t realize you’ve been needing until your knees feel soft. He buried his face in her shoulder for a second.

She whispered something only he could hear. He nodded. Whispered something back. And the world, for a moment, shrank to just that.

Dinner was slow. Perfectly slow. Warm plates passed hand to hand. Cheese and anchovies and roasted vegetables. Pasta with lemon zest and basil. Slices of bread too crunchy and a little burnt because she got distracted talking to James’s wife about hummingbirds.

Luca told a story about someone falling off a boat in California. Francesca corrected every detail and still managed to make it funnier. Danny made a toast about Harry being “halfway to death and somehow still only at the start of being tolerable.” Harry flipped him off without looking. Everyone laughed.

Isidora slid her card across the table near the end of the meal. Didn’t make a big deal of it. Just a plain envelope. Harry opened it lazily. Then paused. Read it again. It just said,

YOU ARE STILL THE BEST THING I EVER SHARED A ROOF WITH. He folded it back up carefully. Slipped it into his breast pocket. Didn’t say anything. But she saw his eyes. Saw the way they shone.

Later, after dessert but before people started drifting to the edge of goodbye, Harry stood behind her while she refilled a pitcher of water. His hand slipped to the back of her waist.

He said it softly. “You did this?”

She smiled without turning. “I had help.”

“I don’t mean the candles and the food.”

She looked back at him. He was watching her the way he did sometimes—quietly, like it hurt.

“I mean the part where I forgot to hate my birthday.”

She reached for his hand. Laced their fingers. “You’re allowed to be loved.”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned down. Kissed her hair. And stood there with her a while longer.

Isidora found her a little later, down by the lemon tree, folding napkins that didn’t need folding.

“She really would’ve liked you,” Isidora said, unprompted.

“Who?”

“Our mom.”

She blinked. “You think?”

“I know.”

They stood in silence for a minute. Isidora handed her a piece of folded napkin that she’d somehow made worse. “I’ve missed him,” she said. “For years.”

She didn’t reply. Just set the napkin down and looked up at the sky. The stars were out. A few. Not enough. But more than none.

By the end of the night, Harry was barefoot from slipping off his socks and giving it to the girl beside him.  Glass of something golden in hand. Frances asleep in a patch of moonlight. Maya and Danny curled on one of the couches in an argument about tax loopholes and types of toast. Luca singing something under his breath. Francesca singing with him, laughing.

Harry leaned against the railing, one hand braced, watching his people. Watching her. She walked over. Tucked her arm under his. He didn’t look at her. Just murmured, “Fifty-five isn’t so bad.”

She smiled. “Not when you look like this.”

He grunted. Then looked at her.

“You’re the best part.”

“What?”

“Of all of it.”

She pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe.”

“Say it again in the morning.”

“I will.”

And he did.

The morning after his birthday began the same way most mornings did now—soft light spilling through the loft’s massive windows, the ceiling fan creaking faintly overhead, and the weight of Harry’s arm draped over her waist like it had been there forever.

He smelled like linen and something faintly sweet—probably wine and citrus from the cake, or maybe just him. She stirred first. Only barely. Shifted enough to nudge her nose against his shoulder, already half-tangled in the sheets. One of his feet had kicked out during the night and was now hanging halfway off the bed like gravity didn’t apply to men over fifty.

She smiled. Didn’t open her eyes yet. Harry grumbled something unintelligible against her temple. Then, “M’not fifty-five.”

She laughed softly, eyes still closed. “Yes, you are.”

“Not until the cake’s gone.”

“That’s not how birthdays work.”

“Legal loophole.”

“You made that up.”

Harry groaned dramatically, then pulled her closer. His mouth found her shoulder. Kissed it once. “So when does the government come for me?”

“Probably today.”

“Bastards.”

She rolled over slowly. Faced him. He looked wrecked in the best way—hair flattened on one side, pillow creases on his cheek, stubble more salt than pepper this morning. His glasses were on the nightstand, next to the folded note from Isidora he hadn’t stopped rereading.

She brushed her thumb across his jaw. “How do you feel?”

Harry blinked, slow and thoughtful. “Full.”

“Of wine or emotion?”

“Both. But mostly you.”

She smiled. Leaned in. Kissed the corner of his mouth. They didn’t get out of bed until almost ten. Mostly because he refused to move. And partly because she let him bury his face between her shoulder blades and mumble things like you’re the reason I believe in retirement and if I die here it’ll be your fault and I’m okay with that.

When they did get up, she wore his boxers and the tee she’d slept in—black, worn thin, with the collar stretched just enough to show her collarbone. Harry padded into the kitchen shirtless, glasses on now, hair wild. He made coffee the way he always did, slow, methodical, complaining the whole time.

“You should throw out the beans when they’re this old,” he muttered.

“You bought them.”

“Didn't bring my glasses when I went to the store so got the wrong beans.”

He scooped two spoons of sugar into her mug without asking. Added cream. Stirred it with the butter knife because the spoons were in the dishwasher and he wasn’t unloading that damn thing today.

She perched on the counter. Watched him move around like the kitchen owed him money. He poured her coffee. Passed it over without a word. She smiled at him. He scowled at the butter knife. There was still lemon cake in the fridge. She took it out wordlessly. Set it on the table in its original cardboard box. Harry looked at it like it held secrets.

“We didn’t even do candles.”

“Didn't feel like doing candles.”

“I would’ve for you.”

She blinked. Heart stuttering a little.

“You kissed me instead,” she said.

He nodded. “Better wish.”

She cut two slices. Big ones. Put one in front of him. One for herself. Harry took a bite and let out the biggest sigh ever.

“You really did all that.”

She glanced up. “What?”

“The dinner. The lights. The lemon tree.”

She shrugged.

“Isidora,” he said quietly.

She looked at him now. Harry was staring at his plate. Then, slowly, he set his fork down. Sat back. “I hadn’t seen her in over a decade.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t know I needed to.”

She didn’t speak. Harry leaned forward again, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around his mug. He looked older today. Not in a bad way. Just in that very real, very human way that came after seeing someone who knew you when you were still becoming.

He looked at her. Really looked. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded once. And because it was him—and because she knew—she didn’t say you’re welcome.Just reached across the table and brushed a crumb from the corner of his mouth. Harry caught her hand. Kissed her knuckles. Held them there for a second too long. They finished the cake in silence.

Listened to Frances thump her way down the hallway and leap onto the windowsill like she’d done it ten thousand times and would do it ten thousand more. The loft felt full. Not loud. Just full. Like home. She was halfway through her second cup of coffee when she remembered.

Paused. Set the mug down slowly. Harry noticed immediately “What?”

She blinked.

“Lucy’s wedding.”

Harry’s face didn’t change. But something behind his eyes shifted. She saw it. She always saw it.

“It's very soon,” she added. “We forgot.”

He took a breath. Leaned back. Ran a hand over his mouth. Then said, flatly, “I didn’t.”

She tilted her head.

“I ignored it,” he clarified. “That’s different.”

She nodded. Neither of them spoke for a beat. She stared down at the cake box. He looked out the window. She was the first to break.

“I only found out because Lorenzo mentioned it in Florence.”

Harry’s jaw ticked. “I know.”

“Wasn’t even subtle. Said he assumed we were going. That our names were on the list.”

Harry snorted. “We never RSVP’d.”

“Still invited us though.”

His eyes cut to hers. Sharp. Protective. “Of course she did.”

“She probably didn’t think we'd come.”

“She probably hoped you would.”

She paused. Sipped her coffee. Let the taste ground her. Harry was still staring at her. Still unreadable. Still too still. She said it quietly.

“I think we should go.”

He blinked. Then, slowly, “Why?”

She looked up. Met his eyes. And said, simply, “Because I want her to see I’m real. Not just a quote she gave.”

His expression didn’t change. But something broke open anyway, “You don’t owe her anything.”

“I know.”

“She doesn’t deserve to know you.”

“I know.”

Harry set his fork down. Hard. “She’s not kind,” he said. “She’s not even curious. She just wants to catalog you. Reduce you. Turn you into a moment she can outgrow.”

Her lips parted. But she didn’t interrupt.

“And I can’t—” he shook his head once, jaw tight, “—I can’t stomach the idea of you in a room full of people who look at you and only see me.”

His voice cracked a little. Just at the edges. “She doesn’t get to do that.”

“I know.”

She reached for him. Slow. Took his hand. He let her. She squeezed once.

“I just want to go,” she said, “because what we have won’t be erased.”

He looked at her. Breathed through his nose.And said, low and tired and still full of love, “You are the only real thing I’ve got.”

She leaned forward. Kissed his hand. Then his cheek. Then sat beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. They sat there like that for a long time. Letting the morning settle. Letting the idea of it take root. Letting the tension dissolve into the quiet.

Later, he folded laundry while she organized the kitchen drawer he kept calling “the Bermuda Triangle of expired coupons and batteries that don’t work.”

She found a receipt from 2020. They argued over whether or not to keep a set of napkin rings shaped like tiny gold monkeys. He made her tea without asking. She massaged his shoulder when it started to cramp.

He laid down for a ten-minute nap that turned into forty-five. She tucked a pillow under his head. Frances laid on his chest like a judgmental paperweight. When he woke up, she was watching a documentary about a tree that had survived four natural disasters.

He sat beside her. Didn’t say anything. Just took her hand. Held it. Pressed a kiss to her wrist. They didn’t talk about the wedding again that day. But it lived in the background—like a suitcase by the door. Not packed yet. Not opened. Just there. Waiting.

Harry kissed her twice before bed. Once on the mouth, like always. And once, more softly, on the scar behind her ear. She didn’t ask how he knew it was there. He didn’t offer. But he pulled her into his chest that night tighter than usual. Held her longer. Breathed slower.

And when she murmured, “We don’t have to go,” he just said, quietly,

“I’ll go anywhere with you.”

And he meant it. Which is why, two mornings later, Harry stood in the doorway of their bedroom with his reading glasses perched low on his nose, holding up a pair of his own socks like they had personally betrayed him.

“Tell me again why we’re flying commercial.”

She was cross-legged on the bed, hair still damp from the shower, folding her underwear with a kind of chaotic focus that could only come from mild packing stress. Frances sat beside her, very much in the way, laying directly on top of one of Harry’s folded sweaters like she paid taxes.

“Because,” she said, without looking up, “it’s an adventure.”

“I have a jet.”

“I know.”

“It’s not an ego thing.”

She looked up. “I didn’t say it was.”

“It’s for convenience. Comfort. Logistics.”

“You mean silent boarding, your own espresso machine, and no middle seat panic attacks?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, then tossed the socks dramatically into the suitcase, not answering. She grinned. He scowled. Frances yawned and stretched across his dress shirt like she, too, was choosing chaos.

