I have a few ideas floating at the minute and sitting in drafts 👀
One from a follower who suggested a one shot of Harry Castillo and his assistant getting unexpectedly hot and heavy 🔥
Another that a particular country song inspired me with - a one shot of Harry getting stuck in Tennessee, where he meets a gorgeous country girl who takes him for a night out country style that of course, ends up with a cowgirl showing him how she rides 😘
What do you think? Do you want to see other ideas?
Hello! Love your one shots so I thought you might like my idea. What about Harry and reader are engaged and reader has to buy the wedding dress. But she has bad relationship with her parents or something, or they don’t apporve of this marriage. And that’s why her mom doesn’t show up at the bridal salon. But Harry’s mom does. And she is great and sweet as always, she treats reader as her own and assures her when reader has doubts and is sad. His mom does everything to make trying on the dresses perfect and it kind of is. And later when reader’s home she tells Harry everything and he holds her, knowing that despite the good time, her mom’s absence hurt her.
It just an idea, you do whatever you like with it. Thanks💕
Chosen Family - A Harry Castillo One Shot
The boutique smelled of fresh lilies and expensive satin.
You hated both.
Not because there was anything wrong with either, but because every white dress hanging around you reminded you of the empty chair your mother was supposed to be sitting in.
She'd RSVP'd "maybe."
Then she'd stopped answering your texts.
Finally, two hours before your appointment, a single message had arrived.
I don't think it's appropriate for me to encourage this marriage.
That was all. No apology. No explanation. Just another reminder that loving Harry Castillo had apparently become one more disappointment in her eyes.
You stared at your phone long enough for the screen to go black.
"You okay, sweetheart?"
A warm hand rested on your shoulder. You looked up. Margaret Castillo smiled at you with kind eyes, dressed elegantly but without a trace of the intimidating wealth the Castillo name carried.
Harry often joked that his mother was the only person in Manhattan who could make billionaires feel underdressed while simultaneously offering them homemade soup.
You managed a weak smile.
"Yeah."
She tilted her head with a small smile.
"Liar."
You laughed despite yourself.
"I learned from your son."
"Oh, Harry has always been terrible at pretending." She laughed as she looped her arm through yours. "And today, you don't have to."
The bridal consultant approached with a bright smile.
"Are we ready to begin?"
Margaret squeezed your hand.
"We're more than ready."
******
The first dress wasn't right. Neither was the second. The third looked beautiful but didn't feel like you. Every time you stepped onto the pedestal, your eyes instinctively drifted toward the empty chair beside Margaret. You hated yourself for looking. Because Margaret was there. She was clapping, taking pictures, even crying over dresses that weren't even the dress. She deserved your full attention and yet part of you kept imagining your mother's voice.
"Too simple."
"Too expensive."
"It makes your shoulders look broad."
Or maybe… Nothing at all. Just silence. Like today.
"You disappeared again."
Margaret's soft voice pulled you back.
"What?"
"You went somewhere." She said as she passed you a glass of champagne. You looked down as the bubbles raised to the top.
"I'm sorry."
"Never apologize for feeling something."
The consultant disappeared to grab another gown, leaving the two of you alone. Margaret studied you for a moment.
"You wish she were here." It wasn't a question. You nodded before you could stop yourself.
"I know she doesn't approve." Your voice cracked. "I know she thinks Harry and I rushed things. I know she doesn't like... his world. Or me in it. Or.. the age gap." You laughed bitterly. "But she's still my mom."
The words hurt more once they were spoken aloud.
"I just..." your breathing wavered. "I wanted her to tell me I looked beautiful."
Silence filled the room. Not awkward. Just gentle.
Margaret reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
"My darling." No one had called you that in years. "You can miss her." She said as she brushed away a tear with her thumb. "And still choose happiness."
Your lip trembled.
"It doesn't make you weak. It doesn't make you ungrateful." Then she smiled. "And it certainly doesn't mean you're alone."
You broke. The tears came fast, ugly, impossible to stop.
"I'm sorry."
"There you go apologizing again." She gentle scolded as she wrapped her arms around you. The embrace felt warm and steady. Something you hadn't had in years like she'd practiced holding broken hearts before.
"You know," she whispered, "when Harry was little, he'd scrape his knees every other day."
You laughed through tears. "He was that reckless?"
"Oh, worse. He'd always apologize for crying."n
"What did you tell him?" You asked through a smile.
"The same thing I'm telling you." She leaned back enough to look at you. "The people who love you never mind carrying your sadness for a while."
Your chest ached.
"I've never had someone say that."
Her expression softened even more.
"I know." She said gently as she cupped your face. "But perhaps it's time you got used to it."
Your tears started all over again.
"Because if you'll let me…I'd very much like to be one of those people."
******
The consultant returned carrying another dress.
Simple. Elegant. Soft silk that shimmered every time it caught the light. The moment you slipped into it… Everything stopped. The room fell quiet. Even before you stepped onto the pedestal.
Margaret pressed both hands over her mouth.
"Oh."
The consultant gasped.
"Oh my goodness."
You turned toward the mirror. You didn't see perfection. You saw yourself. For the first time all day. Not someone's daughter trying to earn approval. Not someone trying to fit into the Castillo family's impossible level of wealth. Just…
A woman in love.
Margaret was already crying.
"I hate you." She laughed through tears. "You look so beautiful."
You started crying again.
"This is your dress, I knew it the second you walked out."
You looked toward the empty chair one last time. It still hurt. Maybe it always would. But then your eyes landed on Margaret. Standing. Smiling. Proud. Looking at you the way every bride deserved to be looked at. And somehow… The chair didn't feel quite so empty anymore.
******
Harry was waiting at the penthouse when you got home. He looked up from the couch immediately.
"Hey, beautiful."
His grin faded the second he saw your face.
"What happened?"
You crossed the room without saying a word as he opened his arms automatically. You climbed into his lap, burying your face against his neck. His hand immediately found the back of your head.
"No questions." You always felt warm and safe in Harry's arms. A small smile greeted your face as he kissed your hair.
"You don't have to tell me until you're ready."
You stayed there for several minutes, listening to his heartbeat. Finally, you whispered, "Your mom came."
"Of course she did."
"No..." You looked up at his brown eyes. "You don't understand."
So you told him everything. The dresses. The tears. The empty chair. Margaret fixing your veil. Taking pictures. Calling you my darling. Telling you that you weren't alone.
Harry listened without interrupting once and by the time you finished, his own eyes looked suspiciously bright.
"She loves you baby."
"I know."
"You know what she told me after our first dinner together?" He asked as he stroked your hair.
You shook your head causing Harry to chuckle.
"She called me and said, 'Don't you dare let that girl get away. She deserves someone who'll make her feel chosen every single day.'"
Fresh tears welled in your eyes.
"I thought she was just being polite."
"My mother?" he said laughing. "She's physically incapable of pretending."
You smiled but then it soon faded. "It still hurt."
His expression immediately softened.
"I know baby." He pulled you closer until you were practically wrapped around him. "I know it did."
You hid your face again. "I hate that I still wanted her there."
"You'll probably always want her there." He said as his fingers combed gently through your hair causing you to feel safe. "That doesn't make today any less beautiful." He kissed your forehead again. "It just means grief doesn't disappear because good things happen."
You nodded against his chest.
"I wish she could see me."
"I know. But she isn't the one who gets to decide whether you're worthy of being loved." He lifted your chin as his thumb brushed away another tear. "I do and my mom does. Our friends do." He rested his forehead against yours. "And most importantly..." His voice became wonderfully certain. "You do."
You laughed quietly.
"I haven't even shown you the dress." He chuckled into your hair.
"Good."
"You don't want to know?"
