[closed]

twentysomething • she/her

[ohjoelmiller]

joel miller fic recs vol. 2 ✯

⇾ 18+ minors dni, read at your own risk! ⇽

happy reading and enjoy! thank u writers we ❥ u!

previous ⇾ vol. 1

series ✰

come home — by @imtryingmybeskar

the hawk and the canary — by @dino-fart

confused warmth — by @rise-my-angel

daughter’s best friend — by @coolgrl111

texas sun — by @from-the-clouds

my bestfriend — by @mannaima

mrs. miller — by @fantasyqueen502

the stable girl — by @guess-my-next-obsession

fallacy: reject me, i get it— by @cherry-clafoutis

the beginning of us — by @companionjones

one-shots ☆

i’m right here — by @orangevtae

morning, darlin’ — by @mandoalorian

dinner date — by @juletheghoul

running free — by @aphroditesmoon

lucky & pt.2 — by cherry-clafoutis

not a thing — by @cevansgoatee

for you, anything — by @mellowsaturns

say you love me — by @thot-of-khonshu

i won’t let go — by @youlightmeupfinn

untitled — by @forever-rogue

fears — by @nonexistent-introvert

blushing — by @talaok

warmth — by youlightmeupfinn

what comes after — by @jobean12-blog

gift (giving) — by @inklore

maybe now — by @supernaturalgirl20

tricks of the trade — by @mypoisonedvine

connected together — by @flightlessangelwings

these burdens we carry — by @thedgeoftheuniverse

if he wanted to — by @sl-ut

in the dead of night — by @egcdeath

love in the time of cordyceps — by @sameheart-sameblood

from eden — by @nexusnyx

religion's in your lips — by @millersdjarin

safe and sound — by @disturbedbeautywrites

it's chemical that make me cling to you — by @cockslutpadalecki

perilous companion — by rise-my-angel

short days, long nights — by @frannyzooey

us against the world — by @ynscrazylife

after the end of the world — by @narcosfanficworld-blog

gone soft — by @blathannabeaga

weakness — by @cevansgoatee

the price of a life — by @criticallyacclaimedstranger

a way to quiet the mind — by @inlovewithquestionablecharacters

seeing joel again — by @imamotherfuckingstar-lord

late spring — by @heartpascal

save a horse, ride a cowboy — by @mandoalorian

the gold — by heartpascal

i never stopped loving you — by @musings-of-a-rose

never enough — by @joels6string

mini pedro pascal fic rec list ✫

the seat filler — by @whiskeyncoke-redux

(series) wildest dreams — by @i-magines

sunflower — by @writersblog20

strawberries & champagne — by youlightmeupfinn

papi — by @missbabyjay

[punkshort]

long way down | 7: head over feet

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader

Chapter Summary: You finally get your happy ending with Harry.

Chapter Warnings: language, food and alcohol consumption, mention of periods (not sure if that's relevant), angst, mutual pining, sexual tension, fluff, mention of therapy, reader has hair (unspecified length), smut (18+ MDNI fucking finally), oral f!receiving, pussy pronouns, fingering, dirty talk, hand job, dry humping, thigh riding, protected piv sex, possessiveness, so much sappiness and love... I think that covers it. Enjoy!

WC: 17.8K

Series Masterlist

Two weeks morphed into two months when you had a tougher time than expected finding a new job. Naturally, Harry encouraged you to stick around until you found something, a suspicious offer considering he is still resolutely determined to prove himself to you.

It's been impossibly difficult to stay strong over the last several weeks. Having Harry send you flowers weekly would have been charming enough to anyone, but apparently he had much more in mind. For starters, he asked you out every single Friday. Like clockwork, before you left for the day he would ask if you wanted to go to dinner, or see a show, or take a carriage ride around Central Park, or see a concert, or go to an art gallery... every time he asked, it was different. And every time, you politely turned him down.

You're too weak for him and you know yourself: you'd fall into bed with him the moment he had you alone, completely forgetting the point of standing your ground in the first place.

Harry needs to work on himself, and so do you. You need to have some space to heal, and he needs to decide once and for all if he's capable of love.

Given that he's spent nearly fifty years thinking he can't, you figure it'll take more than a couple weeks to change that mindset. But you can't deny how cute it is to watch him try in the meantime.

Every morning, Harry makes a point to tell you how beautiful you look. Throughout the day, he will tell you something that makes your heart melt: he thought of you when he heard a song in the car, he ordered your favorite coffee drink so he could get a better idea of what you liked, he started reading the same book as you and would periodically bring up some plot point to discuss. Endless little things that rolled into one big thing by the end of the two months since you left his penthouse after your accident. Each day it was becoming harder and harder to ignore, but you kept reminding yourself like a mantra that just because he was doing or saying something sweet, it didn't mean the crux of the issue was addressed: could Harry fall in love?

"And what needs to happen for you to believe he can love, exactly?" Mia asks you over pizza one night. You shrug, mouth full of cheese and eyes glued to your small television.

"I don't know," you admit, "I figure I'll just know."

"That's not vague at all," she mutters sarcastically next to you, then makes a face at the screen. "This movie is so fucking sad, why did you pick it?"

"Because... sometimes the best love stories are a little sad. I mean, look at them! Look how far they've come. Look how long he waited for her. They're meant to be and nothing could ever stop that," you say dreamily as you both watch Ryan Gosling pour his heart out to Rachel McAdams in the rain.

"Babe, this isn't real life. You can't expect this kind of thing to really happen."

"I know," you sigh, "and I know I'll definitely never see something like this from a guy like Harry, but sometimes it's fun to imagine fairytales can come true."

Fairytales: concept Harry was staunchly against. One of the many reasons why the two of you would never work. You knew that years ago and yet your heart never let you move on, something you foolishly romanticized all this time.

Your phone buzzed somewhere in between your couch cushions, pulling your attention off the screen.

"Who is it? Harry sending you a good night poem, perhaps?" Mia jokes. But when she sees your face, her smile slips. "What is it?"

"It's a... job offer," you say flatly while you stare at your phone in disbelief. You should be happy. You should be celebrating. And yet...

"That's amazing! Where?" Mia squeals while hitting pause on the movie. You try to clear the lump in your throat before you answer. It's for a law firm, a prestigious one at that. You'd just be a receptionist but during your interview they offered to pay for your schooling if you were ever interested in becoming a paralegal, a perk you figured would attract hundreds of more qualified applicants than yourself.

"This is fantastic! I knew something would shake loose for you soon," she gushes, but when you're only able to offer her a weak smile, she narrows her eyes. "We are excited about this, right?"

"Yes. Of course we are."

"Then why does it look like someone ran over your cat?"

You sigh and toss your phone to the side. "I guess it just means this is it. I'll officially be done working for Harry."

"Yeah... but it doesn't mean he has to be erased from your life. Like, he's practically throwing himself at your feet every day. This apartment has never smelled better with the flowers he's sent. And you look happier than I've ever seen—"

"Okay, I get it," you say with a hand in the air. "You're still throwing me for loop with all this. You've told me for years I needed to move on and now you're telling me to give him a chance?"

Mia grins around a bite of greasy pizza. "I guess people can change, after all."

---

The following morning happens to be Friday. There's an exciting buzz in the air when you enter the office: the weekend is so close, everyone can taste it, and yet you're shaking like a leaf as you walk to your desk.

You have to tell him about the job and you're not sure how he's going to react. You slept on it and decided it's the right move, but a big piece of you feels dark inside, like you're losing something you'll never be able to get back with this next step.

Since you're amazing at your job, you already mentally ran through Harry's schedule today and you know he doesn't have anything until ten. He should be free right now. There's no use in waiting, you think, so you drop your bag at your desk, take a deep breath, and knock softly on his partially open door.

"Come in."

You slip inside and shut it behind you. When Harry turns away from his computer, his face lights up, making the guilt weigh even heavier in your chest. "Morning, Sunshine."

"Morning," you mumble, and immediately Harry can sense the distress in your voice. His smile falters and he leans back into his chair to give you his full attention.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

"Yes. Well, no," you say while wringing your hands. He frowns as he watches you sink down into the chair across from him.

"What is it?"

You clear your throat, fiddle with the hem of your skirt, and say to the floor, "I need to give you my two weeks notice."

Harry laughs, surprising you, so you look up. "You already did that," he reminds you, but you shake your head solemnly.

"I got a job offer. And I am going to accept."

The smile freezes on his face while he processes what you said. You can see the whole gambit of emotions: denial, confusion, disbelief, and then finally—acceptance.

"Where?" he asks, voice tight. You swallow nervously and tell him the law firm. He nods and plays with a pen on his desk.

"That's a good firm."

"I know."

He struggles with it for a few more minutes. Rolls around the words in his head, tries to think of something proper to say, but the words on the tip of his tongue aren't proper at all. They're filled with longing and ripe with desire. He knows he holds no claim to you, and yet he is fighting the urge to call up that law firm and ask them to retract their offer. He can't lose you, he can't lose you, he ca—

"Harry?"

He looks up and finds you watching him curiously. You're a hopeless romantic. He's known that for a while. And he's... decidedly not. But he's trying to learn more about you, about what you want and need from a partner, and if he were to do that, if he were to make that call and ruin your chances at something you so very much deserve for his own selfish reasons, then that would be the exact opposite of what you want. You want someone to hold you up, to support you no matter what, and as much as it pains him—you want someone who will let you go so you can explore on your own.

Without him.

"Congratulations," he croaks.

You blink, then smile. "Thank you."

Harry fidgets with the pen some more. "No one will ever be able to truly replace you. You know that, right?"

You nod and swallow down the sadness that lodges itself in your throat. "I know."

His mouth turns downwards as he thinks. "But I'll still need your help training someone."

"I know," you repeat.

A long silence lapses, but it's not thick with discomfort. It's filled with something else you can't name.

"I'm proud of you," he finally says, so softly that it has your heart stumbling. His eyes flicker up to yours. "You're so smart. And quick. They have no idea just how lucky they are to have you."

Tears sting your eyes. You don't know what to say. You expected some kind of pushback, maybe to be dismissed, but not this. It truly feels like the end.

"You're gonna make me cry," you sniffle as you swipe at your eye. His throat bobs like he's trying to fight back his own tears.

"There's no need to cry. You're doing the right thing," he tells you with a sad smile. You nod but his kindness just makes you want to cry even more. "And I'm sorry it didn't work out here. I really am. There's not a day that goes by where I wish I didn't handle things differently."

He looks so forlorn sitting behind his big desk surrounded by dozens of achievements and framed photos of Harry with senators and celebrities, yet he sits across from you looking like a man who's lost everything.

"It's not your fault," you say, and you mean it. It's not his fault you fell in love with him. It's not his fault he's emotionally unavailable. It's not his fault you spent years fantasizing about being the woman to fix him.

"I took you for granted. And now it's too late," he admits sadly. It breaks your heart to hear that but some part of you assumed he would give up trying the moment things got a little difficult. You sigh and stand up, grateful at least you aren't the one with your heart on your sleeve this time.

"I should get to work," you say. He nods, gaze still cast downwards with a small crease permanently seated between his eyebrows.

"Thanks, Sunshine."

It hits you like a punch to the gut hearing the affectionate nickname, but you force your feet to move until you're safely back at your desk.

Maybe when he said 'it's too late', he just meant about the job. Maybe he still plans to prove his feelings for you, to show you he can be good, like he promised. However at the end of the day, Harry doesn't come up with some clever way to ask you out on a date like he had done the last eight Fridays. You even linger a few extra minutes, but he's wrapped up with a work call and doesn't notice you pack up your things to leave.

It's pouring rain again. Fitting, you think as you walk to the subway with your thin coat clutched around your shoulders. You're drenched by the time you board but you're not risking another Uber fiasco.

It's a long ride to your stop and what feels like an even longer walk to your apartment, but you make it. Your shoes are probably beyond hope. You're chastising yourself for not bringing a pair of boots when you notice a piece of printer paper taped up in the window of your building.

Buzzer out of order.

You roll your eyes and dig around for your keys. By the time you make it up to your apartment you're soaked and hungry and annoyed.

"Did you see—"

"The fucking buzzer? Yeah, I saw. Fifth time since March," Mia barks from the kitchen. She's listening to Fiona Apple and stirring a boiling pot of pasta on the stove in her comfiest pair of sweats.

"Oh. That time of the month, huh?"

She tosses a scowl over her shoulder. "Do you want dinner or not?"

"Yes, please," you beg with your widest grin. You leave your water logged coat and shoes by the door and head to the bathroom for a long hot shower. By the time you emerge smelling like the coconut vanilla shampoo you love and lathered up with your favorite lotion, you feel worlds better.

"Do you wanna watch Jeopardy!?" Mia asks with a bowl of cheesy pasta balancing in her lap on the couch. She's flicking through the channels mindlessly for other choices but you don't feel like wasting time finding the perfect show.

"Sounds good," you say after scooping your own bowl and sitting down next to her. You each blow on your spoons, tendrils of steam curling and rising up past your heads while the rain continues to come down in buckets outside and the host drones on in the background.

"Look at us. Wild Friday night, huh?" Mia laughs.

"Could be worse," you grin. Then you take your first bite of food and moan. "This is fucking delicious."

"Thank you. I don't know what it's called. I just grabbed whatever cheese we had in the fridge and a bag of frozen veggies and hoped for the best."

"You should come up with a name for it," you say, then when you hear an answer on the television you recognize, mutter under your breath who is Medusa?

"Uh, how about pathetic girl pasta?" she tries, making you laugh.

"There's nothing pathetic about this," you argue back.

It's quiet for a while. You're both focused on inhaling your dinner and watching the game show. It's peaceful and you can feel the tension leaving your shoulders with each bite.

You're happy. You have a good life. You're fortunate and you have the greatest best friend and roommate anyone can ask for. It's greedy of you to want more. But your mind still drifts to Harry during every ad break. Mia must catch on when she notices you pick up your phone and scroll through your messages, as if it's possible you missed one in the last eight minutes.

"So..." she says, dragging out the vowel while stirring her food, "how was work?"

You sigh and drop your phone. "I told him. And then I formally accepted the offer."

Mia is quiet next to you. You chew thoughtfully while watching some ad about topical pain relief but nothing is really getting through. You're too preoccupied.

"How'd he take it?"

"He was... great. I mean, he was sad, obviously, but he was incredibly sweet and supportive and... not at all what I thought."

Mia hummed under her breath as she popped a piece of broccoli in her mouth. You arched an eyebrow at her, knowing full well she had some opinion she was dying to share.

"What?"

She shrugs as she stares at the television. "Seems like he's grown a lot, is all."

You groan and set your bowl onto the coffee table.

"What? Are we really so cynical that we can't believe people would change for the ones they love? That they would learn to bend and twist in ways they never knew they could just to make their loved one happy?"

You balk in her direction, completely taken aback. "What the hell are you talking about, Jane Austen?"

She laughs and sets her empty bowl next to yours. "Okay. So maybe your romcoms are getting to me. Or maybe it's my period. Regardless, it's something to think about."

You breathe deep and suddenly grow intensely fixated on a loose thread so you don't have to look her in the eye when you say, "I think I fucked up."

Mia sits up straight next to you and pauses the show, the only sound echoing across your apartment now is coming from the rain pattering against your windows. "Explain."

You bite the inside of your cheek and twirl the thread tightly around your pointer finger. "He didn't ask me out on a date today. He said it's too late."

The gears working in Mia's brain are practically audible.

"Did you... want him to ask you out?"

You shrug and keep playing with the thread.

"Because you've been shooting him down for almost two months now, so wha—"

"Maybe. I don't know," you whine, throwing your head back into the couch. "I don't know what I want. Well, I do. I want him, but he can't be who I want him to be."

"But how do you even know?" she asks, her voice rising. "How do you know he can't? Because from everything I've been hearing, it really sounds like he's been working on exactly what he promised. He hasn't been fucking anyone. He's coming up with these cliché date ideas to make you happy. I mean, fuck, this man knows you better than me! He's paid attention to every single story, every single factoid, every single random little memory you've ever shared." Mia rubs her palms down her face in frustration. "He has been paying attention this entire time. He's been that guy for you this entire time. You're both just too stupid to see it."

You stare at her, mouth agape while she huffs and crosses her arms tightly over her chest.

"Damn," you murmur, but then her face softens with a sigh.

"Sorry. I'm cranky."

"I guess you are," you reply, earning a sharp look that makes you wither.

"Just fucking call him, okay? Work it out and at least give it a try. If you don't, you'll always wonder," Mia says before standing to clear your plates. You bite anxiously on your bottom lip and stare at your phone, the dark screen taunting you, daring you to pick it up and grow a backbone.

But before you even lift your hand, divine intervention strikes and your phone lights up with Harry's name and photo.

"Oh, my god!" you practically scream. You hear a clatter of dishes in the sink and a second later, Mia is running into the room.

"What?"

"He's— he's fucking calling! Right now!" you yell while holding up the unanswered phone with a trembling hand.