Danny found out two hours later. Harry had him on speakerphone in the office, the call mostly about a trade negotiation that had gone south until Harry muttered something like “we’ll circle back after I’m back from the Cape.”

The pause was long enough to echo. Danny’s voice cracked through the speaker like it was personally offended.

“Back from where?”

Harry sighed. “Cape Cod.”

Danny’s voice shot up an octave. “You’re going?”

“Yes.”

“To Lucy's wedding?”

“Apparently.”

“You told me you were ignoring it.”

“She changed my mind.”

“Who?”

Harry tilted his head toward the bedroom where she was currently trying to Tetris three kinds of travel sized serums and a jade roller into a toiletry bag like it was a survival kit.

“My girlfriend,” he said dryly.

Danny groaned. “Oh my God, Harry. You’re going to be on the cover of People magazine before the weekend ends. They’ll call it ‘Revenge Romance’ or something equally disgusting.”

Harry didn’t flinch. She, however, popped her head into the office, holding up two dresses. “Which one?”

Harry pointed at the darker one without hesitation.

Danny kept talking. “Lucy's going to lose her mind when she sees you two together.”

“She’ll survive.”

“You’re underestimating her.”

Harry turned the speaker off with one tap. Not out of rudeness. Just out of peace. Then looked up at her. “I like the neckline on that one.”

She smiled. “Then it’s going in.”

Packing took longer than expected. Mostly because she kept second-guessing everything she pulled from her closet.

“This looks too…serious.”

“That’s a black turtleneck.”

“Exactly. I look like I’m coming to audit the vows.”

Harry was stretched out on the bed by this point, one arm behind his head, watching her in the same quiet way he read long articles about economic policy—with slow, deliberate attention and the occasional smirk.

“Just wear something you feel good in.”

She pulled another hanger out. “I don’t feel good in anything. Or look good in anything.”

“That’s not true.”

She paused. Looked at him. He was staring at her in that way he always did when she wasn’t looking.

“You always look good in my shirts,” he said.

She smiled. “Not wearing your shirt to the wedding.”

He stood. Crossed the room. Stopped behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder. “You’d look better than every bride in history.”

She scoffed. “Okay, now you’re just lying.”

Harry kissed the back of her neck. “You’re the only truth I’ve got.”

She rolled her eyes. But the blush gave her away. He took her shopping the next afternoon.

She hadn’t planned on it—had told him not to worry, that she’d figure something out—but Harry, in his infinite stubbornness, had watched her spiral for two straight nights and finally said, “Get dressed. You need air and options.”

So they went. Not to anywhere flashy. Just a boutique a few blocks away, one she’d only ever walked past, the kind of place that didn’t have mannequins, just racks of linen and silk and things that looked better in candlelight.

Harry held the door for her. Didn’t hover. Just sat in the corner with his reading glasses on, answering emails with a phone in one hand and holding her tea in the other, occasionally looking up just to see how she moved in something.

“Too tight?” he asked once.

She twisted in the mirror. “Too Catholic school.”

“Too short?”

“Too prom.”

He looked up from his phone, slid the glasses off, and said, “Show me.”

She stepped out from behind the curtain in a dark green slip dress, simple and soft with a low back and thin straps. Harry blinked. Slowly set his phone down. Didn’t speak.

“Too much?” she asked, fingers brushing the fabric.

He stood. Walked over. Circled her once. Ran a hand lightly over her waist.

Then whispered, “Too perfect.”

She blushed so hard the dressing room mirror fogged.

Harry chose an old suit. He told her this over toast.

“I’m not buying anything new.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not giving that woman another dollar’s worth of silk.”

She laughed. Harry didn’t.

“I wore this suit when I negotiated my first billion-dollar deal,” he said.

She raised a brow. “That supposed to impress me?”

“It was.”

She shook her head, smiling into her coffee. The night before the flight, Harry did a full “old man prep sweep” of the apartment. Locked every window. Checked the oven three times. Told Frances he loved her like she was about to join the Marines. Then folded their passports and tucked them in a leather envelope she didn’t even know he owned.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, watching him zip her suitcase with more care than he gave quarterly earnings.

Harry looked up. “Many times.”

She blinked.

“Which means I do it right.”

“You think I’m going to forget my ID or something?”

“I think if someone tries to mess with you at security, I’m going to flip a table.”

She laughed. “Harry—”

“I’m serious. I know you said it’s supposed to be an adventure, but if some twelve-year-old TSA agent pulls you aside for a random check, I will make headlines.”

She crossed the room. Wrapped her arms around his waist. Looked up. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I’m not worried about me.”

“I know.”

She kissed him. Slow. Soft. He kissed her back like it was the only thing he’d packed. Their flight left the next morning.

Frances was left in the care of Maya, who came by at 6am with two bags full of bagels and two books Harry had recommended a month ago.

“Take care of her,” Harry said, petting the cat like he was going off to war.

Maya rolled her eyes. “She’s not dying.”

“She’s sensitive.”

“I'll take good care of her.”

“Good luck.”

Then he hugged Maya—quickly, like he still wasn’t quite sure how to handle being fond of people under thirty. They took a car to the airport. It was quiet.

Harry kept one hand on her thigh the entire time. Not possessive. Just present. At the gate, he watched people board like they were enemies. Thank god this flight was less than two hours.

She nudged him gently. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The people-hating thing.”

“I’m observing.”

“You’re scowling.”

He didn’t deny it. She slipped her hand into his.

“Just think,” she said. “In two hours, we’ll be in Cape Cod, probably eating something we can’t pronounce.”

Harry smiled. Then kissed her temple.

“God, I love you.”

She smiled too. “Good.”

They boarded together. Found their first-class seats. Harry adjusted her blanket before his own. She fell asleep on his shoulder before the plane even left the runway. Stating she needs to rest her eyes.

He stayed awake. Not because he was nervous anymore. But because he wanted to be the first thing she saw when she woke up. And when she did—about twenty minutes into the flight, eyes bleary, smile soft—he handed her a warm towel from the tray and said,

“Adventure’s going well so far.”

She laughed. Pressed a kiss to his jaw. And settled in again. Still flying. Still with him. Still in love. Frances would’ve been horrified. But they didn’t care. The plane landed just after noon. A short flight. Barely long enough for a second nap. Still, Harry stood first, shielding her with one arm and retrieving her bag with the other like turbulence had personally offended him.

“You didn’t even sleep,” she said, watching him shove his own carry-on down from the overhead bin.

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t need to.”

“You just stared at me the whole flight?”

“I stare at you all the time.”

“You’re such a creep.”

He handed her the bag with one hand and kissed the side of her head with the other. “You like it.”

She did. Of course she did. He grabbed everything. Obviously. Her tote, his own bag, the two rolling suitcases. The air outside the plane was crisp. Clean. Different from Manhattan’s density. Cape Cod smelled like salt, pine, and money that had been washed a few times to look like old summer charm.

The airport was small—tiny, really. More like a lobby with a landing strip. No crowd, no paparazzi, just a few other travelers and one girl standing near the restroom sign, jaw halfway to the floor.

She didn’t notice the girl staring right away. Too distracted by the way Harry adjusted her tote on his shoulder, muttering something about the straps being cheap as hell and you need a new one, I’ll get it. But when she did glance up—only for a second—she clocked the girl staring. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

And for a brief moment, she wondered if it was a Harry Castillo thing. It happened sometimes. Especially in Manhattan. Especially when he wore those jeans that sat a little too well on his hips. Once, a woman in Whole Foods dropped an entire rotisserie chicken when Harry bent over to grab organic lentils. So she just smiled politely. Turned away. Let it go.

She didn’t know that the girl was one of Lucy’s bridesmaids. Didn’t know that she’d just recognized him—the man Lucy used to cry about after wine, the one she said ruined her for love, the one they never thought would actually show. And she definitely didn’t know that as they walked toward the exit, Harry’s suit bag trailing behind him and her hand casually resting at the base of his back, the girl raised her phone.

Snapped a photo. And sent it. To Lucy.

Lucy was in a robe. Feet in warm water.

One hand holding a mimosa. The other extended for a manicure. Her bridesmaids were buzzing around the spa suite—some taking selfies, others coordinating the evening's rehearsal schedule.

She hadn’t looked at her phone in twenty minutes. Then it buzzed. One photo. One message.

He’s here. With her.

Lucy stared at the screen. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

Her nail tech paused, mid-polish. “Everything okay?”

Lucy forced a smile. “Yeah. Just…a surprise.”

Back at the airport, her and Harry were standing on the curb, waiting for the car James had sent.

Harry had his sunglasses on. The soft, rounded pair he only wore on vacations. She had tucked herself into his side like a vine curling around a stone column.

She reached into her bag. “I have gum.”

Harry raised a brow. “You think I want gum?”

“You keep grinding your teeth.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “So do most billionaires.”

“Not like you.”

He plucked the gum from her hand. “Still taking it.”

“Uh huh.”

The breeze picked up. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Harry did the other side for her, knuckles brushing her cheek.

“You cold?” he asked.

“No.”

“You will be.”

“I’m not—”

He slipped off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders anyway. It was soft. Black. Worn to hell. It smelled like him. She rolled her eyes but didn’t protest.

Harry leaned close. “Always cold when you travel.”

“Not true.”

“Your hands were freezing on the plane.”

“Oh were they?”

“Exactly.”

He smirked. Then leaned in. Kissed her temple once. Soft. Solid. Like he wasn’t thinking about anyone else. And he wasn’t. The car arrived ten minutes later. It wasn’t James—just a driver he’d trained, sent out from New York two days earlier. The man greeted them with a nervous smile, took Harry’s bag with shaking hands, and said, “It’s an honor, sir. Big fan of your—um—your…”

“Don’t,” Harry said, sliding into the backseat with her already curled beside him.

“Right,” the driver nodded, closing the door carefully. “Just driving. Got it.”

Harry didn’t talk on the ride. Didn’t look at his phone. Just stared out the window, one hand resting on her thigh, thumb brushing absent-minded circles. She watched the coastline pass. Noticed the clapboard houses. The white fences. The kids on bikes. It was all too calm. Too perfect. Harry noticed it too.

“This place is fake,” he muttered.

She laughed. “It’s summer money, Harry. It’s supposed to look like a magazine ad.”

He scoffed. “I see a single distressed wooden sign that says ‘live laugh love’ and I’m burning it down.”

Their rental was a cottage on a quiet street, chosen by her and Harry. They found it scrolling late one night. 

“You have taste,” Harry admitted as he walked through the door, setting the bags down and immediately checking the locks.

“I know.”

“Where do you think the wine is?”

“Fridge. Hopefully .”

“Your taste just improved.”

She wandered toward the kitchen while Harry made a full perimeter sweep, checking windows and blinds and muttering under his breath about open-concept homes being unsafe.