"I absolutely do." He said as he raised your chin to kiss your soft lips. His smile then turned playful. "But I also know if I see it before the wedding, my mother will personally haunt me."
You laughed harder.
"She would."
"Oh, she'd be terrifying." He kissed your forehead one more time. "So I'll wait." He looked at you with the same expression Margaret had worn in the boutique.
Pure pride.
Pure love.
"And when those doors open..." His eyes softened. "I promise the first thing you'll see isn't going to be the people who didn't show up." His hand squeezed yours. "It's going to be me. And I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you never wonder whether you were chosen."
In that moment, held safely in his arms, you realized something. Family wasn't always the people who shared your blood.
Sometimes, if you were very lucky, it's the people who chose you anyway.
Would you consider writing a Drabble where Harry almost forgets their 1. Year wedding anniversary 🍾🌷💗
Almost Forgotten - A Harry Castillo Drabble
You wake up smiling.
One year.
Today marks your first wedding anniversary with Harry Castillo.
You don't expect a grand gesture. Harry has never been the type to make a spectacle out of his love. His affection has always lived in the quiet moments-the coffee waiting for you every morning before you've even opened your eyes, the absentminded way he reaches for your hand whenever you're close enough, the gentle kiss he presses to your forehead every single time he passes as though he can't help himself.
He remembers how you take your coffee without ever asking. He tucks the blanket back over your shoulders when you fall asleep on the sofa. He pulls you into his lap while answering emails, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, as if keeping you close is second nature.
That's just who Harry is.
So you don't need flowers. You don't need expensive jewellery or a lavish dinner.
You only want one simple sentence.
"Happy anniversary."
"Morning, sweetheart."
The smell of freshly brewed coffee greets you before you're fully awake.
You pad down the hallway in one of Harry's old T-shirts, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as soft morning light spills through the kitchen windows.
Harry is already dressed.
Navy trousers.
White shirt.
The sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms while his tie hangs loose around his neck, waiting to be finished.
His laptop is open on the island, emails covering the screen, his phone vibrating every few seconds beside it.
The second he hears your footsteps, though, he looks up.
His face immediately softens.
"There she is," he murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips.
He doesn't hesitate.
He opens an arm towards you, and you walk straight into it, letting yourself melt against his chest.
His hand settles comfortably at the small of your back, pulling you impossibly closer.
"Morning, sweetheart."
His voice is still rough from sleep. Warm. Comforting.
"Morning," you mumble into his shirt.
He chuckles quietly before pressing an absent-minded kiss to the top of your head.
His thumb strokes absentmindedly across your waist while the two of you stand there for another moment, neither in any rush to move.
Then his phone buzzes again.
The smile slips into a sigh.
"Sorry."
He leans away just enough to glance at the screen before muttering something under his breath.
"They've moved the Zurich meeting forward."
You watch him skim another email, his brow furrowing.
"Today's going to be hectic."
"That bad?"
"Worse."
"Careful," he says softly. "It's hot."
He pinches the bridge of his nose before setting the phone down again. Without needing to ask, he reaches for the mug sitting beside the coffee machin and he slides it into your hands. Exactly the way you like it. Still hot. Still topped with the little sprinkle of cinnamon he insists makes it taste better.
Your heart squeezes.
"What?"
God. He's so thoughtful
You wrap both hands around the mug, watching him straighten his tie in the reflection of the microwave. You wait. Surely now. Maybe he's building up to it. Maybe he's waiting until you've had your first sip of coffee. Maybe...
He glances back over his shoulder.
You blink.
"Hm?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring." A sheepish smile tugs at your lips.
He laughs under his breath.
"C'mere."
"There."
You walk back over and he cups your face in both hands, thumbs brushing gently across your cheeks before leaning down to press another lingering kiss against your forehead.
One. Then another against the bridge of your nose.
"What was that for?"
"Do I need a reason?"
"No..."
"I just wanted to kiss my girl."
"There she is."
Your stomach flips despite yourself. He smiles, satisfied with the blush creeping onto your face.
You laugh quietly.
"Right."
This is Harry. Always so effortlessly affectionate. Always finding tiny excuses to love you out loud. Which somehow makes the silence even louder. Because after all that... He still hasn't said it. He checks the time on his watch.
He grabs his briefcase from beside the door before shrugging into his coat.
"I'll try not to be too late tonight."
"I love you."
You nod and he kisses your forehead one last time.
Then he's gone. You stare at the closed elevator doors. Maybe he's planning a surprise? Maybe he has things lined up?
"I love you too."
He has to be. Harry doesn't forget anything, especially when it comes to you.
*****
By lunchtime, you still haven't heard anything. No text. No call. Nothing. Your phone buzzes.
Running into another meeting. Love you. – Harry
You sigh.
Love you too.
You don't remind him. You shouldn't have to. Has he really forgot? You tap your nails against the back of your phone as you chew your lip wondering if it's all a mistake. If you're overthinking this.
But by late afternoon, the excitement you'd woken up with has turned into quiet disappointment. You even changed out of the black lace Dior dress you'd picked specially for dinner. Your hair slowly falling out of their curls. The dinner you had started to prep had become more of a chore then made out of love.
Maybe he'd simply forgotten.
*****
Harry barely looks up from his laptop as another file lands on his desk.
"Leave it there, thanks."
His personal assistant, Emma, offers a sympathetic smile, placing the folder neatly beside the growing stack of paperwork.
"You've got the Zurich call in ten minutes, legal at eleven, lunch with the board has been pushed to one, and your flight to Geneva has been cancelled."
Harry exhales through his nose.
"Perfect."
"You've also got three contracts waiting for your signature."
He nods absentmindedly, already reading through another email. His assistant hesitates.
"...And one more thing."
"Hm?" Harry flicks down to a piece of paper with some scribbled numbers across it.
"You asked me to remind you if you looked like you were about to forget."
Harry finally glances up.
"What am I forgetting now?"
"Your anniversary."
Silence. For a second, he simply stares at her.
"...What?"
She gives him a small, apologetic smile, hating that she was the one having to remind him.
"Today. It's your first wedding anniversary."
The colour drained from his face.
"No..." Emma just simply nodded.
"1st July 2025."
Harry's stomach drops so violently it almost makes him feel sick. Today's date flashes through his mind.
The coffee. The kiss on your forehead. The way you'd lingered in the kitchen, watching him. The little smile you'd given him every time he'd looked your way.
His chest tightens.
"Oh, God."
He leaned back in his chair, one hand dragging down his face.
"I forgot."
"You did."
"I forgot."
The words sound hollow coming out of his own mouth. He never forgot. Birthdays. Doctor's appointments. Your mother's favourite flowers. The day your dog had died years before you met him because he knew it was always a difficult one. He remembered everything that mattered.
Except this.
He thinks back to this morning. You'd stood there in one of his old shirts. Sleep still clinging to your eyes. Smiling at him. Waiting. You'd been waiting.
The realization makes his chest ache.
"You knew," he mutters to himself. Emma raises an eyebrow.
"Sorry?"
"You were waiting for me to say it." His eyes close briefly. "And I just... walked out."
A heavy silence fills the office. Emma cleared her throat carefully.
"I've already cancelled your two o'clock." Harry brought himself back up into the office.
"You what?"
"I figured this might be more important." For the first time all morning, Harry smiles.
"Thank you."
"Mr Castillo."
"You should probably go." He doesn't argue as he shuts his laptop. Files are shoved into untidy piles - something Harry never does. He grabs his suit jacket from the back of his chair, nearly forgetting his phone before doubling back for it. As he reaches the office door, his Emma calls after him.
"Go to the flower shop on 6th, ask for Lisa, I rang them through this morning."
He lets out a humourless laugh.
