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𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE SYMPHONY BEGINS

♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger! Original Female Character

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 18k (wtf? even i'm surprised. enjoy the finale<3 support by interacting)

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, Creampie, Comeplay. Oral sex (both), dirty talk, praise kink, wedding night, married life, Yearning, Slow burn, Pining, Soulmates, Domestic Harry Castillo, Billionaire Harry, Harry learning how to fall in love the human way, Emotional vulnerability, family fluff, kids.

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Harry Castillo finally settled down and lived his life.

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Harry Castillo wondered a lot about life, about the strangeness of beginnings and how three years ago he had been almost certain he would die alone, surrounded by nothing but his money and the hollow quiet of his penthouse. He’d convinced himself that was dignity, that solitude was safety, that compromising on love was just business, when really it had been resignation.

That changed, of course, when he met Catherine. Everything he had thought he knew unraveled the moment she walked into his life. And if meeting her was a beginning, then this—now, sitting in a cramped hospital room in London, staring at a grainy screen showing something so small it barely looked real—was another. He was looking at the faintest flicker of a heartbeat, his child, and it didn’t look like much, just a blur of white on the monitor, indistinct as smoke. But he felt like it looked exactly like everything he had ever been waiting for.

Catherine laid on the exam bed, quiet, her hand curled loosely around his, her eyes shining with the strange mix of disbelief and wonder he felt himself. It was still early. Nothing was certain yet. And still, it was enough to shake him down to the marrow.

No one else knew about the pregnancy except Sam. Sam had cried the first time they told her—not delicate tears either, but the messy, unrestrained kind that left her swiping at her face while she laughed. She’d come to the ultrasound with them, sat in the corner like she belonged there, and when the image appeared on the screen she turned to Harry with an expression he would never forget. As if he were the most spoiled man alive, as if life itself had bent every rule to give him this, and she wasn’t entirely wrong.

Harry Castillo was and still is the most spoiled man on earth. That was a fact.

And for once he didn’t feel guilty about it. He wanted to tell her, tell both of them, it’s about damn time. Sam didn’t know—couldn’t know—that he had waited almost fifty years to be this happy, that he had lived his whole life like it was one long prelude and finally, finally, the symphony had begun.

And Catherine had been so brave through it all. With the performance only two days away, she carried her condition quietly, without complaint. Morning sickness came in waves, yet no one seemed to notice. She carried herself with the same bright, buoyant energy she always had on stage, her baton steady in her hand, her eyes alive with music. Harry watched her during rehearsals and soundchecks, the Royal Albert Hall still echoing and half-empty, and it struck him again how loved she was by her team. The players followed her like they were tethered, not just by discipline but by devotion, leaning into her energy as though she made the music possible simply by existing.

It was during one of those rehearsals that she decided to share her other news. Catherine didn’t make a spectacle of it—just announced, with her usual simple directness, that she was engaged to Harry. For a moment there was silence, a brief collective pause while it sank in, and then the entire orchestra moved at once. Musicians abandoned their chairs, their instruments, the neat symmetry of the stage, and rushed her in a wave of joy. They hugged her one by one, then climbed down the steps to where Harry was watching, pulling him into the fold, congratulating him, insisting with mock indignation that they had to play at the wedding. It was chaos, unprofessional, and he loved every second of it.

That night, Catherine called her family to tell them the news. He also told his family. He didn’t overthink it—just sent a short message. It took seconds. His phone hadn’t even cooled from the press of his thumb before the phone rang, not his, but Catherine’s. Harry heard his mother’s voice from across the hotel suite, rich with excitement, spilling advice, stories, questions. Catherine, already exhausted from rehearsals and other phone calls, answered each question with enthusiasm, her smile audible in every word, especially when his mother slipped naturally into calling her “my daughter, Catherine.”

Catherine didn’t have the heart to end the call, even as her eyes fluttered with sleep. Harry finally pried the phone gently from her hand, kissed her hair, and told his mother enough was enough. He lectured her, half-teasing and half-serious, about keeping his fiancée awake before the most important performance of her career. His mother only laughed and accused him of being possessive before hanging up with a dozen blessings.

Catherine was still in the earliest stages of pregnancy, barely five weeks along. The choice presented itself quickly and starkly: marry soon, before the bump appeared at ten to twelve weeks, or wait until after the baby. Catherine didn’t hesitate. She told him she would feel more secure bringing a child into the world while married, that it meant giving their kid a home that felt solid from the start. Harry agreed immediately, though he couldn’t help himself from asking again and again if she was sure. Sometimes even twice in the same day, as if the answer might change.

“It’s okay if you want to do it next year,” he told her one evening, when she was curled against him on the hotel bed. “I can wait.”

But she shook her head, firm despite the tiredness in her eyes. “I can’t. I want to get married.”

Harry exhaled, his hand resting on her hair. “I’m glad you said that,” he murmured after a beat, “because I was lying. I really can’t wait.”

For some reason, Catherine was very relaxed about it all. Calmer than she’d ever been. She didn’t fuss over details, didn’t obsess over planning or rehearsals, didn’t spiral into what-ifs the way she usually did before a performance. Ever since the ring slipped onto her finger she seemed steadier, as if nothing could truly unsettle her now. Harry could see that calmness when she finally walked onstage at the Royal Albert Hall.

The royal family were in attendance—some of them, at least. None he recognised. Catherine didn’t dwell on it either. Once, she might have braced herself for the weight of their eyes, but not tonight. Tonight, she looked utterly at ease under the lights, standing tall before her orchestra. More than once, when a piece ended and applause washed over the hall, Harry could swear her gaze lingered a second too long on the best seat in the house—his.

Her solos were the kind that silenced even the air between breaths. Her bow moved with unbroken precision, her whole body pulled into the music until she seemed less like a musician and more like the instrument itself. Then, when she stepped back into the ensemble, it was with a grace that only highlighted her gift: she made everyone else sound better. Harry sat forward in his chair during one of the larger symphonic passages, watching the way her orchestra followed her lead without hesitation, their trust in her absolute. They didn’t just play for her—they played because of her.

And through it all, Catherine remained luminous, a figure carved out of discipline and joy. The hall belonged to her, the audience was hers, and yet she seemed to give it all away freely, unafraid. Harry watched her and thought she had never looked more beautiful, never more certain of who she was and what she wanted.

After the performance, he still took her to the restaurant he had originally planned for the proposal. The staff laughed when Harry told them they were already engaged because he couldn’t help himself. That bit of news earned them a free dessert. For the rest of the night, Harry drowned Catherine in compliments, refusing to let her downplay what she had just achieved with her performance. She blushed through most of it, hiding her face in her wine glass, laughing at his persistence, and somewhere between the music and the meal her appetite returned.

The next day, they boarded a private plane back to New York, just the two of them and Sam. The orchestra wasn’t particularly happy about Catherine being on a different plane, but Harry fixed that problem easily by upgrading them to first class. It was the least he could do. Some kept thanking Catherine instead of him—he was fine with that. He found it funny.

Harry thought it was almost cruel, the way life was giving him everything at once. As though some hidden clock had finally caught up and decided to reward him after years of empty days.

⊹

Sometimes Harry thought Catherine didn’t really know the extent of his wealth at all. That amused him. All of his ex-girlfriends had asked about his income within the first conversation.

Catherine told him about her dream wedding, saying she wanted roses that spilled like waterfalls, music that never stopped, a two-piece Givenchy off-shoulder lacy dress she could dance in, the kind of wedding where everyone they loved felt like they belonged in the story. Then she laughed at herself and admitted she could give that up, pare it down to something smaller, quicker, if it meant they didn’t have to wait.

Harry told her he could make her dream wedding happen in two weeks. She didn’t believe him, thought he was exaggerating just to ease her. He only smiled.

“You underestimate how easy it is for me to make things happen,” he said. “And you underestimate my mother.” He meant it. His mother could organize an empire with one phone call if she chose.

And then, as if the universe itself wanted to hurry them along, James—his new assistant—mentioned casually that his boyfriend was a wedding planner. Harry almost laughed. Everything was being laid out for them. Too neatly, almost suspiciously so. But he wasn’t about to question it. Not when Catherine wanted this as much as he did.

In just two weeks, it was all done. It wasn’t surprising for Harry, he knew how quickly people worked if you threw them enough money. James’s boyfriend worked like a machine, though he admitted even he had never met a bride as decisive as Catherine. She was efficient in a way that surprised everyone but Harry—because of course she was. Catherine knew what she wanted and never lingered too long on choices. She confessed, with a shrug and a smile, that like any other girl, she had been planning her wedding since childhood.

Her dress was chosen in a day, the alterations scheduled before she even left the shop. Red velvet cake was requested without hesitation. The venue was settled quickly too—Harry’s business partner had a building for the occasion, big and spacious. And through it all, she never let him stand aside. She insisted he be part of every choice, telling him it was as much his wedding as hers. Harry, caught off guard, couldn’t think of anything except demanding full control over the wedding night. Catherine laughed and agreed, rolling her eyes.

His mother threw herself into the preparations as though the whole thing had been her idea. She took Catherine dress shopping, sat through cake tastings, fussed over fabric swatches. She practically glued herself to Catherine’s side, arriving to plans earlier than Catherine’s own bridesmaids, calling her “my daughter” in a way that made Harry both warm and exasperated. When she came home from the fitting, she teased him mercilessly, saying Catherine was the most beautiful bride she had ever seen in her life. He pretended to be irritated, though he was grateful someone had been there with her. He never trusted Catherine’s friends to be on time for anything.

The invitations went out six days before the wedding, sharp and clean, carrying their names side by side. Some people raised eyebrows at the short engagement, but Harry only answered with the truth. He couldn’t wait any longer. He admitted he had been ready to propose last year, before the accident. That seemed to settle the matter for everyone—because it was obvious, wasn’t it? Obvious how in love they were.

In the end, it wasn’t intimate, not in the way Harry had first imagined. Their guest list grew beyond control, larger than Peter’s wedding had ever been. They had to rent the upstairs hall too. He wasn’t really surprised. Catherine had friends scattered from here to Timbuktu, it seemed. He wanted them all there, every person who had loved her, who had shaped the woman who was now about to be his wife.

Harry asked Peter to be his best man. His brother looked happier now, though still not ready to speak of the miscarriage. Harry didn’t press—it wasn’t his place—but he felt relieved to see Peter smiling more easily.

For the first time in years, he even had a reason to reach out to his old college friends, to gather them together as groomsmen. It turned into a reunion of sorts, though the reunion wasn’t without its surprises. Harry had always thought of himself as the last in his friend group to marry, only to discover two of them were already divorced. They hadn’t told him. Then again, men rarely updated each other on the parts of their lives that truly mattered. It made him think, not for the first time, that maybe he should be more like Catherine—more attentive, more connected. She knew everything about her friends, their moods, their heartbreaks, their triumphs. She carried those details as naturally as breathing, where Harry only ever noticed if something was said out loud.