She poured him a glass. He accepted it with a kiss to her temple. They didn’t unpack. Just left everything where it was, kicked off their shoes, and collapsed onto the too-soft couch in the living room with her legs thrown over his lap and Frances’s absence suddenly very noticeable.

“I miss her,” she said, scrolling through the photo Maya had sent earlier of the cat watching Jeopardy like she understood it.

“She doesn’t miss us.”

“She misses me.”

“She’s probably napping on my shirts.”

“You left one out for her on purpose.”

Harry didn’t reply. Just sipped his wine. Pulled her closer. They didn’t mention Lucy. Not yet. Not on the first night. Not when the air smelled like sea salt and the windows were open and Harry’s hand stayed on her hip like a reassurance.

He kissed her shoulder when she brushed her teeth. Folded her pajamas before she wore them. Let her fall asleep first. Then laid there for a long time. Staring at the ceiling. Thinking. But not about Lucy. About her. And how much he hated the thought of anyone like Lucy looking at someone like her with even a fraction of judgment.

The wedding was tomorrow. But for now—

She was in his arms. The air was clean. And he was still hers. Disgustingly, completely, hers. Even in Cape Cod. Even in enemy territory. And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

They woke slowly the next day. The kind of morning where time didn’t press. Where the sunlight came in gentle and golden through gauzy curtains, brushing across the hardwood like a whisper. The breeze smelled like sea salt. Somewhere outside, a bird was having a very loud opinion. Harry’s arm was draped across her waist, his face still tucked into the curve of her neck, breath warm and steady. She shifted slightly.

And without opening his eyes, he said, “Stay.”

She smiled. “I have to pee.”

“Pee fast. Come back.”

She slid out from beneath the covers, padded barefoot to the bathroom. When she returned, Harry was lying on his back now, eyes open, hair a complete mess. One arm behind his head. The other reaching for her without looking.

She climbed back in, curled beside him. They laid there like that for a while. Neither of them speaking.

Until—

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice still low and raspy with sleep.

“That’s always dangerous.”

He ignored her. His thumb was tracing a slow, idle line along the inside of her forearm.

“If I asked you to marry me,” he murmured, “would you say yes?”

She turned her head. Blinking. Heart doing a small, ridiculous stutter. He wasn’t even looking at her. Just watching the ceiling like it might hold the answer for him.

“Harry.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re asking me that on the morning we’re going to your ex’s wedding?”

“Timing’s terrible, yeah.”

“But?”

“But I need to know.”

She stared at him. Tried to read whatever storm was happening behind his eyes. He was always like this—softest when he was trying not to be. Asking the hardest questions like they were offhand comments. She reached for his hand. Laced their fingers. Squeezed once.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I’d say yes.”

Harry turned his head. Looked at her. Not surprised. Just…relieved. And stupidly, disgustingly in love. He leaned in. Kissed her once, just barely.

“I wouldn’t make you wear white,” he murmured. “Unless you wanted to.”

She laughed. “You think I’d let you have a say in what I wear?”

He grunted. “True.”

She laid her head on his chest. “Maybe I’ll wear red,” she said.

“Whatever you wear, I’ll fucking pass out.”

“Oh you're into it.”

“I’m into you.” That earned a grin. And then—

The shower. Which, to be clear, had not been intended to be that kind of shower. But Harry was a menace. He turned on the water first. Made sure it wasn’t scalding. Set her towel on the warmer like a man who had been raised to expect nothing and now gave everything. When she stepped in—already flushed from the warmth and still a little dazed from what he’d asked in bed—he pulled her close under the spray, arms sliding around her waist.

“I’m nervous,” she whispered.

Harry kissed her temple. “I know.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I will.”

Harry didn’t reply. Just reached for the shampoo and started massaging it into her hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. She relaxed under his touch.

“You’ll stay with me the whole time?”

His fingers moved down the back of her neck. “I’ll be glued to your hip.”

“I mean it, Harry.”

“So do I.”

They washed slowly. Towels traded. Water beading down his back. Her fingers brushing the scar on his nose, the one he still refused to explain. She sat on the bathroom counter in a robe while he shaved.

He grumbled when he nicked himself. Again. She offered a Hello Kitty bandaid from her travel pouch. He said no. She stuck it on him anyway.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“It’s dignity loss.”

Harry glared. But he didn’t take it off.

She got dressed first. Dark green silk. Simple. Clean. Slit at the side that hit just high enough to feel daring, low enough to stay elegant. Thin straps. Slightly open back. Harry just stared when she stepped out of the bedroom. Didn’t say anything at first. Just let his eyes move over her like prayer. Then—

“You’re not real.”

She adjusted one of the straps. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s a crime.”

“You’ve seen it before.”

“Not like this.”

She turned.

“Zipper?”

He stepped forward. Pulled it up slowly. Then leaned down. Kissed the back of her neck.

“You sure about this?” he murmured.

She met his eyes in the mirror.

“As long as you’re next to me.”

Harry changed next. Black suit. Old. Worn in the elbows. A little snug across the shoulders now. He buttoned it slowly. Pulled on the white silk tie she’d picked out. She watched from the armchair, chin on her hand.

“You look handsome.”

“I look like a man going to an ex’s wedding.”

“You look like a man with the best girl in the room.”

That got a twitch at his mouth. He checked his watch. “Car should be here soon.”

She stood. Smoothed the front of his jacket. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“You’re enough.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re being sappy.”

“I’m allowed to be.”

“Since when?”

“Since you said yes.”

She didn’t reply. Just pressed her forehead to his chest. And for a minute, they stayed like that. No wedding. No Lucy. No noise. Just them. And the quiet. At exactly 3:55, the car pulled up. Harry held the door open for her. She slipped in. Then he followed. Settled beside her. Took her hand. Laced their fingers. Neither of them spoke.

But in that silence— In that breathless, careful quiet— There was everything. Even the parts they hadn’t said yet. Even the storm that might wait ahead. Because it didn’t matter. They were already here. Together. And nothing—absolutely nothing—was going to take that away. Not even today.

The car rolled to a stop at the edge of a manicured gravel drive. It was a backyard venue—tasteful, coastal, charming in that I have generational wealth kind of way. Harry stepped out first. Buttoned his old dark coat. Reached back in for her hand.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said. “But let’s go.”

He held her hand tightly. And together, they stepped into enemy territory. The first thing she noticed was the breeze. Soft. Warm. Salt-laced. It danced along the hem of her dark green dress and tugged at the edges of Harry’s collar.

The second thing she noticed was how quiet it got the second they walked in. Conversation dulled. Laughter paused. Like someone had pressed mute.Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even glance at the people who were suddenly pretending not to stare. He simply tucked her hand tighter into the crook of his arm and walked like he owned the place. She matched his stride. Head high. Shoulders back. Even if her stomach was buzzing like a hornet’s nest.

The rows of white folding chairs were slowly filling. There was an open bar tucked under a pergola and floral arrangements shaped like they cost someone’s salary. A small quartet played something indistinct and romantic in the distance.

Her heels sank slightly into the grass as they crossed toward the seating area, passing a man who looked like he recognized Harry but wasn’t sure whether to say it out loud.

Then—

“Holy shit,” someone whispered.

She didn’t look. Harry did. Just once. Just enough for whoever said it to shrink back into their seat. They settled into the third row. Close enough to make a point. Far enough to keep some distance. Harry sat beside her like a bodyguard in a suit that didn’t quite fit anymore, jaw tight, sunglasses still on.

“Do I need to start punching groomsmen?” he murmured.

She shook her head. Then leaned in and whispered, “This might’ve been a mistake.”

Harry turned. Brushed a thumb against her wrist. “It wasn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’d rather be here—with you—than wondering what would’ve happened if we’d stayed home.”

She stared at him. Let the words settle. Then nodded once. Still unsure. But less alone.

Then— She saw her. Livia. Hair too shiny. Dress too pink. Expression flickering from smug to what the actual fuck the second her eyes landed on them. She nudged Paolo. Paolo blinked like he’d seen a ghost.

Harry’s hand slid across her lap. Rested firmly on her thigh.

“Ignore them,” he said.

“They’re annoying.”

“They’re pathetic.”

She smiled faintly. Noticed Livia turning sharply away when Harry finally glanced in her direction like a man debating whether to call in an airstrike. They looked absurd. The kind of rich people who got caught cheating and just threw more parties to distract from it. Paolo looked like he’d aged five years. Livia’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Good.

“Harry?”

A familiar voice. She turned. Francesca. In a light blue dress, hair piled up messily, holding a program and blinking like she couldn’t believe it. Beside her, Luca looked equally stunned.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Francesca whispered.

Harry stood. Kissed her cheek. “Changed my mind.”

Francesca glanced at her. Then at Harry. Then back again. Her face softened.

“You both look incredible,” Francesca said.

She smiled. “We’re trying to survive.”

Luca snorted. “Welcome to the party.”

They all took their seats together. Four in a row.

Harry kept his hand on her leg the entire time. Not possessively. Just…there. Like a grounding wire. Then—

Lucy’s father walked past. Tall. Lean. Hair slicked back. He gave Harry a long, pointed glare. She caught it. So did Harry. But he didn’t blink. Didn’t rise. Didn’t acknowledge him. Just stared back until the man looked away. Lucy’s mother followed seconds later. And—surprisingly—smiled.

“Harry,” she said softly, stopping beside their row. “I didn’t think we’d see you.”

“You have,” Harry said flatly.

She waited. Braced. But Lucy’s mother turned to her. Offered a hand.

“You must be her.”

She blinked.

“Welcome.”

Then she leaned in slightly, her voice low. “You’ve given him softness. I can see it from here.”

Then she walked away. Harry blinked once.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I need a drink,” he muttered.

The ceremony was starting. People quieted. The quartet shifted to something sweet and slow. A woman stepped up to the front with a microphone.

“Please rise.”

Everyone stood. She adjusted her dress. Held her breath. The groomsmen started to file out. One by one. She watched with vague interest until—

Her heart stopped. The groom. Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes. A jaw she hadn’t seen in almost ten years. And she knew him. Every part. It was John. Her John. Not hers, obviously. Not now. Not ever.

But—

The same John who used to carry trays at her father's charity events. The same John who slipped cupcakes into her room after dinner when her mother said she was “getting pudgy.” The same John who once found her crying in the garden after a party and told her that “some people survive by being cruel—and some survive by hiding.”

The same John who had looked at her like she was breakable. Now— He was walking down the aisle. Looking confident. Looking happy. Looking like he’d been reborn. She didn’t breathe. Harry leaned down.

“You okay?”

She nodded too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

She didn’t say anything else. Didn’t say I know the groom. Didn’t say he used to know every version of me I’ve tried to forget. Because she didn’t know what it meant yet. Didn’t know what it changed. But her hands were shaking.