"I don't think flowers are going to fix this."
"No." She smiles knowingly. "But they won't hurt." Harry gives her a thankful smile.
Not because he's trying to save the anniversary.
But because somewhere across the city, the woman he loves has spent the entire day believing she'd slipped his mind.
And that thought hurts far more than any forgotten date ever could.
*****
The penthouse is dark when Harry unlocks the front door. Not completely. Just dim enough that the soft glow of a lamp in the living room spills into the hallway. He pauses for a moment, his hand still wrapped around the doorknob. Normally, you'd be waiting for him.
Curled up on the sofa with a book or cooking dinner with music playing softly through the speakers.
Sometimes you'd meet him at the door before he'd even had the chance to set his briefcase down, wrapping your arms around his waist because you'd "missed him for at least nine hours and forty-three minutes."
Tonight... It's quiet.
Painfully quiet.
He steps inside, gently closing the door behind him.His eyes immediately find the dining table. Two untouched place settings. Candles. Burned almost all the way down. The remains of a dinner that's long since gone cold. His chest caves in. You'd planned something.
Of course you had.
A bottle of wine sits unopened between the plates. Your favourite. The one you'd been saving even though Harry insisted he could buy the winery.
Harry shuts his eyes.
"...Jesus."
He runs a hand over his face, guilt twisting tighter in his stomach. You'd spent the day waiting. You'd probably cooked this yourself. Set the table. Lit the candles. Waited for him.
And he'd spent the entire day buried in meetings, blissfully unaware of the date circled on your calendar at home.
He quietly sets the bouquet he'd bought on the kitchen island.
It suddenly feels...small. Pathetic, even. Flowers couldn't erase this. Neither could the red box in his jacket pocket.
He hadn't bought it because he'd forgotten.
He'd bought it months ago, planning to give it to you tonight. He'd imagined the smile on your face. The way you'd throw your arms around his neck.
Instead...
He forgot to say two words. A floorboard creaks upstairs causing Harry to look up. You're home. He takes the stairs two at a time. The bedroom door is slightly open but he knocks softly anyway.
"Sweetheart?"
No answer. He pushes it open. You're sitting against the headboard in one of his hoodies, a book resting open in your lap. You look up and your expression is calm.
Too calm.
"Hi."
That one word almost breaks him.
"Hi."
He steps inside slowly, as though he's afraid you'll ask him to leave. The silence stretches between you. He notices the discarded black Dior dress over one of the chairs.
"I..." Harry starts, before stopping himself.
There aren't enough words. No excuse sounds good enough. Work doesn't matter. Meetings don't matter. Nothing matters more than the woman sitting in front of him. He lets out a shaky breath.
"I'm so sorry."
You lower your eyes to the pages of your book.
"It's okay."
"It's not."
"It is."
"No." His voice cracks slightly. "Please don't tell me it's okay because it isn't." You don't answer.
Harry takes another step. Then another. Until he's standing beside the bed.
"I forgot."
The words are barely audible.
"I know."
"I didn't remember until Emma reminded me this afternoon."
You nod once.
"I figured."
"I kept thinking something felt...off." He laughs bitterly at himself. "When you were looking at me this morning. I knew something wasn't right, and I couldn't work out what it was."
Your throat tightens. Harry kneels in front of you. Actually kneels, like the day he asked you to marry him but this time it was for forgiveness.
His hands find yours, careful, tentative, as though he's waiting for you to pull away. You don't.
"I'm so, so sorry."
His thumbs stroke across your knuckles.
"I've replayed this morning in my head about a hundred times." A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it.
"You kissed me goodbye."
His face crumples.
"I know."
"You told me you loved me."
"I know."
"You remembered how I take my coffee."
"I know."
"But you forgot our anniversary." The tears are falling freely now.
"I kept thinking..." you whisper, "...that maybe you'd remember in the car. Or someone at work would say something. Then you text and I thought..." Your voice catches. "I thought this is it."
Harry's own eyes shine with tears.
"And then you just..."
You can't finish. His forehead rests against your joined hands.
"I hurt you."
It isn't a question.
"No meeting was important enough for this. No email. No phone call." His voice is thick with emotion. "I made the person I love most in this world feel forgotten."
You squeeze your eyes shut.
"I didn't need presents, Harry."
"I know."
"I just wanted you to remember."
"I know."
He lifts his head, his eyes red.
"I have loved you every single day we've been married. Every single day before that. Forgetting today doesn't change that."
"It doesn't," you agree softly. "But it still hurt."
He nods immediately, not trying to argue or lessen it.
"And you have every right to be angry with me." You look at him for a long moment.
"I'm not angry."
"No?" You shake your head.
"I'm just...sad."
Somehow, that hurts him even more. Because anger would fade. Sadness lingers.
Harry carefully reaches up, brushing away a tear with his thumb.
"I can't undo today," he whispers. "But if you'll let me...I'd like to spend the rest of my life making sure I never make you feel like this again."n
He reaches into his jacket pocket, then pauses. Instead of pulling out the small red box with gold writing, he leaves it there.
Not tonight.
Tonight wasn't about gifts.
It was about making sure you knew you had never, ever been forgotten in his heart even if he'd failed to show it that morning.
Instead, he leans forward and wraps his arms around you, holding you gently, as if trying to mend the hurt he'd caused one heartbeat at a time.
After a moment's hesitation, you wrap your arms around him too.
"I'm an idiot." He whispers into your hair. Despite yourself, you let out a small laugh.
"The biggest one in New York."
"Happy anniversary," he whispers. You smile against his shoulder.
"Took you long enough."
"I know."
"And Harry?"
"Hm?" He said reluctantly pulled away from your warm embrace.
Would you consider writing a Drabble where Harry is sick with the flu and reader is trying to look after him, but he doesn’t want to slow down / rest 💗
Stay - A Harry Castillo Drabble
Harry Castillo doesn’t get sick often. And when he does, he refuses to call it what it is.
It starts the same way it always does - him pretending nothing is wrong.
The first time you notice, he’s at his desk in his penthouse overlooking New York City, laptop open, half-empty coffee beside him, shoulders slightly too stiff for someone who’s supposedly “just tired.”
“You look awful,” you say from the doorway.
“I’m fine,” he replies instantly. Which is how you know he isn’t.
His voice is rougher than usual. There’s a box of tissues on the desk that definitely wasn’t there yesterday. And he’s blinking a little slower than normal, like even that takes effort he doesn’t want to admit to.
“You’re sick,” you say.
“I’m busy.”
“You’re sick and busy.”
That earns you a look. Sharp, tired, defensive on instinct. He tries to go back to his screen anyway.
You walk in, take the laptop, and close it.
Harry stares at you like you’ve just interrupted the biggest deal he would ever make.
“That was...”
“Urgent?” you finish. “No. It wasn’t. You’ve replied to the same email three times in different fonts. You’re done.”
He opens his mouth to argue....but coughs instead.
Deep. Unpleasant. The kind that bends his shoulders forward for a second like his body is reminding him it doesn’t care about his schedule.
You soften despite yourself.
“Okay,” you say more gently. “Bed.”
“I can’t slow down right now.” It’s not arrogance. Not really. It’s habit. The belief that if he stops, everything will fall apart.
You step closer and press the back of your hand to his forehead before he can dodge it.
It's warm. Too warm. Your expression changes immediately.
“…You’re burning up baby.”
His jaw tightens like that’s somehow an inconvenience he can negotiate with.
“It’s subjective.”
“It’s medical.”
“It’s inconvenient.”
That almost makes you laugh, but not quite, just an obvious eye roll will do.
“You’re going to bed. No excuses.”
“I have calls.”
“You have a fever.”
“I don’t..”