Since the wedding planning began, he and Catherine had hardly seen each other. She slept away from home most nights. Her family arrived and filled her days too. She was busy, constantly swept into fittings, meetings, dinners. Closer to the date, he hardly saw her at all. Most of her time was spent with her bridesmaids, a fact that tested his patience but that he respected nonetheless. He did ask Sam to keep an eye on her, especially when he learned there would be a bachelorette party. Sam reassured him quickly—there was nothing to worry about. Catherine’s idea of celebrating was locking herself in the studio, inviting her friends over, and turning it into a game night for musicians. They competed at sight-reading impossible scores, rewriting each other’s compositions into parodies, laughing at inside jokes Harry would never fully understand.

Catherine also insisted he have his own bachelor party. He had no real desire for one, but he appeased her by taking his groomsmen out drinking. It was low-key, almost comically tame compared to what people imagined of bachelor nights, but he preferred it that way. A night with old friends, a few rounds of whiskey, a haze of nostalgia—enough to mark the occasion, not enough to make a fool of himself. He even invited Chester, her brother, though the man hadn’t even congratulated him.

The day before the wedding, everyone moved into the hotel above the venue. A rehearsal dinner had been arranged, and Harry, for the first time, saw what Catherine’s mother was like when Catherine wasn’t sick or fragile. She wasn’t cruel, not really—just unrelenting in her corrections. Sit straighter, don’t laugh so loud, say yes instead of yeah. Tiny adjustments, each one landing like a small tap of a hammer against porcelain. Catherine had warned him not to react, told him she could handle it, and so he bit his tongue, though it left a bitter taste.

Later that night, she came to his door. He didn’t bother with restraint—he kissed her the second she stepped inside, pulling her close with the urgency of a man who’d been starving. It had been too long since they’d had time alone. Too long since he had her pressed against him, her warmth undoing every thread of his composure. He missed her. God, he missed her.

She laughed against his mouth, breathless, as he pulled her into his lap on the bed. The sound turned into a sigh when she shifted, grinding into him just enough to make him lose track of anything she was saying. He caught only fragments—something about her mother, about thanking him for not losing his temper—and he murmured a distracted question, still kissing her throat, her jaw. “Was she always like that?”

“Most of the time,” she admitted, voice low. “But she loves me very much. She does those things out of love. She’s nicer when I’m sick.”

A reckless thought slipped out of him before he could stop it. “Maybe we should tell her you’re pregna—”

Her laughter cut him off. Light, unbothered. “No. We agreed. Later.”

He gave in immediately, kissing her again. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

Her hands framed his face then, and he thought he could spend a lifetime being pulled back into her this way—pulled under by the simplest touch, the softest sound. She kissed him once more and then tried to pull away, whispering that she should get back to her room.

“Stay,” he murmured, not letting her go. His voice was rough, almost pleading. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her warmth to the silence of an empty bed.

She eventually gave in, though only to stay the night. No sex, she insisted, just sleep. He promised to wake her up early, and he meant it, though in truth he would have settled for anything as long as she stayed in his arms. They lay there tangled together, making out for a while, until the need for sleep pulled them under.

But by morning she was already gone from his embrace, crouched in the bathroom, retching into the toilet. Harry, groggy and half-asleep, stumbled after her. He crouched beside her and gathered her hair back.

Catherine, in true Catherine fashion, chose the moment to start talking. Between heaves, she recounted funny moments she just remembered throughout the week of planning—the endless fittings, the cake tasting, the chaos of wrangling bridesmaids and family. At one point she even laughed, right before doubling over again.

Harry muttered, annoyed, “For God’s sake, focus on breathing before you try to tell a story,” and she laughed harder.

The sound of it, ridiculous as it was, eased him. Morning sickness was awful, but laughter meant she was all right. He stayed with her until the worst of it passed, pressing a cool washcloth into her hand before helping her up. She kissed his cheek, told him she’d better head back to her room before anyone noticed she’d been missing, and slipped away. By the time she was gone, the only thing left for him to do was get himself ready for the wedding.

⊹

Harry tried his best not to cry in front of friends and family, but one glimpse of Catherine walking down the aisle ruined the effort. He didn’t care anymore. He was simply overwhelmed, because his mother had been right all along—Catherine was the most beautiful bride to ever exist. In a way that looked alive, radiant, the kind of beauty born from light and warmth.

She was nervous, he could tell, but she smiled anyway, walking toward him as though there was no one else in the world. Nothing could take his gaze away from her, not even the sight of Brandon sneaking into the venue. Harry just stood there and before he knew it, cried.

He stumbled through his vows. He didn’t really remember the words as they left his mouth, only fragments. Something about how he loved her from the very beginning—maybe even before—how he had never met anyone so perfect, and how he sometimes believed he was born into this world only to love her. It came out clumsy, unpolished, but he meant every word.

He never would have said things like that years ago, never would have let himself appear so raw, but Catherine had drawn that part of him out without trying. She had made him romantic, not with grand gestures, but by existing.

Catherine, on the other hand, delivered her vows without faltering. Her voice was steady, strong, every word clear enough to echo in him. One part stood out more than the others:

“Sometimes I think I ask a lot of people questions to get attention. I’m a performer, a composer—I live for applause. It makes me feel good. I desperately want to be loved by people, but most of all, I desperately want to be loved by you.”

There were no stumbles, no hesitation. She said it like a truth she had been holding onto for years.

The rest of the wedding blurred together in a haze of congratulations, laughter, and too many glasses of champagne pressed into his hands. In reality, he drank twice as much because his wife kept switching her full one for his empty. Thankfully, Harry had great alcohol resistance.

The first dance of the bride and groom, the music beginning, the room full of eyes on them. He couldn’t stop looking at her—how bright her face was, how she seemed to glow under the lights, how her hand fit so naturally into his like it had always belonged there.

The music began, soft and swelling, and something tugged at him. The melody was familiar. His brow furrowed, just slightly, until he glanced at the orchestra and found them all smiling, almost conspiratorial. Catherine’s hand was warm in his, her other hand resting gently against his chest.

“I know this song,” Harry murmured, almost dazed.

“You do?” She tilted her head, eyes bright with a flicker of surprise.

“It’s my new favorite song. You made it for me,” he said, voice rough with realization. They swayed slowly, the whole room watching, but it didn’t matter. The world narrowed until there was only her, and this music that had followed him through sleepless nights.

“What?” Her lips opened in disbelief. “How’d you know that? I was very careful.”

“I heard it,” he said, twirling her gently, unable to keep the happiness out of his voice. “When you were in California. It was on a small old recorder. I heard it and immediately came to you.”

She laughed, breathless against him. “That’s a shame. It was supposed to be your wedding gift.”

He looked at her then as though she were the gift, as though nothing she could compose or give could ever outshine the fact that she was standing here in his arms, wearing his ring, carrying his future.

“You’ve given me enough,” he whispered, the words low but certain. “More than I deserve.”

Then he kissed her again and it’s as if the world ceased.

Before dinner began, when Catherine for the first time was not by his side, Harry caught a glimpse of Brandon again. He was standing just beyond the banquet hall’s glass doors, half-hidden in the shadows of the terrace. Harry hesitated, then pushed back his chair. He couldn’t help himself. Something in him refused to let the man linger like a ghost in the background of their wedding.

The cold New York air bit into his lungs as he stepped outside. Brandon was smoking, his shoulders loose, posture too casual for someone who didn’t belong here. He didn’t even look startled when Harry approached—only exhaled a long plume of smoke that curled upward into the dark sky.

“Are you here to ask me to leave?” Brandon asked at last, voice low, steady. His gaze locked to anywhere but Harry, as if looking at him could make him pounce.

Harry should have said yes. It was the obvious answer, the right one. But the words caught in his throat. There was something strange pressing into his chest—not anger, not even jealousy, but a reluctant contentment, like the knowledge that no matter what Brandon felt, he wasn’t a threat anymore. Catherine had made her choice. She was his wife now.

“I haven’t decided,” Harry said, hands buried in his pockets to stop them from trembling in the cold. His tone was flat, but his pulse betrayed him. “I thought you would object during our vows. I was about to send my best man after you.”

Brandon chuckled softly, smoke spilling past his lips. “You underestimated how much I love her, then.” He turned, meeting Harry’s eyes squarely, and there was no mockery in his gaze. “I wouldn’t ruin her day. And as much as I hate your fucking guts, she loves you. I can’t do that to her.”

Harry held his stare for a long moment. Maybe he had underestimated Brandon’s love for Catherine. Rock stars were selfish—at least, that was the rule Harry had always believed in. But this man had been consistent in a way most weren’t. He had shown up when she was sick. Sent flowers. Apologized a thousand times. All of it useless now, because she was no longer his. She was Harry’s wife.

“You’ll do great, kid,” Harry said finally, his voice clipped, unwilling to soften. “You’ll find someone else.”

Brandon’s jaw twitched as he flicked the ash from his cigarette. “I don’t need your condescension.”

Harry almost smirked, almost told him that it wasn’t condescension, it was pity. But he swallowed it down. There was no need. The man had already lost. Brandon’s presence, his smoke, his quiet bitterness—it was nothing compared to the warmth waiting for Harry inside. He decided not to kick him out. Let him wallow in his own devastation. If Harry were in his shoes, he supposed he’d be devastated too—watching Catherine walk down the aisle to someone else. But it couldn’t be helped.

And he couldn’t stop thinking about it: Catherine Ainsworth was now Catherine Castillo. His wife. His.

He went back inside just in time to see Catherine slip into her chair again, cheeks glowing faintly from the whirlwind of guests. Sam had already taken the microphone, a familiar grin plastered across her face as she tapped it twice and cleared her throat. The room quieted easily; people leaned forward instinctively.

She began with stories of Catherine during their college years—how she was impossibly kind, quick to offer help or stay up late tutoring someone she barely knew, how people were drawn to her almost against their will. Sam’s voice was warm, teasing, and filled with love, and laughter rippled through the room when she shared small, embarrassing details Catherine would never have offered herself.

“The first time Catherine told me about Harry—” Sam paused deliberately, eyes glittering as she sought out the bride across the room. “—she said he called her ‘kid’ the first time they met, and she had been so upset she convinced herself she couldn’t like him no matter how handsome he is. And then she admitted, half a glass of wine later, that she couldn’t stop thinking about his hands.”

The crowd erupted in laughter. Catherine turned scarlet and buried her face in her palms while Harry leaned back, smug, fighting his own grin. He caught the sound of her muffled protest and pulled her closer.

Sam let the noise die down before softening her tone. “You know, when Harry flew all the way to California just to ask me for advice, I realized he wasn’t unfeeling at all. He was nervous. He was in love. And I thought—well, if Harry Castillo can cross a continent for advice on how to please her, then maybe Catherine finally met someone who was worthy of all the love she’s always given away so freely.”

Her voice thickened for a moment. “There’s no one more deserving of that love than Catherine. And I don’t think there’s anyone more perfect for her than Harry.”