And Harry noticed. Of course he did. He reached for them. Covered hers with both of his. Held them. Didn’t ask again. Then came the bridesmaids. Tall. Polished. Looking like Instagram filters. She recognized one. Maybe from the airport. Didn’t matter.

Then— Lucy. On her father’s arm. In a dress that looked like it had a publicist. Chin high. Smile soft. Confident. Like she knew what she was walking toward. Like this was the ending she’d always wanted.

The guests all turned. Photos snapped. The moment paused. Lucy’s eyes swept the rows. And landed on Harry. And her.

Lucy faltered. Just slightly. One step. But it was enough. She caught it. So did Harry next to her. His grip on her hand tightened. She squeezed back.

Lucy recovered. Kept walking. They all sat. The officiant cleared their throat. And the ceremony began.

But she— She couldn’t stop staring at John. Couldn’t stop remembering. Couldn’t stop thinking—

This is the man who saw me before I had to become someone else. And he’s marrying Lucy. And I am sitting here beside Harry fucking Castillo. And none of this feels real.

She didn’t say anything during the ceremony. Didn’t speak. Didn’t whisper. Just sat still. Silent. Thinking. And Harry didn’t press. He just kept holding her hand. Steady. Warm. Like a vow.

And when she leaned into him slightly— When she let her head rest on his shoulder for just a moment— He pressed a kiss to her temple. Didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He didn’t know the whole story. Not yet. But he could feel it. Something had shifted.

And whatever it was— He would protect her from it. Even if he had to do it without knowing the name. Because she was his. And that was the only thing that mattered. Even here. Even now. Even at his ex’s wedding. With the past walking down the aisle. And still— He wouldn’t have traded it. Not for anything.

The officiant cleared his throat with the kind of authority that suggested he’d been officiating weddings for thirty years and had a story about every one of them.

“Dearly beloved,” he began, the sun catching on his glasses as the wind shifted just slightly, rustling the linen of Lucy’s dress and the program in everyone's laps. “We are gathered here today to witness the union of two souls.”

She exhaled slowly through her nose. Harry still had one hand over both of hers. Thumb brushing the side of her palm absentmindedly, like he wasn’t really thinking about it. Like it was just… instinct now. Natural.

She didn’t dare look at Lucy yet. She was still reeling from John. From the wave of old memory that had crashed like a slap across the front of her brain.

John. The man who used to pass her cookies wrapped in napkins when she wasn’t allowed dessert. The man who once lent her a sweater when her mother made her wear a dress two sizes too small. The man who had seen her at her loneliest, at her skinniest, at her most afraid—and never once judged her for it.

And now— He was holding Lucy’s hands. She tried to focus on the priest.

“In love, we find not perfection,” the man was saying, “but acceptance. Grace. Patience. A partner not to complete us—but to recognize what is already complete.”

Harry shifted beside her. Not uncomfortably. Not restlessly. Just enough to slide his arm across the back of her chair. His thumb brushed the bare skin of her shoulder. He didn’t look at Lucy. Not once.

But Lucy…

Lucy kept looking at him. It wasn’t obvious. Not overt. But she saw it.

The way Lucy's eyes flicked past the guests while the priest talked. The way her fingers tightened around John’s just slightly, like she’d remembered something. Like Lucy remembered him.

It made her stomach coil. Not with jealousy. Not even with anger. Just that old, sinking ache of being seen—but not seen back. Like Lucy still didn’t quite register that Harry wasn’t hers anymore. That he hadn’t been for a long time. That even when he had been, he’d never been hers like this.

Because now—he was sitting beside someone who knew what kind of coffee he liked when he was stressed. Who knew he rubbed his temples when he was thinking about old memories. Who knew he talked in his sleep when he was dreaming about his mother.

Lucy had known a version of Harry. The polished one. The corporate myth. The one with cufflinks and PR statements and a tongue sharp enough to bankrupt cities.

But her? The woman sitting next to him knew the one who forgot his towel after a shower. The one who sang along to Sinatra when he thought no one was listening. The one who made her lemon toast at midnight and read novels over her shoulder just to be close.

The priest continued. “Now, Lucy and John have chosen to write their own vows,” he said. “Lucy?”

Lucy smiled. A soft, composed smile. Took the mic from him with a little thank you and turned to face John. She braced. Lucy began.

“I don’t know if I believe in soulmates,” she said, voice clear, echoing faintly beneath the pergola strung with white roses. “I don’t know if I believe in fate. But I do believe in timing. In second chances. In the way people can walk into your life twice—and the second time, you’re ready.”

Lucy paused. Smiled again. She felt Harry’s hand twitch slightly. Not much. Just… enough.

“I’ve known a lot of versions of myself,” Lucy continued. “Some I loved. Some I didn’t. But you, John… you saw all of them. And you didn’t flinch. You waited for me. You held space. You didn’t rush me toward who you wanted me to be. You just let me arrive.”

She blinked slowly. She felt it before she saw it. That glance. Quick. Surgical. Right in their direction. Lucy didn’t say Harry’s name. Of course not. But her eyes found him. Mid-sentence. And stayed there for a second too long.

“I used to think love was a game of leverage,” Lucy said, still looking straight through the crowd. “Power. Strategy. But it’s not. It’s knowing that even when someone sees your ugliest, they’ll stay.”

John squeezed her hand. Lucy looked back at him. And she didn’t miss the way John followed Lucy's gaze. How his brow furrowed. Just barely. How his eyes flicked—quick, sharp—to the third row. Where Harry sat like a statue, expression unreadable, lips pressed into a single line.

Harry hadn’t looked at Lucy once. John noticed. She could see him noticing.

Lucy finished her vows with a smile, her voice gentler now. “You make me feel like I don’t have to perform anymore. And that’s the greatest gift I’ve ever received.”

Polite applause followed. A few sniffles. The priest smiled.

Then—“John?”

He took the mic with a nod. Looked at Lucy. And for a second—Just a second—She saw it. The calculation. The question.

Like John was still replaying that glance she’d made. Like he was realizing that maybe—just maybe—his bride was still haunted and not his. He recovered quickly.

“Lucy,” he said. “You are—chaos.”

The crowd laughed. Lucy rolled her eyes. But John smiled warmly.

“You are also order. You are too many thoughts at once. You are late-night texts about documentaries. You are Sunday walks that last six hours. You are questions no one else asks, and the woman who taught me that love isn’t about feeling safe—it’s about choosing to stay.”

She exhaled. Because this was real. John loved her. You could tell. Even if Lucy hadn’t looked at him the whole time. Even if Lucy still hadn’t quite let go.

The girl next to Harry turned slightly. Looked at him. And there he was. Watching her. Not the vows. Not the bride. Just—her. His eyes met hers. And she smiled. Tired. Amused. Something darker beneath it.

Harry leaned down. Brushed his lips over her ear.

“She could be marrying God,” he whispered, “and I’d still want you.”

Her chest stuttered. She turned to him.

“Harry—”

“No,” he said. “I mean it. There’s no version of this where I look back.”

She swallowed. Then nodded. And faced forward again.

Just in time for the rings. The rest of the ceremony passed in soft waves. The officiant blessed the union. The wind picked up. A bridesmaid’s dress blew sideways and someone’s baby started crying. But the couple didn’t notice.

They kissed. Everyone clapped. And the music started. But she—she didn’t feel relieved. She felt like a door had just opened somewhere behind her.  And whatever was waiting on the other side? Was walking toward her now. Quiet. Patient. Familiar. And wearing a tux. The moment the music began, the spell broke.

Chairs scraped against the deck. Shoes shifted. People stood, stretched, whispered. The sky overhead was soft and gold, the kind of sunset only coastal towns could pull off, and yet no one seemed to notice it.

They were too busy watching them. Too busy pretending not to watch them. Harry and the girl he came with. The woman who wasn’t Lucy.

Francesca leaned over as she rose, adjusting the straps of her pale green dress and whispering, “Well, that was subtle.”

She blinked. “What?”

Francesca nodded in Lucy’s direction. “The longing gazes. The not-so-covert micromanaging of your proximity to her ex. Classic wedding pettiness.”

She sighed softly.

Luca, straightening his suit jacket on Francesca's other side, added, “At least you got a front-row seat to the performance of the year. She almost had me with the ‘I don’t believe in soulmates’ bit.”

Harry didn’t comment. He stood up slowly, buttoned his suit jacket, and then—without looking at Lucy—offered his hand to his girl. She took it without hesitation.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, low and quiet, for her ears only.

She nodded. “Yeah. Let’s.”

Francesca and Luca exchanged glances, already reading the room, “We’ll see you at the reception?” Francesca asked, her tone laced with something knowing, something gentle.

Harry gave a single, quiet nod. “Of course.”

They parted ways at the edge of the deck, Harry guiding her toward the small gravel lot where their sleek black car waited—a rental, but decent. The driver, ever thoughtful, had made sure the air conditioning was already on.

Harry opened the door for her first. As always. She slid in quietly. Waited until he joined her and closed the door before letting herself breathe. The car pulled away slowly. Soft jazz played through the speakers.

She stared at her lap. Harry watched her for a second. Then said, “You were quiet back there.”

She nodded once. Still didn’t look at him. His hand found hers. Thumb brushing the top of it. Steady. Warm. Present.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked, voice quiet. Patient.

She nodded again. Then—finally—turned to him.

“I know John.”

Harry didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just kept holding her hand.

“I mean—” she continued, voice soft, a little hoarse, “I knew him. When I was a kid. He used to work the events at our house. Before everything... before my dad got caught. Before the headlines. The bankruptcy. Teddy—”

She stopped. Swallowed. Harry shifted toward her slightly, his body angled, eyes locked on hers. She exhaled, steadying herself.

“I was, like, fifteen? Sixteen? My mom… she didn’t let me eat. Not really. Not carbs. Not sugar. Not anything that would make me ‘pudgy.’ She was obsessed with how I looked, how we looked as a family. And John—he worked the kitchen during these fundraisers. He’d sneak me food. Muffins. Sandwiches. Once, a piece of birthday cake.

Harry said nothing. But his hand tightened around hers. She didn’t cry. She didn’t need to. She’d done all her crying years ago.

“He was kind,” she whispered. “I didn’t think about him for years. Not until I saw him. In that tux. Walking down the aisle. Holding Lucy’s hand like he’d never done anything else.”

Harry was still watching her. Unmoving. So she continued.

“I didn’t want to tell you before,” she said, “because it didn’t feel important. But now... I don’t know. I think maybe it is. Not because I feel anything for him. I don’t. But because it felt... full circle, in a way. Like I’d walked into someone else’s story by accident.”

Harry reached for her other hand. Held both now. His gaze was steady.

“Can I tell you something?” he said, his voice low and slow in the dim car light.

She nodded. Harry took a breath. “I love you.”

She blinked.