Mia looks at you like you're stupid and yells back, "Fucking answer it!"

When you hesitate, she waves her arms dramatically in the air and yells at you again, so with a shaky breath you slide the bar on the bottom of your screen and bring the phone to your ear.

"Hello?"

"Are you home?" Harry asks with no preamble. It's loud wherever he is but you can't place the noise.

"Uh. Yeah. Why?" Your eyes find Mia, who is holding her breath from across the room.

"I'm outside. Can you— can I talk to you?" His voice cracks and now the pieces click. The noise you're hearing is the rain.

"You're outside?" you squeak. In a heartbeat, you're both on your feet and racing to the window. Mia gasps when she spots the sleek Mercedes parked at the curb, but the shocking part is Harry: he's standing in the pouring rain, wearing the same suit he wore to work and holding a massive bouquet of bright pink peonies that look limp from the torrential downpour.

He's looking up at your window already and grins when he spots you. Even though his clothes are ruined, his smile is huge.

"Come down, Sunshine. Damn buzzer's broken," he pleads. You can see his mouth moving half a second before you hear him in the phone. Your heart is lodged in your throat and you feel so unsteady from the rush of adrenaline that you can hardly move, yet you nod and tell him you'll be right down before silently hanging up.

Slowly, you turn to look at Mia, your jaw hung open in disbelief. She shrieks and pushes your shoulder.

"Fucking go! You wanted Ryan Gosling in the rain, well now you got it!" She's jumping up and down as you uselessly spin around the apartment to find a pair of boots.

"I'm in my pajamas," you protest as you tug one rain boot on. "And my hair is still wet."

"It's fucking raining, who cares? GO!"

You stumble out of the apartment and race down the stairs after deciding the elevator would take too long. The small lobby is empty but there's a traffic cone maintenance sometimes uses to reserve parking spots, so you snatch it up and waddle to the front door. You kick it open and use the cone to keep the door ajar before turning to face him.

He's exactly where he was a minute ago: on the sidewalk, absolutely soaked and holding flowers while people dodge him walking past. They don't give either of you a second glance, they just hold their umbrellas close and ignore the crazy looking rich man in the rain and the even crazier looking woman wearing her mismatched pajamas and bright yellow rain boots.

You take a step forward, and then another, letting the rain envelope you until you're standing right in front of him, gazing up into his deep brown eyes.

You're both grinning like fools. You know how it must look yet neither of you care.

"Did you need something?" you ask with a teasing glint in your eye. Harry's smile widens.

"Yeah. I forgot to tell you something before you left," he says. Rivulets of rainwater drip down from his soaked hair and wind through his greying beard. It drips off his chin and the tip of his nose and you step a little closer.

"Yeah? What is it?" You sink your teeth into your bottom lip but it doesn't erase the grin from your face.

Harry scans your face, examines every imperfection and detail, then without a hint of hesitation he says, "I would love to take you out this weekend. We can do anything you want to do. Just— please. Please give me a chance."

A broken sob rips loose from your chest when you hear the words. You thought he'd given up. You thought you had ruined your chances by waiting too long, but you were wrong. He's here, standing in the pouring rain, begging for you. You.

Your face crumples. Harry quickly drops the destroyed peonies and moves to cup your jaw with both hands. He searches your tear filled eyes while every emotion in the book runs through you, waiting patiently for a response but a little uncertainty grows with each passing second until you finally whimper, "Okay."

Rain mixes with the tears on your cheeks when he pulls your face up for a kiss. His lips sear desperately over yours and it feels like the first gasp of fresh air after being submerged underwater for far too long. It breathes life into every cell in your body, filling you with a warm glow you've only ever heard about and never thought was real. Your heart hammers against your chest like it's trying to leap into his arms and you press yourself closer.

Above you, Mia is slapping her palms excitedly against the window, but neither of you pay her any mind. You're too lost in the feel of his lips against yours, the quiet strength behind each slow drop of his jaw as he gently makes room for his tongue. Your hands grapple for the front of his suit, fingers curling tightly around the fabric to keep your feet firmly planted on the ground, but when you squeeze and feel a gush of rainwater between your knuckles, you're reminded that you're standing in the middle of a storm on the sidewalk.

It's pretty romantic, but turns out even you have your limits.

"You're soaking wet," you giggle against his mouth. He grins and shakes his head, chasing your lips.

"I don't care."

Before he can lure you into another kiss, you take a step backwards and grab his hand, pulling him with you.

"C'mon. I have some of your dry cleaning upstairs."

He arches a wet eyebrow at you but follows you into the building.

"You wouldn't happen to have an in-unit laundry, would you?" he asks as he looks down at his suit. You shake your head, drops of rainwater flying from the your hair as the elevator door opens.

"What do you think this is? The buzzer doesn't even work. Besides, you can't put those clothes in a dryer, you'll ruin them."

Harry laughs and wraps his arms around you after you tap the button for your floor. "They're already ruined, Sunshine."

You tilt your chin up with a smile so wide that it hurts your cheeks. "Was it worth it? Ruining your clothes?"

Harry groans a little as his eyes drift down to your mouth. "Hell yes, it's worth it."

After you drag him into your apartment, the both of you dripping wet while Mia leans smugly against the kitchen counter, you tell him to change in your bathroom while you scurry around your room to try to look halfway decent.

It's still pouring rain by the time you each dry off. Without even asking, Mia scoops cheesy pasta into a fresh bowl and shoves it into Harry's hands.

"We're watching Jeopardy!. Come on."

"This doesn't count as our first date," he warns when he sits down on the couch between you and Mia. You grin and scoot closer as he picks up his spoon for his first bite while Mia presses play on the remote.

"Mm. This is good. What is it?"

"Pathetic girl pasta," Mia says easily.

Harry looks at you curiously but you just shrug.

He stays while it continues to rain with you curled into his side. His arm circles around your shoulders so comfortably, like it's always meant to be there. His other hand eventually finds your knee and when you glance at him, he's not even paying attention. He's looking at the television, grinning about something he just heard, yet his hands sought you out on their own. He's so warm and still smells so good despite all the rain that it has your eyelids growing heavy and your head dipping to rest on his shoulder. He and Mia argue over the answers to the next game show that comes on and you smile to yourself as they bicker.

This is what you've always wanted. This is safe. This is love.

When the rain finally stops, Mia excuses herself to give you some privacy, but not before telling Harry over her shoulder that he 'owes her one'.

By now, his shoes are mostly dry. He confirms as such when he slips them back on and you hand him a garbage bag filled with his ruined suit. He sets it by the door so he can gently cup your face and pull you in for a kiss. It's soft and slow and makes your knees wobbly. He doesn't rush it, same as before. You get the sense Harry likes to take his time and you really hope he applies that philosophy elsewhere.

"Can I take you out tomorrow?" he mumbles. He's barely broken the kiss. His lips still brush against yours when he speaks, as if talking isn't worth denying himself what he truly craves.

"I'd like that," you murmur back. You feel him smile before pressing another gentle kiss against your lips.

"I've waited a long time to hear you say that."

"You have no idea," you tease before melting into another kiss.

Eventually he tears himself away and picks up his bag with the promise to call you tomorrow.

"Anything in particular you want to do or should it be a surprise?" he asks from your hallway. He's lingering against your doorframe with a goofy smile that has your heart doing flips.

You pretend to think about it before you say, "I think I'd like to stay in."

Harry smirks. "Miss my cooking that much, huh?"

"Sure. Let's call it that," you say coyly before stretching up on your tiptoes for one more kiss. "Now go before you get towed."

He walks backwards down the hall, grinning at you with his messy hair that dried awkwardly and his mismatched clothes from his dry cleaning you forgot to drop off earlier in the week. And when you finally fall asleep that night, hours after Harry left and the excitement subsides, you feel like that piece of you from this morning no longer feels dark. In fact, it's brimming with hope and anticipation for what's to come.

---

What does one wear to their first date with the man they've been pining after for literal years who also happens to be their boss for two more weeks?

Mia tells you not to overthink it but also don't wear something you'd normally wear to work, so you find a dress you bought two years ago shoved in the back of your closet. It's a little too tight to wear to work and you feel too old to wear something like that to the bar, but dinner at Harry's apartment seems appropriate. As you size yourself up in the mirror, you feel pretty good. But when you turn to look at your ass, your eyes widen a bit.

Yeah, this is definitely not the type of dress you want to wear just walking around. Fortunately, Lou is supposed to pick you up around seven, when it's already dark.

But what if you end up staying the night?

Your heart skips a beat and you try not to think too much about that part, but you do toss an extra pair of clothes into your tote bag. Just in case.

Okay, and maybe you dab a little bit of perfume on your inner thighs, too.

Mia didn't harass you too much before you left. She must have been feeling pretty proud of herself already. But she did manage to find that discarded condom in your "first aid kit" and pressed it into your palm with a mischievous wink.

"I better not see you until tomorrow," she says, making your cheeks burn as you gather your things and head downstairs.

Lou is waiting in his usual spot at the curb. His hands are clasped at his waist and when you step outside, he quickly turns to open the door.

"You look nice tonight, Miss," he says, curiosity lacing his voice.

"Oh! Uh, t-thanks," you stammer as you slide into the backseat. Of course Lou doesn't know you're meeting Harry for a date. Why would he? Yet as he quietly drives the familiar route to Harry's building, his eyes keep shifting back to you in the review mirror. And when he pulls up to open your door, he gives you a soft smile and says, "I was wonderin' when you two were gonna take the plunge."

You grin despite the embarrassment flooding your bloodstream and step out onto the sidewalk.

"Have a good evening," he says to you before closing the door and hopping back into the driver's seat.

The ride up in the elevator to Harry's penthouse is surreal. It's something you've done a million times yet you can feel the shift in the air. It's is so different, but somehow still the same.

When the doors slide open you're met with several things at once: the sound of plates clattering gently in the kitchen, the soft sound of a female singer crooning at a low volume throughout the whole house audio system, the beautiful glow of the fire flickering in the fireplace, and the scent of something heavenly being cooked in the oven.

Tentatively, you step into his apartment on shaky legs. You drop your tote bag in its usual spot at the kitchen island as you watch Harry stir something on the stove. His back is to you and he's humming to himself, seemingly unaware of your arrival. You smile dreamily and lean against the counter while he picks up a spoon to taste whatever is in the pot. He looks good, too. He chose to wear a black sweater and black slacks. He's always looked good in black, you've thought so a hundred times.

When he swivels around to reach for his spice rack, he stops short in surprise at the sight of you. At first his lips part, then they pull into a smirk when it's clear he caught you checking out the broadness of his shoulders and the way his ass looked in those pants.

"Hey, didn't hear you come in," he says before dusting his hands on a dish towel.

"I only got here a second ago," you say, heart fluttering as he crosses the room in two long strides to pull you in for a kiss. Any insecurity you have about the newness of this relationship with Harry vanishes when he picks up right where he left off last night. There's no shyness or hesitancy to be found with the way he kisses you and it immediately puts you at ease.

Behind him, the pot boils. You can hear the liquid popping angrily. You giggle and give him a gentle shove on the chest. "Whatever that is, it's gonna burn," you warn. He has that love-drunk look again when he stumbles backwards, a look that briefly turns heated when his eyes rake down your frame, taking in your dress.

He whistles and forces himself to focus on the bubbling pot. "You're gonna kill me with that dress, Sunshine," he teases. But his voice is low and even if it's meant as an innocent joke, it sends a shiver down your spine anyway.

"Mm, that's the plan," you murmur to yourself as you look around the kitchen at what he's already prepped.

"What?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, then gasp when you spot a tray of sushi on the counter. "Oh my god! That looks exactly like the sushi from that place in Chicago!"

"That's because it is," he grins. Your jaw drops and you spin around.

"What? How?"

Harry shrugs, clearly pleased he's impressed you already. "I have my ways."

With one eye on the pot of red sauce and the other on you, he watches as you inspect the other items laid out.

"Oh, I love this wine. We had it—"

"During the Christmas party," he finishes for you, "I remember. You said you liked it back then, too."

You're speechless. It's becoming very clear Harry put a lot of thought into this date, something you know is outside the norm for him.

Maybe people really can change, you muse to yourself.

Harry turns the heat down on the stove and reaches for the wine. "Let me pour you a glass," he murmurs in your ear when he stretches around you. You quietly offer your thanks as you continue to nose around his kitchen.

He had already prepped a tossed salad in a wooden bowl with matching utensils, but what caught your eye was the salad dressing. It was in a clear plastic container with no label and curiosity gets the better of you, so you crack the lid and take a sniff.

The scent is recognizable instantly. It's the salad dressing made by the steakhouse two blocks from the office. You've gone there countless times with Harry over the years and you must have vocalized to him at some point how much you love their house made dressing.

Every little aspect of this meal holds some meaning. He listens. He remembers. You're so touched that you actually feel tears springing up, but you manage to blink them away before Harry returns with your wine.

"Cheers," he says, holding your gaze and clinking your glasses together before taking a sip.

You hum your approval when the sharp flavor hits your tongue. Your gaze drifts down to his throat as he swallows and you suddenly realize just how close you're standing.

"Is it as good as you remember?" he asks. You grin and gently place the glass down on the counter.

"Better. Thank you."

Harry sets his glass next to yours with mischief in his eyes when he says, "Have I mentioned you look beautiful tonight?"

You shake your head and stifle a sharp inhale when he lightly drags his knuckles over the bare skin of your arm.

"Well, you do. That's a very nice dress," he says lowly, his gaze dropping to admire the way it fits snugly around each one of your curves.

"Thank you," you say again. You crane your neck up as you lean closer and like an invisible thread, Harry's chin angles down so your mouths are just inches apart. "I wanted to wear something nice for our first date," you tell him as his palm finds the small of your back.

"I'm a lucky man," he murmurs, head tilting lower so your lips practically brush together. You hum and close your eyes when he finally kisses you, sighing into the firmness of his mouth pressed over yours. It's something you'll never tire of now that you know what it feels like to kiss him like this. You hardly want to do anything else. You've waited so long for this that it still feels surreal, like you may wake up any moment to monumental disappointment, but you never do. It's real. He's real.

"Shit," he groans when the timer on the oven rings and he's forced to tear himself away. You giggle as he hurries to turn it off.

"Can I help?" you ask, even though you're mostly useless in the kitchen.

"Nope. You just stay right there and keep looking beautiful, Sunshine," he says while taking out a tray of what appears to be breaded chicken with cheese melted on top.

"You made chicken parm?!" you ask excitedly as Harry moves around the kitchen. He's plating pasta with some red sauce before adding the chicken, all the while grinning ear to ear.

"It's what you get every time I take you out for your birthday."

"I know, it's my favorite," you groan when the smell hits your nostrils.

"I gathered," he chuckles, then juts his chin towards your wine. "Grab those and follow me."

He leads you to his dining room where candles are lit around a beautiful centerpiece of pink peonies.

"Since the other ones got destroyed in the rain," he explains when you lean forward to sniff one.

"Wow," you breathe, "this is... unbelievable, Harry. You didn't need to do all this."

"Yes, I did," he says while pulling out your chair. You murmur your thanks and sit down in front of your plate, mouth already watering. He leans forward and plants a kiss just under your ear with the promise to return, then he disappears back into the kitchen.

It's still so hard to believe this is really happening. Everything is absolutely perfect and beyond anything you thought he was capable of. You look around once more while Harry gathers the salad and sushi from the kitchen. The fireplace still flickers invitingly across the massive room and somewhere in the speakers above you, the music has changed to something soft and instrumental.

"The sushi was meant to be more of an appetizer," he says when he sets everything down, "but I guess time got away from me." He hands you a set of chopsticks with a coy smile. "Need help?"

You laugh, face flushing with heat at the memory of Harry showing you how to use chopsticks in Chicago. "Yes, please," you reply, and try to keep a straight face when he wraps his arms around you and cups your hand. You bite your lip as he manipulates your fingers, just like before, only this time he's muttering directions into your shoulder as he plants kisses in-between sentences.

"I'm starting to think you have an ulterior motive, Mr. Castillo," you whisper when his hand slips from yours the more distracted he grows.

"Me? Never," he quips. "Just making up for lost time."

He finally pulls away to sit down across from you, watching as you flick the white linen napkin across your lap.

"Can I get you anything else?" he asks. He seems perfectly content to watch you taste your food for a few minutes while his remains untouched.

You shake your head and cover your mouth while you chew the piece of sushi he helped you pick up.

"No, this is more than enough. This is more than any man's ever done for me, like, ever," you say after you swallow. The sushi is just as good as you remember, too. "You did too much," you insist after he finally picks up his fork to take a bite of salad.

"I want our dates to be romantic," he tells you, "and I'm beginning to realize that looks differently for everyone."

"Oh?" you ask, quirking your brow.

Harry nods. "Some women think fancy restaurants or vacations are romantic," he says while slowly twirling his pasta, "and others value being seen over materialistic things."

You're impressed but still curious. "Can I ask you something without it coming across as suspicious?" His gaze lands on you and he nods.