The applause swelled, but Harry barely heard it. He was watching Catherine, her eyes shimmering as she mouthed a silent “thank you” to her best friend.

Then it was Peter’s turn. Harry’s younger brother stood with his champagne glass in hand, face serious at first, but his opening words quickly turned lighthearted. He ribbed Harry about his infamous stubbornness, his poor taste in dates, his reckless tendency to assume women would stick around forever. The crowd laughed, and Harry allowed himself a small, rueful smile.

But Peter’s voice shifted, grew steadier, more deliberate. “Against all odds,” he said, “my brother found not just the perfect woman for him, but the perfect woman for our family. Catherine, you are…” He hesitated, drawing a slow breath, his eyes lingering on her as if trying to choose his words carefully. “You are the sister I never had. Harry Castillo always strives for the best, and if my brother hadn’t met you, I’m sure he would never have married at all. And Harry—” He turned then, raising his glass toward the groom. “I used to look up to you, even when you thought I wasn’t paying attention. I still do. I watch the way you live, the way you fight for what you want, and I try every day to do the same. Do the best at everything I do. And now, I have no doubt you’ll try your best to be the best husband you can be. Because you’ve always been that man for the rest of us.”

For a moment, the clink of glasses, the applause—it all faded behind the lump in Harry’s throat. He had always thought of Peter as his little brother, someone he needed to protect, someone still halfway into adulthood. But standing there, glass raised, speaking with that kind of clarity—Peter wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man, shaped by his marriage, by his losses, by his quiet resilience.

Harry sat back, silent, Catherine’s hand sliding into his under the table. He looked at her—his wife, radiant even in the soft shadows of the hall, in a room filled with people who loved them both—and for the first time, he realized something new. He didn’t just hope marriage would change him. He was certain it already had.

⊹

They went back to the penthouse straight after the wedding. Catherine had asked, and Harry hadn’t argued—though, if he were honest, it was as much strategy as indulgence. There was no way they could keep quiet in a hotel surrounded by friends and family. At least here, in their own home, they didn’t have to. The place was still half a mess, but they didn’t care. Their suitcases were already packed and ready for the honeymoon journey tomorrow, what’s left for tonight was rest.

He helped her out of her dress, each layer and button undone with careful hands, as though he were unwrapping something fragile. He unpinned her hair, the curls falling loose over her shoulders, and pressed his lips to the slope where fabric had once covered skin. Through the mirror he saw her watching him, her reflection softened by the dim light, and for a moment he lingered just to take her in. She didn’t need embellishments, not even on her wedding day. In fact, the simplicity had made her more striking—her green eyes clearer, brighter, alive with something only he had ever seen in full.

“So you like my hands, huh?” he teased then, breaking the silence, a sly reference to Sam’s maid of honor speech.

Catherine’s face flushed, pink blooming along her cheeks. “That was supposed to be a secret.”

He laughed, low, and turned her gently until she was facing him instead of the mirror. He lifted one hand to her face, his palm cupping her cheek. She leaned into him without hesitation, nuzzling against his touch as though her skin belonged there. His thumb brushed lightly along the curve of her cheekbone before trailing down, tracing her lips. He tilted her chin upward, guiding her toward him, and kissed her.

When he pulled back, his hand still framed her face, thumb gliding slowly over the soft part of her mouth. He watched her breath catch as he pressed his thumb forward, parting her soft pink lips, until she took him in. She closed around him without protest, her eyes steady on his, her cheeks warmed with color.

Harry’s chest tightened at the sight—the innocence, the trust, the heat simmering beneath it all. He pushed his thumb in deeper, urging her to suck his thumb harder, to do as he asked without words. She did. Like a good girl.

He imagined her sucking his cock the same way. It’s been a while since they had sex, even longer since her lips were wrapped around his length like magic. Harry wanted to take his time with her but wondered if he was capable of such a thing. Probably not, especially when she looked this beautiful and submissive. And as much as he loved the sounds of her moans, her skill in pleasuring him with her mouth was equally amazing. He loved to watch her lips working.

His voice dropped, rough with possession. “This part of the night is mine, hm?”

The words weren’t a question so much as a claim, one that made her blush deepen even as she held his gaze.

“That’s what we agreed on,” she whispered, her voice soft, her composure fragile at the edges. Still, she managed the smallest smile. “Aren’t you tired, though?”

The word barely registered. He leaned closer until their foreheads almost touched, his lips hovering just a breath from hers, unwilling to give her distance.

“Not for this,” he murmured. “Never for this. Are you?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She lingered in the space between them, eyes flickering down to his mouth, and he could feel the hesitation—the way she stretched it out, as though teasing him on purpose. Her teeth caught her bottom lip, holding it, before she released it again. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower, threaded with something heavier than playfulness.

“Not tired enough. We had a business deal, my husband and I.”

There was a twitch in his crotch. His thick hard cock swelling as he looked at her eyes with dark lust.

“Kneel for me, Catherine,” he said, his voice low and demanding. It was a voice he used when he wanted Catherine to listen.

She slowly did. Her knees on the floor, bringing her face to face with the outline of his cock. He reached his hands to her face, he caressed her cheeks again. She looked up then down again at his tenting pants, like she couldn't decide where to land her eyes.

He chuckled and breathed in before pushing his thumb into her mouth, this time with no softness. She finally decided to keep her eyes on his, her lips parting just slightly to let his thumb move into her sweet mouth. She sucked again. Her tongue swirled around the digit, her cheeks hollowing as she obeyed his unspoken command. The feeling of her hot, wet mouth enveloping his thumb sent jolts of electricity zinging down Harry's spine, making his already rock-hard cock throb with renewed urgency.

Harry finally fumbled with his belt.

He watched, enraptured, as Catherine reached behind her back to unhook her lacy bra. The scrap of delicate fabric fell away, revealing the creamy swells of her breasts topped with rosy, stiff peaks. Harry's mouth watered at the sight, his fingers itching to touch and caress and tease those perfect mounds. But first, he had other plans for his wife's eager mouth.

“My sweet girl, my sweet wife,” he breathed hard, pushing his thumb deeper, then adding a finger. She sucked harder, obediently. He brought his body closer to hers until his cock touched her breasts. He groaned at the sensation.

Then, as if sensing his needs, she brought her hand to his length. Oh, how he loved her hands, how small and soft it was compared to him. She was just holding him, yet he was drowning in pleasure. Harry's thumb popped from between her kiss-slicked lips with a soft, obscene sound.

A bead of precum dripped from the swollen head of his cock. Catherine's hand continued to stroke and caress his shaft as Harry brought the pearly droplet to the rosy peak of her breast. He circled her nipple with the leaking tip, painting the stiff bud with his essence and leaving a glistening trail in its wake.

Everything about Catherine is simply too much for him. Too intoxicating, too seductive. She circled her nipples with her own fingers, massaging his precum into her skin.

His voice was a low, commanding rumble as he gave her the instruction she so clearly craved, "Use your mouth on me, Catherine," Harry growled, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip.

Catherine, it seemed, was determined to tease him. She moved so agonizingly slow, too slow for his liking, at least. He brought his hand to her head, encouraging her.

Harry groaned, a deep, guttural sound that reverberated through his chest as Catherine's soft, plump lips brushed against the sensitive head of his cock. Just a small kiss. The fleeting touch sent a jolt of electricity zinging up his shaft, making it twitch and throb against her mouth. Harry's grip on her hair tightened, his fingers curling around the silky strands as he fought the urge to simply grab her head and force his cock past those tempting lips.

But he held back, wanting to watch her take him into her mouth of her own accord. Harry's dark gaze was riveted to her face, his eyes roving hungrily over every micro-expression that flitted across her beautiful features. He could see the way her cheeks flushed a pretty pink, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips before she parted them wider, inviting him to claim her mouth.

Harry's voice was a low, strained rasp as he spoke, "That's it, such a good girl," he praised, his hips rocking slightly.

She licked and sucked the tip, slowly. With that, Harry pushed forward, slowly sliding his throbbing shaft past Catherine's lush, pillowy lips to penetrate the hot, wet cavern of her mouth inch by excruciating inch. He could feel her breath catching as he stretched her lips around his girth.

Harry's voice was a half-broken growl, rough with unchecked lust and desperation as he demanded roughly, "Deeper, Catherine.”

Catherine relaxed her throat fully, taking him impossibly deeper until her nose pressed against the wiry hair at the base of his cock. She could feel the thick, rigid flesh pulsing and throbbing against her tongue, could taste the first salty drops of his impending release. The feeling of his heavy, aching shaft stretching her throat so completely sent a bolt of liquid heat straight to her core, and Catherine could feel her panties growing damp with her arousal.

Harry's eyes darkened with lust and approval as he watched Catherine reach down to rub herself through her soaked panties. He could see the desperate need etched into every line of her body, the way she arched into her own touch like a woman possessed.Harry could feel himself growing even harder, his shaft pulsing and twitching against Catherine's tongue as she pleasured herself.

Harry's hand tightened in Catherine's hair, gripping the silky strands as he forced her head down, slamming his thick shaft back into the tight, wet heat of her throat. He could feel her resisting for a split second before she relaxed, allowing him to plunge back in and bury himself to the hilt. Harry groaned at the feeling of her throat bulging obscenely around his girth, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he began to fuck her throat with wild abandon.

"That's my good girl," Harry rasped, his voice strained with lust and pleasure. "Take it, Catherine. Such a tight throat. So good for me. Let me fuck your mouth.”

He could feel her struggling to breathe as he used her, her little gasps and gags only spurring him to fuck her deeper and harder. The wet, sloppy sound of his shaft plunging in and out of her throat filled the room, punctuated by Harry's grunts and moans of rapture.

Harry's balls slapped against Catherine's chin with each brutal thrust, already drawn up tight and churning with his rapidly approaching release. He could feel his heart slamming against his ribs, could feel the coiled heat in his gut winding tighter and tighter until it threatened to snap. But still he fucked into her, driven mindless by the need to fill her with his seed, to paint her insides with his thick, hot cum.

With a last few erratic, brutal thrusts, Harry buried himself balls-deep in the hot, clutching grip of Catherine's throat and let out a guttural roar. His cock jerked and pulsed as thick, scalding ropes of cum shot out of him.

She swallowed the first few spurts, but when it hadn’t stopped, she kept it in her mouth. Harry watched as he pulled his still bursting cock, keeping the end just over her open lips. He could see his spend filling up her mouth, her eyes locked into his for approval.

“Good girl. Swallow,” he said.

She did.

Harry’s hand caressed her absentmindedly before carrying her to the bedroom and putting her on the edge of the bed.

Harry knelt between Catherine's spread thighs, his dark eyes locked onto the damp patch staining her lacy panties. He could smell her arousal, the heady, intoxicating scent of her desire filling his nostrils and making his mouth water. Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he leaned in, his breath hot against her clothed sex. Slowly, teasingly, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and dragged them down her long, shapely legs, revealing her glistening petals to his hungry gaze.