“I know that’s not an answer,” he said. “But it’s the root of every one I could give you. I love you. Not in the convenient way. Not in the performative way. I love you in the you-could-set-this-car-on-fire-and-I’d-still-crawl-through-glass-to-get-to-you way.”

Her chest stuttered.

“I don’t care who he is,” Harry said. “I don’t care what he did for you back then. I’m grateful someone was kind to you when you needed it. But that’s all it is. That’s all it’ll ever be. A footnote.”

She swallowed. “You’re not mad?”

His brows lifted. “Why the fuck would I be mad? Because the man marrying my ex was decent to the woman I love when she was a child?”

Her lips curved, just slightly. “I don’t know. You get a little murdery sometimes.”

Harry smirked.

“That’s true.”

He leaned forward. Kissed the top of her hand.

Then added, “But not this time.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

He was in an old suit. The one he wore when they first met, she realized. The one with the faint thread pulled near the seam and the button that was slightly chipped. He hadn’t bought anything new. He wouldn’t have—not for this. Not for Lucy. But somehow, the suit looked better now. Softer. Lived-in. He looked better now. Because he was hers.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

“For listening.”

Harry brushed his thumb across the inside of her wrist. “For always.”

They drove in silence after that. Not heavy silence. Just the kind that lingered gently between people who understood each other without needing to fill the air with more than presence.

When they reached the venue—an ocean-side estate with gauze-draped tents and a horizon that looked painted—they sat in the car for another moment before getting out.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. Then opened the door. And stepped out into the kind of dusk that felt biblical. Harry followed. Buttoned his jacket. Then looked at her.

“You’re the only good thing in my life” he said softly.

She smiled. Took his hand. And together, they walked up the steps toward the reception. Ready. Unshaken. Untouchable. Even here. Especially here.

The reception was tucked behind the main house—string lights draped between trees, linen-covered tables arranged in soft curves around a makeshift dance floor that had clearly been installed just for the event. The ocean was just visible over the ridge, the breeze warm and salt-sweet, the kind of night someone might dream up just to pretend their life had always been beautiful.

Francesca and Luca were already there, Francesca barefoot with her heels hanging from two fingers, her curls pinned back but barely, sipping something white and cold. Luca stood beside her in a linen suit that looked like it had been stolen off the set of The Talented Mr. Ripley, sunglasses still tucked into the neck of his shirt like it was midday.

When they spotted her and Harry, Francesca lit up and waved them over like she’d been waiting for this moment all night.

“There you are,” she said, looping an arm around her waist and kissing her cheek. “You survived. You both survived. I’m honestly impressed.”

Harry offered Luca a nod and the two did the customary handshake-hug combo, the kind men used when they liked each other more than they admitted.

“Drinks?” Luca asked.

Harry nodded once. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

He touched her hip briefly, murmured, “Be right back,” before following Luca toward the bar. He didn’t look back, but his hand lingered on her waist just a second longer than necessary before he let go. He didn't want to let go.

Francesca sighed, looping her arm through her's as they made their way to their assigned table near the center, not too far from the dance floor but tucked enough to keep a little distance.

“Everyone’s talking about you,” Francesca said breezily, not cruelly, just as fact. “But only because you look better than anyone else here.”

She snorted softly. “They’re talking because I’m here with him.”

“Well,” Francesca said, settling into her chair and crossing her legs with a dramatic flourish, “that too. But honestly? They should be so lucky.”

She looked around subtly. And sure enough—eyes. Not a lot. Not direct. But there. Women in pastel. Men with thinning hair and sharp shoes. Bridesmaids whispering like they hadn’t been caught red-handed giving side-eyes during the ceremony.

Francesca sipped her drink. “You’re making them all spiral. You know that, right?”

“I don’t want to make anyone spiral.”

“Of course you don’t. But that’s why it’s working.”

Before she could respond, Luca and Harry returned, each with two glasses balanced between their fingers like it was a routine. Harry handed her one without a word. Cold. Pale. Sparkling. Probably something expensive he already clocked on the menu.

He sat beside her, suit jacket already open, tie a little looser than earlier. “Sauvignon Blanc. You’ll like it.”

She took a sip. He was right. Francesca and Luca fell into a quiet conversation on the other side of the table, their chairs angled toward each other in that familiar, unhurried way of people who’ve known each other through too many different lives.

Harry leaned close. “You good?”

She nodded. “You?”

His eyes flicked over her face, cataloging.

“I will be,” he said, then added softly, “as long as you’re here.”

It didn’t matter that people were watching. It didn’t matter that they were at the wedding of his ex. He only looked at her.

The party truly began when Lucy and John made their official entrance. The music shifted. The lights dimmed just slightly. People stood. Glasses raised. And through the wide garden doors, Lucy appeared again—no longer in her formal wedding gown, but now in a slinkier, champagne-colored dress that shimmered as she walked. Her hair had been let down. Her shoes were different too—lower, simpler, probably because her feet were blistered. John followed behind her, suit jacket off, shirt open at the collar, hand casually resting on her lower back.

She felt Harry’s body go subtly still beside her. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t tense. But he watched her. Only her. Barley glanced at Lucy. And Lucy? Well, Lucy had clearly been waiting for the moment to see who was watching her walk in as someone’s wife. Her gaze swept the room. Too casually. And then it landed on Harry. And it stuck.

Long enough that Francesca muttered under her breath, “Jesus Christ, this is gonna be messy.”

But her? She didn’t flinch. Because Harry—her Harry, only hers—wasn’t looking back. Not the way Lucy wanted. He saw her. Of course he did. But his hand stayed on her thigh, thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles through the silk of her dress. And when Lucy’s stare lingered too long, he turned slightly—to her, only to her—and asked, low and dry,

“You want the steak or the sea bass?”

She smiled. “Bass.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m not letting you eat beef at a wedding where she’s in charge of the menu.”

Lucy and John made their rounds. Toasts were offered. Champagne was refilled. The DJ—clearly someone’s cousin—announced the first dance and couples began to drift toward the open floor.

She stayed in her seat, eyes following the soft blur of movement and fabric. Harry didn’t press her to dance. He never would unless she asked. He just sat close, hand on her leg, his other curled around his glass, leaning slightly so no one else could see him looking at her.

“You know,” he murmured, lips barely brushing the edge of her ear, “if I didn’t love you already, I’d fall in love with you just for surviving this.”

She laughed softly. “And if I wasn’t already obsessed with you, I’d be falling in love with you for bringing me to your ex’s wedding and still managing to make me feel like I’m the only one here.”

“You are the only one here.”

“You say that like you mean it.”

“I do.”

He tilted her chin gently, just enough so she had to look him in the eye.

“You have no idea,” he said, “how much I mean it.”

And maybe it was the wine. Or the ocean breeze. Or the way his voice dropped an octave when he got sincere. But something in her heart did a little flutter. A quiet, private flutter no one else could see. Because even now—even here—he made her feel untouched. Untouchable.

Luca nudged them a few minutes later, grinning. “Dance with us. Come on. Francesca says she refuses to be the only woman out there with a man who steps on her feet.” Francesca shot him a glare but offered her hand anyway.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You want to?”

She looked at him. Then nodded. “Only if you don’t step on mine.”

“I’m old, not uncoordinated.”

He stood and helped her up, hand firm in hers, his other settling instinctively at the small of her back like it always did. They moved together easily. Naturally. Even without music, she’d follow him anywhere. Especially here. And Harry? Harry held her close on that dance floor, surrounded by whispers and stares and the ghosts of relationships that never made it. Because in the end, none of it mattered. She was in his arms. And the rest of the world could burn.

The reception had bled into its second hour like it had somewhere better to be. The string lights overhead twinkled in warm gold as dusk finally gave up and slipped into night. The air was thick with salt and champagne, every table crowded with plates half-finished and stories half-true. Someone's cousin had already kicked off her heels and was dancing barefoot near the bar, and the playlist had shifted from jazz to something that sounded suspiciously like early-2000s pop.

She was seated again with Harry at the far end of the garden reception, their table nestled into a curve of candles and wildflowers. Francesca and Luca were next to them, Luca now with his jacket off, sleeves rolled up, talking animatedly with Harry about the logistics of moving a vineyard from Italy to upstate New York.

Francesca was on her second glass of white and already giving her looks that said “are you good?” every time someone at another table shot them a glance too long.

Because they were being watched. Of course they were. Soft, covert glances. Half-turns. Murmured questions behind manicured hands. Not loud enough to call attention, but clear enough to send a chill up her spine. Harry noticed too. He always did.

So he shifted slightly in his seat, his arm sliding along the back of her chair until his fingers hooked over her shoulder, thumb rubbing slow circles at the edge of her collarbone. A quiet kind of claim.

“You good, baby?” he murmured, head angled just enough so only she could hear it.

She nodded once, giving him a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking I should've worn something more intimidating.”

Harry leaned in, brushing his lips to the side of her head. “You’re terrifying as is.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”

“I’ve got billionaires afraid of me, but you—” He smirked faintly. “You’re what keeps me up at night.”

Francesca, pretending not to eavesdrop, muttered, “Jesus, you two need a chaperone.”

“Then don’t sit next to us,” Harry said dryly, sipping his scotch.

Luca snorted into his drink. “He’s a romantic, but he hides it behind insults.”

“I don’t hide shit,” Harry said, glancing at her. “She knows.”

And she did. Because even when he was sitting at his ex’s wedding reception surrounded by people who’d once tried to bury him in PR hell, Harry only looked at her. Only leaned in when she whispered. Only refilled her wine glass before she noticed it was empty.

He didn’t smile at anyone else. Didn’t even pretend. Which made the next moment all the more unfortunate. Because she had to pee.

“Be right back,” she whispered, touching his knee beneath the table.

Harry looked up immediately. “Want me to come with you?”

“To the bathroom?” She arched a brow. “You trying to babysit me or make a scene?”

He smirked, leaned over, kissed the inside of her wrist. “Call if you need me.”

“I’m not gonna get jumped between here and the Porta Potties, Castillo.”

But he didn’t laugh. He just watched her walk away like he always did. Like she was gravity and orbit and every soft thing he thought he’d lost.

The bathroom was set up along the edge of the venue, tucked behind hedges and a string of fairy lights, near the catering trucks and a makeshift hand-washing station someone had tried to dress up with eucalyptus.

She moved quick. In and out. Washed her hands. Smoothed her dress. And when she stepped back out, she nearly ran straight into him. John. Standing just outside. Waiting. In his suit. His tie loosened. A look on his face she recognized immediately. Contrition.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

She froze. Of course. Of fucking course.

“Hi.”

John exhaled slowly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d let me say anything.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again at all.”

He looked down. “Yeah.” A beat. “I didn’t know—when I saw you were here, I didn’t believe it.”

She tilted her head slightly. “And now?”