“Harry.” Just his name. Nothing else. That’s what finally slows him. Not force. Not argument. Just you.
He exhales through his nose, long and controlled, like he’s still trying to win a debate his body has already lost.
“Five minutes,” he mutters.
“You always say that.”
Still, he stands. Carefully. Stubbornly. Like rest is something he can schedule between obligations. You know he will never change.
You don’t let him go back to the desk. You guide him instead, quiet pressure, steady presence until he finally gives up pretending he isn’t exhausted.
In the bedroom, he sits on the edge of the bed like it’s temporary. Like he might be called back at any moment. Like stopping is something he has to justify. But the comfort it gives his body is hard to ignore and you can see him slowly ease into it.
You hand him water and he typically takes it but doesn’t drink.
“You’re not working,” you said firmly.
“I’m thinking.”
“About work?”
“…Yes.”
“No. Harry you need rest. You are no good to anyone this unwell. You'll make yourself feel worse!” you say softly.
That shuts him down in a different way. Not resistance this time. Just stillness.
He watches you for a moment, eyes heavy but alert in that stubborn, lingering way. He sees the look in your eyes practically begging him to slow down.
“This is inefficient,” he says quietly. He has to have the final say.
“You’re welcome.” you joke as you pull some cold and flu tablets out of the side cabinet.
That almost gets something out of him, something close to a laugh but it fades before it fully forms. He lies back anyway in defeat. He knew you were right, he just hated to admit it sometimes.
You pull the blanket up over him, and for once he doesn’t stop you. You watch as you see his body fully relax into the duvet.
“You’re still here,” he says after a moment.
“Yeah,” you reply, sitting beside him now, your nails running through his curly hair. “Unfortunately for your productivity system.”
A faint exhale. Softer this time. His eyes stay on you. Just watching, wondering how he got so lucky.
“You shouldn’t be this nice to me,” he murmurs.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll get used to it.”
That lands between you heavier than anything else he’s said all night. You had been seeing each other for just over a year now on and off, and neither of you would admit what this relationship was, but you had both fallen for each other hard. You adjust the blanket around him, slower now.
“Maybe you should,” you say.
Something shifts in his expression, small, almost imperceptible. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that answer.
“I’m not good at…” he starts, then stops.
At needing. At letting go. At being anything other than in control. You already knew what he meant, he didn't need to say it out loud.
“You don’t have to be good at it,” you finish for him gently. “You just have to let it happen.”
Silence. Then, slowly, his hand finds yours, holding on like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored.
His eyes start to drift closed, but even then he doesn’t let go.
“Don’t let me sleep through anything important,” he murmurs as he relaxed into your nails catching through his hair.
“I think the only important thing right now is you sleeping,” you whisper back.
Then, quieter than everything else:
“…Stay."
You stay as his breathing evens out, as the tension finally leaves his face, as the man who runs half the financial world stops trying to hold it together for a few hours.
I have an idea for a Harry Castillo one shot since you wrote ideas are welcome🥰 What about something like reader and Harry are out on a date and when they leave a restaurant or something there is like a paparazzi or journalists going after them because of some rough time (or scandal) in his company and it’s getting serious. They’re not so long together and reader is not used to the attention and it gets her a bit scared. But Harry is our tough man and handles this, consoles her. And she’s also there for him because he’s clearly stressed🥰
Just an idea. Love your writing. Bye🫶
In The Noise - Harry Castillo One Shot
It was only your third proper date.
That thought sits quietly in the back of your mind as you smooth down your outfit in the reflection of the restaurant window, pretending you’re not aware of how expensive everything inside probably is. Or how out of place you still feel, even after Harry insisted this place was “low-key.”
Harry Castillo reaches for your hand as soon as you step inside, like he’s already decided that’s just what happens now. Like it’s normal. Like you belong in his world as easily as he does.
You’re still not sure you believe that. He was New York's billionaire private equity bachelor and you... Well you were a chance encounter at a coffee shop that somehow turned into a third date.
And still, Harry couldn’t seem to look away from you.
You’re sitting across from him in a deep red dress that catches the low restaurant lighting every time you move. Nothing loud. Nothing flashy. But it clings just enough to make him lose his focus mid-sentence more than once.
Harry keeps telling himself he should stop staring.
He doesn’t.
Because it’s not just the dress. It’s you in it.
The way you rest your hand near your glass without thinking about it. The way you laugh softly at something he said like he’s more interesting than he has any right to be. The way you don’t seem entirely aware of what you’re doing to him.
He’s supposed to be paying attention to everything else - work, messages lighting up his phone face-down on the table, the constant background hum of responsibility he can never fully switch off.
But every time he looks up, it’s you.
And it’s becoming a problem.
Not an unpleasant one.
Just… dangerous in a way he hasn’t quite figured out how to name yet..
“You’re staring again,” you say lightly, smiling into your wine glass.
Harry exhales a quiet laugh, caught. “Am I?”
“You are.”
He doesn’t deny it this time.
Instead, his eyes flick over you again, slower now, like he’s deciding there’s no point pretending otherwise.
“I can’t help it,” he admits.
That makes you pause slightly, like you weren’t expecting honesty to come that easily.
Dinner is… good. Better than good, actually. There are moments where it almost feels easy, his laugh when you tease him about how seriously he takes wine menus, the way he listens like he’s genuinely interested in every small thing you say. Not distracted. Not half elsewhere.
But there’s still that thin line between you.
Not awkward. Not uncomfortable.
Just… new.
Like you’re both careful not to move too fast and accidentally break whatever this is before it becomes real.
When the bill is finally taken care of, Harry stands first and offers you his hand again. Same gesture as always. Still slightly formal in a way that makes you think he’s aware he’s building a habit around you.
Outside, the air is colder than expected.
You barely take two steps before you hear it.
“Harry! Is it true your company is under investigation?”
“Can you comment on the restructuring rumours?”
“Is she involved in any of this?”
The last one lands differently.
Because it’s not just about him.
It’s about you.
Flash.
Then another.
The world shifts in seconds from quiet pavement to noise and light and movement you didn’t agree to be part of. Everything around you moved fast and slow at the same time. You saw this thing all the time on celebrity Instagram channels but you never thought for a second you would be on the other side of it.
Your body reacts before your mind does, you step slightly back, instinctively letting go of Harry’s hand without realizing it.
That tiny loss of contact feels worse than it should. You were red dot surrounded by a sea of men with cameras and bright flashes.
Harry notices immediately.
Of course he does.
But there’s something different in his reaction too. A split-second hesitation that wasn’t there earlier tonight. Like even he hasn’t fully figured out what you are to him in moments like this.
Then he steps in front of you anyway.
Not fully protective yet in the practiced way of someone used to this. More instinct than strategy.
“Don’t engage,” he says to you quietly without looking back. Then, louder: “No comment.”
The journalists press closer.
You hear your name again. It makes your stomach drop. How did they know your name?
Because that’s the part you weren’t prepared for. Him being known is one thing. You being known because of him is something else entirely.
A camera flashes right in your face.
You flinch.
And that’s when everything shifts.
“Don’t film her,” he adds, voice lower now. Dangerous in its calm. “I said move.”
You’ve only known him three dates, but you’ve never seen this version of him up close. The one who doesn’t raise his voice but makes everyone listen anyway.
But something in your chest tightens anyway.
Not just from the attention.
From how tightly he’s holding himself together underneath it.
“Harry,” you say softly, reaching for his sleeve.
He doesn’t hear you at first.
Or maybe he hears everything except you.
“Give her space,” he repeats, sharper now. “This isn’t up for discussion.”
Harry’s hand finds your arm, not rough, just immediate.
You could feel his grip around your hand getting tighter as the crowds rushed around you, names being called, questions being shouted.