Harry's voice was a low, approving rumble as he spoke, “You were touching yourself when you were sucking my cock so obediently. Did it turn you on, my love?”

“Yes,” she said. He smiled and kissed her center.

“You like me using your mouth?” he asked, his hot breath touching her core.

She could only moan in response.

“Use your words, Catherine.”

She moaned again. “Yes,” she finally breathed out.

Harry's tongue delved between Catherine's glistening folds, lapping at her sweet nectar like a man starved. He groaned at the exquisite taste of her, his cock throbbing and leaking precum at the familiar, intoxicating flavor that coated his taste buds. Harry's hands gripped Catherine's thighs, spreading them wider as he buried his face in her hot, dripping core, his stubble rasping deliciously against her sensitive skin.

Harry's fingers found her clit, circling the swollen nub with teasing, maddeningly light strokes. At the same time, he pushed two thick fingers knuckle-deep into her fluttering channel, feeling the silky walls grip him like a vice. He pumped them in and out, curling them to brush against that special spot deep inside her with each thrust.

Harry's voice was a low, approving rumble against Catherine's sex, "Stay still. Don’t move your hips. Let me taste you. Yes, just like that."

With that, Harry sealed his mouth over Catherine's clit and suckled the sensitive bundle of nerves, his tongue flicking back and forth over the swollen flesh. At the same time, he plunged a third finger into her clenching heat, pumping them harder and faster as he finger-fucked her with wild abandon.

The taste of her arousal was intoxicating, a heady mix of sweet ambrosia and the faint saltiness of her essence, a flavor he knew he would never tire of savoring. It was so erotic that Harry couldn’t help but touch himself while tasting her. His other hand went over his cock, stroking it again for a sense of relief.

As Catherine's body convulsed in ecstasy, her back arching off the bed and her fingers tangling in Harry's hair, he lapped up her release with fervor. He could feel her juices flooding his mouth, could taste the sweet essence of her climax as it coated his tongue. Harry groaned in carnal bliss, the vibrations rumbling through Catherine's cunt and intensifying her orgasm.

Before the aftershocks had a chance to subside, Harry was positioning himself above her, settling his muscular frame between her trembling thighs. He could feel the heat radiating off her skin, could see the way her chest heaved with each ragged breath.

Harry's cock, hard as steel and leaking with need for the second time that night, nestled against her dripping folds, the thick head parting her swollen lips.

He rocked his hips, rubbing the thick length of his shaft along her slick slit, coating himself in her arousal.

“I just came,” she said, breathless.

“I know you did,” he said. “But you can take it, can’t you? You’ll do as I say. Nod your head.”

Harry's lips curled into a wicked, satisfied smile as Catherine nodded, her breath coming in short, needy gasps. He loves when she’s obedient. He could see the desire burning in her eyes, could feel the way her body trembled with anticipation and need. With a low, approving moan, Harry began to push forward, the thick head of his cock parting Catherine's slick folds and sinking slowly into her tight, welcoming heat.

He could feel every inch of her silky walls gripping him like a velvet vise as he inch by inch sheathed himself inside her. He had to fight the urge to slam forward and bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust, to claim her fully and completely.

Harry's voice was a low, lustful rasp as he spoke, "Always so fucking tight. It’s like this perfect little cunt was made just for me. I can feel you gripping me, squeezing me."

As he spoke, Harry kept up his slow, steady rhythm, sinking deeper and deeper into Catherine's hot, slick center. He could feel her hips rocking up to meet his, could feel the way her heels dug into the small of his back as she urged him on. Harry's hand slid down to grip her hip, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he guided her movements, setting a pace that had them both panting and moaning with each delicious, dragging thrust.

Harry's other hand slid up to cup Catherine's breast, his thumb and forefinger sinking into the pliant mound to tease and pluck at the stiff peak. He rolled the sensitive bud between his fingers, pinching and tugging until Catherine was arching into his touch, her back bowing off the bed. Harry could feel her walls starting to flutter and clench around him, could tell that she was already climbing towards another peak.

“I’m so sensitive,” she said, her eyes fluttering close as his thrusts became rougher.

“I know you are,” he said. “But you’re doing so well. So obedient for me. For your husband.”

She moaned and arched her back. “Only for you, Harry. I’ll be good.”

Catherine's hands slid down to grip Harry's ass, squeezing and kneading the firm globes as he fucked her with deep, powerful thrusts. She could feel his muscles flexing and clenching beneath her touch, could feel the raw, primal strength coiled in his body. It made her feel small, feminine, and utterly owned. As much as he wanted to control every movement, Harry loved it when she couldn't help but touch him, so he let her.

“So big. You’re so big,” she breathed out.

“That’s right. Stretching you out. You’ll take it. Good girl, squeezing me so tight,” he said.

The room filled with the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling, flesh slapping against flesh, the slap of skin on skin, and the shameless moans and cries of a woman lost in rapture.

Harry's hands gripped Catherine's hips hard enough to leave bruises, fingers sinking into the delicate skin and bone. He yanked her hips up to meet his relentless thrusts, pulling her harder against him with each plunge of his thick shaft. At the same time, he leaned down to catch one of her hardened nipples between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make her yelp before suckling the tender bud, swirling his tongue around it and coaxing it to an even stiffer peak.

Catherine's orgasm crashed over her, her velvety walls clamping down around Harry's pistoning shaft like a silken vice, he could feel the way her body quaked and trembled beneath him. Her cries of ecstasy filled his ears, spurring on his lust and urging him to fuck her with even greater fervor. His hips never ceased their relentless rhythm, fucking Catherine through her orgasm. He moved deeper, deeper, deeper, searching for release.

Harry's hands slid up to tangle in Catherine's hair, gripping the silky strands and wrenching her head back to bare the slender column of her throat. He could see her pulse jumping beneath the smooth skin, could feel the way her heart raced against his lips as he leaned down to run his tongue along the column of her neck. Harry's teeth sank into the tender flesh.

With a guttural roar, Harry slammed forward one final time, burying his throbbing cock to the hilt inside Catherine's spasming cunt. His back arched, muscles corded and straining as the second hot, thick ropes of his seed erupted from his shaft, flooding Catherine's channel with his virile essence. Harry's hands gripped her hips with bruising force as he ground against her, stirring his seed deeper into her. Breathless, Harry slumped against Catherine, his sweaty skin slick against her own as he fought to regain some semblance of control.

They did it once again that night, and once in the morning. Through it all, Harry was glad he didn’t stay at the hotel. They were particularly loud that day, as predicted.

As planned, they traveled. Their London trip was cut short last time because of the wedding, so Harry promised to make it up with the honeymoon. The Castillos owned a beach house in Hawaii, one that’s newly renovated and no one in the family had used in years. He told her it was for convenience, but truthfully, it was strategic. The place was quiet with barely anything to do around the area, so no itinerary planned. He wanted to spend most of his honeymoon having sex. At the beach too, if he’s lucky. The original plan was simple: a month, maybe more, if they felt like it. Harry had prepared everything—flights, staff, even a doctor nearby, in case Catherine needed anything. He had thought of every detail she might want, everything a pregnant woman could possibly need.

Days blurred together after that. They swam at dawn, lounged in hammocks until the sun dropped, ate dinners by candlelight with the sound of waves in the background. Catherine practiced her music sometimes, soft notes carrying into the sea air, and Harry thought it was the sweetest sound in the world. Other times, she dozed on the deck and he would just sit beside her, reading, content to keep her close.

True to his word, they stayed longer than planned. Weeks stretched into more weeks until Harry had broken his own record for the longest vacation of his life. He barely worked this year. No one complained—not his assistant, not his staff—because they all knew he had earned every second after years of running himself into the ground. Harry didn’t complain either. He couldn’t. For once, there was nothing in his life he wanted to hurry back to. All he wanted was her.

⊹

When they came back from their honeymoon, Catherine’s bump was visible. It wasn’t big—just thirteen weeks—but it was enough. Harry had timed it, almost like strategy, so that the reveal would happen naturally. His mother was waiting at the airport, just as he’d asked. He’d told her he had a surprise, but not what kind.

At first, she didn’t notice. She waved, poised and elegant as always. But when they drew closer, when Catherine stepped forward with her hand absentmindedly resting on her stomach, his mother’s eyes widened. Then, in an instant, the cool, collected woman Harry had known all his life disappeared. She screamed so loud half the terminal turned to stare. Catherine laughed nervously as his mother ran across the space, arms wide, and pulled her into a fierce embrace. She kissed Catherine’s head, her cheeks, her hands, almost incoherent with joy.

Harry had never seen his mother like that. Not once, not for him. She’d been composed at every one of his milestones, even his graduation, even the first time he made real money. Watching her now, crying openly, he felt almost like a spectator—like Catherine had unlocked a side of her he never knew existed. He supposed she had.

“No one told me! My first grandbaby!” she cried between kisses. “You should’ve called me. I should’ve known.”

After that, the news spread quickly. Catherine called her father first, and Harry could hear Edward laughing in disbelief through the phone. His friends reacted the way men usually did—with short, blunt congratulations, followed later by expensive bottles of wine and jokes about Harry finally “settling down.” Emma cried. Peter and Charlotte were subtle in their happiness, but he could tell they were sincere.

Catherine’s side was louder. Her orchestra nearly tore down rehearsal when she announced it, cheering so hard she had to beg them to sit back down. Her other friends he recognized planned a small “celebration tea,” which turned into a chaotic afternoon of Catherine being fussed over while Harry was banished to another room.

The rest of the pregnancy went by smoothly. For the most part.

The first few weeks at home Harry hovered over Catherine like a shadow. He couldn’t help it—every step she took looked dangerous to him, every chore exaggerated into something reckless. He scolded her when she walked too much, when she bent over for too long, when she insisted on doing her usual stress cleaning. It drove her mad, apparently. She begged him to go back to the office, said he was smothering her, that she was pregnant, not dying. He refused at first, stubborn as always, until James began sending him increasingly dramatic emails about urgent matters waiting on his desk, about things that “couldn’t possibly be handled remotely.”

He relented. Catherine smiled too easily when he finally left, which should have tipped him off. He figured out later that James exaggerated everything, but only because Catherine begged him to.

When Harry got home that night, the penthouse was cleaned through and through, but not in the way his cleaners did. The smell of expensive candles indicated it was all Catherine. The floors polished, the shelves dusted, even the furniture rearranged slightly as though she’d been testing angles and balance all day. He found her at the computer, a soft glow on her face as she pieced together design boards for a baby room. She turned to him, proud, and announced that she’d been very productive and very happy.

That reassured him. He didn’t mind going to work after that. But he made a point of checking on her every few hours, his calls slipping between meetings and late lunches, the same question always waiting at the end of the line: how are you feeling? He gave her a rule too—never go out alone, not even to the studio. At first she resisted, sharp and indignant, until he threatened to return to his hovering ways. Reluctantly, she relented. Mr. Williams became her permanent companion, and Harry quietly hired a new driver so the balance felt fair.