"What changed?" you ask bluntly. "I mean, just a couple months ago you were convinced you weren't capable of love, and now—" You look around the apartment, at the thoughtful feast he prepared, at the perfectly detailed setting, then laugh in disbelief. But before you can finish your sentence, he does it for you.

"And now I'm dramatically showing up to your home in the pouring rain?"

Words escape you when you remember how you first felt seeing him standing outside your apartment like that. Your heart does somersaults as you nod, then Harry grins and reaches across the table for your hand.

"I couldn't lose you," he says quietly, "and... you wanted to be swept off your feet. For a while, I thought it was just incompatibility, but then..."

He trails off and you wonder if he's thinking about Lucy—a woman who, by all objective measures, was perfectly compatible, but he still couldn't make things work. He takes a deep breath and gives you a sad smile. "Then I figured out it was me."

You open your mouth to protest but he stops you.

"It's Peter, too," he adds. Hearing his brother's name isn't at all what you expect so you fall quiet. "He's been having some trouble with Charlotte. He came over a couple weeks ago to, I don't know... vent, I guess. While we were talking we realized there might be a deeper reason for our cynical opinions about love." Harry pauses for a moment like he's considering whether or not he should tell you the next part, then—

"I decided to talk to someone about it."

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. "Like, a therapist?"

He nods and you squeeze his hand.

"Oh. That's... that's very mature of you," is all you can think to say. Harry laughs and lets go of your hand to pick up his fork.

"Shocking for me, I know."

"No! I mean— it's impressive to be able to self-reflect like that," you tell him honestly. He shrugs.

"Well, when Peter and I were talking about our failing love lives, we realized there were a lot of parallels. Feels stupid to not have seen it before."

He doesn't elaborate and he doesn't have to. They both received the height surgery, something clearly driven by personal insecurities. He's told you how differently people treated him afterwards and how incredible it felt. There were times you could practically see his chest puff with pride whenever a beautiful woman glanced his way or strangers deferred to him in the street. But those insecurities just festered underneath all this time and manifested in other ways: namely, still not feeling good enough or worthy enough of someone's love.

"I also was willing to try anything to make this work," he adds, making your heart melt.

"Really?"

Harry looks at you like you're crazy. "Of course. This doctor I'm seeing, he spotted it the very first day."

"Spotted what?" you ask before taking another bite of chicken.

"That I've had feelings for you this entire time, I just didn't know what to call it," he tells you. He says it so simply, like it's just a matter of fact, but you're reeling with the knowledge that your love wasn't so unrequited, after all. Harry takes a sip of wine as he contemplates something, then sighs and sets his glass down. "I talked more about you quitting than I did about my breakup with Lucy. I guess I was pretty transparent."

It shouldn't make you feel good, it really shouldn't, but fuck—it kind of does. The idea of Harry being more concerned about you in his therapy sessions than his almost-fiancée had you getting a big head that you try to downplay so you don't come off as insensitive.

"Well, I'm glad you did all this because I really think it'll help, but you know it's never changed how I feel about you, right?"

A little bit of pink tints his cheeks as he rolls his eyes. "Don't get all cheesy on me now," he says.

You laugh and a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. "I'll do my best to keep it to a minimum."

Once you're finished eating, Harry stands to clear your plates as you thank him for what feels like the millionth time, but when you rise to gather some plates to help, he immediately insists you take your freshly poured wine to the sitting room while he cleans up.

"Remind me to thank Eleanor for teaching you that recipe next time I see her," you grin when he eventually joins you carrying two small plates.

"She didn't teach me that one, I learned it all on my own," he says. And although he doesn't explicitly say it, you get the feeling he learned it just for you.

When he sets the plates down and you see what's on top, you giggle and lean forward to inspect them closer. "Are these the cupcakes from that place you showed me?"

"The very same," he says while sitting down next to you and reaching for his. "I told you they're the best in the city."

"They are," you agree as you pick up yours, then laugh when he taps your cupcakes together as if you're toasting before taking a bite.

"Mm," you hum as the sugar hits your tongue. The icing practically melts from how smooth and buttery it is, balancing perfectly with the light and airy cake, just as you remember. Before you can take another bite, Harry stops you with a laugh.

"Hold on," he chuckles while setting his plate down, then gently cups your face and drags his thumb along your cheek, scooping up some smeared frosting from the corner of your mouth. He pulls his hand back a fraction to show you with a goofy smile on his face. You get the sense he has some snarky remark on the tip of his tongue based on his expression alone, but before he can speak you wrap your lips around his thumb, licking the icing off with a satisfied hum.

Words fail him in that moment. You can see it by the way his mouth opens and closes in surprise, but then his eyes grow dark and a slow smirk stretches across his face.

"Good?" His voice is huskier than before and it sends a shiver down your spine. You nod.

"Mhm."

His hand finds your cheek again and he pulls you closer. "I want a taste," he says right before your mouths collide. You moan under the firm press of his lips, jaw dropping to allow space for his tongue to swipe lazily against yours. There's a dull ache forming between your legs, one that's been barely concealed under the surface for the last twenty-four hours. One that's been growing for six long years. One that's begging for relief.

Wordlessly, Harry takes the plate from your hand and blindly sets it on the couch an arms length away, never once breaking the kiss. You take it as an invitation to toss your leg across his lap so you can straddle him and instantly his hands find your waist with a deep groan that has you feeling dizzy.

You begin to roll your hips over his lap, whimpering into his mouth when you feel him start to harden. His hands slide down to the tops of your thighs and settle right at the hem of your dress for a moment before giving you a squeeze and gliding his palms back up. The tight fabric of your dress moves easily upwards until it's bunched up around your waist, completely exposing your lower half.

Harry tears himself away so he can look down with heavy-lidded eyes. When he sees the barely-there black panties you chose for the occasion, a soft curse slips past his swollen lips.

"It's gonna be hard not to think about this on Monday," he groans, big hands greedily stretching wide across your ass. Your lips drag down his neck with a smile.

"And if I said I've already been thinking about this at work, what then?" you tease with the tip of your tongue tracing the shell of his ear. Harry's grip tightens then he roughly spreads the roundness of your ass, punctuated by a playful slap on one cheek that makes you yelp.

"Then I'd say you're a filthy girl," he growls before his mouth finds yours once again.

The way he touches you sets your nerve-endings alight. Every brush of his lips is electric, every squeeze from his hands heart-stopping. He kisses you like he's prepared to spend hours seared to your mouth: he's in no rush, just like you suspected, just like you hoped. You slowly grind down on his lap while he makes no move to take things further. He just lets you take what you want while his tongue leisurely explores your mouth.

You don't pay much mind to his hands. They're gently massaging your ass and occasionally slide to the crease at your hips to pull you down harder so you can feel his cock straining against the confines of his pants. You're too focused on his mouth and how good it feels to grind against him, but then at some point two of his fingers hook around the top of your panties and they tug upwards. A wet gasp shakes loose from your throat when the soaked fabric wedges perfectly against your clit, then he does it again. Every time you circle your hips down, his wrist snaps up, pulling your underwear and creating mind-numbingly delicious friction that has your legs shaking in seconds.

The sounds pouring from your lips are obscene. If you had any sense left, you'd feel embarrassed, but you don't. It's impossible to focus on anything. You gave up trying to kiss him but he doesn't mind—he's content sucking marks onto your throat while you lose yourself to the pleasure mounting low in your belly.

"Fu-uck—keep doing that," you pant. Harry smirks against your neck then looks up.

"Yeah? You like that, baby?"

You whine an affirmative through your clenched teeth.

"You gonna come just from this?" he goads. Your brows pinch together tightly as you gasp. Hearing him talk like this for the first time does unspeakable things to you.

"Ha-Harry—" you stammer as you grapple at his shoulders. He just nods smugly, one hand still wrapped around your panties and the other clutching your ass, both helping you slide up and down in his lap.

"It's okay, you can," he murmurs, "go ahead and come for me."

How did this happen so fast? Just ten minutes ago you were sipping your wine in front of the fire, admiring the stunning view from his penthouse while he tidied up in the kitchen, and now you're falling apart, burying your face against his neck to muffle your cries as your orgasm washes through your body.

"That feels better, doesn't it?" he whispers in your ear while you struggle to catch your breath. Your chest is pounding and your skin feels like it's on fire but, yeah, you feel better.

"Wha—" You swallow and take a deep breath before trying again. "What did you just do to me?"

Harry chuckles and slides his hand from between your legs. "I haven't even gotten started yet, Sunshine."

---

In the back of your mind, as Harry leads you down the hallway towards his bedroom, that little devil on your shoulder speaks.

How many women had this view? How many women thought they were special? That they had what it took to lock him down?

But you really are special... right? Harry told you in not so many words. He couldn't lose you. He's going to therapy to make himself better. He wants to be good for you.

When you arrive in his dimly lit but perfectly kept bedroom, he turns to you with adoration in his eyes and you smile before he kisses you—of course you're special. Of course you're different. Harry wouldn't treat you like those other girls, you just need to get out of your head. You've seen too much and your own insecurities are now flaring up, but you know him. You know him better than anybody. This isn't just another casual fling.

"I need you," he mumbles against your lips. His hands drift down your sides, over your back. They cup your cheek and tilt your chin up so he can gain better access while walking you backwards towards his bed.

When your legs bump against the mattress, you melt. You sink into the sheets and he follows, pushing you up and covering you with his body while his tongue still tangles with yours. You moan and card your fingers through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp in such a way that it makes him groan, then you feel his fingers at your back, hunting for the zipper on your dress. You arch your spine to help and a moment later, the fabric loosens around your torso and his palms are pushing the straps down your shoulders.

The cool air prickles your skin when he shoves the dress down to the floor, but his hands are on you in an instant. He palms your chest and pinches your nipple between two fingers before breaking away from your mouth to greedily suck on your neglected breast. You have to bite back a moan—the wet warmth from his tongue is intoxicating. You want it everywhere. Every inch of your skin. You want him so badly, it hurts.

"I've never needed someone the way I need you," he continues, the words getting lost in the valley of your breasts. His eyes are closed when you look down, like he's lost in the feel of you. Your fingers trail up his arms and you frown when you realize you're nearly naked—he's wearing far too many clothes.

"Harry—"

"You mean so much to me," he's saying, and you realize he's shuffling down the bed. His mouth drags down your stomach and you clench when his exhale fans over your sensitive skin. "Will you let me show you? Hm? Will you let me show you how much you mean to me?"

You don't answer right away. Through the haze, you read between the lines. He cares about you, you mean so much to him, but he doesn't say the words you want to hear. It's asking for too much too fast but you're still struggling—what if you end up just like the rest? What if you allow him into your heart just to have him shatter it when he can't give himself fully to you?

Harry senses your hesitation and glances up. You're worrying your bottom lip and your focus is elsewhere. He pauses at your hips and sits back on his heels.

"What did I do?" he asks. Your eyes dart to his and you shake your head.

"N-Nothing. Sorry."

But Harry's a smart man. He figures it out a moment later and his expression softens.

"I just need a little bit of time," he says softly. Your breath stalls. He swallows nervously before continuing. "This is new to me but I'm trying. I—I feel it..." He touches his chest, right over his heart. Then he chuckles but there's no humor behind it. "I just can't say the fucking words. I want to, but—"

"It's okay," you tell him, pushing yourself off the mattress so you can cup his face. "It's okay. You don't have to."

"I want to," he repeats. His dark eyes look watery now as they bore into you. "I'm just so fucking scared," he whispers with a tremble in his voice, and when one stray tear trickles down his cheek, you lunge forward to capture his lips with yours.

"It's okay," you tell him again and again. You pepper him with kisses until he leans you back onto the soft bedding. He strokes your hair and makes a soft noise when he pulls away to look down at you.

"Can I show you, instead?"

You nod and he sears his mouth over yours for one more heated kiss before he shifts south. Your hips lift and his fingers hook into the sides of your panties, tugging them down, down, down until they crumple to the floor.

"Oh, she's pretty," he murmurs, sending a rush of heat directly to your face. You cover your eyes and giggle.

"Talk about cheesy," you grin, but then his thumbs part your lips and then his mouth is on you, stealing your laughter and replacing it with a sharp gasp.

"Oh, shit," you breathe, hands falling from your face to grip the sheets. Each lick is slow but firm, being sure to build you up properly. His hands curl around your trembling thighs to hold them open while he works. Much to your delight, he's so much more attentive than you anticipated. He takes his time, determined to make this about you and do exactly as he promised—show you how much he loves you, even if he can't say the words just yet.

Arousal drips down the back of your thighs but with a moan, Harry tears himself away from your center so he can messily lick up each drop. It's filthy and raw and has your spine curling off the bed. His beard is prickly and rough against your inner thighs but combined with the softness of his tongue, it's heaven.

"Feels so good," you moan with your eyes squeezed shut. He's licking slow, thick stripes through your cunt, then gives your clit a little circle with the tip of his tongue before he dives back down. He's too good at this. Your cheeks feel like they're on fire and it's difficult to breathe but you never ask him to stop, you'd rather pass out.

"So wet for me," he mumbles around messy kisses between your legs. "You taste so fucking good, baby, I can't get enough." Just as you're about to formulate some snarky remark, his mouth covers your pussy and his tongue darts between your lips, prodding gently at your opening, and all thoughts vacate your brain immediately.

His name flies out of your mouth and one hand reaches down to grab his hair when his tongue pushes past your entrance. He groans when your fingers tug harshly on his loose curls but it just makes him eat at you harder. He pulls you closer so there's no chance at wiggling away and devours you—alternating between sucking on your clit, nipping at your thighs, and heavy licks through your pulsating cunt. He's giving you just enough time to breathe but never letting that tension in your belly stop growing.

The heat is building up fast and there's no stopping it. You roll your hips against his face, panting for air while begging him for more.

You aren't even sure what you're asking, but he does. He knows exactly what you need. Harry drags his tongue up, pressing it flat against your clit, then a moment later one thick finger slides inside, stretching your walls just enough so as to not push you too far but still gives you the relief you need. You sigh and rock your hips faster, fucking yourself on his middle finger while his tongue plays with your clit. He's pulling another orgasm out of you like it's fucking nothing, meanwhile the skill at which he's tearing you apart has your head spinning.

"Harry, I'm—oh," you gasp when he teases you with his sharp teeth grazing over your mound. "Oh, f-fuck, I'm—right there, keep doing—please—"

You're not making any sense. You're babbling, but he still understands. He reads you so easily in a way you didn't think possible. He can feel your muscles tense with every curl of his finger and he can hear the way your breath stutters as you climb higher and higher. You're so close—he can tell from the way you're soaking his hand and squeezing the sides of his head with your thighs. You just need a little more to push you over the edge.

Harry looks up at you from his place between your legs. His mouth is still suctioned over your clit, drawing firm flat circles with his tongue, but the corners of his mouth still pull up when he slides a second finger inside. Your face contorts before your back arches off the bed and you practically scream his name, then a moment later your release is flooding his hand and beard.

The noise he makes is one you want etched into your brain forever. It's a rough sound filled with lust and appreciation, as if coming all over his face was more a gift for him than for you. He reads your body and keeps up the gentle pressure with his tongue until your muscles begin to twitch and your voice pitches up with a pained whine, and only then does he regretfully pull away.

"That's it," he coos, watching the way your body relaxes into the bed. Your chest heaves and your eyes close, reveling in the aftershocks with two of his fingers still buried knuckle deep inside of you. He doesn't move them, though. He keeps them still, just something for your slick pussy to cling to while the last of your orgasm rolls through you. Harry's eyes skim over your body—skin shiny with a thin coat of sweat, nipples tight and limbs loose—and his gaze darkens. He did that. He made you feel this good. He made you feel comfortable enough to let go and bear yourself to him. The power rushes to his brain like a bolt of lightning and then he's falling forward to kiss you with his fingers still shoved deep inside your soft cunt.

You moan and lazily kiss him back, breathing in sharp the scent of your release in his beard. When his fingers inadvertently flex, you whimper and spread your legs wider, making him pull back with a smirk.

"You need more?" he asks, moving his fingers again to watch your jaw drop and you eyes glaze over.

"Yeah," you whine as your fingers claw at his shoulders. Whatever shyness was there a few minutes ago is now long gone and you're perfectly comfortable spreading yourself wide for the taking. Your gaze drops to follow your hand as it drags down the front of his sweater. You bite your lip and circle your hips when your fingers come to rest on his belt and then your eyes find his with a coy smile. Harry groans and captures your lips in another heated kiss, arousal dripping heavy in his veins now, but when your palm flattens and slides down to cup his painfully hard length through his pants, his mind goes blank.

"Do you want my cock, pretty girl?" he growls through a lovesick haze. You nod and bite playfully at his scruffy chin. Harry's eyelids flutter and he allows himself to give into your touch for a moment. The way you're stroking him through the fabric feels too fucking good. It's hypnotic. He can't stop his hips from jutting forward with a soft grunt every time you give him a gentle squeeze. You're panting under him in anticipation, like you simply can't wait to know what it feel like to be filled with him, to memorize every vein and ridge, to mold your pussy to fit around the only cock you'll ever need.