But Harry doesn’t let it escalate.
“Back up,” he says firmly now, voice cutting through the noise. “Give her space.” It was all becoming too much, you could feel the crowd and flashes swell amongst you, the car feeling miles away.
Someone pushes through the small gap between the crow of people and in the rush of bodies and cameras, a paparazzi shoves forward, hard enough that it catches you off guard.
You stumble slightly sideways, shoulder brushing sharply against the sea of cameras next to you.
“Hey!” Harry’s voice snaps instantly, cutting through the noise.
Everything around you seems to freeze for half a second.
His hand is on you immediately, steadying you, pulling you closer behind him.
“Are you okay?” he asks quickly, eyes scanning your face, not the cameras.
“I’m fine,” you say automatically, though your heartbeat is louder than it should be.
But he doesn’t relax. His attention locks onto the person who pushed forward.
“Don’t touch her,” he says sharply.
The paparazzi tries to talk over him, camera still raised.
Harry steps forward instantly, no hesitation, no space left between calm and anger now.
“I said don’t touch her,” he repeats, lower this time. Controlled. Final.
Your hand finds his arm instinctively.
“Harry,” you say softly, grounding him without thinking.
He hears you but it takes a second for it to reach him. His body is still too tense, still halfway in protection mode.
“I’ve got it,” he says automatically.
“I know,” you reply gently, squeezing his arm in reassurance. “I’m okay.”
That finally shifts something.
There’s a pause like they’re deciding whether he means it.
He does.
And something in his expression finally settles into something sharper. More certain. Less businessman, more boundary.
“She’s not part of your story,” he adds. “Move.”
You had kept your head down the whole time to keep an eye on your footing, careful not to trip in your stilettos again.
You felt Harry pull you in front of him as you saw his Black SUV and driver holding the door open for you as you approached.
“Did they hurt you?” he asks, quieter now as he helped you into the car, his hand staying on the small of your back.
“No,” you say. “Just startled.”
His jaw tightens like he hates even that.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I shouldn’t have let it get that close.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” you tell him softly.
That makes his eyes flick to yours.
Something in his expression softens but there’s still tension there, still lingering adrenaline he hasn’t fully shaken off.
You squeeze his hand gently.
“I’m okay,” you repeat. “I’m here.”
A long breath leaves him but the flash of the camera start to blind you as you wait for Harry to shut the door.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Let’s get you home.”
As he closes the door, cameras and people swarm around him as he moves to the other side of the car. You try to cover your face as they try to take pictures through the window.
When he gets inside, the silence feels almost unreal.
Harry shuts the door and finally exhales.
For a second, he just sits there, staring forward like he’s recalibrating.
Then he glances at you.
And whatever composure he had outside shifts not gone, just strained.
“You okay?” he asks.
It’s such a simple question. But it feels loaded now.
Because it’s only the third date.
And you’re not sure what answer is expected.
“I think so,” you say carefully. Then, honest: “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”
His hand rests between you on the seat, close but not quite touching at first, like he’s still deciding if he should.
Then it moves slowly to yours.
“I should’ve warned you better,” he says. “I didn’t think it’d escalate like that.”
You look at him properly now. You had even realised that his driver had already set off through the New York streets leaving behind the hoards of people.
Up close, he doesn’t look like the man outside the restaurant. There’s no controlled boardroom version here. Just someone tense around the edges, like he’s still hearing the noise even though it’s gone.
“You looked like you knew exactly what to do,” you say quietly.
A faint, tired exhale.
“I’ve had more practice than you.”
That lands between you.
Because it highlights the gap you hadn’t really thought about before tonight.
You’re still learning what kind of person he is over dinner conversations and small touches.
He’s already living in a world where people shout about his life on sidewalks.
His thumb moves slightly over your hand, slower now.
“You don’t have to keep doing this if it’s too much,” he says, watching you closely. “I’d understand.”
There it is.
The first real crack of uncertainty.
Not in the situation.
In you.
You hesitate. Because part of you is still shaken. Still adjusting to the idea that this is what being near him means.
But another part of you remembers the way he looked at you across the table earlier. Like you weren’t noise. Like you were something he actually wanted to hear. Not just a distraction, something more.
“I'm not going to run just because it got loud once,” you say eventually.
His expression softens slightly but not fully relieved. Still cautious.
“Once,” he repeats, almost like he doesn’t believe that word will stay true.
You squeeze his hand this time first.
A pause settles between you.
The car is still moving, city lights sliding across the windows in slow streaks. Inside, everything feels quieter but heavier in a different way.
Harry looks at you like he’s still trying to fully come back from what just happened outside. Like part of him is still standing between you and the noise..
Then something in his expression shifts slightly as you squeeze his hand.
“Then we figure it out,” you say softly.
A breath.
“I like you, Harry...really, a lot,” you add, holding his gaze now. “And I know you’ll always protect me… whatever happens.”
That does it.
Not in a dramatic way. Not all at once.
Just a slow, visible change in him like something he’s been holding too tightly finally loosens, even if only a little.
His thumb stills over your hand.
“You shouldn’t have to know that this early,” he says quietly, almost under his breath.
“But I do,” you reply.
A beat.
He studies you for a moment longer, like he’s weighing every version of what this could mean.
Then his grip on your hand tightens, gentle, not restrictive. Certain, but careful.
“I will protect you,” he says finally, voice lower now. “But I don’t want you to feel like you’re stepping into something you can’t step out of.”
That makes your chest tighten a little.
Because it’s him, even now, still making space for you to leave..
“I’m not saying it because I feel trapped,” you tell him quietly. “I’m saying it because I want to stay.”.
Silence follows. Not uncomfortable. Just real.
Then, finally, his shoulders drop a fraction more than before.
“Yeah?” he asks softly..
“Yeah.”
The silence in the car doesn’t feel empty anymore.
It feels full.
Not uncomfortable, just heavy with everything neither of you has properly said out loud yet.
Harry still hasn’t let go of your hand.
But his grip has softened. More present than protective now.
Like he’s stopped bracing for something that isn’t happening anymore.
The city passes outside in blurred light and movement, like the world has already moved on from what just happened.
He hasn’t.
You glance at him once.
His jaw is still a little tight, but his eyes aren’t on the road ahead the same way they were earlier. He keeps flicking his attention back to you, quick, subtle checks. Like he needs to make sure you’re still okay every few seconds.
“You’re quiet,” he says eventually.
“I’m just… thinking,” you reply softly.
A beat.
“About tonight?” he asks.
You nod once.
That makes something shift in his expression again, smaller this time, but noticeable.
“I shouldn’t have let it get like that outside the restaurant,” he says quietly.
“It’s not your fault,” you answer immediately.
His thumb moves once over your knuckles, slower now.
“It still shouldn’t have happened around you.”
You don’t respond right away.
Because you can hear it in his voice, he’s not just talking about logistics. He’s replaying it. Rebuilding it. Trying to control something that already happened.
And you’ve only known him three dates, but you’re starting to recognize when he disappears into his own head like that.
“Harry,” you say gently.
He looks at you.
Properly this time.
You hold his gaze. “I’m okay.”
“I know,” he says, but it doesn’t fully land like he believes it yet.
You exhale slightly, shifting closer on the seat. “I am. With you.”
That makes him go still. Not tense. Just… still.
Like that sentence hits somewhere deeper than the rest.
A quiet beat passes. Then he speaks again, more careful now.
“I don’t want you going back to that alone tonight.”
You blink slightly. He continues before you can answer
“Just....stay at mine,” he adds, softer. “You don’t have to feel unsafe getting out of the car. Or walking in alone. Nothing like that.”
Immediately, you can hear it. This isn’t about control. It’s about prevention.