He helped her in smaller ways too. They created order—schedules for vitamins and supplements, reminders for meals, even an elaborate color-coded calendar pinned to the library wall. They spent an evening filling it together, different shades for rehearsals, doctor visits, family dinners. They both loved it. It made the waiting tangible, as if time could be organized into neat little squares while their lives changed.

The ultrasounds became his anchor. Each appointment, no matter how busy, Harry made a point of being there. Sitting beside her in those dim rooms, watching the screen flicker, the faint hum of machines translating the impossible into reality—it moved him in ways he couldn’t quite name. The blur on the screen became sharper week after week. First just a pulse of light, then a shape, then something undeniably theirs. Catherine always squeezed his hand when the sound filled the room—the quick, galloping rhythm of their child’s heart—and Harry found himself holding his breath, terrified of missing a single beat.

On the car ride home afterward, they rarely spoke. Instead, they sat in the backseat quietly, each taking turns staring at the black-and-white photos. Catherine had started a small album, tucking the pictures into plastic sleeves, scribbling notes in the margins—hiccups, first movement, twenty weeks. It was the kind of sentiment Harry never thought he’d care about, but he did. He loved seeing her handwriting pressed against proof of the life they made.

Once, she leaned into him as the car moved through traffic, the album open in her lap. “Do you want a boy or a girl?” she asked.

Harry thought for a second. “During our honeymoon I read an article about how fathers with daughters live longer lives.”

Catherine looked up at him, suspicious. “Really?”

“I’m thinking four daughters. Two for you, two for me. We’ll live forever.”

She snorted. “Harry, that’s ridiculous.”

“It’s strategic,” he said with a laugh, though the truth was, he did want daughters. He wanted one who looked just like her mother—Catherine’s eyes, Catherine’s smile, Catherine’s kindness. He prayed she wouldn’t inherit his stubbornness, but even if she did, he’d still adore her.

Truthfully, he would love any child they had—son or daughter, quiet or noisy. He’d spoil them until they were impossible to handle.

“Seriously,” she pressed, nudging him. “Boy or girl?”

Harry tucked the photo back into the sleeve, smoothing the page. “I want healthy kids,” he said simply.

Catherine smiled and agreed, giving him a soft kiss before leaning back against his shoulder.

It was a few weeks before they agreed to ask about the baby’s gender, but Harry swore he already knew. Something in his gut told him. Maybe it was the way the kid moved—constant kicks at odd hours, as if determined to remind them it was there. Sometimes in the middle of the night, Catherine would jolt awake with a groan, nudging Harry’s shoulder, complaining she couldn’t fall back asleep because their baby was having a midnight boxing match. Harry would lie there, hand on her stomach, feeling the insistent kicks and thinking, a girl wouldn’t be this inconsiderate. Silly thought, but he couldn’t shake it.

And sure enough, when the doctor revealed it, he was right. A boy.

Closer to the due date, the house filled with gifts until the room beside theirs—soon to be the baby’s—looked like a small store. Peter and Charlotte brought over a carved wooden crib, family heirloom style, insisting Harry’s son deserved something with history. His college friends sent a ridiculous amount of tiny clothes and novelty toys, half of which Catherine laughed at but still folded neatly. James, efficient as always, had organized a steady stream of packages, from strollers to high-tech monitors, making sure nothing slipped through the cracks. Sam cried again when she handed over a blanket she had knitted herself, uneven stitches and all, and Catherine kissed her for it. Even Harry’s mother, who had once prided herself on restraint, fussed over every detail—ordering bassinets, linens, even arguing over which kind of diaper was best—until Harry finally had to put his foot down and tell her to relax.

By the eighth month, Catherine stopped working altogether, which suited Harry just fine. Better than fine. He was increasingly getting more worried by the week. She was tired most days, the kind of exhaustion that settled into her bones, and Harry hated seeing it. When she wasn’t resting, she had a book in her lap—on parenting, child psychology, even nutrition guides. She underlined passages in pencil, marking entire paragraphs for Harry to read later. He liked how organized she was, how she made their future feel manageable, less overwhelming. He read them, every single one. Some even sparked ideas—products and brands he thought were missing something, investments he wanted to make for the future.

He found himself taking notes in the margins too, though his were less about parenting and more about markets. Catherine teased him, but he liked it—liked how her world and his overlapped in these quiet ways, how even preparing for a baby felt like something they were building together.

What Harry secretly enjoyed about Catherine’s pregnancy, though he’d never admit it out loud, was her libido. It was the first time in their entire relationship that he could say her appetite for sex matched his own. Catherine, on weekends, would now pull him into the bedroom in the middle of the afternoon with a shameless grin, whispering that she needed him right then and there. Once, she climbed into his lap while he was typing some report and mouthed “don’t stop” as she tugged at his shirt.

Another time, she got annoyed that he’d fallen asleep too quickly, woke him up, and told him that if she had to suffer pregnancy heartburn at 2 a.m., the least he could do was “make it worth her while.” Harry thought it was unfair, really, how pregnancy had turned her into him. They had sex almost like they were in Seville, where he practically held her hostage. He’d tease her, call her demanding, but truthfully he adored it. For the first time, she wanted him just as much as he wanted her—and he found the whole thing both exhilarating and hilarious.

But for all the little joys, the last stretch tested Catherine’s patience in ways Harry had never seen. The boy refused to come on time. Each morning she stared at the calendar in the library, arms crossed, as if sheer willpower could force the baby to arrive. Sometimes she’d sigh, sometimes she’d mutter her disappointment out loud. Harry tried reasoning with her—telling her due dates were estimates, that babies came when they wanted—but she didn’t want logic. She wanted results.

By the time they were creeping toward the tenth month, Catherine snapped. She stormed into his office, hair pinned up in frustration, eyes blazing with that particular fire he both admired and feared.

“By all of Beethoven’s soul, by Mozart’s powdered wig, and by Tchaikovsky’s bloody swan, this baby will come out today! I can’t stand it!” she declared, hands on her belly as if scolding their unborn son directly.

Harry didn’t argue. He closed his computer in record time, told James to prepare everything, and followed her out the door.

The drive to the hospital stretched his nerves thin. Each passing mile made his heartbeat climb higher. He tried to remind himself to stay calm for her, but his mind wouldn’t let him. He thought about complications, about Catherine’s body under stress, about every worst-case scenario. By the time they reached the hospital and Catherine was being wheeled into pre-op, Harry was pale and sweating like he was the one about to give birth.

James had packed everything they needed—bags, documents, snacks, even Catherine’s favorite blanket. Harry barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on Catherine the entire time. The doctors explained options: inducing labor, monitoring contractions, or proceeding with a C-section. Catherine, stubborn as ever, tried to negotiate with the doctor like it was a rehearsal schedule, but when her body clearly wasn’t cooperating, the decision was made for them. A C-section.

Harry hated it. He had once, out of morbid curiosity, watched a C-section in a documentary. It had unsettled him then, and now the memory of it made his stomach clench. When the anesthetic needle went in, his nausea doubled. Catherine’s eyes watered, though she didn’t make a sound. Harry knew better. It must’ve hurt like hell. He bent close, whispering into Catherine’s ear that she was strong, that he was there—but inside, he was undone. The thought of her in pain rattled him more than the surgery itself.

When she was settled and the operation began, he sat rigid beside her, hand wrapped so tightly around hers he was probably hurting her. She didn’t complain. She never did.

He hadn’t expected her to be awake. None of the women in the documentary had been. He had asked twice about the anesthesia, about the dosage, about whether she’d feel anything at all. Still, when the doctors began, he nearly broke into a sweat. Catherine, meanwhile, looked almost serene, which struck him as strange given that she’d been close to tears just hours ago.

“It feels like they’re rummaging through my stomach,” she whispered.

Harry frowned at that, though she didn’t notice. He hated the word rummaging. He tried to keep his face neutral, tried to be calm for her, but inside every muscle in his body screamed.

“How are you completely fine?” he muttered.

“Your kid is heavy, Harry,” she said, smiling faintly. “I’m sorry if I’m glad the kid is finally getting out of me.”

A nurse chuckled at that, and Harry tried to, too, but his throat was dry.

So he just listened. To the steady, practiced cadence of the surgeons. To Catherine’s occasional wince. To his own pulse pounding in his ears. Each second dragged unbearably. The air felt thick, every tick of the clock stretched too long—until finally, miraculously, the sharp cry of their son split the room.

Harry didn’t remember standing. He didn’t remember breathing. All he remembered was Catherine’s face softening with relief, her eyes glistening, and the crushing weight in his chest that told him life would never—could never—be the same.

⊹

Harry Castillo wondered a lot about life, and how foolish he’d been to think that anything could matter as much as this. He used to believe in work above all else, loved the grind, the endless meetings, the numbers on a screen. He almost compromised on love once, almost convinced himself he could marry the way he did business—neatly, practically, without too much risk. Maybe in some other dimension, some sad parallel world, he’d gone through with it. But in this one? In this one, he had Catherine. And he was the happiest man alive.

He took time off work, again, and though they had a nanny on call, Harry refused to let the bulk of it fall to anyone else. He wanted the weight of it, the exhaustion, the messy, sleepless miracle of being there. He carried their son through the apartment in the small hours, whispering lullabies he barely knew, making promises the baby couldn’t yet understand. He held bottles for Catherine when she was too tired to keep her eyes open, kissed her hair as she drifted off, murmuring that he’d stay awake, that she could rest.

There were moments so small they nearly slipped past him—like Catherine falling asleep with the baby curled on her chest, and Harry draping a blanket over them, standing there longer than necessary just to take in the sight. Or the way he reached for her hand at three in the morning when their son finally, finally settled back down, just so she would know they were in this together. He wrote reminders on sticky notes for her vitamins, brewed her tea exactly the way she liked it, and learned to fold tiny laundry with ridiculous precision. He’d never been a man of grand gestures, not really—not until Catherine—but now the smallest things felt like declarations.

Emma was the first to swoop in with practical help. She had always been efficient as his assistant, but with Catherine she was something else—firm, unflappable, and oddly maternal in a way Harry hadn’t expected. She stocked the studio with snacks Catherine could stomach, bought out entire shelves of herbal teas, and even rewrote Catherine’s work calendar in handwriting so neat it almost looked printed. Once, when Catherine forgot to eat lunch because the baby had been fussing, Emma scolded Harry instead. “You’re supposed to remind her,” she said flatly, handing him a lunchbox as though it were his homework. Harry, her previous boss, had found himself nodding meekly. Catherine had laughed for a good ten minutes about it.

His mother helped too, though in a very different way. She had never been the type to hover, but with her first grandchild she seemed reborn into someone else entirely. Harry once came home to find her teaching Catherine how to swaddle, both of them bent over the baby with his mother criticizing Catherine’s technique in a voice that carried all the authority of a general. Catherine only smiled, patient, and by the end of it his mother was cooing into the baby’s hair like she had never scolded anyone in her life.