John met her eyes. “I still can’t believe it.”

She crossed her arms. The silk of her dress whispered with the movement. “You waited outside the bathroom to talk to me?”

“You were gonna disappear again.”

“I didn’t disappear, John. I left.”

He swallowed. “I remember.”

Of course he did. He was there. He saw it.

The chaos. The headlines. The funeral. The trial. The nights she sat curled on the kitchen floor of that too-big house with nothing but canned peaches and a grief she didn’t know how to name.

“You were a kid,” he said quietly. “And they put the world on your shoulders.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t know how.

John took a step closer. “I never forgot what your dad did. What he let happen. I thought about reaching out when I saw your name again, but…”

“But you didn’t.”

He nodded. “Didn’t know if you’d want to hear from anyone who knew the before.”

She breathed in through her nose. Held it. Then let it go. “I didn’t need rescuing. I needed people to believe me when I said I wasn’t my father.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You’re not him.”

The words landed. Quiet.

She nodded once. “You’re married now.”

“Yeah.” He glanced back toward the venue. “She’s a good person.”

“Oh I’m sure.”

Another beat.

Then, “You look happy.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Because just then—

A figure appeared near the hedges. Black suit. Rolled sleeves. Silver at the temples.

Harry. Eyes locked on her like a sniper.

Her breath caught. John noticed.

“Is that—”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

John blinked. “Holy shit.”

Harry didn’t say anything when he reached them. Just stepped between them slightly, hand finding the small of her back, anchoring her.

John cleared his throat. “You’re—Harry Castillo.”

“Mm.”

“I’ve followed your career for years—”

Harry cut him off with a slow blink. “And now you marry women you used to serve shrimp to.”

John’s face paled.

She touched Harry’s arm. “Harry.”

He tilted his head. “Just saying.”

John took a step back. “Right. I should—yeah.”

He turned. Walked off. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Just firm.

She looked up at Harry. “You were eavesdropping?”

“I was waiting outside like a husband.”

“You’re not my husband.”

“Yet.”

She snorted.

Harry’s thumb brushed the bare skin of her back, right at the base of her spine. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He tilted his head. Studied her. “Want me to get you out of here?”

She smiled faintly. “Not yet. Francesca still needs to send me a link to a lingerie set.”

Harry’s eyes darkened slightly.

“Oh. Okay.”

She leaned in. Kissed the underside of his jaw. “For you. Of course..”

“You're a menace,” he murmured. 

She laughed.

He kissed her temple. “Come on. Let’s go finish this. Then I’m taking you home. Or the goddamn moon. Anywhere you want.”

“Your bed in New York has better pillows.”

“Then we’re going home.”

Hand in hand, they walked back toward the party. Not looking back. Not needing to. Because some ghosts didn’t need confrontation. They just needed to see you thriving. And Harry Castillo made damn sure she would. The grass was damp beneath her heels when they stepped back into the light. The reception had shifted again—music pulsing a little louder now, bodies dancing with the looser grace of people full of wine and relieved of ceremony. Tables sparkled under strings of warm light, their surfaces littered with plates scraped clean and wineglasses clinked a little too often. Francesca caught her eye from across the garden, waving a hand with the flourish of someone halfway through her third drink.

“There she is,” Francesca said as she approached. “The woman of the fucking hour.”

She smirked, tucking herself into the chair beside her again, Harry’s coat still resting lightly across her shoulders. “Don’t think I’m that important.”

“You walked into this party like it owed you an apology. You’re a legend.”

Harry sat down beside her again, brushing the edge of her shoulder with his hand before settling. Luca rejoined them moments later with a small plate of olives and cheese.

Francesca didn’t even wait. She leaned close, voice low. “So. You going to tell me what happened?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Saw the groom follow you.”

She paused. Then sighed. “I used to know him. When I was a teenager. He worked for my family. He was... kind. At a time when I didn’t really know what that meant.”

Francesca’s gaze softened. “And now he’s married to Lucy.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Full circle. Or something.”

Francesca touched her hand. “You doing okay?”

She smiled faintly. “Now I am.”

Harry was watching them. Eyes soft. Hands steady. He didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. Just existed in a bubble of silent attention around her, like if he looked away for even a moment, the world might try to take her.

Francesca clocked it too. Leaning in closer, she smirked. “God, he’s disgusting when he looks at you.”

She turned slightly. “Who?”

“That man. Your man. The one who’s staring like you’re his religion.”

Harry, without missing a beat, said, “I’m right here.”

Francesca sipped her wine. “We know. You’re always right there.”

The two women shared a look. Something old and female and funny.

“I’m gonna need another,” Francesca said, lifting her empty glass. “You?”

She raised hers. Empty. Francesca grinned and then pointed at their respective men. “Alright, gentlemen. Fetch and return.”

Harry arched a brow. “Are we dogs now?”

“Yes,” Francesca said, already rising. “But expensive ones. Go.”

Harry stood, eyes flicking over to her with a smirk. “You good?”

She nodded. “I’m fine. Go.”

He leaned down. Kissed the top of her head. “Stay in the light.”

She laughed. “What am I, Frodo?”

But he lingered. Brushed her cheek once with the back of his hand before turning. She watched them go—Harry and Luca disappearing toward the bar—and then turned back to Francesca, who had sat back down and was now untying her shoes.

“So,” Francesca said. “Having a good time?”

She hesitated. Then said softly, “I think this is what having a good time looks like.”

Francesca looked over. “You in love?”

Her smile curled slowly. “Worse.”

Francesca raised her brow. “How worse?”

“He’s in love with me. And it’s... it’s not performative. Or casual. It’s like he loves me with his whole life. Like I’m the first quiet he’s ever known.”

Francesca stared at her. “That’s not worse. Thats luck.”

They laughed. The soft, shared laugh of women who knew too much and still leaned into it anyway.

“I’ve never had anything like this,” she said, voice lower now. “Not with someone who listens. Not with someone who doesn’t want to own me.”

Francesca tapped her glass gently. “Then keep it. At all costs.”

She nodded. “I plan to.”

But the cost, it turned out, was about to show up. Because just then—

A voice cut through the music. Sharp. Feminine. Familiar in the way rot is familiar once you’ve known it long enough.

“Well,” the woman said. “I guess if you stick around long enough, the trash takes itself out of hiding.”

She turned. Standing just behind her, drink sloshing, dress too tight around the arms, was one of Lucy’s cousins. Tall. Blonde. The kind of cruel that came with too much money and too little self-awareness.

She straightened. “Excuse me?”

The woman took a slow sip. “You heard me.”

Francesca turned too, already rising slightly in her seat. But the woman wasn’t looking at Francesca. Just at her.

“Everyone here is pretending like this is normal,” the cousin sneered. “Like it makes sense that you’d show up here, parade around in that fucking dress, and pretend you belong. But you don’t. You never did.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re not.” The woman stepped closer, voice low and hot with something old. “You’re not sorry for seducing someone old enough to be your father. You’re not sorry for ruining a perfectly good man. You’re not sorry for making Lucy cry for months.”

Francesca stood. “Alright. That’s enough.”

But she didn’t stop.

“You think this makes you powerful?” she hissed. “Being the woman who dragged Harry Castillo out of hiding? You’re a phase. A fucking consolation prize for a man who got burned by a real woman.”

Her throat closed.

“I’ve seen girls like you,” the cousin spat. “Choke on your own ambition. Hide behind soft eyes and soft hands and then cry when someone calls you what you really are. You’re not real. You’re not permanent. You’re a fucking intermission.”

Francesca was already stepping between them. “Say one more word—”

But it was too late. Harry was back. And he had heard everything. He stepped forward. No hesitation. Voice like thunder on glass.

“Shut. The fuck. Up.”

The cousin blinked. Turned. And froze. Harry Castillo, furious in a black suit and tie loose around his collar, stood like a man who had made his fortune destroying people who spoke out of turn. And now he was looking at her like she wasn’t even worth the breath it would take to really dismantle her.

“You don’t speak to her,” Harry said, voice low. Lethal. “You don’t look at her. You don’t think about her. She’s worth more than everything on this property combined.”

The cousin flushed red. “You think just because you’re—”

“Back off,” Harry said, stepping closer. “Now.”

But then—

Another man stepped in. Older. Broader. Her husband, probably.

“Hey,” he said, stepping between them. “Back off. You don’t talk to my wife like that.”

Harry turned his gaze slowly. And smiled. It wasn’t kind. It was the smile he used to wear in boardrooms before ruin.

“I just did,” Harry said. “Want to make it a conversation?”

“Harry—” she said softly, touching his arm.

He didn’t look at her. Not yet.

The cousin’s husband stepped closer. “You think you’re untouchable?”

Harry stepped right into his space.

“I know I am.”

“Harry,” she said again, firmer.

This time, he looked at her. And just as quickly—softened. Because she looked shaken. Small. And he hated that.

He touched her cheek. “Did she hurt you?”

“I’m okay.”

“Did she hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Just words.”

Harry looked back at the woman. “Then be grateful they were only words. Because if she’d touched you—”

But he didn’t finish it. Because Lucy had arrived. And John, trailing behind her, wide-eyed and unsure. Lucy’s heels clicked against the stone. Her dress shimmered. Her expression already lined with practiced grace.

“Harry,” she said, exasperated. “What the hell is going on?”

He didn’t move. Just kept one hand on her waist. The other clenched at his side.

“This woman insulted her.”

Lucy glanced at her cousin. Then at Harry. Then at her. And instead of apology—

She snapped.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Her breath caught.

Lucy stepped forward. “You shouldn’t have brought her here. You knew it would cause a scene.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “She didn’t cause anything.”

“You brought a child to my wedding.”

She froze. The words were sharp. And Harry? Harry looked like he could kill.

“She’s not a child,” he said. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Lucy scoffed. “Oh please. Don’t turn this into some noble love story.”

Harry straightened. “She is my girlfriend.”

Even though it hurt Lucy to hear that, it was true. Lucy’s lips curled. “She’s twenty years younger than you.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, without missing a beat. “Which means she knows how to grow. Something you’ve never learned.”

Lucy flinched. The air went cold.

John stepped up, hand on Lucy’s arm. “Let’s calm down—”

“Don’t,” Harry said. “Don’t try to smooth this over. She started it.”

“She didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what she meant,” Harry snapped. “She insulted her. And I don’t care if it’s your fucking wedding, you let anyone talk to her like that again and I’ll make sure they never get invited anywhere again.”

Silence. Thick. Sharp. Awful. And then—

The cousin muttered something. But Harry didn’t react. Because she touched his hand. And that—that was what grounded him. He looked at her. Really looked. Eyes soft. Wrath dissolving. She was pale. Shaken. But still standing.