About him trying to remove even the smallest risk he can think of after what just happened.
You look at him for a second, reading the way he’s holding himself together.
“You’re not asking because you think I can’t handle it,” you say quietly.
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I’m asking because I don’t want you to have to,” he corrects.
That lands between you.
Honest. Unpolished. A little too real for how new everything still is.
You glance down at your joined hands then back up at him.
“Okay,” you say simply.
He blinks once, like he wasn’t expecting that to be so easy.
You give him a small, reassuring smile. “But not because I feel unsafe. Because I want to stay with you tonight.”
Something in his expression loosens immediately at that.
Not fully relaxed but no longer locked up inside his own head.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah."
Then his grip on your hand tightens just slightly, not protective now.
“Okay,” he says again, softer. “Then come home with me.”
And for the first time since you stepped outside the restaurant, the space between you doesn’t feel like pressure.
Love your content 🙌🤩would you consider writing a Drabble where reader and Harry’s mum are planning a birthday party for Harry and they bond 💗💜
Take care dear 💜💛
Made Just for Him - A Harry Castillo Drabble
The kitchen smells like vanilla and warm sugar, the kind that clings to your clothes and makes everything feel softer than it really is.
“You’ve put far too much icing on that one,” Anne says lightly, though there’s a smile in her voice as she leans over your shoulder.
You glance down at the cupcake in your hand, admittedly buried beneath an enthusiastic swirl of frosting, and laugh. “He won’t complain.”
“No,” she agrees, amused. “He absolutely won’t.”
There’s something easy about being here. You hadn’t expected that. Sitting at Harry’s childhood kitchen table, sleeves pushed up, surrounded by half-decorated cupcakes and ribbons and a mess of coloured tissue paper - it should feel intimidating.
Instead, it feels… warm.
Anne reaches for another piping bag, nudging your elbow gently. “Here, try this one. Smaller tip. A bit more control.”
You take it, concentrating as you attempt a neater swirl this time. “I feel like I’m being assessed.”
“Oh, you are,” she teases. “Very seriously.”
You grin, glancing at her. “And? Am I passing?”
She hums thoughtfully, watching you finish the swirl. “You care about him,” she says simply. “That’s the only test that matters.”
Your hands still for a second, something soft settling in your chest. “I really do.”
“I know,” she replies, just as gently.
There’s a pause, not awkward, just quiet. Comfortable.
You set the cupcake down carefully. “Do you think he’ll like all this?” you ask, gesturing to the decorations spread across the table. “I know he’s not… big on fuss and he usually has fancier birthdays than this....”
Anne smiles, glancing around the room, already half-transformed with fairy lights and carefully chosen details. “He pretends he isn’t,” she says. “But he notices everything. Especially when it’s done with love.”
You swallow a little, nodding.
“Besides,” she adds, a playful glint in her eye, “he won’t be able to focus on anything else once he sees you’ve organised it.”
Your cheeks warm instantly. “That’s not...this isn’t just me. You’ve done most of it.”
“Oh, I’ve hosted plenty of parties,” she says, waving it off. “But this?” She gestures between the two of you, the mess, the effort. “This is different.”
“Different how?”
Anne meets your eyes, her expression soft, knowing. “He’s different with you. It's...more him.”
The words land gently, but they stay.
You look down at your hands, at the faint dusting of icing sugar across your fingers. “He makes me feel… safe,” you admit quietly. “Like everything slows down a bit when I’m with him.”
Anne’s smile deepens, something proud flickering there. “He’s always had that in him. Just needed the right person to bring it out.”
Your throat tightens slightly, emotion catching you off guard.
Before you can say anything else, Anne claps her hands together lightly. “Right...enough sentiment. We still have balloons to blow up and a cake to finish.”
You laugh, grateful for the shift, and reach for a ribbon. “I’m actually quite excited to see his face.”
“Oh, me too,” she says, eyes sparkling. “He’ll try to act all calm about it. Maybe do that little nod he does....”
You immediately mimic it, earning a laugh from her.
“Exactly that,” she says, pointing at you. “But give it five minutes and he’ll be hugging everyone, thanking you about ten times over.”
You smile at the thought, something warm blooming in your chest.
“Thank you,” you say suddenly.
Anne pauses, looking at you. “For what, love?”
“For… this. For making me feel like I’m part of it. Of his life.”
Her expression softens completely then, stepping closer to squeeze your hand gently. “You are part of it,” she says. “And I’m very glad you are.”
There’s no hesitation in her voice. No doubt.
And as you stand there, surrounded by half-finished decorations and the quiet hum of something new and meaningful forming between you, you realise...
You’re not just planning a party.
You’re building something that feels a lot like home.
*****
He knows something’s off the second he walks in.
It’s too quiet.
Not empty - just… expectant.
“Hello?” Harry calls, keys still in his hand, shrugging his coat off slowly as his eyes scan the hallway. There’s a faint glow coming from the living room, warmer than usual. Softer.
And then....
“Surprise!”
The lights flick on all at once, voices overlapping, laughter spilling into the space as the room comes alive.
Harry freezes.
For a split second, he just stands there, taking it in, the decorations, the people, the way everything feels carefully placed, intentional. Familiar faces, a few he hadn’t expected… and then...
You.
Right at the centre of it all.
His eyes find you instantly, like they always do.
And something in his chest pulls tight.
You did this.
It’s not even a question.
He can see it in the details, the way the colours work together, the small touches he wouldn’t have thought anyone noticed. Things he’s mentioned once, in passing. The kind of things people forget.
But you didn’t.
His gaze flickers briefly to his mum, standing just behind you, her smile soft and knowing and it clicks into place.
Both of you.
Harry exhales, a quiet, almost disbelieving breath as he runs a hand through his hair, trying to catch up with the moment.
He should say something.
Should do something.
But for a second, all he can think is...
No one’s ever done this like this before.
Not really.
Not in a way that feels… him.
There’s always been parties, sure. Noise. Attention. Cameras, sometimes. People filling space because that’s what you do on a birthday.
But this?
This feels different.
This feels like being seen.
His eyes come back to you, softer now, something unguarded slipping through before he can stop it.
You’re watching him, just a little nervously, like you’re trying to read his reaction.
And that’s what does it.
Because suddenly it’s not about the party at all.
It’s about you standing there, hoping you got it right.
Harry’s lips part slightly, a quiet laugh leaving him under his breath as he shakes his head, stepping further into the room.
“Yeah,” he says softly, more to himself than anyone else. “You did.”
Then, louder, still a little dazed, but smiling now.
“Alright… this is...” he gestures vaguely, like he doesn’t quite have the words, “...this is a lot.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the room, but he barely hears it.
He’s already moving toward you.
Each step feels a bit more grounded, a bit more real, until he’s right in front of you, close enough to see every tiny shift in your expression.
“You planned all this?” he asks quietly, even though he already knows the answer.
You shrug, a little bashful. “With your mom.”
His eyes flicker again, just for a second, to where she’s watching, proud, happy, before they settle back on you.
And something in him just…
gives.
Softens completely.
“Course you did,” he murmurs.
There’s a beat where he just looks at you, like he’s trying to memorise the moment.
Then he pulls you into him.
It’s not quick. Not casual.
It’s tight, one arm around your shoulders, the other pressing you close, like he needs you there for a second.
Like this is the part that matters most.
He exhales against you, quieter now. “Thank you.”
The words are simple, but they land heavy.
Because what he means is...
You didn’t just throw me a party.
You paid attention.
You cared enough to get it right.
You made it feel like home.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you again, thumb brushing absentmindedly along your arm.
“You’ve set the bar ridiculously high now, by the way,” he adds, a small grin tugging at his mouth, though his eyes are still soft. “I’m gonna have to start panicking about your birthday.”