Later that night, Catherine admitted softly, “You were right about her. She is scary sometimes.” Harry had laughed and said she was always scary, but she had put on a face ever since she met Catherine. She found that hilarious.

There were funny nights too, moments that didn’t feel sacred so much as chaotic. Like the time the baby’s diaper leaked all over Harry’s shirt and Catherine was laughing too hard to help, doubled over on the couch while Harry stood there in horror.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he said, glaring at her while peeling off the ruined shirt.

“I’m sleep-deprived,” she said between laughs.

Another night, when the baby refused to sleep unless held, Harry insisted he could rock him better, only for Catherine to smirk and say, “You think you’re better at lullabies than me?” He had taken that as a challenge, humming off-key for hours until the baby finally dozed off—though Catherine still teased him about his lack of pitch. His wife was a composer after all.

Somehow, through all the exhaustion, they managed. Their world had narrowed to feedings, naps, and tiny socks scattered across the floor, but it was theirs. And every time Harry caught Catherine in those unguarded moments—rocking their son in the half-light, hair messy, eyes tired but still bright—he wondered how he had ever lived before this.

And thinking back on those early hardships—the bleary eyes, the sharp arguments born of exhaustion, the weight of responsibility pressing down on both of them—Harry could only laugh at how terrified he’d been.

Because now, years later, with Catherine beside him and three children tumbling through their home—three, god, three—he could say with certainty that nothing in the world came close to this. Not the fortune, not the empire, not the legacy.

Nothing was better than his family.

Lucas was an older brother now, and he wore the role with an odd seriousness for someone so young. He was good with numbers, quicker than Harry ever remembered being at his age, but what surprised them all was his particular gift for chess. He could play against adults at just seven years old. It made Harry both proud and slightly unnerved. When he first got into elementary school, he was competing in small tournaments, knocking out older kids with strategies Harry had to admit he didn’t even understand. Harry’s mother swore Lucas was smarter than the entire Castillo line combined, and Harry agreed without hesitation. Of course he was—it was his and Catherine’s kid, after all.

A year after Lucas, Catherine got pregnant again. Their second boy, Oliver, had arrived with just as much promise but in a very different package. Where Lucas was measured and careful, Oliver was chaos. He was the artistic one, yes—always scribbling on walls, tugging at instruments far too big for him, humming half-formed melodies that Catherine insisted were genius. But his personality was the opposite of his mother’s steady calm. If Lucas had been difficult in the first years, then Oliver was a storm. Harry swore sometimes the boy was switched at birth, because there was no way Catherine’s son could be that mischievous. He climbed bookshelves just to reach things he wasn’t supposed to touch, cut all the strings on Catherine’s favorite cello when he can’t have ice cream, dumped cereal all over the penthouse just to “make art,” and once, memorably, flushed Harry’s expensive watch down the toilet because “it looked like a submarine.”

Still, Harry couldn’t deny him. The boy’s face was his exact copy—down to the stubborn line of his jaw and the glint in his eyes when he knew he was about to get away with trouble. Harry had wanted at least one of their children to inherit Catherine’s face, her soft features, her unmistakable eyes. But fate, it seemed, had decided differently. Lucas was his reflection. Oliver too. Two Castillos stamped from the same mold. And no matter how much of a menace Oliver could be, Harry could never stay angry for long. The boy laughed like Catherine did—loud, unashamed, the kind of sound that melted away every ounce of frustration.

When Catherine got pregnant the third time, Harry said this was it. No more. He was going to wear condoms for the rest of his life—something he hadn’t touched since the day he met her—or he’d book himself in for a vasectomy. Whatever it took. Because he couldn’t stand watching her go through another pregnancy like this.

The last Castillo had been the hardest yet. Catherine was sick almost constantly, in and out of the hospital more times than Harry cared to count. There were a few nights he thought he’d lose both her and the baby, nights when she clutched his hand and tried to reassure him while he felt like his chest was being torn open. Harry never admitted how terrified he’d been, but even now, a year later, he still remembered the hollow feeling in his stomach each time a doctor paused before speaking. He’d had enough of that fear to last him a lifetime.

But then came his daughter. Rose Castillo, named after Catherine’s favorite flower, something Harry filled her apartment with years ago. Everything softened when she was born. Her face was a copy of his too, but prettier.

Harry always thought a girl might be easier, and—miraculously—it was. She was his calmest child. She slept through the night earlier than the boys had, rarely threw tantrums, and was always reaching out for faces with her sticky little hands. She loved tearing paper into shreds, loved chewing on Harry’s watch strap when he forgot to take it off, loved toddling after her brothers with a wobbling determination that made the whole house laugh. At one year old, her personality was only just beginning to show, but Harry knew she was going to be the quiet one.

Life with three children was chaotic, especially when there’s a gathering. For Oliver’s birthday he insisted on a piñata, and Harry—unable to refuse him—ordered one the size of a small car. The aftermath was a battlefield of paper and sugar. Hours later, while Harry was still sweeping stray candy out from under the couch, Lucas crouched beside him with a broom. Lucas rarely helped out—none of his kids have that instinct yet, spoiled rotten as they were—so Harry knew he wanted something even before he started talking.

“I didn’t have a piñata for my birthday,” Lucas said, solemn as a judge.

Harry glanced down, hiding a smile. His son’s frown looked exactly like his own. “That’s because you wanted a chessboard, remember? A very expensive chessboard.”

Lucas’s frown deepened, as though reminded of his own mistake. “I still want a piñata.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to Ollie, so you can’t have both,” Harry said, narrowing his eyes in mock sternness.

“Yes I can. It doesn’t even have to be a birthday. I’ll ask Grandma. She always says yes to m—”

Harry opened his mouth, ready to remind him who was really in charge of this house, when Oliver stormed back in. Harry guessed he heard the conversation. His face was sticky with frosting, his hands still in the oversized Hulk fists he’d been wearing all day.

“Copycat! It’s my piñata,” Oliver declared, puffing his chest out like a tiny soldier. “You can’t have one, Lucas.”

Lucas rose to his feet, righteous indignation lighting up his little face. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Before Harry could intervene, Oliver let out a war cry of “Smash!” and hurled himself at his brother. The two of them collapsed in a flurry of fists, plastic hands, and outraged shrieking.

Harry tried to separate them, but it was like wrestling two wild dogs. Their fights had been escalating lately—more noise, more stubbornness—and he hated how easily they dragged him into it. He heard his own voice slipping into the argument, about how fighting with hulk’s fist isn’t fair.

That was when Catherine appeared. She stood in the doorway, Rose perched on her hip, watching with that steady, unimpressed look he knew too well. Her eyes flicked from the mess to him, wordlessly asking why he was participating instead of parenting.

“We’ll get you one next year, Lucas,” she said, her tone calm but final. “Promise.”

Lucas hesitated, then crossed his arms in surrender. Oliver opened his mouth to argue, but Catherine’s voice cut through, practiced and smooth. “If you both stop fighting, I’ll let you have leftover cake for breakfast tomorrow. Now brush your teeth, please.”

The boys stopped fighting and walked off. Harry stared after them and exhaled. Catherine hadn’t raised her voice once. She never needed to. He crossed the room and kissed her, Rose squirming happily between them.

“You always know exactly what to say,” he murmured.

She tilted her head, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “That’s because I don’t argue with toddlers.”

He huffed a laugh, brushing his hand against her waist, reluctant to let her go. “Apparently I still haven’t learned.”

“Apparently,” she said, amused, before Rose tugged her hair and forced her to laugh.

That night was one of the harder ones. Rose had cried twice, Oliver refused to stay in his own bed, and Lucas had woken up insisting he needed to practice chess at midnight because “champions don’t sleep.” By the time Harry had coaxed, threatened, and bribed all three back into their rooms, he collapsed onto the couch on the library beside Catherine with the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who had lost a war.

“We’re outnumbered,” Harry muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Catherine laughed softly, though her eyes were just as tired. “We’re not going to war with them. We’re the adults—we just need a new strategy to keep them in bed at bedtime.”

He leaned back, looking toward the great calendar pinned up in the library. Their sacred map of order. Color-coded, neat blocks of time, the only thing that kept their household from dissolving into anarchy. He pointed to it like a general consulting a battle plan.

“Just wait a few more years. We’ll send them to chess tournaments, music camps… whatever kids go to these days,” Harry said. “I want them out of the house every summer. A full evacuation.”

Catherine tilted her head, fighting a smile. “That seems cruel. You can’t just kick them out.”

“Rose can stay forever, but we have to force the boys to have an activity for summer.”

“They can go if they want, but no force.”

“No?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Not even Ollie?”

She chuckled. “Especially Ollie. He’ll riot.”

Harry smiled at that, picturing their wild middle child raising hell in some unfortunate camp, refusing to be managed. Then his eyes lingered on Catherine, the curve of her mouth as she teased him, the warmth still in her voice despite her exhaustion.

“Hm,” he said slowly, leaning toward her, lowering his voice. “He does inherit my inability to stay away from you.”

Catherine’s laugh was quieter this time, softer, fading as his hand found hers on the couch. The house was finally quiet, but here, with her, he realized that even in their fatigue—even in the mess—he’d never wanted anything more than this life they’d built.

Harry sometimes wondered where Catherine got the energy. Between the children, her music, and him—God knew he wasn’t low maintenance for her attention—she still found ways to pour herself into something bigger. He used to think she needed the stage, the applause, the constant demand of an audience. But as the years passed, Catherine had grown into something steadier. Harry taught her a lot about managing her time and letting people take over tasks. She hired more people for the studio. She took up more screen projects, sometimes for a family show or an indie movie. It had gone surprisingly well. What drove her now wasn’t the hunger for recognition, but the urge to leave the world better than she found it.

That was how Catherine ended up running a marathon for safe driving awareness—a cause close to her heart ever since the accident. She trained quietly at first, slipping out at dawn before the children woke, brushing off Harry’s concern with that infuriating calm of hers. When she announced she would run the full distance, Harry understood it wasn’t just about running anymore. It was Catherine making peace with what had once broken her. Turning pain into something purposeful.

He started joining her in the mornings, half out of support, half out of fear of letting her face it alone. Jogging wasn’t his usual rhythm, but he told himself it might do him some good. She had been doing this longer, and he hated admitting he couldn’t keep up. More than once, he had to remind her to slow down, which irritated her; she hated being told to hold back, even in something as trivial as running. They argued once over it, but the next day they found a compromise—shorter bursts, longer breaks, Harry trailing her until he didn’t anymore. Eventually, he could keep pace. Eventually, it felt like they were doing it together, and not just Harry catching up.

James arrived early every morning so Harry could follow her, and it became routine. But children were observant, and Lucas and Oliver soon caught on that their parents slipped out before breakfast. One morning, they woke up early to find both parents gone. James, too kind-hearted to send them back to bed, faced their wrath alone. Harry and Catherine returned sweaty and breathless to find the house in chaos: James red-faced, Rose wailing, Lucas and Oliver shouting over who got to hold the stop-watch Catherine had left behind. Harry took one look and promised James he would never saddle him with babysitting again.