His fingers slide out of you and he pushes himself up. You make a pathetic little noise when he stands that makes his cock twitch, so he takes a deep breath before pulling his sweater over his head. He needs to get himself under control or else this is going to end much faster than he'd like.

As he begins to work on his pants, you spring up and shuffle forward on your knees. His heart is hammering in his chest and he's too focused on not tripping over his slacks, but then your soft hands are on his bare chest for the first time and his breath stutters.

"You're so handsome," you murmur, running your palms all across his broad shoulders before sliding further down. His stomach tenses when your fingertips brush his belly. He wants you so badly that it hurts. He needs to get you back on the bed, he needs to pin you into the mattress and fuck the sense out of you. But when his pants hit the floor and your hand disappears down the front of his boxers to circle around the base of his cock, he nearly chokes on air.

"Oh, fu-uck," he moans before tilting his head back and closing his eyes. You grin and press yourself tightly against him, desperate to feel the heat of his skin on your own.

"I want it," you whisper in his ear as you stroke him, up and down, "I want you. I've wanted you for so long—"

"I know, baby," he gasps, "I'll give you anything you want. I'll fuck your pretty little pussy until you can't take any more. Til you can't fucking walk, I promise—"

In a flash you pull your hand from his boxers and drop down onto the bed, the comforter looking like a soft white cloud surrounding an angel as you gaze up at him expectantly.

"Come here," you plead, and he smirks before sinking his knees into the mattress and falling forward, caging you in. His lips find yours while one arm reaches out to his bedside drawer, a motion he's practiced too many times to count as he searches for a condom, but when his fingertips only graze against wood, he freezes.

"Shit," he murmurs against your lips. You frown and pull back to look at him questioningly as he sits up to get a better look in the drawer. His face hardens and he curses again.

"What?" you breathe, and he shakes his head.

"I thought I had..." he trails off and you watch him open another drawer when you realize what he's looking for.

"I have one," you say. His head swivels to you in surprise.

"What?"

You shrug with a playful grin. "Side pocket of my tote bag."

Harry's face floods with relief. He pushes the drawer shut and stands with a soft chuckle. "Came prepared tonight, huh?"

"Shut up," you laugh as he disappears out into the hallway. He returns a moment later holding the condom Mia had forced you to take before leaving.

"This looks familiar," he says with an arched brow. You shrug and prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him slide his boxers down his legs. Your mouth waters when you see him for the first time, all thick and hard, just for you.

"Guess the first aid kit came in handy, after all," you mutter under your breath, entranced. Harry grins as he rolls the condom down his length, letting the wrapper fall somewhere at his feet.

"I would've kicked down every door in this building til I found one," he says, crawling back on top of you, making you giggle. When his nose nudges lightly against yours, you toss your arms around his neck and pull him down for a gentle kiss.

"That would have been quite the sight," you whisper, lips brushing together tenderly as you speak. His forearms bracket the sides of your head, hips settling neatly between yours, and he smiles down at you.

"Should've been doing this years ago," he says, snaking a hand down between your bodies to position himself against your opening. "Now I only get to indulge in the cliché fantasy of fucking my assistant for two more weeks."

"If you don't hurry up, you're not going to be fucking anyone," you warn. Harry laughs, that very same laugh you've grown addicted to for six years, and your smile widens.

"Impatient," he tuts, but he doesn't make you wait. The air stills once his hips shift forward. It's just a couple inches but it seems both of you forget how to breathe. The stretch has your jaw dropping wider and wider the more he gives you, but his eyes stay locked on you—on the heaviness of your eyelids, on the sweat already beading at your temples, on the look of pure relief painted across your face—and he hardly even blinks until he's fully sheathed inside you.

You're spiraling. You feel lightheaded. Overwhelmed doesn't begin to cover it. This man who you've been madly in love with for years is finally yours. He's finally here, offering himself to you, begging you to be patient with him, to give him a chance all while worshiping you from head to toe. It's hard to even remember how the tables turned so quickly but you're not complaining.

The rush of emotions strangles you both. There's a swell in Harry's chest that is indescribable. It's a feeling he's not used to but one that he realizes has been hidden under the surface for too long. You can see it in his eyes—they dart back and forth across your face like he's silently asking for your help. It's too much and not enough, all at once. You cup his cheek and pull him down for a kiss, pouring every unspoken word into his mouth. His lips relax against yours and he kisses you back with a deep sigh, finally giving in and accepting what he thought all this time was impossible.

"Shit," he whispers. He presses his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. You can feel his heart hammering in his chest and you swallow down the words that are desperately pushing past your lips.

Harry shudders when your fingers begin to toy loosely with the curls on the back of his head and you smile to yourself.

"No going back now," you murmur. His shoulders jump with a silent laugh.

"I wouldn't want to, anyway," he says before lifting his head. When you open your eyes and look up at him, he seems a little nervous. "Would you?" he asks.

You grin and shake your head. "No."

The tension in his eyes vanish. "Good."

Then he starts to move.

It's slow. His hips drag back before leisurely pushing forward again until your skin is pressed against his. He makes sure to move so that you feel every devastating inch. You can hear how wet you are—sticky arousal from the two orgasms he already gave you is painted between your bodies and he can hear it, too. You can see it in his face when he sinks back inside, pussy happily sucking him back in, because his eyes darken and a deep flush begins to crawl up his neck.

"Do you feel that? Feel what you do to me?" he says lowly before descending upon your neck. A soft moan slips past your lips when he leaves a sharp bite on your pulse point. He's still moving slowly but every thrust is so deep that it leaves you gasping for air all the same. "You make me so fucking hard, Jesus Christ," he rasps before dragging his teeth across your collarbone. You whimper and hitch your legs higher so your knees press against his ribcage. You want to feel him everywhere, as deep as he can go. You want to breathe him in, let him course through your veins, and you want to do the same for him. You want to be so intertwined that it's impossible to break apart. You want everything he's willing to give you—you want it all.

You moan his name and roll your hips as your mouth searches for its mate but Harry is too lost. Already his eyes look glazed over with heat as he kisses your skin, anywhere he can find—your throat, shoulder, then your chin. His arms pull tight around your middle and it's so fucking hot all of the sudden that it's stifling, but in the best possible way. It's exactly what you want: to be utterly consumed by Harry Castillo.

"Ha-harder," you manage to stammer in his ear, but your voice cracks and you're not sure he can hear you over the harsh slap of skin on skin. But then he groans and shifts his weight to rest on his forearms, allowing a tiny bit of oxygen to flow back to your brain. A moment later he gives you what you want—his knees widen, spreading your legs in the process, and starts to fuck you harder. Faster, but not too fast. Just enough to punch the air from your lungs every time he buries himself inside you.

"Oh, shit!" you cry out, back arching off the plush comforter like your body is magnetically drawn to his. It's too good. Better than you ever dreamed. He can read you like a book and knows exactly what you like—he listens to your body so he can give you what you need and all you can think is he's good, he's so so good, how could you ever doubt it?

If you could open your eyes, you'd see the effect you're having on him. They're wild as he stares down at you, completely transfixed with the way you writhe underneath him. Hypnotized from how well you take him. The fucking sounds you make and the way your body moves and adjusts to fit him is breathtaking. And—

"You're so fucking wet," he grunts, "so fucking wet and soft—fuck!"

In the blink of an eye, Harry withdraws from you entirely. Your eyelids snap open in surprise and the pained sound you make nearly rips his heart in two, but he'll fix it. His hands grip your waist and he flips you over. When your stomach hits the mattress, you obediently rise on all fours and it takes everything in him not to come on the spot.

"Yeah, that's it," he murmurs when you arch your back and spread your knees. He licks his lips and shuffles forward before pressing into you again. The angle has you both moaning, drowning out the soft instrumental music that still plays somewhere above your heads. Harry draws his hips back, watching in awe when his cock emerges wetter than before.

You whimper when he takes too long and he smirks. "You like that?" he asks, voice deep and rough to match the harsh thrust when he slams back inside of you. You cry out and throw your head back, hair pooling across your shoulders. "Sorry baby, couldn't hear you," he goads before flexing his hips forward once again. Your voice breaks over his name and it does something insane to him. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you steady so he can rut into you, over and over maintaining the same deep, punishing pace that has your back bowing while you beg for more, more, more.

The angle is so intense that it has your lower belly growing sore. The ache builds in such a way that it feeds the flames stoking deep inside and you just want him to keep going, to keep fucking you until that powder keg erupts.

When you fall onto your forearms, Harry follows. His thick arms bracket yours, his soft stomach presses against your spine and you've never felt so deeply seen by anyone before. His body blankets yours and it feels like home.

"You feel so good," he whispers, breath warm against your ear. "Too good. I—I... I can't stop... everything about you, it's just..."

He trails off, unable to finish his thought. Instead he buries his face in your neck, moaning your name into your skin, hips never once losing rhythm as they snap ruthlessly against your ass.

That heat inside you burns brighter with each second. It's harder to get there after you've already come twice, but somehow whatever Harry is doing is working. The wide stretch of his cock pummeling you from behind is exquisite and borderline painful, but he sees the line where you can't. He knows how much you can take without pushing you too far, so you give in. You let him fuck you whatever way he sees fit as you take it, mouth agape and gasping for breath with each deep plunge of his hips.

Harry groans behind you like he can feel your body giving up control. You writhe and grab at his sheets then begin to rock your hips back in rhythm with his.

"Fuck," you moan, eyes rolling to the back of your head. His teeth drag across your shoulder, the sharp sting snapping you back to reality. "Harry," you whine, hearing a soft grunt in your ear in response, "just like tha-at, oh god, p-please—I'm... I'm close—"

Harry rears up and hauls you with him, taking you by surprise. You're on your knees while he pounds into you, but then your thighs start to shake. Your body sinks down a little but his arms wrap around you, pulling your back tight against his sweaty chest.

Your head tilts to the side and your mouths collide in a wet, messy kiss before he suddenly pulls out, muffling your gasp. His hands twist you around and push you back onto the bed and then a moment later he's crawling on top of you, lips seeking out yours when he buries his cock deep once more.

You've never been manhandled in bed this way before and it's awakening something, fanning the flames that are already licking up your spine. He roughly pulls one leg over his shoulder, pinning the other flat into the mattress and you see stars behind your eyelids.

Your head flies back into his pillow when you pant his name. He has the nerve to smirk before dragging his lips down your throat.

"It feels good, huh?" he teases.

"Yes," you sob. The thick head of his cock is nudging against a sensitive spot inside that's leaving you breathless and dumbstruck. Your legs shake and your lip trembles as you claw at his chest.

Harry's gaze drags down your body underneath him, shaking his head in awe at how gorgeous you look all fucked out but still taking his cock.

"Look so pretty like this," he gasps, grinding his hips and watching the way your body twitches from the stimulation. "You're such a good girl. You're my good girl," he rambles as his impending high began to cloud his mind. Everything is growing soft and fuzzy at the edges. "I wanna watch you come for me one more time. Think you can do that for me?"

You whimper and he grinds his hips harder. Your eyes flash open in surprise and a second later his thumb finds your clit. He presses down gently before petting you with quick, firm circles. Harry winces when your nails dig into his chest but he keeps going.

"S-Say it again," you stammer. Harry blinks. He can't remember his own name, let alone what he just said.

"What, baby?"

You curse and strain under him. Your cunt is pulsing, the pleasure is climbing up but you aren't quite there.

"Wha— when you said—shit—" Your eyes squeeze shut and you draw in a ragged breath. It's fucking killing him. He's so fucking hard and he's so close. He groans and his hips still. Your shared desperate pants fill the air and then he asks again, "Say what?"

"Say," you lick your dry lips and force your eyes open. Jesus, you're a mess. You look like an absolute wreck and he did that to you. He's the only one who makes you feel this good, this lost. "Say... say I'm yours."

You sound so meek that it makes him melt. His face softens with a smile, then he starts to move again.

"You're mine," he growls, then your eyes flutter shut with a moan. Harry leans forward to suck on your neck, nearly bending you in half with your leg still tossed over his shoulder. You yelp and cry out something about him being deep, begging him to keep moving. "You're my good girl," he groans louder. Your pussy tightens, stealing his breath for a moment, but he steadies himself before his lips find your ear. "I'm gonna take such good care of you if you let me. I'll give you everything you want, everything you need, 'cause you're all mine, and I take care of what's mine."

The muscles in your stomach pull tight when you shatter around him. Your voice is garbled, hoarse and tired from crying his name, filling his chest with pride. Sweat drips down the sides of his head as he fucks you though it. He murmurs sweet praises in your ear while your pussy flutters around him, quickly drawing his own orgasm to the surface. Seconds later, Harry slams his hips into you with a loud smack and then seizes up. A broken moan rips from his throat as he spills into the condom. You squirm a little, sliding your aching leg off his shoulder to rest on the bed, wishing you could feel the heat of his release leak out of you. When Harry's shoulders relax and he collapses, you lift your trembling arms to hold him close. Your bodies are sticky with sweat. It's so hot, the way you're chests are fused together, but neither of you seem to mind. He buries his face in the side of your neck while he waits for his pulse to settle and you gently card your fingers through his tangled hair with your eyes closed.

"Stay with me?" he mumbles. He means it as a question but it sounds like a plea. You swallow down the tightness in your throat and nod.

Harry makes no attempt to move and you don't, either. The weight of his body pressing you into the bed and the steady thrum of his heart beating with your own is pulling you under.

He tightens his arms around your ribs and sighs. Music is still playing through the sound system but it's so soft that it's just relaxing you further.

You want to say it. You want to say the words that have been on the tip of your tongue for years but you hold back, too afraid of scaring him off when he's already made so much progress. You don't want to push him into something he isn't ready for but fuck, you want to tell him so badly.

But you figure he already knows. How could he not? He must see it in your eyes now when his head lifts to scan your face. His cheeks are flushed and he looks sleepy when he gives you a soft smile, and then his lips find yours once more.

"Your eyes are so beautiful," you whisper. He smirks, one loose curl falling limp against his forehead. The hand in his hair stills as you examine the color of his eyes, a deep chocolate so rich and bold that it pierces your heart.

"What'd I say about being cheesy?" he chuckles as embarrassment tints his cheeks. But you just shake your head.

"Can't help it," you murmur, still unable to look away from the color of his irises. The corner of his mouth twitches. He frees one hand from underneath you to pinch your chin, then leans in for one more kiss.

"I'm gonna move now," he tells you softly. You make a face then take a deep breath, steeling yourself. Harry shifts his hips backwards and slides out of you with a grunt. You gasp at the tightness in your hips and the cool air that cascades over your body when he rolls to your side. Your fingers wiggle, reaching for the sheets. He sits up and tugs them over you both before pulling you against him. His arms wrap around you under the covers. He nuzzles the top of your head when you press your face against his chest and he holds you just like that until your muscles relax and your breath deepens. Only when he's sure you're asleep does he gently remove himself from the bed to clean up in the bathroom, then turns off the lights and music. When he returns and sees the outline of your body through his silk sheets looking so sweet and tired, his chest aches. His feet can't carry him back to you fast enough.

He slips in next to you and your arms reach out for him in your sleep. Quickly, he wraps you back into his hold and he closes his eyes. His pulse slows. His body grows heavy. And he falls asleep with the knowledge that never in his life has it ever felt like this before.

---

The ache in your hips and legs wake you far too early, but you still smile despite the discomfort. It's the kind of ache you want to have. You want to walk around for the rest of the day with a tightness in your belly that reminds you of him.

One eyelid cracks open to look around the dark bedroom. The privacy blinds are down. They're impenetrable to sunlight. You realize it could be five in the morning or noon.

You roll over, arm stretching out and sweeping across the sheets for Harry, but his side is cold. Your eyes snap open now to search for him, then flicker to the bathroom. It's empty.

You frown and sit up, pressing the sheets tightly to your chest with one hand and rubbing your eye with the other. Where the hell is he?

To your right, you notice your phone on the nightstand. It's plugged into a charger next to a glass of still water. You grab both and pull the sheet back over you.

It's not even seven in the morning. Jesus, no wonder you still feel so tired. You drain your glass, set it back on the coaster, and open your phone. Aside from five texts from Mia celebrating the obvious reason you didn't return home last night, you had nothing.

An uncomfortable feeling settles in your chest. This is how all the others felt. Waking up alone, Harry no where to be found now that he got what he wanted. Did he even sleep next to you last night? You can't remember.

You drop your phone in the sheets and bury your face in your palms. This is it, isn't it? He's realized he made a huge mistake and he's distancing himself. He's setting expectations so you don't get your hopes up and think last night meant anything. For all you know he left the building. If you're lucky, maybe he thought to leave a note—

"Morning, Sunshine. Did I wake you?"

Your heart soars and you look up. The lights flicker on and then Harry's entering the room in just his boxers, holding a serving tray with a big plate, two bowls and two mugs, along with a newspaper tucked under his arm. He has a lopsided grin and his hair is a mess and you think he's never looked more perfect than in that moment.