“Let’s go,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Francesca was already packing up her purse. Luca was watching everything like a man taking notes on who to blacklist next. Harry didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t wait. Just wrapped his coat around her shoulders, held her close, and walked away.

The cousin said something again. Harry didn’t hear it. Didn’t need to. Because she had his hand. And Harry Castillo would rather burn the world down than let her think for one more second that she was anything less than holy.

And as their driver drove away—his hand in hers, his jaw tight, her head resting against the seat—he finally spoke. Voice low. Rough.

“I'm so sorry.”

She looked up. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I let them hurt you.”

She shook her head. “No. You were right there.”

He looked at her. Eyes burning. “I love you,” he said. “So much it makes me ugly.”

She leaned over. Kissed his knuckles.

“You’re not ugly.”

He pulled her close. Held her to his chest. Whispered into her hair “You’re the only thing I’ve ever done right.”

And outside the car window, Cape Cod disappeared. But inside—

Inside there was only the sound of her breathing. And the feeling of being held. And the sharp, tender truth that no matter how cruel the world got—

Harry Castillo would always stand in front of it. If it meant protecting her.

TAGLIST @foxfollowedmehome @glitterspark @sukivenue @hhallefuckinglujahh @wholesomeloneliness @bebop36 @maryfanson @aysilee2018 @msjarvis @snoopyreadstoday @woodxtock @lasocia69 @jakecockley @just-a-harmless-patato @romancherry @southernbe @canyoufallinlove @aomi-recs @ivoryandflame @peelieblue @mstubbs21 @eleganthottubfun @justgonewild @awqwhat @xoprettiestkat @prose-before-hoes @indiegirlunited @catnip987 @thottiewinemom @rainbowsock4 @weareonlygettingolderbabe @hotforpedro @petertingless @lemon-world1 @jasminedragoon @algressman16 @la-120 @totallynotshine @joelmillerpascal @inesbethari @peedrow @escapefromrealitylol @mrsbilicablog @lunpycatavenue @ennvsco @vickie5446 @stormseyer

Oops too late 🤭🤤

To Go, Please | the materialists pt 2/2

pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader (the materialists)

word count: 3.8k

summary: After arriving at Harry's place with tension high for each other after dinner, he convinces you to stay the night.

chapter warnings: SMUT (18+ MDNI), m!oral receiving, implied f!oral receiving, piv unprotected, fluff, mutual pining, Harry speaks Spanish but translations are there, cream pie, dirty talk, soft!harry.

a/n: I fear I have gone feral for this man over the past few days and on top of my upcoming rodeo!joelmiller fic, there will also be a series with harry coming out soon (will post a sneak peak sometime this week). god help us all when this movie releases... 💀🤍

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics 

Part Two

–

You felt like you were floating as you went further down the hall into his bedroom. Your hands were on his chest, lightly pulling on his sweater as you kissed him slowly and deeply. His hands cupped your cheek and murmured, “I crave you…” as he began to pepper your lips with kisses, “Estas cautivadora…” (You’re captivating)

He had spoken Spanish to you before, but something about it being chanted to you like this, while he had you like this under his gaze, it was intoxicating. 

Your hands rested on his chest, smiling brightly, softly giggling. His hands moved down your cheeks to your shoulders, down your arms to take your hands in his, lacing his fingers with yours, parting from your lips for a moment, pulling you slowly down the hallway as he walked backward, softly chuckling at how carefree and light he was feeling. 

You lightly bit your bottom lip following him, eyes on his before you needed your lips back on his, so you pulled him back in by his hands. You put his hands on your waist as you wrapped your arms around his neck and murmured, “Come ‘ere…” You teased your hands through his hair, looking into his eyes. 

He smirked as he leaned down and reconnected your lips with his, the kiss starting gentle and slow but becoming more deep and passionate the closer the two of you got down the hall and into the bedroom.

As soon as you crossed the threshold between the hall and the bedroom, both of your hands rushed to start undressing each other.

He parted from your lips, but was softly panting as he nudged his nose with yours, “May I?” he whispered as his fingertips breached the hem of your now untucked blouse, softly caressing your skin. 

You nodded and smiled, whispering back, “Yes…” then softly placed your hand on his cheek to bring him back to you and kissing him as he began to unbutton your blouse, gently but in somewhat of a rush. 

As he did this and you were certain his lips would stay to yours, your hands fell down his body and started to gently palm him through his trousers, earning a groan against your lips from him. You then smirked and hummed in agreement before going up to his belt to start undoing it.

He was halfway down your blouse when he groaned impatiently against your lips and pulled away just a fraction, “Fuck it…” he then tore open your blouse the rest of the way, buttons falling to the floor– your bare skin and black lace bra now on display.

You gasped and let out a small giggle, “Harry!” blushing madly.

He smirked as his eyes fell to your chest, he lightly bit his lip taking his view in before he looked up, “I’ll buy you a new one… in every color…” he was lightly panting, his eyes darting back and forth between your lips and eyes. 

You couldn’t help but grin as you undid his belt and started to unbutton his trousers, keeping eye contact with him, “So you’re going to buy me new clothes for the morning, a new blouse– in every color…” you unzipped his pants and smirked “I wonder what else will be in store as the night progresses…” you taunted before you slowly knelt before him and pulled his trousers and boxers down to his ankles, his hard cock sprang free. 

Your tongue darted between your lips as you looked at what was before you. 

You bit your lip again and then reached behind you, taking your blouse off and tossing it to the side, looking up at him, “Perhaps we should add to the list some throat lozenges…” You grinned before you reached for his member, slowly starting to stroke it before dragging your tongue up from the base to the tip. 

He inhaled sharply then looked down and couldn’t help but grin, “Mmm fuck–” He swallowed, “I’ll add those to the list to send my assistant– anything else?” he reached down and softly ran his thumb over your cheek. 

“Not at the moment…” you looked up at him tilting your head a little, “Can you think of anything else, handsome?” then you put your lips over the tip and moaned softly as you slowly sunk him into your mouth before slowly pulling back to the tip then back down again, this time a little further to tease him. 

His jaw slacked and he grunted, “F-fuck…” he groaned feeling you go deeper.

You kept one hand on the base, stroking it slowly as your mouth did most of the work– bobbing up and down, sucking him into your warmth. Your other hand laid against his thigh, using it to help keep you steady. 

He put his hand on the back of your head, gently guiding you down on his cock, groaning the deeper you’d get, “Fuck you look so good with your lips around my cock…” he smirked and clenched his jaw when you pushed yourself as deep as you could, gagging quietly then moaning softly as you pulled back off him with a soft ‘pop’. 

You swallowed and hummed, “Mmm, you taste so good baby…” You bit your lip and began stroking his length now covered in your spit. 

He felt a pull behind his navel and grunted, “Mmm fuck… god damn f-fuck–” he groaned, “Stand…” he whimpered. 

“Hmm?” you grinned and continued to stroke him, leaning in and kissing the crease between his pubic area and hip. 

“Querida (Darling), I’m only going to say this once more, stand up.” he grunted again and looked down at you, “Please…” he begged his brown eyes pleaded. 

You slowly rose to your feet and stood in front of him, keeping your hand on his cock, continuing to stroke him. 

He gently grabbed your chin and pulled your gaze up to his, “You’re gonna make me come if you keep doin’ that to me…” he grinned, “And I’ve not even started with you…”

Your eyes gazed at his lips then up to his eyes as you cooed, “Then why don’t you get started…” You moved in to kiss him but he pulled away just a fraction, he moved back a step and took his sweater off which left him now completely bare before you. 

He then cupped your cheek and whispered as he stepped back close to you, “I wanna take this slow… take my time with you…” he leaned in and nudged your nose softly, reaching his other hand behind your back to unclasp your bra, allowing it to fall off you, down to the ground. 

Your breath hitched and you moved your hands to lay on his chest as he pulled you closer by your waist.

“Harry?” your eyes fluttered closed, feeling him inch closer to your lips. 

“Yes?” he asked, leaning up to kiss your forehead gently, stroking your cheek with his thumb. 

You took a small quiet breath then opened your eyes, putting your hand on his cheek softly, speaking up softly, “I… I think… no… I am–” you found his eyes, “I’m falling in love with you...” you confessed. 

That smile he had already across his lips grew ten times wider. He gently held your cheek and then slowly started to walk you back toward the bed, “Can I confess something as well?” he asked, keeping his eyes on yours. 

You shyly nodded and gasped feeling the back of your knees hit the cooler silk sheets he had on his bed. 

He slowly turned you around, then sat on the bed, looking up at you as he pulled you to stand between his legs, “I’ve been falling for you since I saw you across the aisle at Richard and Mandy’s wedding…” he pulled you to sit in his lap, smiling up at you, “I want this… I want us…” 

You wrapped your arm around his neck, keeping the other on his cheek. Your legs straddling his waist, looking down at him as you listened. 

You leaned down and combed through his hair a few times before kissing him a few times, filled with love and passion.

He then wrapped his arm around the back of you as he turned and laid you on the bed softly then hovered over you, gently pulling from your lips, “I just want you to know that… know where I am.” he spoke softly and reached up to brush your hair out of your face. 

You smiled up at him and touched his cheek tenderly, whispering softly, “I want this too…” 

His eyes got softer than they already were and his smile grew just a fraction more before he slowly leaned back down, capturing your lips to his, kissing you slowly and deeply. 

Your fingers moved to comb through his hair again, pulling him closer. You felt his hands move to the waistband of your panties– so without parting from his lips you raised you hips to allow him to take them off of you. 

He did so and then nestled himself between your legs, his hand gently resting on your thigh while the other pulled your waist close to him. He slowly began to grind his hips, his hard cock sliding through your folds– causing you to softly moan against his lips. 

He continued this, edging the two of you on, creating this tension that you couldn’t put into words other than you both wanted the other, wanted each other now. 

He pulled away from your lips and whispered, “One sec…” then leaned over and opened his nightstand drawer, pulling out a condom. 

You turned your head to follow his movements and smiled softly as you looked at him, “Harry…” 

He looked at you, “Yeah?” he put it between his teeth tearing it open. 

You let out a soft giggle, “I uh… you don’t need to wear one if you don’t want to. I have an implant, so that’s not needed, if you’re comfortable with that…” you leaned your head over and gently kissed his arm that was closest to you. 

He looked down at you, and took the condom wrapper out of his mouth, “You sure?” he smiled softly and set it back on the nightstand then came back to you, cupping your cheek, “I don’t mind wearing one… but I…” his tongue darted between his lips and he leaned down, nudging his nose with yours, “I want you to feel safe…” he softly said. 

You blushed and reached up, touching his cheek, gently stroking it with your thumb, “I’m always safe…” you smiled finding his eyes, “I feel safe with you…” you said softly. 