In the end, they compromised with the boys too—weekday runs stayed for Harry and Catherine alone, weekends became family runs. Catherine laughed about it, saying they couldn’t even run away together without the children finding them, but he knew that she had the same opinions as he: they loved spending time with each other.

On the day of the marathon, Harry was there with Emma and the kids. He stayed on the sidelines with the crowd until the children got restless, then decided to buy them coffee and snacks a few blocks away. He left the boys with Emma and strapped Rose into the baby sling, which he still despised—she had developed the habit of babbling nonsense while blowing spit bubbles, her little hands tugging his collar until her saliva sometimes landed on his chin. He wiped at it absentmindedly as he ordered, keeping one eye on the clock. He had Catherine’s pace memorized from months of morning runs; he knew almost to the minute when she would pass the last turn.

“Harry?” a voice called. “I thought that was you.”

He turned. “Lucy.”

She was with John, both holding paper cups, looking far too surprised. Harry adjusted Rose on his chest before shaking their hands.

“Oh, you’re a dad,” John said.

Harry smiled. “I’m a dad. This is my third, actually.”

“With… the musician?” Lucy asked.

“Composer,” he corrected, calm and certain.

“Right. Composer.” She smiled faintly, a little awkward. “So it was love, after all.”

“It was,” he said simply.

John hesitated, then started, “Listen, I don’t want to bother you, but I feel like I should—”

Lucy cut in. “We should thank you. Or rather, thank your wife.”

Harry frowned. Rose gurgled louder, tugging on his shirt, making it harder to follow the words. “Sorry?”

John cleared his throat. “Your wedding. I catered. You didn’t notice me, but your wife did. I was in the back, rehearsing lines. She overheard me—Hamlet. She stopped, complimented me, told me to approach Tomas.”

Harry’s mouth tugged in amusement. “Tomas—yes, I know him.”

“That was a big help,” John said. “Tomas got me a job. Now I teach theater at a high school. It’s not glamorous, but it’s steady. I was able to quit waiting tables.”

Lucy slipped her hand into his, her expression softening. “We owe her for that.”

Harry nodded, though words escaped him for a beat. Catherine had probably never realized the man she encouraged that day was Lucy’s husband. She hadn’t liked Lucy much—hadn’t liked any of his exes, really, and thank God for that—but of course she’d stop to help a stranger anyway. That was Catherine. She always seemed to see grit in people, a kind of rawness they didn’t know they carried, and she had a way of pushing them toward it.

“I’m glad she helped you,” he said finally. “She has an eye for talent. Tomas has it too.”

They said their goodbyes, and Harry walked back toward the course, Rose pressed warmly against his chest, her soft babble a counterpoint to the crowd’s noise.

He thought about love, and how strangely it all unfolded—how Lucy, once so fixated on money and security, now looked content, finally settled with a man who was hers in every sense.

He was happy for her, to finally have some financial security she craved when she was with Harry. All his exes craved the same from him, really. He remembered the compliments he gets from women. Lucy had said she’d love how he took care of the bill. He didn’t mind the compliment. In fact, he liked it at the time. There’s also previous girlfriends who said they like how he gives them fancy gifts. How he seemed to make them feel like they’re worth something. Harry lavished them with gifts because… because they seem to value that. They say it makes them feel worth something. They connect their worths to the gifts he gave them. So he obliged. Had progressively gotten a lot more fancier if they liked him. But he should have known it wasn’t supposed to be like that. That relationship like that could not last.

Fate had dragged them all where they were meant to be anyway, teaching the lesson afterward.

The thought ceased when he walked back and saw his wife. She was running the last stretch, face flushed, hair damp, stride faltering but unbroken. The crowd roared as she approached the finish, but her eyes were searching for them, and when they landed on Harry—on the boys bouncing beside Emma, on Rose perched against his chest—her expression softened into something that undid him completely.

Lucas and Oliver screamed her name, waving their arms, while Emma clapped along. Rose babbled louder, as if she too recognized her mother in the blur of motion. Catherine crossed the line with a half-laugh, half-sob, the kind of sound born of relief and pride colliding at once.

They walked back to the car with Harry carrying Catherine on his back, Rose strapped snug against his chest, and Lucas and Oliver tethered to his hands like restless kites. He didn’t know where the strength came from, managing all four of them at once—love, he supposed. Or pride.

That night, when the children were finally asleep and the house was quiet again, he slipped into their room to find Catherine cocooned in the heavy blankets she loved, her hair spilling across the pillow. She stirred when the mattress dipped, blinking at him through the dim light.

“You wouldn’t believe who I met today,” Harry murmured as he slid in beside her, pulling her into his arms.

“Who?” she asked, her voice soft with drowsiness.

“Lucy,” he said, almost laughing at the absurdity of it.

Her eyes flew open, instantly awake. “What?”

“Lucy—and her husband, John.” He brushed a kiss against her temple. “You know both of them.”

“No, I don’t. Who’s John? I don’t know John,” she said, frowning faintly.

“You do. You met him at our wedding. He was a waiter, rehearsing Hamlet by the restrooms.”

Catherine blinked, searching her memory. Then it clicked. “That’s John?”

“That’s John.”

For a moment she just stared, then let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “God, how small is New York City?”

He laughed too, kissing her cheek, unable to resist. “They wanted to thank you for introducing him to Tomas. He said it got him a job teaching drama at some high school.”

“That’s nice,” she said, smiling as she burrowed closer, her head resting against his chest. Harry closed his eyes, holding her tighter, the warmth of her laugh still lingering. Strange, he thought, how she kept changing lives without even realizing it.

Then, softly, she asked, “How old is Lucy?”

Harry blinked down at her, caught off guard. “I don’t know. Still in her thirties, maybe.”

Catherine hummed—he knew that sound. A little tune, barely audible, the one she always made when her mind was circling something.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Just thinking,” she murmured, tapping her fingers lightly against his chest.

“About?”

“My age.”

He frowned. “What about your age?”

“You said… back when we were flying home from California, you told me about your past girlfriends. That they were never much younger than you. Always… mature. Sometimes even older.”

Harry chuckled, amused despite himself. She never said it outright, but he could always tell when Catherine was turning over thoughts about his past. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly—more curiosity, the kind that made her pick at threads until she understood them. And he found it endearing.

“Catherine Castillo—” he said, rolling her name off his tongue just to see her smile, “why do you think I married you?”

“Because I got pregnant?” she said quickly.

They both laughed, because there was some truth in it. But Harry wasn’t about to leave it at that.

“It’s not like I went looking for someone younger,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I love you so much it makes me angry sometimes—angry we didn’t meet sooner. But then again, it was exactly the right time. You’d already built something for yourself. You already knew who you were and what you wanted. That’s rare. You were ambitious, confident, already complete and full of life. I’ve always liked that in a woman.”

Harry told her to sleep then, to forget about Lucy and age and all the other worries she collected so easily. But Catherine only shifted closer, wide awake in the way she always was when her mind refused to rest, and she picked a topic she knew Harry could never ignore.

“Brandon was at our wedding too, funnily enough,” she said.

“Yes, I know. I practically threw him out.” The bitterness slipped out before he could stop it. Even after all these years, he couldn’t stand the name. Though Harry had Catherine, had won the life Brandon might have dreamed of, he still resented how successful the man had become, how he had a common ground in music with Catherine. He couldn’t help the scoff that rose in his throat.

“You did?” she laughed, amused by his pettiness.

“Not literally. I encouraged him to leave,” he admitted, though a crooked smile betrayed him. “When did you meet him?”

“Before the ceremony,” she said lightly, as if it were nothing at all.

Harry looked down at her, surprised. “Before? And you didn’t tell me?”

“I forgot,” she teased, her voice playful. “I was about to get married a few hours later, you know. I had a lot on my mind.”

She nestled closer, draping her hand across his chest like a peace offering.

“What did he say?” Harry asked, trying to sound casual, though the question came out sharper than he meant.

She paused long enough to make him nervous, her silence stretching as though she were carefully choosing her words. He hoped it was just memory, not hesitation.

“He told me to leave you,” she said at last.

Harry scoffed outright, scandalized. “The nerve. I should’ve had Peter toss him out on the street. I was far too kind.”

She looked up at him then, eyes glinting with amusement, her smile small but steady.

“What did you say?” he pressed. “Other than ‘absolutely not’?”

“I told him I loved you, of course.” She said it simply, like it had never been a question. “It was a short conversation. I had better things to do that day.”

“I’m glad it was forgettable for you.”

“I was too happy getting married,” she said, humming afterward in that content, absentminded way of hers. Then, as though the thought had just wandered into her mind, she added, “I loved you a lot. Even before. You know I had a crush on you when we first met?”

Harry grinned in the dark. “Oh?”

“In that old bookstore in Cold Spring. I thought you were handsome, sure,” she said, her tone teasing. “But it was more than that. You explained your work over whiskey in such detail—finance, all those things I barely understood—and you explained it like you wanted me to understand. Not like you were showing off. You were just confident. Secure. You didn’t care that I didn’t know anything about it, you just taught me like it was the most natural thing in the world. I’d never met anyone like that before.”

Her voice grew softer, almost shy. “I admired you. I wanted that same confidence for myself. That’s why I started playing my own songs for people. Original songs. I wanted to stand by my work the way you stood by yours.”

Harry’s chest tightened, not with nerves but with a deep, steady ache. Gratitude, love, something wordless and vast. He bent to kiss the top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her hair, and thought—again, as he had so many times before—that he was the lucky one. The luckiest man alive.

⊹

Harry Castillo wondered a lot about life, about its odd turns and the strangeness of endings. How important it was to choose a partner—how that single choice could set the course of everything that followed. He thought often about what it would have been like if he had married anyone else, and the thought made him shudder.

To face life and uncertainty with someone he did not love, someone who could not soften the weight of it, would have been unbearable.

And there had been plenty of uncertainties. Nights when Catherine was sick and he paced the floor, useless except for holding her hand. Times when some businesses failed and he came home silent, and she met him at the door anyway, refusing to let him carry it alone. There had been funerals. Friends lost, a mentor gone too soon. There were days of exhaustion when the children’s laughter was the only thing keeping him steady. And yet, threaded through it all, there were celebrations. Peter had his first child—an event that turned the family inside out. That little boy became the most cherished Castillo overnight, and Harry found himself looking at Peter differently after, with pride he hadn’t felt since they were kids. Pride not just as a brother, but as a father watching another man stumble into the same transformation.

He was glad for all of it—the joy and the sorrow, the ordinary and the sharp edges. Because the life they had built felt like some kind of magic. And Catherine, always Catherine, was at the heart of it.

The world around them grew, too. Friends became family, neighbors became confidants. There were Sunday dinners that stretched long into the night, children falling asleep on couches while the adults drank one more glass of wine. There were golf games that ended in laughter, bowling nights where nobody kept score, charity galas that turned into excuses to dance. They had a community, a life stitched together with small rituals and imperfect people. And Harry, who had once thought wealth and work were enough, learned that this—this tangled, noisy, unpredictable life—was what it meant to be rich.