"God, I somehow forgot you wake up insanely early," you grin as he carefully sets the tray down in front of you on the bed. He's made toast, eggs, fruit, yogurt, and coffee for you both.

"And I forgot you like to sleep in." He kisses your cheek before settling on top of the bedding next to you. He fans out the paper under his arm and reaches for his reading glasses next to the bed as you grab a piece of toast.

"Seven is not sleeping in," you remind him around a bite of food. He scoffs and picks up his mug, glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

"This'll never work. We're doomed, aren't we?"

You laugh and his smile curves around the rim of his cup.

"Probably. We had fun, though."

Harry's eyes sparkle mischievously when he says, "That we did."

You roll your eyes and tuck the sheet under your arms so both hands are free to take a sip from your own coffee. Beside you, Harry ruffles the newspaper, opens it to the financial section and scans the headlines. You watch him from the corner of your eye, dying a little inside at how domestic he looks in only his underwear and glasses, holding a cup of coffee and reading the paper like this were any other day. You must be looking at him too long because he twists his head and smirks when he catches you admiring his bare chest and soft stomach.

"Good?" he asks, jutting his chin towards the eggs. Your eyes lock and you nod.

"Great. Thank you."

He hums and watches as you pop a piece of strawberry into your mouth. His eyes darken a fraction when you lick your lips, but then he clears his throat and focuses back on the paper. Another few minutes go by in a comfortable silence—you're picking at the food and sipping coffee while Harry reads. His lips move slightly as he does and it makes you want to grab his face and pull him in for a deep kiss, but somehow you refrain.

"Do you want some?" you ask, holding up the bowl of fruit. He looks up, nods, and sets his coffee next to the bed. You're expecting him to take the bowl but to your surprise, he shifts to sit behind you, bringing the paper with him. His chin tucks over your shoulder as he continues to read and you have to bite your lip at how ticklish his beard feels against your neck.

"Grape, please."

You giggle and pluck a grape from the bowl to feed him. He makes a little noise when the fruit bursts in his mouth. His warmth feels so nice across your exposed back, so you lean into him a bit while you rifle through the bowl. His free arm snakes around your waist when you feed him a piece of kiwi and you're pretty sure you've never felt as happy as you are in that moment.

Eventually the fruit runs out but Harry stays where he is. He rests his head on your shoulder while he reads, and when you're full you pick up your phone to scroll. Next to you, Harry's leg is stretched out, partially covered by the sheets. You don't even pay it any mind until he shifts and the blanket falls. As if on instinct, his arm loosens around you to grab it, but then he stops. It takes you a second until you look and see his scars, fully exposed under the soft lights of his bedroom. His fingers hover over the sheets like he wants to hide them and you swear you can feel his chest still, like he's holding his breath. Then, slowly, his hand returns to its home on your waist.

The sheets stay where they are.

His scars remain uncovered.

And he starts to breathe again.

You drag your gaze back to your phone, hiding your smile. After another minute, he speaks.

"What do you want to do today?"

---

A farewell party at the Ritz-Carlton for a lowly assistant might seem extreme to some, but nobody attending bat an eye. Either they're already familiar enough with Harry's generosity or they're too excited to party in a swanky hotel with a top shelf open bar. It doesn't really matter to you and Harry knows that, but he wanted to do something special.

He's barely been able to take his eyes off you all evening. Everywhere you turn, someone is pulling you into some conversation before hugging you and sending you on your way. Meanwhile, he's stuck listening to the most boring men on earth yammer on about some potential client they swear they're going to sign this week. There's not enough tequila in the world to make these men interesting, especially when you're drifting around the ballroom in the most beautiful light pink dress. Everyone else is wearing black or navy, but not you. You wear what you want to wear—what you're comfortable wearing—and it makes you all the more stunning.

"Mind if I steal my brother for a minute, boys?"

Harry tears his eyes away from you when he hears Peter's voice. The three men stammer some combination of an apology and permission before Peter grins and leads Harry away by the elbow.

"Thank Christ," he grumbles before taking another sip from his glass. Peter smirks and turns to his brother once they find a quieter spot.

"You looked like you needed saving."

Harry rolls his eyes before instinctively scanning the crowd for you. "Any longer and I'd need to be resuscitated."

Peter laughs and looks casually around the room. "You seem distracted lately. But in a good way." Harry freezes and glances sideways at him.

At your request, the last two weeks you've kept your relationship a secret. There were certain implications that you didn't want drawn in regards to your leaving and finding a job. You didn't want people to assume Harry pulled strings for you when you worked hard for it, all on your own. He agreed, although it felt impossible to tear his eyes off you the last couple weeks. He probably had the dopiest looking smile on his face during every meeting you attended. So you had to resort to quick, secret kisses and shared looks across the room but honestly, he didn't mind it. It made the tension build up even stronger when you had to restrain yourselves and by the end of the day, neither of you could wait to tear each other apart. And sure, there was that one time in his office when things went too far and you both succumbed to temptation in the middle of the work day. Bending you over his desk when anyone could catch you turned you both on more than you could admit. But how could he not indulge in the fantasy at least once before you go?

Your last two weeks were certainly bittersweet.

"You think so?" Harry finally says with a shrug. "Must be the Chicago merger. Accounting's projecting huge amounts of revenue—"

"It's not that."

Harry sips his tequila and stays quiet. He scans the room again. His lips twitch when he sees you laughing and dancing with Clara, Peter's assistant. You look so happy and beautiful. He loves seeing you this way. He loves everything about you.

"You're in love."

Harry nearly chokes on his drink. He swipes his mouth and turns to Peter with wide eyes. "What?"

"Don't play dumb," he says. Harry looks at him, mouth agape, while he struggles to come up with something to say. Peter eventually sighs and turns towards him, creating more privacy. "It's fine. We don't have to talk about it. But I can just tell."

"Wha—what? How?"

Peter shrugs. "We've been seeing a counselor. Me and Charlotte," he says, scratching his beard and averting his gaze towards the dance floor. "She's been shedding some light on what we spoke about and, anyway... I don't know. The way this doctor talks about falling in love... lately, you look like what she's been describing, is all."

Harry blinks and remains silent. It's a lot to take in all at once and it doesn't help that he's a little tipsy. Fortunately, Peter keeps talking.

"Stuff like acting blissfully happy. Nothing sees to get you down. Putting more effort into your appearance. More agreeable than usual..."

"I don't think I've been—" But Peter cuts him off.

"You told Mom you would take her to lunch at the tennis club this weekend with the biggest smile on your face," he says, "I don't think you've ever done that without Dad threatening you first."

Harry thinks about it for a second, then slowly brings his glass to his lips.

"Alright. Maybe," is all he says.

"Is it Lucy?"

Harry's shoulders stiffen. "No. Absolutely not. She got back with her ex, just like you thought."

Peter waits for his brother to say something else, but Harry is determined to keep quiet. One day soon he hopes to tell him, but he wants to discuss it with you, first. Eventually, Peter pushes off the bar and claps Harry on the shoulder, ready to make his exit.

"I'm happy for you," he says with a hint of sadness.

"How's the counseling going?"

He sighs and lets his arm fall to his side. "Okay. Some progress is being made but not as much as either of us thought. We'll see, I suppose."

Harry nods. "I hope it helps."

With a wistful smile, Peter disappears into the crowd, leaving Harry alone for the first time all evening. With no one to bother him, he leaves his almost empty glass on the bar and walks slowly around the room. His hands slide into his pockets and he smiles when he finds you again. You're talking to someone from legal but your eyes are drifting around the room every chance you get. You're looking for him.

Harry continues to move. His gaze never leaves you, even when people get in the way, he doesn't see them. Not really.

He only sees you.

He pauses when he's on your side of the ballroom, finds a pillar to lean against, and keeps watching. You're nodding and smiling to the young woman in front of you but he can tell your heart isn't in it. You don't want to be there.

Finally, your gaze finds him and your face lights up. His heart skips a beat and his smile widens and suddenly, you're the only two people in the room.

He loves you. Always has, he's pretty sure. How he missed it is beyond him. It's always been you. You're the one he always calls first, always thinks about first. He tells you everything and you accept him, just as he is. Through everybody and everything, you're the only constant. You're the only thing that feels real. The only one he can't live without.

Harry straightens up. Smooths down his tie. Subtly nods towards the door and gives you a wink, then turns to thread his way through the thinning crowd. It's getting late and people are drunk, they shouldn't notice him leave. But Harry's not paying attention as he moves and doesn't notice Peter at the bar on his phone. Peter spots him walking by but doesn't say anything. He just waits. Watches. Then, five minutes later, he grins to himself when you slip by, following Harry's path out the door.

Outside, Harry waits in the back of his car. He asked Lou to pull around the corner and park. Now, Harry's impatiently tapping his fingertips on his leg, waiting for you to appear so he can take you home.

When he hears your heels clicking on the sidewalk through his open window, he stops fiddling with his emerald ring and leans forward. Sure enough, you round the corner holding your small purse and wearing a smile.

"Need a ride?" he asks. You bend down to peer inside with a giggle.

"Does that line work on all the ladies?"

He wiggles his eyebrows. "Hoping it works on this one."

You laugh and reach for the door. He slides over to make room and his arm naturally drapes around your shoulders after you close the door.

You roll the window up, lean against him and sigh. "I'm tired."

"Let's get you home," he murmurs, then nods to Lou in the mirror. "Brooklyn," he says. You pout but you don't have a change of clothes or anything with you to stay at Harry's place.

"How about you come stay the night Sunday?" he offers, kissing the top of your head. "I'd like to drop you off for your first day."

You nod and yawn. "Okay," you reply.

The rest of the ride is quiet. You close your eyes and rest on his shoulder while Harry looks out the window, at the street lights streaking by, at the dark water below the bridge, and he thinks. He thinks about all those signs he missed the last few years and how he wishes he could have seen it sooner. But then he looks down at you when Lou turns onto your street and he smiles—what matters is you have each other now. He pushes the what ifs from his mind and squeezes your hand when Lou slows to a stop in front of your building.

"We're here," he tells you quietly. You stir, yawn, and haul yourself up.

"Thanks, Lou," you say. He winks at you in the mirror as Harry slides out of the backseat, rounds the back of the car, and opens your door. You take his hand and stand, wincing when your aching feet hit the sidewalk. Harry smirks and shuts your door.

"Regretting some of those dance moves?" he asks as he leads you up the steps. You pull out your keys and shake your head.

"Nope. Not at all."

You look up at him then and Harry swears you have stars in your eyes. Something in his chest tightens and his hands lift to cup your face, all on their own. His thumb strokes your cheek and you melt a little before reaching up onto your tiptoes to give him a kiss. Neither of you rush it. You let your lips linger together. There's no intent behind it, no lust. Just that little four letter word that hangs in the air above your heads whenever you're together.

You finally pull away first.

"Thanks for the ride," you say before turning to the door. He watches you fit your key into the lock and twist. The snap of metal on metal acts like a switch in his brain. Before you step into the lobby, his hand shoots out to grab your wrist. You spin, lips parted in surprise, and blink up at him.

There is no fear. There is no doubt.

Harry smiles.

"I love you."

Your breath catches in your throat. You stare up at him, eyes wide as the words settle over you. He watches you swallow the lump in your throat before you speak.

"Say that again."

"I love you," he repeats without hesitation. In a flash, your eyes fill with tears. Harry chuckles and pinches your chin. "I'll say it as many times as you want, Sunshine," he says. A broken sob slips past your lips. You throw your arms around his neck and pull him down, mouths crashing together like you're fighting for air, only breaking the kiss when your trembling lips can't do what you want them to do.

"I love you, too," you tell him fiercely. You press your foreheads together and grab the sides of his face. "I love you," you say again, voice cracking, "I've loved you for so long—"

"I know." Harry cuts you off and gently wipes your wet cheeks with his hand. His throat starts to close up but he pushes on. "I know. And I'm sorry it's taken me so long—"

"It's okay," you whisper, eyelids sliding shut. You roll your forehead over his like you're trying to ground yourself.

"Thank you for waiting for me," he says softly. The emotion in his voice brings a fresh wave of tears to the surface. "Thank you for not giving up on me," he adds, and you laugh a little before craning your neck to look up at him.

"I would have waited forever." You're smiling through your tears. Red rimmed eyes are shining with so much brightness and love. "I've always been yours, Harry."

He kisses you again, slowly, like he's trying to make up for every single kiss he never gave you. His hands cover yours on his face and he smiles before pulling them off and kissing each of your knuckles, one by one.

"See you Sunday?" he murmurs against the back of your hand. He looks up at you through his dark lashes. You're nodding and blinking away the rest of your tears.

"Ye-yeah. Sunday."

He drops your hand and straightens up. "Why don't you bring some extra stuff to keep at my place?"

You swallow and nod again. "That sounds like a plan."

Harry smiles and leans to the side, watching as you push your door open with trembling fingers. You whisper one more farewell before closing the door, and Harry doesn't get back into the car until he sees your light turn on upstairs.

On the drive back to his apartment, he gazes out the window, smiling at the irony of it all.

He used to think love was the most difficult thing in the world. Turned out it's so easy when it's with you.

[punkshort]

long way down | yellow (extra scene)

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader

Chapter Summary: Harry and Peter have a tough talk and Harry has his first session in therapy. (Takes place between ch 6 & 7)

Chapter Warnings: language, angst, pining, self-doubt, mental heath struggles, therapy

WC: 2.5K

A/N: surprise! this is a scene I had in my head that I couldn't quite fit in either chapter but I thought it was important so here it is—enjoy! looking forward to sharing the finale with you all!

Series Masterlist

It's half past one in the morning when Harry's phone rings. He was tossing and turning anyway, unable to sleep properly since you left. Your scent still lingers on the pillow he refuses to wash, but it's growing faint and making him restless.

With a deep sigh, he pushes himself up and reaches for his phone, then frowns when he sees the name.

"Peter? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry to wake you," his brother says. Harry can hear his footsteps echoing in the background, like he's in a parking garage. "Mind if I crash at your place tonight?"

Harry pauses. "Uh. Yeah. Of course. Everyth—"

"Great. I'll be there in twenty."

Then the line goes dead.

Harry pulls the phone from his ear and stares down at it for a second before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He flicks on the lights and pulls on his pants before wandering out into the dark, empty apartment, turning on lights as he goes.

He stands in his kitchen, looking around. His fingers fidget at his sides. It's so quiet it almost hurts his ears. His gaze lands on the coffee maker and he takes one step towards it before turning around. Bad idea.

He finds himself in his sitting room next. The ticking of the huge clock on the wall grates his nerves, so Harry finds the remote for the fireplace and turns it on. The whoosh of gas and the crackle of the flames cut through the uncomfortable silence and he relaxes.

Next, he saunters over to the window. He finds his body is naturally drawn to the one facing Brooklyn and he sighs. He rests his forearm on the glass above his head and stares like he's trying to search for you from miles and miles away.

What if he loses you forever? What if he can't be the man you need him to be? He tries not to let his mind go down that path again because it always circles back to the same haunting question: what if he is truly unlovable?

"Jesus, you look like Batman over there. Brooding and staring out over the city."

Harry whips around to find Peter dropping an overnight bag by his couch.

"Hey," he says, sizing his brother up from across the room. Based on the drawn look on his face, Harry asks, "Need a drink?"

"Make it a double."

He nods and heads to the bar to pour a scotch while Peter collapses onto the couch with a groan.

Before he can even ask, Peter speaks.

"That honeymoon phase really doesn't last as long as everyone says."

Harry quirks an eyebrow and hands him the glass. Peter nods appreciatively and takes a long drink.

"Well, maybe it's just growing pains. Living together for the first time and all that."

Peter grunts and stares down at the glass in his lap as Harry sinks into the chair opposite him. A few minutes pass in silence where Peter seems lost in thought, then he finally speaks.

"Why didn't it work out with Lucy?"

The question throws him off guard. Harry straightens up in his chair and clears his throat. He chooses to give his brother the watered down version.

"She wasn't in love with me."

Peter nods slowly.

"I don't think Charlotte's in love with me, either."

She's a good match. She has the same values. She wants the same things. She doesn't have an immature take on marriage.

All the things Peter told Harry once upon a time repeat over and over in his head. It was never explicitly stated but whenever the brothers spoke about Peter's impending nuptials, the word love was never used.

"What makes you think that?" he asks.

"Whenever she says it," Peter begins, "it sounds hollow. And I swear she's only happiest whenever we're around her sister, like she's showing me off or something."

Harry scratches his jaw. "And what about you?" Peter glances up. "Are you in love with her?"

"You've already asked me that."

"And you always give me a shitty answer."

Peter gives his brother a knowing look. "As much as I can be, but you know how it is. I told you. It's not like a movie. It's math. We fit together well. I thought she knew that. I thought she was good with that, but..." He trails off, uncertain.

"I thought she understood what you could offer," Harry says, ignoring the verbiage that obviously came directly from Lucy. Peter sighs and takes another drink.