He went to say something, his mouth opened slightly and there was a small sound that came from the back of his throat but then he smiled and shook his head, “I’ll just show you…” he then leaned down, carefully capturing your lips with his, kissing you slowly and lovingly for a few moments, hands exploring your body beneath him. 

He moved his hand down between your bodies before he aligned himself with your enterence before he slowly sunk into your warmth, humming against your lips, goosebumps eliciting up his body. 

Your breath hitched and you moaned against his lips.

His hand moved to grip the sheets beneath you as he began to roll his hips at a slow steady pace, grunting each time he sunk back into you. 

He pulled his lips back and softly pressed his forehead against yours, “God you feel so good… Eres tan hermosa (You’re so beautiful)…” he softly spoke, panting.

His breathes were soft and slow, but the beating of his heart was quick against your chest. You felt a slight buzz under his gaze, being with him like this. You couldn’t feel anything but him, not the coldness of the sheets, or the brisk breeze coming from the open window, it was just him. 

Just the two of you in this moment. 

You softly moaned every few thrusts in between breathes, you began grinding your hips with his to create more friction, more movement. 

He moved his hand to behind one of your thighs and pushed it upwards, creating more access to you for himself, letting himself get deeper as his hips thrusted into you. He quietly grunted and then peppered your jaw with kisses, making his way down to your neck, softly sucking love letters into your skin. 

You moaned a little louder, more breathier however as his name fell off your tongue. The coil had been slowly winding up and you felt it about to break as you felt a deep pull in your core, “Fuck… I think I’m going to cum…” you began to pant a little harder, your heart now pounding against your ribs, feeling a heat crawl up your spine, “F-fuck don’t stop…” you begged as you gripped his bicep and waist, your back starting to arch up against him. 

He grinned, “I’m not stoppin’... let go baby…” he grunted and gripped onto your thigh, “...for me…” he rasped. His hips didn’t stop, instead he pushed your leg a little more up, and with that you cried out, your back arching more up as you clenched around him, cumming harder than you ever had. 

He grunted and his jaw slacked open before he groaned deeply, “Fuck you feel so good…” he groaned again, muttering drunkenly, “Feel so good when you come undone on my cock…” 

You chuckled softly feeling yourself floating as you began coming down from your high, “God you’re intoxicating…” you breathed in and then pulled him up to your lips, pushing your head up to meet his lips in a slow but heated fit of kisses. 

He moved his hand that was gripping the sheets to cup your cheek, tenderly holding you close to him as he continued to grind into your heat, making soft sounds against your lips. 

You moved your hand down to his waist to pull him close, moaning softly against his lips as you felt him hit a deeper part of you.

He grunted and moved his lips to pepper kisses down your jaw then came down to your neck and shoulder, “Where do you want me… I…” his hand moved back to the sheets and gripped them tightly, his hot breath against your skin, immediately forcing you into overdrive, that coil building back up. 

You gasped and your head fell back against the soft and silky pillows. You couldn’t form a coherent response with how his cock felt deep inside you. You moaned and your chest arched– your nipples were perked and breasts boucing with each snap of his hips. You still had your hand on his waist so you just tugged softly and cried softly the only thing you could think of, “S-Stay…” you started panting a bit faster as your orgasm built up. 

He looked up at you and nodded then created a trail of kisses back up to you. He finished by kissing your forehead softly before he put his hand on the top of your head to create a barrier between you and the headboard he noticed you were close to hitting– but also softly used his thumb to stroke your temple as he hovered over you and continued to bury himself deep inside you. 

He grunted feeling you tighten around him and whimpered softly, “F-fuck…” then started murmering, “I’ll give you the world…” his eyes clenched shut and he groaned and then smiled and swallowed before opening his eyes and leaning down, kissing you slowly and deeply, whispering against your lips, “The moon. The fucking stars. Anything you ask, it’s yours. I’m yours…” 

You wrapped moved our hand to rest against his chest, feeling his heart beat strongly against your palm. The other hand teased through his hair as the two of you continued to kiss, the tension building tighter and tighter for the both of you with each thrust, softly mumbling between kisses, “I’m yours…” 

He pulled back from the kiss, muttering under his breath, “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” as he pressed his forehead against yours. 

Your hand moved up from his chest to cup his cheek, whispering, crying out softly, “Right there… please don’t stop… d-don’t stop…” as you softly moaned. 

He grunted and his jaw tightened as he tried to hold on a little longer in order to give you one more release, grunting as his hips started to thrust half haphazardly, speeding up a little. 

You gasped at the sudden change in speed and grabbed onto his shoulder, “Fuck fuck f-fuck…” you cried out then moaned his name as you came, pulsating against his cock as a wave of pleasure crashed over you. 

He let out a small chuckle of relief, smiling down at you, “Good… good girl…” he then moved his hand that was on your thigh to lace with your hand that was on his shoulder, pressing it into the bed beneath the two of you. After a couple moments he inhaled sharply then groaned as he spilled deep inside you, his knees buckling. 

You moaned softly feeling him come undone, holding tightly onto his hand, muttering as your chest heaved, “Kiss me Harry…” you pleaded, needing his lips on yours. 

He moved his hand from above your head to your chin and pulled you to his lips as he leaned in slowly, “Mi vida…” (My life) he whispered before his lips fell onto yours, his body going limp against yours. His hand let go of yours and put it onto your waist as he continued to slowly thrust every drop into you before pulling out with a small gasp from each of you, his cum spilling out of your now empty hole, running down your thighs.

He rolled off after a few moments, laying next to you– but stayed with your lips, wrapping his arm around your body, pulling you against him as he kissed your lips lazily but deeply. Both of your chests heaved against each other, hands moving gently across skin— exploring each others bodies. 

His lips momentarily left yours to trail across your neck, shoulder, chest, whispering how much he loved your body against his, how he wanted this– wanted you for the rest of his life before he made it back to your lips and kissed you ever so passionately, smiling against your lips. He had never felt so happy with someone in his bed, this was it for him, you were the endgame. 

He pulled gently from your lips and nudged your nose, "Stay right here..." he softly commanded before getting up from the bed and going into the bathroom.

You heard the tap turn on and off and then he walked out with a warm washcloth and smiled, "Here... let me..."

He sat on the bed and then gently wiped the mess between your legs, being sure to get as much as he could to help you feel clean after the mess he'd made. 

You watched him with a loving look in your eyes, adoring the small act of care.

He then tossed the used washcloth into the hamper on the other side of his room and put himself back under the sheets, pulling you back into his arms, "Now where was I?..." he bit his lip then smiled leaning down, "Oh that's right..." he gently took your chin in his grasp, pulling your lips to meet his in slow passionate kisses again.

As you both continued to devour each other's lips, you could hear raindrops and a small echo of thunder coming from the open window. The atmosphere was nothing short of peaceful and relaxing, sending you straight towards sleep the more you came down from your high. 

You hummed after a while and pulled back slowly, nudging your nose with his, your eyelids becoming heavy, “Hmm I thought of something else…” you murmured. 

Harry gently brushed some stray hairs back out of your face and looked down at you, kissing your nose ever so gently then pecked your lips, “What’s that, mi amor?” he spoke softly before taking his thumb and gently brushing it against your rosy cheek, memorizing your features as his eyes scanned your face. 

A small happy smile was etched into your lips and you took a deep relaxed breath, “I need a umbrella for my walk to work tomorrow… its…” you took a sweet short breath as you mumbled, sleep taking you, “raining…” 

He tsked, smiling lovingly down at you. He let out a small quiet chuckle then kissed your forehead gently, softly whispering into your skin as his lips lingered, “Get some sleep mi vida, I’ll take care of everything– I’ll take care of you…” 

Harry woke around 7am to his phone buzzing on the nightstand. He had his arms wrapped around you as he spooned you from behind. He slowly turned and grabbed his phone, answering the call, whispering so he didn’t wake you, “Yes?” 

“Sir, the items requested are on the entry way table and we have Scott in the kitchen making breakfast for the two of you, is there anything else I can get for you?” his assistant Bradley spoke through the phone. 

“Were you able to get the flowers I requested as well?” Harry looked over at you as he spoke. 

“Yes sir. I have them sitting in a vase on the dining table with the note you requested written next to it.” Bradley confirmed. 

“Thank you Bradley, that’ll be all.” Harry smiled softly then hung up the phone and set it back before slowly and quietly leaning back over, wrapping his arm back around your torso, softly kissing your shoulder. 

You took a deep breath and stirred in your sleep. You hummed sleepily and turned around to cuddle into his chest. 

Harry couldn’t help but smile lovingly as he watched you sleep. He took his hand and softly caressed his fingers up and down your arm, thinking of last nights events. 

You felt the small brush of his fingertips against your skin and a small warm smile slowly appeared on your lips. You hummed sleepily again, fluttering your eyes open, “Good morning…” your voice was thick with sleep.

His smile grew and his cheeks became warm with adoration as he leaned down and pecked your lips softly, “Good morning, querida…” he continued to brush his fingers up and down your soft skin, “How did you sleep?” he leaned up and gently kissed your forehead. 

You let out a small giggle, “Like a log…” you moved your hand to gently trace shapes into his chest with your fingertips, “You?” you asked looking up at him, studying his features before reaching up to gently kiss his jaw. 

His hand brushed once more up your arm before it came to rest and cup your cheek, “Best sleep I’ve had in years…” he chuckled before leaning in and kissing your slowly, lingering on your lips. 

You blushed and hummed his lips, your hand moving up to tease through his hair, “What time is it?” you murmured. 

He kissed your lips again, then mumbled, “Just after 7…” he kissed you again, “What time is your meeting?” he kissed you again, getting more passionate, starting to pull you closer against him. 

You returned the kiss and smiled against his lips, biting your bottom lip for a moment, “9…” you combed his hair back then softly trailed your hand down to his chest again. 

He grinned, “Good…” he kissed you deeply a couple times then parted from your lips a fraction, “That gives us more than enough time…” He gently pushed you to lay back, moving to lay himself between your legs. 

He then slowly slipped under the sheets, leaving a trail of soft delicate kisses down your body before he spent the next hour making love to you and making you only 10 minutes late to your meeting– which you didn’t mind one bit. 

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what is it about Abbot wearing a vest that's just so hot

carmy loves quietly to me. not quietly where he doesn’t do anything but quietly in a way where it’s more personal, intimate but not in some erotic sense. he tries, and i mean really tries, to not bring any dramatics or unnecessary chaos into what the two of you have. and it gets difficult for sure when things start to cave in on itself like they always seem to do or when shit just happens too fast to comprehend. sometimes things just slip out and snowball into a chaos. but things inevitably die down. go back into that quietness.

it’s rubbing circles into the back of your hand. fingertips trailing up and down your spine. a cup of coffee made the way you like ready when you wake up and he’s already gone to do whatever he has to do that day. a knee bumping and staying against yours whenever he’s beside you.