There was always news about the people who had once circled close to them. Brandon never settled down, though he carried a string of girlfriends who all looked a little too much like Catherine for Harry’s liking. Still, he seemed content, his music career thriving in a way that proved he had chosen the life he wanted, even if it was a lonely one. Lucy and John finally bought a home in Brooklyn, small but theirs, close enough to his school that he could walk to work. Sam became a cruise ship musician, vanishing into ports all over the world and mailing back absurd trinkets that made Catherine laugh until her stomach hurt. Emma ran the studio with the same sharp certainty she had always had, her emails still as clipped and efficient as they were in the beginning, except now she signed them with affection too. Charlotte found her footing again—happier, lighter—with her son, as if the years had finally given her permission to breathe.

Life carried everyone forward, sometimes gently, sometimes harshly. Some found joy, some settled into compromise, and others chased freedom at all costs. Harry learned not to measure one against the other. What mattered was that through all of it—through every change, every small distance or unexpected reunion—Catherine was still beside him.

Lucas moved on from chess to math, the way some children outgrow toys but never lose their hunger for puzzles. By the time he was in high school, he was winning state tournaments, representing his school in competitions that Harry proudly attended, even when he didn’t understand half of the numbers scribbled on the boards. He was valedictorian, of course—Harry wasn’t surprised, but he nearly cried at the speech anyway. Lucas stood at the podium with that steady voice of his, thanking his family, his teachers, his little siblings, and Catherine most of all for teaching him patience. Later, Harry would brag to anyone who listened that his son had gotten into MIT, as if the world didn’t already know.

Oliver, against all odds, matured into a fine young man. He had been the menace of the household, the loudest, the most difficult, but brilliance always burned in him. While his mother’s world was music, Oliver’s heart leaned toward painting. His canvases filled the walls of their house, bold strokes of color that startled visitors with their depth. He carried that same mischievous grin into his art shows, drawing people in with charm before dazzling them with talent. Teachers called him exceptional. Private schools loved him despite his mischievous ways. Harry, who couldn’t paint to save his life, simply stood in the back of every gallery, staring at his son’s work and wondering how in the world he’d helped make something so extraordinary.

Rose, their youngest, was quiet and pretty and perfect. Catherine sometimes teased that she was Harry’s favorite, and though he denied it, there was truth in the way his heart clenched every time Rose left the house. It was harder for him to let her go, even for something as small as a school trip or a sleepover with friends. She was bookish, her braces flashing in the light when she smiled, her hair almost always tied back in a perfect ponytail while she devoured novels and underlined passages with quiet focus. She never had a boyfriend—thank God, Harry thought—but Catherine only laughed, saying it was inevitable. She was so smart too. “She’ll become someone serious one day,” Catherine predicted. “Probably a lawyer.” Harry only shook his own, pretending to scowl, though the thought of Rose being an adult, living away from home, made his chest ache.

Life, of course, had not been without grief. Catherine stood by him through his mother’s death, which hurt more than he had ever expected. He had thought himself hardened after his father’s passing, had imagined he would face it with that same muted sorrow. But grief was different this time—sharper, heavier, because now he had Catherine and the children, and the thought of losing them terrified him in a way nothing else could. Through it all, he was grateful—grateful that he had married for love, grateful that Catherine’s steadiness had carried him through storms he couldn’t have borne alone. Without her, without Lucas and Oliver and Rose, he could not have endured.

They built their own rituals—quiet anchors to mark the years. Soup night every Sunday during winter, because it had once been their routine, and Catherine insisted on keeping it sacred. Private concerts in their living room, her fingers gliding over strings only for him. She wrote songs for Harry, dozens of them, each one its own gift. She said writing a song with an actual name for a musician is the equivalent of the average person tattooing names on their skin. Harry had laughed at that, but he knew what she meant. And he cherished those songs because he knew how deeply music was a part of her soul. It was the purest expression of her love.

One evening, as her bow stilled on the final note, she looked at him with that unshakable certainty of hers and said, “I think I love you more than music.”

It silenced him for a long while, the weight of it pressing down on his chest. But eventually, as the words settled, Harry smiled. It was a step closer to how much he loved her.

Because if Catherine loved him more than music, then Harry loved her more than life itself.

Before Catherine, Harry had lived by lists. In true Castillo fashion, he had written down what he wanted in a woman as if it were another investment to be calculated. He had kept every partner at arm’s length, showing them the polished version of himself, impressing them with gifts and worldly things, but never letting them touch what was real.

And then Catherine appeared. She had looked at him—really looked at him—and for the first time he felt seen as something more than the sum of his wealth. The checklist on what he wanted in a woman had gone forgotten, left on a desk in the back of his mind, because none of it mattered anymore. He only wanted her.

When he was about to propose, he remembered that old list. It was short, almost pitiful compared to what Catherine had given him without even trying. She hadn’t just checked the boxes; she had expanded them, rewritten them. She had taught him there was more to love than compromise or performance—that love could be thunder, sudden and all-consuming, reshaping everything in its path.

Harry often thought of how unfair it was, for every man in the world, that she had chosen him. She had loved not just the Castillo the world admired, but the man beneath, flawed and human. And in return, he vowed he would spend his life loving her as completely as he could—kissing the ground she walked on, if that’s what it took—because Catherine had been the one miracle he never thought he would deserve.

Eventually Harry retired, or rather, he stopped needing to “work” in any sense of the word. He could run everything without ever stepping into an office—he was the owner since his mother’s passing, after all, and ownership required little more than his signature.

Age crept up on him, as it does on everyone. He saw it in his reflection: the deepening lines on his face, the silver threading into his hair. And yet, every time Catherine kissed those wrinkles with as much love as she had in their youth, Harry felt almost young again. She had grown older too, more mature, softer in her wisdom, and he thought he had never loved her more.

One evening, when the house was quiet in a way it rarely had been before, Harry found himself lingering on thoughts he had spent years pushing away. The children were grown, scattered across their own lives. The walls that once carried noise—Oliver’s tantrums, Lucas’s laughter, Rose’s singing—now only held silence, broken only by Catherine’s soft humming. She was curled against him on the sofa, her head on his shoulder as though no years had passed at all. He had aged faster than her, and he felt it every time he caught his reflection in the mirror: the lines, the slower step, the way his hands had begun to tremble if he wasn’t paying attention.

Death was no longer an abstract thing. It sat quietly at the edges of his thoughts, steady and constant. He wasn’t that old yet, there were a few dark hairs in his head still. And he wasn’t afraid of dying—not in the way he might have been when he was younger. What unsettled him was the thought of leaving Catherine behind. Of her life stretching on without him, of her walking through their home alone. He had been powerful once, untouchable, but even powerful men struggled most with the things they couldn’t control. And losing her—or forcing her to lose him—was the one thing he could never fight against.

“What if I go first?” he asked, his voice barely louder than the ticking clock across the room. Vulnerability was not something he offered often, but it slipped out then, unguarded.

Catherine tilted her head to look at him, and there was no fear in her eyes. Only tenderness. “Then I’ll play your favorite song one last time,” she said softly, as though it were already decided. “And I’ll find you soon after.”

He exhaled, something breaking and healing in him all at once. She always had a way of answering him like that—turning fear into something bearable, turning endings into promises.

And so life went on in its perfect, unpredictable way. They lived the days as they came, not with urgency, but with the kind of love that had carried them through everything: stubborn, fierce, tender. Their story grew into something almost mythic, whispered about by friends and family—because how could two people love like that, with such constancy? The answer was simple. They had never forced it, never tried to shape it into something it wasn’t. Fate and time had handed them to each other, and they had held on.

And when the day finally came, when Harry’s body gave in to the years, Catherine did exactly what she had promised. She sat by his side, kissed his temple, and played the song she had written for him long ago. Her lullaby carried him out of the world, and though her tears fell, she smiled too, because he had kept every promise that mattered—except the one about never leaving her. She would grieve, cry, and live the rest of her life half empty. But that was another story.

For now, what mattered was this: Harry Castillo had slow days, every day. He never woke without kissing his wife, never missed the comfort of her face beside his. Bagels remained his breakfast of choice, not because he loved them that much, but because Catherine always bought them for him, the same way she had since their earliest mornings together. Every anniversary, she wrote him a new song. Every birthday, she still gave him expensive suits he no longer needed, because tradition mattered more than practicality. She cooked his favorite meals as if he were still the busy man he once had been, though now he had nowhere to rush to, no meetings to keep.

Catherine no longer worried about missing out on the world, no longer compared herself to the friends and family living different lives. Their life was enough, filled with children, out-of-tune cellos, new violins and pianos, with kisses and mismatched socks, with soups that always tasted better in winter. They took vacations whenever they could, most often to Seville, where Harry insisted on keeping his wife to himself, pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist. On busier weeks, when life crowded in with calls and visitors and the endless small interruptions of family, Harry still carved out a moment each day just to sit with her in quiet, to look at his beautiful wife and pepper her face with kisses, tickling her with his mustache that he refused to shave.

Sometimes they wondered if it was a dream, if their years together could possibly be real. If that night so long ago had gone differently, if Harry hadn’t walked into the rain in his suit, if Catherine hadn’t been there with her cello case, would they have missed each other entirely? Harry thought of that night often—the first glimpse of her, rain-soaked and strange and beautiful, standing in a storm as though she belonged to it. He had been almost certain he loved her instantly, though he hadn’t yet had the courage to name it. It was as if his soul had recognized hers before his mind had even begun to understand. The thought haunted him sometimes, how close they had come to living separate lives.

And yet they had met, and they had fallen in love. Not with effort, not with calculation, but with the ease of breathing. Their stories had tangled together from the moment his eyes first found her, inevitable in the way all the greatest stories are. Forgotten, then, were the days when Harry lived only for meetings and deals, when he mistook business for purpose and thought marriage was meant to be practical. He had always known, somewhere deep down, that he wanted more. Somehow fate had seen fit to give him exactly that.

He had lived his life full of Catherine—full of her laughter, her stubbornness, her music, her love. Against all odds, against the loneliness he once thought permanent, he had been given this extraordinary gift: a life made whole by her. And in the quiet of old age, with the storms of his youth far behind him, Harry Castillo could say with certainty that he had lived as a happy man.

Author's Note: I sometimes can’t believe people are reading my stories and I wonder all the time if it is worth reading at all. But trust me when I say this story came out of nowhere. Harry and Catherine were written before the movie even came out. I watched the trailer and this scenario of them in the rain, with a cello, just came to me, fully fleshed out. I guess that was partially why it was easy for me to write them. They felt real to me. I’ve never experienced that and I fully went into it with no expectations for readers. I’m glad it turned into what it is, a story about love, about two people that fit like a puzzle, about finding someone who is perfectly human and who complemented your life so well that you wondered if they were created just for you. And isn’t that what we crave most of all?

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