"I thought so, too. But I think she wants more, and—"

He cuts himself off. Stares blankly out the window.

"And you don't think you can give her more?" Harry finishes for him. Peter's eyes slide shut and nods.

"They always want more," he mutters, defeated. "I thought Char was different."

Harry thinks about it for a minute. He thinks about Lucy, he thinks about her take on love and marriage. How she agreed marriage is a business deal but admitted love needs to be on the table. Then, Harry thinks about you. Everything else in his life feels like a negotiation, but not with you. In fact, you're the only thing in his life that doesn't feel cold and calculated. You feel warm. You feel like light. You feel like more.

"Have you ever wondered why we can't give anyone more?" Harry asks suddenly.

"I don't know," he says softly. Harry purses his lips, deep in thought. "Think we can pin it on Mom and Dad?" Peter grins, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. Harry chuckles anyway.

"I don't think it's that easy. But we could blame Dad for the genetics."

Peter laughs and it looks like the tension is finally loosening from his shoulders.

"Grandpa was actually shorter than us, remember?"

Harry shakes his head. "Barely. He wasn't around much, but I've seen the pictures."

He twirls the emerald ring on his finger as quiet fills the apartment once again. Peter stares at the fire, leg bouncing anxiously while the gears in his head churn.

"Do you really think we're the way we are because of the height thing?" he finally asks.

Harry shrugs. "I think that might be part of it, yeah."

The endless teasing when all his friends rocketed through growth spurts in high school while Harry hardly grew an inch always stuck in the back of his mind like glue through everything he did in life. Harmless jokes evolved into something meaner when it left his friend group and had him faking sick more than once so he could avoid school. Taking group photos always sent a streak of panic through him and there was even one dance when he padded the heels of his shoes to make him an inch taller so he didn't look so pathetic in front of the girls. To assume his self confidence issues surrounding his height didn't follow him into adulthood would be stupid.

"I hoped getting the surgery would fix all that," Harry admits, scratching his jaw.

"It solved the immediate problem but didn't erase all those years of feeling like we're not good enough," Peter adds as if he was reading his mind.

"It's easier to reject someone before they can reject you." Harry sounds sad as he gazes out the window, at the dark night sky sparkling by the city below. "So you just never let them in," he continues, "that way, you're always protected."

Peter nods and drains his glass.

"We're more fucked up than I thought," he jokes. Harry smirks. He's not wrong, but identifying the issue and saying it out loud makes his chest feel so much lighter.

"Doesn't mean we can't fix it," Harry says.

"What, like therapy?"

"Yeah, why not?"

Peter falls silent.

"I guess," he mumbles before standing to refill his glass. Peter doesn't sound convinced, but Harry is already scanning his contacts in his mind. Didn't his attorney mention once before he sees a therapist? He makes a mental note to call him in the morning.

After he got Peter set up in the guest bedroom, Harry wanders back to bed. He isn't entirely convinced therapy would be the cure all, but it's worth a shot because if he really was going to prove he could be good for you, he needs to make some positive steps forward.

---

"So, Lucy is your assistant?"

Harry blinks and shakes his head. "No. Lucy is my ex."

Dr. Parsons frowns and looks down at his notepad. Harry liked him the moment they met. He's older than him by maybe ten years and he has an office that feels more like a home: dark cherry wood floors, deep emerald green rugs, cream sofas and a leather chair that looks well worn. His desk is made from real wood that matches the built in bookshelves behind it. Even the floor length curtains look heavy and expensive. The space is welcoming and warm, it immediately put Harry at ease.

"Harry..." Dr. Parsons says, "you told me over the phone you wished to discuss your difficulty with romance, yet you spent almost this entire session talking about your assistant." He looks up at him across the glass coffee table, which housed a small plant, a box of tissues, and two mugs of coffee.

Harry sighs and scratches his beard but doesn't say anything.

Dr. Parsons sets his pen down and laces his fingers together in his lap. "You know what I'm about to say."

"I think she loves me," Harry admits, "but I don't know how I can be what she needs."

"What makes you think that?"

"I don't think I'm capable of love," he answers simply.

"You don't think you're capable, or deserving?"

Harry pauses and Dr. Parsons smiles.

"Would you like to know my opinion? Granted, we only just met—"

"Yes," Harry says quickly.

"I think you've built up your defenses for so many years that you're not able to see the most glaringly obvious fact."

Harry quirks an eyebrow. "Which is...?"

"Which is, you're capable. You're very capable. But you do not think you're deserving."

"No," Harry laughs, "I'm sorry, but—"

"Allow me to elaborate," Dr. Parsons says. Harry grins in disbelief and waves his hands, urging him to continue. "You bought an engagement ring and planned to propose to a woman who broke up with you and admitted she didn't love you." Dr. Parsons pushes his glasses further up his nose. "You didn't bat an eye. You were ready to devote your life to her, yet you shook her hand and sent her on her way. You didn't even bother fighting for her. But you're sitting here across from me right now fighting for someone else."

Harry shrugs and fiddles with his ring.

"You didn't come to therapy to fix yourself for Lucy," he continues.

"No, you're right," Harry says, "I tried very hard to love her. I want to learn how to love, but I'm not convinced I can."

"That's what I'm trying to say," Dr. Parsons replies, leaning forward in his chair. "You shouldn't have to force it. There is nothing to learn, Harry. You already feel it. You just can't see it."

Harry falls quiet, his mind turning over the words.

"You're already in love," Dr. Parsons says quietly. "But there's something holding you back from admitting it. There's something you're not telling me, something that's happened to you in your life to make you feel unworthy."

Harry's mouth moves faster than his brain. "Eight years ago, I had surgery," he says, the words tumbling out. He tells Dr. Parsons everything: he tells him about his insecurities growing up; both with his appearance and his place within his family, about how he and Peter had the surgery done together, and how much better their lives have been since.

"Did Lucy reject you because of this?" he guesses, but Harry shakes his head.

"I suspected it because she broke up with me the night she found the scars, but after we spoke, I don't think—"

"Wait, I'm sorry," Dr. Parsons chuckles. "She found out? You didn't tell her?"

"No."

"And you were ready to marry her without telling her this secret beforehand?"

Harry swallows tightly and nods.

"Are you afraid your assistant will reject you when she finds out?" he asks, scribbling something in his notepad.

"She already knows."

Dr. Parsons pauses mid sentence and looks up at Harry in shock.

"You told her?"

"Yes."

"But you never told Lucy until you had to."

"Yes."

Dr. Parsons gives him an exasperated look.

"Do you hear yourself?"

Harry blinks but doesn't respond, so Dr. Parsons raises one hand, counting off each point he makes on his fingers.

"You're here because you want to learn how to love, but not for the woman you almost proposed to. You shared your most vulnerable secret with another woman you claim you're not in love with. You are clearly more upset about your assistant giving her notice over a serious relationship falling apart. You prioritized your assistant over your ex-girlfriend on three different occasions that you shared with me, and you sit there still convinced you are not capable of being in love."

"I—"

Harry cuts himself off, unsure what to say. If only he knew the half of it. Now that Harry is really looking, the signs were there all along that not only his heart desires you, but also he and Lucy were never meant to be. He imagines if he told the doctor about the night of John's play, he'd have a field day. Even back then, he and Lucy were drifting in different directions.

Dr. Parsons lets him sit with it for a few minutes, patiently waiting for Harry to see the light. Finally, he exhales loudly and drags his gaze up to the doctor.

"What do I do?"

Dr. Parsons grins.

"What does your heart tell you to do?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Christ," he grumbles, "this isn't a movie."

"Why not?"

"Because," Harry laughs, "this is reality! There's certain rules to follow. There's steps—"

"No, there isn't," Dr. Parsons says. "You're overthinking it, Harry. Love isn't black and white, and I think you proved that with Lucy."

"What do you mean?"

"You went through the motions with her. You did and said all the right things. You gave her what she said she wanted. You spent money on her, complimented her, waited the appropriate amount of time, and then bought a ring. You followed the script and it still didn't work."

"Right," Harry says slowly.

"So, following those imaginary steps failed."

Harry doesn't respond.

"You said you think your assistant loves you," Dr. Parsons says, looking down at his notes. Harry nods. "Despite all your perceived faults, despite her knowing who you really are, she still loves you. What are you so scared of?"

Harry's shoulders sag. "I don't know."

The notepad closes and the pen lays across the top.

"Something to think about for our next session. But if you want my professional opinion?" Harry looks up and nods eagerly.

"You need to stop thinking in black and white and start thinking in color."

Harry's gaze slips to the floor as a plan begins to take place. Then, he smiles.

He knows what he has to do.

[punkshort]

long way down | 6: bruises

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader

Chapter Summary: While Harry cares for you after your accident, you each reflect on your feelings for one another and grow closer than ever before.

Chapter Warnings: language, descriptions of injuries, pain/hurt/comfort, angst, fluff?, mutual pining, lil bit of sexual tension, heartbreak, slow burn

WC: 9.2K

Series Masterlist

It's funny how certain things cease to matter when you're faced with something so much heavier in comparison.

When you woke up that morning, your biggest concerns revolved around Brian, Harry, and your job... all valid concerns, to be sure, but now? Now, worrying about some guy you dated for a couple months, or another guy who you thought you were in love with but turned out to be a huge disappointment, or whether or not you should quit your job? All of that seems so stupid. There'll be other men and other jobs. Who cares?

All you care about right now is the splitting fucking headache you have and the sharp, incessant pain in your ribs. It's too bright in your room, so you keep your eyes closed. You're drifting in and out of sleep, anyway. It's warm here. The blanket on top of you is the softest you've ever felt. The pillow much nicer than the one you're used to. But it's louder. At first, you think you left your television on, but during one of your more awake periods you realize it's people talking. And how rude, too. Couldn't whoever Mia had over lower their voices? Didn't she tell them you have work in the morning?

Why is she up, anyway? You should scold her for that, but you're just too tired to move. She still has to finish packing and catch her flight after work. She's going to be exhausted.

Work.

How the hell are you going to shake this headache before work? Lately, every morning you awake with a headache brought on by your sobbing from the night before, but this one is so much worse. Did you drink too much? No, that wasn't it.

—and let us know if you need anything else, Mr. Castillo.

Oh, Christ. So you're back to dreaming about Harry. Wonderful.

... doctor supposed to come see her? I'd like to speak with them... worried she hasn't... how much longer will you let her...

You frown slightly in your sleep. What the hell is he talking about?

...looks good... scans... blood work and vitals are stable...

Did you fall asleep watching some medical drama and now you're dreaming Harry is a doctor? God, how pathetic, even for you.

Wake up.

Your brow flickers. Someone sucks in air next to you.

Sunshine?

You make a soft noise when you hear it. You thought you'd never hear it again, but you suppose even if it's just in your dreams, it'll be enough.

Then someone's warm hand is circling your wrist. You swallow but it hurts.

Can you hear me?

"Yes."

Your response is quiet. This is so weird. You're definitely dreaming but you've never felt like this before. It must be the lightest sleep of your life, you have no idea how else to explain it.

Open your eyes for me.

You try, but they feel so heavy. You make another noise and tilt your head towards his voice.

The hand leaves your wrist and there's suddenly a lot of movement next to you. Someone is looking for something in your bed. Next is the obnoxious sound of hard plastic knocking lightly against metal and normally it wouldn't be too bad, but today? With your monster headache? You flinch and whine.

Don't worry, I called the nurse, he's saying in your ear.

Nurse?

What the fuck is going on?

Adrenaline rips through you then. The fear and shock of whatever is happening is settling in and waking you up: you're not at home.

A minute before the room gets a lot louder, you crack open your eyelids. It's bright. It must be late in the morning but you squint, your gaze skating around the foreign room until they land on Harry.

Harry.

He's right next to your bed, holding your arm and leaning over you. His eyes look filled with worry. They even look a little watery and bloodshot as he scans your face in disbelief.

"Wha—"

You can't finish your question. Your throat is raw and it aches. One of your hands lifts to gently touch it and Harry's quickly reaching for your water. When you look down to take a sip from the straw he so graciously holds still, you see the IV lodged into the top of your hand and your eyes widen.

The door to your unusually luxurious looking room pops open revealing two nurses, one with a stethoscope in her hands and the other wheeling in a computer. Harry kind of fades into the background while the nurse performs a cursory exam. She checks your vitals, glances at your monitor, checks your pupils, and all the while she's murmuring information back towards the other nurse, who is busy tapping away on her computer.

"Hey sweetie, my name is Ashley. Can you tell me your name?"

She asks the question like you're a child and it bugs you a little, but you still respond as politely as you can. She nods in encouragement and asks a few more simple questions. You're beginning to connect the dots now that your brain is waking up. You must have some type of head trauma. It would explain the headache and the questions.

But what happened?

"What's the last thing you remember, honey?" Ashley is flipping your blankets up and checking your ankles while you think.

"Um. I was leaving work. It was raining," you say slowly, voice rough as gravel. Ashley doesn't give anything away, just listens while she continues her checks, but over her shoulder Harry is nodding. You must be saying the right things.

"Oh! I called an Uber!" you exclaim, voice crackling a bit from your sore throat. "I didn't want to walk to the subway, so I called an Uber," you repeat confidently.

"That's right," Ashley replies cheerily. She puts your blankets back then goes to scan a big IV bag filled with clear liquid. "Do you remember what happened next?"

Your eyes drift to Harry. He's got his back against the wall, arms crossed with his phone clutched in his hand. He's staring at you like he's afraid to look away.

"Was there an accident?" you guess.

"You tell me," Ashley says.

You close your eyes and try to think. It was pouring rain. You had a shitty enough week and didn't feel like cramming yourself into the subway stinking of stale rainwater, so you treated yourself to an Uber. You remember the car. It was small and you thought at the time the thing looked like a tin can, but you hopped in.

Then—

"Yes. There was an accident," you say aloud. Your eyes crack open again. "I think the car hydroplaned or something. It felt like we were on ice and the driver slid right into an intersection."

The nurses exchange pleased looks and Harry breathes a sigh of relief.

"Very good," Ashley smiles as she hooks up your IV. "Can you tell me what hurts right now?"

"My head," you tell her instantly.

"You smacked your head against the window pretty hard. You have a concussion," she tells you. Right as you lift your hand to touch your temple, a gorgeous brunette wearing a white coat bustles inside the room. She addresses you by name cheerfully and breezes over to your side. Her perfume smells heavenly and expensive. Her makeup is flawless. Her hair is even perfectly styled. This woman could have easily walked right off the runway. If you weren't feeling out of place before, you certainly are now.

"I'm Dr. Harris. I've been the physician on call since you arrived last night," she tells you with a dazzling smile. You swallow while she performs her own tests and your gaze flickers to Harry, expecting him to be lit up like a Christmas tree at the sight of this drop dead beautiful woman, but his eyes have yet to leave you. He gives you a small smile and then his phone chimes in his hand, drawing his attention downwards.

The nurses chatter with Dr. Harris while she checks your eyes and reflexes again. They tell her how you answered the questions provided and about your pain, to which she nodded and rattled off some medicine to administer. The nurse at the computer gets to work ordering the drugs while Dr. Harris picks up the remote by your head and turns on the television.

"I'm going to bring your tests and scans up on the screen so it's easier for you to see," she explains while she flicks around to the right setting. Harry pockets his phone and slips through the medical staff to stand by your side, clearly curious about what was being shown.

"Where's Mia?" you ask him softly. He tilts his face with a tender look and crouches down.

"She went home to sleep. She was here for hours til I got here right before five. I told her you're awake and I sent Lou to go get her. She'll be here soon."

You nod and search for the time somewhere in your room. "Shit. It's almost three. She has a flight at seven."

"I know."

"She can't cancel it, Harry. Her sister—"

"I know," he repeats firmly, then gives your wrist a comforting squeeze. "It's alright. Don't worry."

"But—"

"Okay! So what I have up here is your CT scan..."

You give Dr. Harris your attention while she explains as simply as she can the extent of your injuries. After she flipped through a handful of different tests that made your stomach twist when you considered what it'll end up costing you, her conclusion was a pretty bad concussion, some bruised ribs, a very painful contusion across your chest from your seatbelt, and a handful of scrapes and sprains.

"Is the driver okay?" you ask when she wraps up. She gives you a warm smile.

"He's fine. He went home already. He felt terrible and asked his husband to send you flowers, so be on the look out for those," Dr. Harris says with a wink.

It's only half an hour at most but by the time the doctor and nurses leave—making sure to give you a pain reliever as a parting gift, first—you feel exhausted.

Harry crosses the room once it's quieter and slumps into a chair with a sigh. He tiredly rakes his fingers through his hair as he studies you in your bed. Your eyes are feeling heavy from whatever the doctor prescribed but you fight the sleep. Instead, you look around the room, taking in the dining area, mini fridge, satin mauve curtains... frankly it looks more like a five star hotel than a hospital room.

"You were in rough shape, Sunshine," Harry says, dragging your attention back to him. "Had us a little freaked out."