You laugh, the tension breaking, but he doesn’t move away.
Doesn’t want to.
Because even with the room full of people, music starting up, voices rising again...
He’s still a little stuck on the fact that you did this.
That you know him.
And maybe, just maybe, that he’s never felt quite this loved walking into a room before.
I've been trying to find the space to write this update but I have a huge amount of requests in my inbox for more Harry Castillo drabbles relating to mostly pregnancy related requests - which I am so amazed you enjoy my writing!
Due to personal reasons I'm going to have to put a pause on those requests until further notice. I don't want to go into too much detail for now which I hope you can appreciate.
I am open to any other requests as I love writing for you all! Hope you can understand for now
Would you perhaps consider writing a Drabble where reader is having contractions two months early and she is panicking, because Harry doesn’t answer his phone? 🤞🥹❤️
Thank you again for your content 💕
Before We Were Ready - Harry Castillo Drabble
It starts as a tightening.
Not painful. Not at first. Just… strange.
You freeze.
You’re in the nursery - the one that still smells faintly of fresh paint and lavender linen spray - folding the tiny onesies Harry insisted on ordering in every shade of purple because “our baby deserves options.”
“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “That’s new.”
You press your palm against the curve of your belly, waiting.
It eases.
You exhale shakily. Braxton Hicks. It has to be. You’re only seven months. Two months early isn’t just early—it’s terrifying.
You reach for your phone anyway.
Harry 💛
He told you this morning he had a board presentation. Phones off. Major investors in the room. Something about an acquisition worth more money than you can even conceptualize.
You hit call. It rings.
And rings.
And rings.
You pace the living room while it goes to voicemail. “Hi, it’s Harry. I can’t get to the phone right now...”
“Harry,” you breathe, trying to keep your voice steady. “Call me back. Please. I think...I don’t know. Just call me.”
Another tightening grips you mid-sentence.
This one hurts.
You suck in a sharp breath and brace yourself against the back of the couch. It steals the air from your lungs, wraps around your spine, squeezes until your knees wobble.
“No, no, no,” you murmur. “It’s too early. You can’t - it’s too early.”
You fumble to open the contraction timer app your doctor insisted you download “just in case.” Your fingers shake so badly you nearly drop the phone.
Five minutes later, it happens again.
Stronger.
You bend forward this time, clutching your belly. Panic crawls up your throat, hot and suffocating.
You call him again.
Straight to voicemail.
Your chest tightens for a completely different reason.
Before he left this morning he’d kissed your forehead before leaving, crouching down to press a ridiculous amount of kisses to your stomach.
“Don’t come out yet,” he’d told the bump playfully. “Daddy’s not emotionally prepared.”
You laugh now, but it cracks in the middle.
“Harry,” you whisper, dialing again even though you know it won’t change anything. “Please pick up. I need you.”
Another contraction builds before the call even connects. This one makes you gasp, vision blurring at the edges.
You slide down the couch until you’re sitting on the floor.
You’re not ready. The nursery isn’t finished. The hospital bag isn’t packed. You haven’t even washed the newborn sheets yet. The baby is supposed to stay safe and warm inside you for two more months.
Tears spill over.
Your phone slips from your hand onto the rug.
“I can’t do this alone,” you cry softly.
The contraction fades, leaving you trembling.
Then q thought. You scrolled through the contacts on your phone landing on one name.
Nina - PA
Harry's trusted personal assistant. You pressed call and within two rings, she answered.
"Hey, Harry is still in his..."
"Nina you need to get him out... I think the baby is coming." You cried down the phone, relief flooding you that you have a way to get to Harry.
"Shit, okay just let me..." And the line cut off. You screamed as your stomach cramped again, your hand crardeling your bump.
And then...
Your phone buzzes violently against the floor.
You scramble for it.
Harry 💛 calling
You answer before the first full ring. “Harry....”
“What’s wrong?” His voice is already tight, breathless, as Nina called him out of his board meeting. “Nina called me out - are you okay? Is the baby okay?”
You break.
“I think - I think I’m having contractions,” you choke. “They’re five minutes apart. I don’t know what to do. It’s too early, Harry, it’s too early...”
There’s shuffling on his end. A door slamming. Muffled voices asking if everything’s alright.
“Listen to me,” he says firmly, and that tone - steady, grounding - cuts through the panic spiraling in your head. “Have you called the doctor?”
“N-no.”
“Okay. That’s the first thing we’re doing. I’m on my way home right now. I don’t care what I have to cancel. I’m coming.”
Another contraction hits. You whimper, pressing your forehead to your knees.
“I’m scared,” you admit.
“I know, love. I know.” His voice softens instantly. “But you are the strongest person I know. And our baby is stubborn, yeah? Probably just practicing to scare us.”
A shaky laugh escapes you.
“I’m serious,” he continues. “Premature doesn’t mean impossible. Hospitals handle this every day. We’ve got doctors, nurses, everyone. The best in the city. You’re not alone.”
You breathe in deeply, trying to match your inhales to the sound of his.
“I need you here,” you whisper.
“I’m five minutes away,” he promises. “Stay on the phone with me. Talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
You describe the tightening, the pressure, the fear sitting heavy in your chest. He listens to every word like it’s sacred.
When the next contraction comes, he counts you through it.
“In for four… out for six… that’s it, sweetheart. You’re doing so good. I’m so proud of you.”
Proud.
The word steadies something inside you.
You hear a car door slam through the phone. Footsteps pounding. Keys fumbling.
And then your front door bursts open.
“Where are you?” he calls breathlessly.
“Nursery,” you manage.
Footsteps pound up the stairs two at a time.
He appears in the doorway seconds later - no jacket, tie gone, sleeves rolled, hair disheveled. He doesn’t look like the untouchable CEO who commands rooms full of billionaires.
He looks terrified.
He drops to his knees in front of you without hesitation, gathering you into his arms on the nursery floor.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, cupping your face. His hands are shaking. “Okay? I’m right here.”
Another contraction hits and you clutch his shirt.
He presses his forehead to yours.
“You are not doing this alone,” he says fiercely. “If our baby wants to make a dramatic entrance two months early, then we’ll handle it. The hospital is ready. The car’s outside. Everything is taken care of.”
His thumb brushes away your tears.
“And if I have to buy the entire hospital to keep you both safe, I will.”
You let out a watery laugh despite the pain.
That’s your Harry.
Powerful enough to shift markets with a phone call.
Helpless enough to crumble when you’re hurting.
He kisses your knuckles as another contraction builds.
“Breathe with me,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”
And for the first time since it started, the fear doesn’t feel quite so overwhelming.
Because you’re in his arms.
And no matter how early the baby comes you know he’ll be right there. 🤍
Love your work😍 would you write something about reader nearly having a nervous breakdown, because she is so scared of the birth of their first child? Harry is careful/ supportive of reader or something like that 💛💜
Let Me Hold the Panic - A Harry Castillo Drabble
The fear doesn’t announce itself.
It seeps in quietly, settling behind your ribs, tightening little by little until you don’t notice it anymore, until suddenly you’re struggling to breathe around it. You’re standing in the bedroom, folding the same tiny onesie for the third time because your hands won’t quite cooperate, your thoughts looping endlessly.
What if it hurts too much.
What if I panic.
What if I freeze and can’t do what I’m supposed to do.
Your throat closes.
You sit down hard on the edge of the bed, the fabric slipping from your fingers. Your heart starts racing, too fast, too loud, like it’s trying to escape. Tears prick your eyes, frustration and fear tangling together until you feel completely overwhelmed by your own body.
“I can’t,” you whisper, though there’s no one there yet. “I actually can’t do this.”