"Sorry," you murmur. He smirks.

"Don't be. Just glad you're okay."

You smile a little and avert your gaze, suddenly shy. The last time you saw Harry it wasn't exactly under great terms. You had just given him your notice and pretty much wore your fucking heart on your sleeve in the process. Now you're even more vulnerable in a hospital bed hooked up to all sorts of machines.

"What kind of room is this? I've never seen one so nice," you say, hoping to shift the attention off you. Harry glances around and you take a moment to try to fix your hair.

"Yeah. It's nice. I guess you lucked out, it was the only empty room."

"Sucks that it had to be my first stroke of luck in ages, but I'll take it," you laugh softly. Harry smiled wide at your little joke, corners of his eyes crinkling as he watched you shyly stare down at your hands. The amount of stress and fear that coursed through his body all day left him feeling weak, but hearing you laugh gave him the second wind he needed.

"I have a question but I don't want to sound ungrateful," you say, still staring down at your tangled fingers. Harry leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together, waiting. Your eyes find his again when you ask, "Why are you here? How did you know?"

Harry exhales lightly through his nose and looks down at the floor. "Mia called me."

"But—how did she get your number?"

He swallows tightly before deciding to keep it simple. "I texted your phone. She had it at the time and called me."

"Oh," you breathe with a nod. That makes sense.

"Are you hungry?" Harry jumps to his feet and crosses to the other side of the room, where a phone and menu sit. "Doc said you can get whatever, you don't have any restrictions."

"Harry—"

"Maybe something soft. Yogurt?"

"Harry."

He swivels around, looking at you with raised brows. "Yeah?"

"Why did you text me in the middle of the night?"

He blinks and just continues to stare, clearly taken aback.

When he doesn't answer right away, you continue to push. "You said you got here before five. I mean, even by your standards, that's early to be texting."

He gives you a crooked smile and shrugs. "Couldn't sleep."

The door swings open just then and you both turn to watch a visibly shaken Mia with tired, puffy eyes enter the room.

"Oh, my god!" she exclaims, practically tripping over her feet to your bedside. Her arms hover in the air, trembling with adrenaline and relief as she gives you a good once over. "Can I—can I hug you?"

You nod and she wraps her arms around you as tight as she dared. Tears slip down your cheeks so you squeeze your eyes shut, but then you feel Mia's tears soaking the shoulder of your hospital gown and you feel a little less dramatic.

"I'm gonna take a walk. Give you two a few minutes," Harry says while setting down the menu. You peel open your eyes and Mia steps out of your embrace with a loud sniffle.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks," she says as he walks past. You look down and realize he's wearing two different shoes. For some reason, it makes you grin.

Harry gives Mia one firm nod and quickly flickers his gaze towards you, like he's silently communicating something, and then he's gone.

"Goddamnit, you scared the shit out of me!" she exhales while dragging a chair across the room to sit by your bed. "What did the doctor say?"

You tell her everything, although you're certain you got some things mixed up, but the basics are there: you'll have some pain for a while and you'll be okay.

"Did they say when you can go home?"

"No, but I'm hoping soon. They said the driver already went home."

Mia exhales loudly and collapses into her chair, like the stress you had just put her through was physically leaving her body at that moment, wringing her dry. You glance at the clock again and see it's later than you thought.

"Listen," you begin, "I know you're going to want to cancel your trip, but I promise I can take care of myself. Please do not miss your sister's wedding on my account."

Mia pins you with a look and opens her mouth, but you keep talking.

"I can order food and whatever else I'll need. I'll be totally fine. I'll just end up sleeping most of this off, anyway."

"Well... there is another alternative," she offers slowly.

You frown. "What?"

She wiggles her eyebrows at you and bites her lower lip before she says, "Harry offered to take you to his place. He says he'll take care of you while I'm gone."

Your eyes widen and you shake your head, only to stifle a groan when the pain sharpens in your skull.

"Mia, I literally gave him my notice yesterday. Things are too weird with us and I can't stomach the idea of Lucy stopping by to bring flowers or soup or some other perfect fucking thing—"

"Yeah, he told me you quit. Way to fucking tell me, by the way," she retorts with a flick of her hair. "But you should know... he's barely left your side since he got here. The nurses told me when I got off the elevator just now that they tried to get him to take a break or get something to eat but he refused. Seems like he didn't take that resignation of yours personally, is all I'm saying."

Mia holds up her palms in surrender when you give her a death stare.

"He's just pitying me. I cannot stay with Harry. That would be mortifying."

Mia glares at you and leans forward so her hands dangle over the side of your bed railing.

"Listen. You either let him take care of you, or I'm skipping my sister's wedding. You choose," she shrugs casually, knowing full well you wouldn't live with the guilt of letting her cancel her trip.

"You bitch," you mutter. She tosses her head back with a loud laugh, forcing you to crack a smile against your will.

"I'm glad that's settled because my luggage is in the hall. That would've made for an awkward drive home."

You look at the clock again and gasp.

"You need to go, don't you?"

She sighs and taps her polished fingernails against the hard plastic railing. "I can stay for a few more minutes. I rescheduled for a later flight but you know how traffic is at JFK."

Your gaze softens and your shoulders slump a little. "Thank you," you whisper. She smirks and blinks away the tears that spring up, making you believe she's been fighting them back for your benefit the last few minutes.

"You're welcome."

She reaches out to squeeze your hand and you smile, feeling your own eyes start to sting now. Mia glances at the closed door before taking a deep breath and releasing your hand.

"Before I leave, there's one more thing I gotta say."

You swallow the lump in your throat that formed while you had been thinking how fortunate you are to have such a good friend.

"You know how I feel about this... thing you have with Harry." Your shoulders stiffen but you remain silent. "I know I've told you a million times to quit. I know I told you it's not healthy to be so hung up on him. But..." Mia chews the inside of her cheek in thought. "He's a good guy. He cares about you so much. I mean, look around," she chuckles, gesturing around the luxurious hospital room. "The moment he arrived he worked some magic and got you moved into this room that's bigger than our damn apartment."

You sit up straighter but don't say anything. Harry lied when you asked about the room earlier. Why?

"I think there's more to him that I thought. And maybe he just needs some time and a little help figuring out some stuff."

You arch an eyebrow. "What stuff?"

Mia sighs and rises to her feet before pointing an accusing finger at you. "Stuff about you."

"Me?" you squeak. She nods and crosses her arms.

"I think he's got a big, fat crush on you and doesn't know how to show it," she tells you with such confidence that your cheeks warm as you try to laugh it off.

"He doesn't, I can assure you—"

"When the nurses were asking for your medical history, he knew it all. He knew you were allergic to chickpeas. He knew you had asthma as a kid. He knew how old you were when you broke your arm in middle school. Who knows all that about their employee?" Mia argues. You stare at her, dumbstruck for a moment before you pull yourself together.

"That doesn't mean anything."

It's weak, even to your ears, because in reality your stomach is doing backflips at the image of Harry being the one to advocate for you when you needed it the most.

"He was so intense about every little thing, babe. He questioned everyone who came near you, every single drug or test they administered... shit, the doctor even assumed you were together and he didn't deny it."

A heavy weight pulls in your chest and you have to look away. It's a lot to process and you're heavily medicated but the flame that always flickers for him roars back to life after being reduced to embers from sheer force of will.

Mia seems to sense she may have overwhelmed you because she sighs and leans forward to give you one more hug.

"It's just something to think about. I wanted you to know how great he's been, and not just for you—for me, too. I was freaking out when he arrived and he sat with me, calmed me down, got me tissues and Tylenol and whatever else I needed." She shrugs and picks up her purse. "He's not a bad guy, is all."

"I know," you whisper.

Mia pauses to study you, watching the emotions flicker across your face as you put the pieces together. She smiles and turns to leave.

"I'll call you when I land. Be good and listen to Nurse Harry."

You scowl in her direction and she chuckles before opening the door. "Oh, he's got no idea what he signed up for."

---

Even though you've been in Harry's apartment countless times, this time you feel like a guest, completely out of place. He set you up in his bedroom because the bathroom was closer and more comfortable than the guest area. When you first arrived fresh from the hospital, he led you down the hallway without question. He had created this cozy looking spot in his bed filled with different sized pillows forged to hug your body and help keep you upright so you didn't have to strain your muscles too much when you had to get up. It's where you sat now wearing a set of pajamas Mia had packed separately along with her own things and handed the overnight bag off to him before she left for the airport yesterday.

The doctors only wanted to observe you for one more night. Once Harry got the news, he snuck back to his apartment while you slept to make things as comfortable as possible. And now as you watch him unpack your bag and fix the blinds so that it's not so bright in his room, you can see he looks exhausted. There are bags under his bloodshot eyes and he's fighting back yawns for your benefit, but he doesn't slow down. He shows you how to work his television, brings you fresh water and some crackers, reminds you when you need to take your pills, and then disappears into the bathroom to lay out your toiletries.

"Are you hungry? I can make you soup," he says as he exits the bathroom, your empty bag clutched in one hand. You blink at him tiredly after finding some baking competition show to doze off to.

"No, I'm good."

"Tired?"

You nod and watch him fuss with the blinds again.

"Go ahead and nap. I'll wake you up in an hour when it's time to take your pill," he says once he's satisfied with the lighting in the room.

"You need to rest, too," you remind him, but he shakes his head and strolls across his bedroom to adjust a dial on the wall. The lights in the room dim to an acceptable level and he drops his hand.

"I'm fine."

There's no use in arguing, even if you had the energy. He must be buzzing on an ungodly amount of espresso shots because it's the only explanation you can think of for his restlessness.

Your eyes must droop closed because in what feels like a minute later, Harry's gently shaking your shoulder, waking you up.

"Hey. It's time for your medicine."

You clear the sleep from your throat and sit up with a pained groan. He's quick to support you by the arm, helping you move with a murmured easy until you're upright. He fluffs the pillows surrounding you, leaning across your body to make sure they're positioned just so and leaving a lingering scent of his soap in the air. When he hands you your pill and a glass of water, you look at him closer. His hair looks slicked back and partially wet. He must have showered when you were asleep.

"How's your pain?" Harry glances at his watch. "You can take another pain pill if you need it."

It's not great, but you shake your head and hand him the glass. "I'll wait and take it before bed."

He nods and sets the glass back on the coaster next to the bed.

"You should really eat with this. Doc said it might upset your stomach." Before you can protest, he disappears out into the hallway, and then you can hear some dishes clattering from the kitchen. It makes you smile, even if it's just for a second, to have Harry dote on you so sweetly. It's a side to him you've never seen before. He's usually the one being taken care of while you race around getting him meals and collecting his laundry. You're not sure if he feels responsible somehow, like if he had insisted you had Lou drive you home that day instead of taking an Uber home, maybe this all could have been avoided, but of course it isn't his fault. It's nobody's fault, really. Just dumb fucking luck.

Five minutes later Harry reappears balancing a fancy looking wooden tray. On top is a bowl with steam curling upwards, clouding his face as he focuses intently on the tray so not a drop of soup spills.

"Here we go," he announces, setting the tray down carefully on the bed next to you. You breathe in deep the mouth watering scent and hum appreciatively under your breath.

"Smells good."

He grins and decides to drag his Eames leather lounge chair over to the bed so he can sit without disturbing you.

"Hope it tastes good, too."

As tempting as it smells, you're not in the mood to burn your mouth, so you let it sit to cool while you look around his room with a clearer head. It dawns on you when you see his suitcases shoved halfway into his closet that he's supposed to leave for Iceland, a fact that somehow slipped your mind.

"Oh, my god. Your trip," you groan, covering your face in shame. Harry looks over his shoulder and spots the luggage, then turns back to you with a sigh.

"Yeah, I cancelled it." His tone is flat, clearly not caring to elaborate, but you're riddled with guilt.

"You shouldn't have done that. Lucy's probably so pissed. Harry, I'm so sor—"

"We cancelled it before I heard about your accident," he tells you with a wave of his hand. You pause, obviously filled with questions you're too ashamed to ask. Even if you did, it doesn't look like he's in the mood to talk about it, so you let it go in favor of making your rumbling stomach happy.

You reach for the tray and immediately wince when pain radiates from your chest. Harry's expression drops and he jumps up.

"Sorry. Let me get that."

"No, it's—"

"Sit back."

You sigh and do as your told, allowing him to pick up the tray and flick the legs out from underneath so it's propped over your lap within perfect reaching distance.

"Are you sure you don't want another pain pill?" he asks with worry lacing his voice. You shake your head and lift your spoon to stir the soup. Harry slowly sits back down and watches you carefully. You take your first bite of soup, humming happily at the taste, but when you swallow you wince again.

"My throat still hurts. Why does my throat hurt?" you ask when you tenderly touch your neck.

"Doctor said that's from the seatbelt. It'll heal. Til then you should eat soft things," he explains. You look down at your fingertips grazing your skin and cringe at the black and deep purple bruises that reside just underneath the surface.

You take another spoonful of soup, better prepared that time for the sting when you swallow. It's not so bad now that you're ready for it, so you keep going. With each bite you can feel yourself perking up a little bit more and it's only until you're nearly finished that you realize something.

"Did you make this?"

"No. It's from a can."

"How did you find chicken noodle soup without carrots?"

"I picked them out."

You look up at him in surprise and he gives you a little shrug. "I know you don't like them."

He says it so simply, like it's a perfectly normal thing to remember. And maybe it is, but to you it means so much that it has tears burning the back of your eyes.

"You didn't need to do that," you say softly, but Harry just gives you a lopsided grin.

"I know."

You smile and look back down at your bowl, scooping up what remains while he sinks back into his chair to quietly watch the baking show you had left on.

"You need to eat, too," you remind him when he stands to collect your things. He's barely given himself a moment's rest and you can see it in his face.

"I'm good," he assures you.

"Did you eat?"

"Yes."

"Espresso doesn't count as eating."

He pauses with the tray in his hands, looking at you with faux surprise. "It doesn't?" he asks incredulously with a tone designed to make you giggle, and it works.

"Harry! Go eat! I'll be fine!"

He grins and strolls towards his door. "I did eat. You know the housekeeper preps all my meals."

"Ah, yes, of course," you smirk with a roll of your eyes. But before Harry disappears back out into the hall, he looks at you and raises the tray full of empty dishes.

"But she didn't prep the soup. That was all me and Campbell's, Sunshine."

And then he's gone, leaving you to burrow deeper into his sheets with a goofy smile on your face.

---

As the next two days crawl on you develop an easy routine. You fall asleep before him and wake after him. You don't even realize until the second night that he's been sleeping awkwardly in his chair near the window. The whole time you assumed he was in his guest room but when you awake one night to use the bathroom, you nearly scream when you see his darkened figure curled up under a blanket, snoring away.

You're equal parts touched and upset, and you make sure to tell him so when he brings you breakfast the following morning.

"I can take it," he says, and you almost believe him because his smile is so bright but you notice the dark circles under his eyes and frown.

"You don't need to hover. I'm fine. In fact, I can probably go ho—"

"Oh, no no. You're staying right here til Mia gets back."

He settles into his chair with a sigh. He kicks up his feet and picks up his coffee as he scrolls his phone, either reading the news or emails.

Emails. It hasn't even occurred to you that it's Tuesday morning and Harry isn't at work. You point it out around a mouthful of pancakes that are so fluffy and buttery, you almost moan.

"I was supposed to be in Iceland, remember? My calendar is clear. Aren't you supposed to be my assistant? You should know this. What, did you get hit on the head or something?"

You giggle, hiding the wince that threatens to give away the pain in your chest and side, and his face breaks into an easy smile before he looks back down at his phone.

"Do you want another pain pill?"

"I'm not in pain," you lie, discreetly rubbing your ribs.

"Yes, you are. Your laugh isn't the same. It hurts to laugh, doesn't it?"

You scowl and refuse to answer, making that smile of his broaden.

"Why are you fighting me on taking pain pills?" he asks.

"I don't like them. They're too strong and make me feel weird," you shrug, shoveling in more pancakes.

"Good weird?"

When you lift your gaze to meet his, he's grinning like an idiot.

"No, not good weird," you mutter.

"Well, this is supposed to be the good stuff. Should I call Dr. Harris and ask her to prescribe the good weird pills?" Harry glances at the pill bottle next to the bed and squints at the name. "If I could pronounce it, that is," he adds.

"No, I'm fine, I swear," you say with a shake of your head. "Maybe I'll take half a pill with lunch."

"A compromise. I like it. You've learned a lot in the last six years, huh?" he jokes, then his smile falters a bit and an awkward silence settles between you when the memory of your resignation returns to the forefront of both your minds.

Last week seems like a lifetime ago. Brian, the engagement ring, the river of tears, the way you heavily implied your feelings for Harry with your dramatic announcement. Your cheeks burn at the memory you desperately try to shake.

"It didn't work out," he suddenly says, and you stall mid-chew to look at him. He's staring down at his phone, coffee still casually held in the other hand, legs crossed one over the other. When you don't say anything, his eyes flick up to yours. "Me and Lucy," he clarifies, as if you didn't already connect the dots.