Your shoulders start to shake.
Harry hears you before he sees you - the uneven breathing, the quiet, broken sound you make when you’re trying not to cry. He pauses in the doorway, taking you in: curled in on yourself, arms wrapped protectively around your stomach, like you’re bracing for impact.
“Oh, baby,” he murmurs.
He crosses the room slowly, deliberately, and sits in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours. He doesn’t touch you right away, just looks at you with that soft, open expression that always makes your chest ache.
“Can I?” he asks gently, gesturing to your hands.
You nod, barely.
The moment his fingers lace through yours, you break. Tears spill over, hot and relentless, and you bow your head as if embarrassed by how hard it’s hitting you.
“I’m so scared,” you choke. “Everyone keeps acting like this is just - something you get through. But I feel like I’m standing at the edge of something enormous and I don’t know how I’m supposed to step into it.”
Harry’s grip tightens, grounding.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That makes sense.”
You look up at him, startled. “It does?”
“Course it does,” he replies. “You’re about to do something completely unknown, something massive, something that matters. Anyone who wasn’t scared would be a little concerning.”
That earns a weak, tearful huff of a laugh.
He smiles softly, relieved to see it, and scoots closer until his forehead rests against yours.
“And listen,” he adds, voice dropping conspiratorially, "Your brain is currently acting like you’re about to wrestle a dragon with no training. Which you’re not. You’re having a baby. With doctors. And drugs. And me - who will absolutely be the most annoying support person alive. And will provide snacks on request.”
Despite yourself, a small laugh escapes.
“There it is,” he murmurs, squeezing your hands. “That laugh. Missed that.”
Then his tone shifts- softer, steadier.
“Listen to me,” he says. “You don’t have to know how to do this. You don’t have to feel ready. No one ever does. We’ll take it minute by minute. Contraction by contraction. Breath by breath.”
But when your breath stutters again, he sobers immediately.
“Okay,” he says softly. “We’re gonna take care of you now.”
He guides you back gently, easing you down onto the bed, never rushing, never letting go. He climbs in beside you and pulls you into his chest, your head tucked under his chin, his arms wrapped securely around you.
“Just rest here,” he whispers. “Let me hold the panic for a bit.”
His hand moves in slow, steady circles over your back, the rhythm unchanging, something you can focus on when your thoughts try to spiral again. Another hand rests over your belly, warm and reassuring.
“Breathe with me,” he murmurs. “In… good. And out. That’s it. You’re doing perfect.”
Your body gradually starts to soften, tension melting away in tiny increments. Your breathing evens out. The tears slow.
“I’m scared I’ll fall apart when it’s time,” you admit quietly.
Harry presses a kiss into your hair.
“Then you fall apart,” he says simply. “And I’ll be right there. I’ll hold your hand, remind you to breathe, tell you terrible jokes if necessary.”
You smile against him.
“And when it’s over,” he continues softly, “I’ll be there too. You’ll be tired and sore and emotional, and I’ll tuck you in, bring you water, tell you how incredible you are, probably cry a bit myself.”
You tilt your head up to look at him.
“You will?”
“Absolutely,” he says, eyes shining. “I’m very emotional.”
That makes you laugh properly, and he grins, relieved.
He shifts slightly so you’re more comfortable, tucking the blanket around you, his thumb tracing slow, absent-minded patterns on your arm.
“You don’t have to do everything at once,” he whispers. “You don’t have to be fearless. You just have to get through the next moment. And you don’t have to do even that alone.”
Your eyes grow heavy, exhaustion finally outweighing fear.
Harry stays still as you settle, breathing deep and slow, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Always.”
And wrapped up in him - safe, held, loved -the world finally feels quiet enough to rest.
Warnings: jealousy, drinking, club scenes, bisexual themes, dancing, closeness.
Series Masterlist
The bass thundered through the club, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes and into your chest until it felt like your heartbeat had synced with it. Lights flashed in fractured colors, smearing faces into movement and heat. You barely noticed where you were anymore.
Your hands slid into your hair, tugging as you moved, alcohol blurring the edges of everything. You were past the point of counting drinks. Past caring. This was the numb you’d been chasing - the kind that made everything feel distant and sharp at the same time. Everything you wanted in this moment.
A woman brushed past you first, fingers grazing your arm, her smile slow and knowing before she melted back into the pulse of the dance floor. Moments later, a man filled the space behind you - solid, unmistakably present - his body close enough that you felt the heat of him before his hands ever touched you. When they did, they settled at your hips with quiet confidence, like he’d been invited there all along.
You didn’t stop either of them.
The woman returned, stepping directly in front of you now, close enough that the press of bodies around you faded into background noise. Her hands slid up your arms, light but deliberate, guiding you into the rhythm, her eyes never leaving yours. She smiled again, softer this time, like you shared a secret neither of you planned to explain.
Behind you, the man moved with you, steady and patient, hips matching yours perfectly. His grip tightened just enough to be felt, grounding you, anchoring your movement as the three of you fell into the same beat. You were caught between them - heat at your back, warmth in front - every sense tuned to touch and motion and proximity
It was crowded. It was reckless. It was too much.
And that was the point.
You moved between them, breath shallow, hips rolling, laughter spilling out of you when the woman leaned in to say something you couldn’t hear over the music. Hands stayed on your waist, your arms, your back - grounding and overwhelming all at once.
You didn’t think about names.
You didn’t think about consequences.
You definitely didn’t think about him.
Anybody else. Anyone else. Everyone else.
The music swallowed you whole as you let yourself disappear into the moment, clinging to the chaos like it might drown out the feeling you’d been running from all night.
You noticed him mid-beat.
Not because the music dropped a beat or the crowd shifted but because something in you sharpened, alert in a way alcohol hadn’t dulled. Your eyes lifted lazily, unfocused at first, then locked.
Harry.
Standing just beyond the dance floor, still as stone while everything else moved. The lights cut across his face in flashes, catching the tension in his jaw, the set of his shoulders. Watching.
You held his gaze.
And then - deliberately - you didn’t look away.
Your hips kept moving, unhurried now, each roll deliberate, indulgent. You leaned back into the man behind you, closing the last inch of space between your bodies, feeling the solid warmth of him through the press of the crowd. His hands slid back to your waist, thumbs grazing just beneath the line of your ribs, firm and steady, as if he knew exactly how much pressure you needed to stay grounded.
You let your head tip slightly to the side, exposing the curve of your neck, breathing him in without turning around. There was something intoxicating about how easily he fit there, how quickly a stranger could become an anchor when you allowed it. His lips grazing over your bare silk skin, ready to make bad decisions.
In front of you, the woman smiled slowly, eyes dark and knowing. She stepped closer, close enough that you could feel her breath when she laughed, her fingers tracing lightly down your arm before settling on the space above your thigh where your skirt skimmed your legs. Just touching - enough to make it impossible to forget she was there.
And you leaned into it.
The music swallowed the moment, the bass thudding through you as you tilted your head back, eyes never leaving Harry’s. There was no apology in your expression. No hesitation. Just heat and noise and the quiet decision not to care what this looked like.
Let him see it.
Let him feel it.
You’d spent too long being careful. With him. For him. Tonight wasn’t about restraint or rules or whatever unspoken thing had been building between you. Tonight was about proving - to him, to yourself - that you didn’t owe anyone control over you.
Harry didn’t move.
Neither did you.
And the space between you, crowded and loud and unmistakable, burned hotter because of it.
Why did you do this? Was it worth it? Was it worth your heart breaking in two for a false relationship?
Just wanted you guys to have a small teaser before we set this bad boy off - thank you for your comments already! I can't wait to get the first chapter out to you all. If I've missed anyone off the taglist, let me know!