You nod slowly and try to ignore your racing heart. You have a million questions but you want him to tell you what he wants to tell you. He doesn't owe you anything, really, but it's hard to feel like you don't deserve an explaination.

"She found out about my surgery the night of your accident," he continues while you hold your breath with a mouthful of pancake. Anger flares hot in your chest all of the sudden. Did she really dump him because of something so trivial?

"She said she didn't love me and said I didn't love her," he adds, sensing your agitation. "She said it wasn't the surgery, but now that I've had a few days to think about it, I'm sure keeping that from her didn't help."

You swallow the food in your mouth and slowly set your fork down.

"You didn't... tell her? Before?"

He shakes his head and sips his coffee.

"Why not?" you whisper, stunned that Harry was on the verge of proposing to Lucy when he hadn't even told her his deepest insecurity.

But he told you.

Stop it.

"I don't know. It's not exactly something that comes up naturally," he shrugs, but you don't buy it.

"Harry, how did she not see the scars?"

He chews the inside of his cheek and stares blankly at the floor. For a minute, you think he won't answer, then—

"I hid them from her. Stayed in the dark. Things like that."

You exhale loudly and lean back into your pillow mountain.

"And you never told each other you loved one another?" you ask, feeling like you're prying at this point but your curiosity is too strong.

"I thought she felt the same way. I thought she understood," he says quietly. "I told you, I'm not capable of love. And I thought she saw marriage as a business deal, same as me. It's what she does for a living, for fucks sake," he chuckles dryly before shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "All her matches, all her clients... it's all math. It's a formula. It's not some fantasy of "true love", I just thought... I thought she understood."

He looks so sad that it actually makes you feel bad for him, something you didn't expect to feel in your wildest dreams when you fantasized about this moment.

"But she wanted love," you finish for him. He nods solemnly.

"She did."

"And you think you can't give that."

"I know I can't," he says firmly.

Your heart sinks. You really thought something might have changed with him, but hearing those words again dashes any sense of hope you have.

"I think you're wrong," you tell him, and he laughs.

"So does she."

You tilt your head to the side curiously. "She does?"

He nods and stands up to collect your plates.

"What did she say?" you ask, and Harry stops on his way out the door to turn and look at you. Everything Lucy said races through his mind: how she clocked his attraction for you, how she encouraged him to pursue you, and then when he broke down and texted you, asking to talk over coffee with the intention of pouring his heart out. But now that you're here in front of him, broken and bruised but still your sweet self, his confidence is gone. How can he tell you he thinks he's in love with you and expect you to stick around to find out if he's worth wasting your time on? How can he expect you to help him navigate these feelings after everything that's happened? It would be too selfish. It would be wrong. But as he stares at you, all sweet and doe eyed in his bed, the words sit on the tip of his tongue, begging to be said. Yet he swallows them down and gives you a weak smile.

"She said she's a professional."

---

That evening, after you shower while Harry hovered anxiously at the door, waiting to race in at the first sign of distress that never came, you sit in fresh clothes in his bed, scrolling through the endless options on his television. You can hear him cleaning up in the kitchen and for one brief moment, it feels domestic. It feels like this is what it could be, if he weren't so stubborn and difficult.

It's all Mia's fault, you decide. She's the one who pushed you, who planted this seed in your head that Harry might have feelings for you, but even if he did, after hearing him this morning still firmly believe that he is incapable of love is simply not good enough for you. The girl who he had plopped onto your kitchen table to tend to your scrapes before turning your world upside down wasn't the same girl who sat in his bed currently. A week ago, you would have let him fuck you because you were convinced you could change him, but if Lucy couldn't do it, how could you? And after everything with him and then with Brian... you aren't strong enough to go through something so hurtful again.

You need to let this idea of Harry go. For your own good.

"You wanna watch a movie?" he asks as he strolls into the bedroom. You blink away the tears that gathered and clear your throat while he disappears into his walk-in closet to change.

"Oh, it's Tuesday, I almost forgot. Yeah, sure."

He exits the closet and quirks an eyebrow at you with a grin, but you're too focused on trying not to stare at the grey sweatpants he chose to wear.

"Tuesday?" he questions.

You nod and force yourself to look at the television. "Yeah. Isn't Tuesday movie night?"

Harry picks up your water and a few other items intended for the trash as he nods at you in surprise. "Yeah. I just didn't think you knew that."

"When I first started you told me you couldn't attend a dinner because Tuesdays are movie nights," you said as you scrolled the millions of options with the remote. "You told me it was discount ticket night at the theater when you were a kid."

Harry pauses in the doorway to give you a stunned look.

"Yeah, I did. How the hell did you remember that?"

"You didn't notice in six years you've never had an engagement on Tuesday nights?" You look at him like he's stupid while it dawns on him that you've been working his schedule around one off-handed comment he made years ago. "And you say I'm the one who hit my head," you scoff before turning your attention back to the TV.

Once Harry snaps out of it, he leaves to fill up your water and get one of his own, along with some popcorn—extra butter—before he returns to you, still weighing your movie options in his bed.

How could he lose you? The thought grips his throat and brings panic to his chest. No one would ever be a good enough assistant compared to you. No one pays him this much attention or anticipates his needs the way you do. No one would ever care for him the way you do. He would be lost without you.

He needs to find a way to make you stay. Even though he has a strong suspicion as to the underlying reason for your resignation, the same thing he is also wrestling with, he needs to figure it out, and fast.

"How about Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?" he asks when he sets down both your glasses on the end table. He misses the way you cringe: that's a little too close to home.

"Too heavy," is all you say.

Harry settles into his chair and watches you thumb through the choices. "I thought it would be a good one. You know. Because of Sunshine. Get it?"

"Yeah. I get it. Still, too heavy," you mumble.

You settle on some superhero movie that Harry swears is supposed to be amazing because you figure it's better than any depressing drama or romantic comedy that could potentially mirror your own sad life.

Halfway through, you notice him shifting uncomfortably in his chair. You look at the other side of the bed, all empty and untouched, so you say his name to grab his attention.

"Just lay in the bed for the movie. Stretch out."

He seems to hesitate for a moment before relenting. You both figure his bed is big enough and it's just to watch a movie. But then he reminds you to take your pain pill, which within half an hour makes your eyelids heavy, and you fall asleep before the end of the final showdown between the hero and villain. As it turns out, Harry nods off as well because you wake up around three in the morning with the television displaying the title and summary of the movie you had just watched, along with Harry's arm slung protectively across your waist.

You should move. He doesn't need to leave his own bed, but you really should shift a little so his arm slips away. It's for your own good, you remind yourself, yet every time you build up enough gumption to do it, you chicken out at the last second. This goes on for who knows how long because eventually you fall back asleep, with Harry still loosely holding you around your middle.

When you awake in the morning, Harry's gone. The sheets are rumpled on his side of the bed, confirming that it wasn't a dream, that Harry really gravitated towards you in the middle of the night and held you like he needed the reassurance that you were real and okay.

You sit up in bed and rub your eyes with a yawn. The pain in your ribs is getting better and you're growing accustomed to the dull ache across your chest from the seatbelt. You're healing and feeling more like yourself every day.

It occurs to you that since you've arrived, you've only gotten up to use the bathroom or stretch your legs around Harry's massive bedroom, so you decide to wander out into the rest of the penthouse with your newfound strength. You walk quietly down the hallway filled with absurdly expensive art and stunning chandeliers hanging overhead until you find yourself in his kitchen, which is suspiciously empty.

On the counter you spot your hospital discharge papers. Curiosity lures you forward and you skim the pages of doctor's notes and print outs of detailed information regarding the injuries you sustained until you reached the very last page. It appears to be a list of charges, scans and tests printed out line by line with a dollar amount next to each one after your insurance was applied that made your stomach turn until you saw the very bottom of the page: American Express X1877 authorized, with Harry's signature on the line below.

He paid for everything. Almost ten thousand dollars just paid on his charge card like it's nothing.

Jesus Christ.

Your eyes well up with tears so quickly that you can't catch it when two drop onto the page in front of you.

"Hey, you're up."

You spin around with a sniffle to find Harry standing behind you with a crooked smile, which slips when he sees the tears in your eyes. Concern clouds his face and he takes a few steps forward.

"What is it?" he asks, brows furrowed as he scans you up and down. You shake your head and before you can stop yourself, you throw your arms around his neck and bury your face against his throat. His hands find your waist and now that you've moved forward, he sees the papers you were looking at on the counter and it dawns on him.

"I'm sorry, I was going to tell you—"

"Thank you," you breathe. Your tears soak his skin and your grip around his neck tightens as he closes his eyes with a sigh.

"You're welcome, Sunshine."

Just say it, Harry thinks. Tell her the truth.

But his throat clamps shut. He can't risk ruining this moment. It feels too good to have you this close, holding you like he's always wanted, smelling like his laundry detergent and his soap. So he just closes his eyes and breathes deep, memorizing the way you fit into his arms until you finally pull away to wipe the tears from your cheeks.

It's not the right time, he decides. If he told you how he's been struggling with his feelings for you, if he begged you to stay, you might take it the wrong way. He didn't pay for your hospital bill and bring you into his home to care for you as leverage to make you stay under his employment, and he didn't want you to feel obligated to change your mind because of what he did. He did those things because he cares for you—more than anyone else—and he just wants you to be happy.

"Seems like you're feeling better today," Harry finally says after you take a deep breath to shake off the overwhelming emotions.

You nod with a watery smile and straighten your shoulders.

"I feel a lot better," you tell him truthfully.

"Good. What do you think about getting some fresh air and taking a walk around the block?" he asks. A big smile stretches across your face, one he mirrors without even realizing it, and you nod again.

"I would love that."

---

The next few days pass too easily for you both. The ease at which you move together from morning to night becomes almost too comfortable. After the night where Harry fell asleep next to you, it wordlessly became a given he would share the bed. It started simply enough: you would read that godforsaken book you carried around in your bag and he would sit next to you on his laptop, quietly tapping away on the keys. When the sun set and the room was cast in a soft glow from the two lamps by the bed, it became a strain on his eyes. That was when you discovered Harry used glasses. When you first saw them perched on the tip of his nose one night when you came back from the bathroom, you had to stifle a laugh.

"What?" he had asked. You shook your head as you slipped between the sheets.

"Nothing."

He could hear the light, teasing tone in your voice.

"Is it the glasses?" he guessed. You pressed your lips together.

"I just never saw you with glasses before."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I'm getting up there, Sunshine," he reminded you.

You didn't say anything for a minute, just went back to your book and he focused back on the proposal in front of him. Then—

"I think they look good on you."

His head snapped up, lips parted in surprise, but you were still pretending to focus on your book.

Harry didn't say anything else, just smiled to himself as he continued to work.

In the mornings you would eat breakfast together in his kitchen. In the evenings you would help him cook, surprised to find that Harry was actually a very capable chef.

"Our mother didn't let us move out until we each knew how to make three decent meals in the kitchen," he told you over grilled chicken one evening.

"That sounds like Eleanor," you grinned.

Depending on the weather, the two of you would take short walks around his neighborhood. Twice he took you to a bakery nearby that he told you served the best cupcakes in the city, a bold claim that had you suspicious, but dammit if he wasn't right.

"This is the best cupcake ever," you said with delight and a mouthful of chocolate. Harry laughed and reached across the table to gently wipe away some frosting from your lip. You weren't even sure he realized what he did because he went back to his own cupcake like it was nothing, but the simple gesture had your heart doing cartwheels in your chest.

It was too comfortable. The lines were beyond blurred and neither one of you cared to address it. Maybe you both figured it was temporary, living this way, but every time you thought about the bigger picture—that soon, you would not only be going back to your apartment, but also moving on to find a different job—it had a heavy, unsettling feeling weighing in your chest.

Maybe it was weighing down Harry too, because on Friday morning—your last day together since Mia was returning that afternoon—you awake to find your bodies tangled together under his covers, like you had sought each other out in the middle of the night for comfort.

It's the first morning you woke before him. He looks so peaceful laying on his side, facing you, arms wrapped protectively around your shoulders and one leg somehow wedged between both of yours. You take the opportunity to study his face up close: his disheveled, curly hair that flops loosely over his forehead, the fine lines near his eyes that smooth out when he's relaxed, the salt and pepper scruff that sweeps across the hard line of his jaw, the fucking warmth that radiates off his body.

You've never felt this at peace before with another person and you hate how complicated this had to become between you to get to this point. You inhale deeply the citrus scent of his shampoo and the faint hints of his cologne from yesterday. It's an intoxicating mixture that has your muscles relaxing and a soft sigh expelling from the back of your throat.

You're not sure if you're the culprit or not, but his eyelids flutter open then. He does one cursory glance around the brightly lit room before his eyes find yours, already looking up at him all sleepy and warm and perfectly content. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registers how your limbs are tangled together, how inappropriate it is, and yet all he can think about is your lips and how soft and inviting they look in the morning light.

He remembers how good it felt to kiss them. He remembers how easily they parted and gave way for his tongue. He remembers the sounds you made and the tremble in your hands when you unbuttoned his shirt and before he can stop it, there's a stirring between his legs. Something flickers in your eyes when you feel it, but you don't move.

Harry swallows thickly and slowly lifts one hand to cup your cheek. You lean into his touch without looking away, as if you're daring him to do it, daring him to take things further. Fuck, he wants to. He really, really wants to. He wants to roll you over and settle his hips between yours. He wants to grind against your center and pull moans from you that'll have him dizzy with lust for days. He wants to taste you, feel you, fuck you, have you in every possible way. But he needs to do this right. He can't screw things up again. And you're so fragile, lying next to him like this. One wrong move and you might break.

"Don't go," he murmurs quietly. A soft plea that holds more weight than he cares to admit.

You know what he means. He's not just talking about today.

"Harry," you breathe, eyelids fluttering when his thumb grazes over your bottom lip. "I—I can't. I told you."

"You didn't," he argues back, still cupping your jaw, still begging. "Tell me. Tell me why you really want to quit."

You whimper a bit and embarrassingly it has his cock throbbing under his thin sleep pants.

"You know why," you whisper, but it's not enough.

"Say it."

"The feelings I have for you..." you begin with an anxious tremble to your voice, "they aren't feelings you can return. And—"

"I think I can," Harry says, cutting you off. But you shake your head.

"You said yourself you're incapable of it."

"I've been trying with the wrong person. But with you, I really think one day—"

"It's not good enough, Harry," you say with tears rolling down your cheeks. "I can't put myself through this again. I need time to—to breathe. To rebuild. My h-heart—" Your voice cracks and a sob shakes loose from your throat. "My heart can't take it," you finally manage to say through the tears.

Harry swallows down the emotion that squeezes his throat with glistening eyes. Why did he have to be so fucked up? Why couldn't he just be normal? Why couldn't he give you what you want?

"Let me prove it to you."

His statement has your sobs coming to a stop as you look up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

"Wh-what?"

"Let me prove it to you. I can prove it to you," he says confidently. You press your lips together like you're in pain and he hates it. He swipes your tears away before cupping your face again. "I want to be good for you. I want to be what you deserve," he adds in such a way that has your heart skipping a beat.

You sniffle, not sure what to say, but the important thing is you don't say no. You don't dismiss the idea entirely, and that's good enough for him because Harry is determined more than ever to win you back.

[punkshort]

long way down | 5: potential

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader

Chapter Summary: The fallout from Saturday night leads to one of the worst weeks of your life. Meanwhile, Harry's relationship with Lucy falls apart at the worst possible time.

Chapter Warnings: language, angst, anxiety, heartbreak, mutual pining, emotional infidelity, materialists spoilers

WC: 7K

Series Masterlist

How the hell you managed to actually make it into the office looking semi-decent without vomiting from anxiety is a miracle. The entire weekend was spent spiraling and worrying not only about your job, but about your relationship with Harry, and now here you sit, across from his desk.

He avoided you all morning. He kept his door closed and stayed as busy as possible. It made you feel sick, like you did something wrong. Every time you answered the phone, your stomach bottomed out. Every email was sent with trembling fingers. You knew it was unavoidable, and finally around two in the afternoon, Harry buzzed you from his office, asking if you had a few minutes to talk.

And now he sat behind his desk with his hands clasped solemnly. This is so unlike the Harry you know. The Harry you know would be laughing and joking and winking. He would be rolling his eyes at someone he had on speakerphone while you grinned and took notes. He would be asking you to interrupt his next meeting halfway through with some fake emergency so he could blow off the rest of the afternoon.

This Harry hasn't even cracked a smile.

It feels so serious that it has your pulse racing. This isn't how it's supposed to go. This isn't how you saw this playing out.

"Are you going to fire me?"

You blurt it out. You can't stop yourself. It's been quiet for too long and you need to know. Just fucking... get it over with, you think. But Harry's gaze darts up to yours in surprise and he's quickly raising his palms up and shaking his head.

"No. Of course not. Jesus," he says. He's flustered. He runs a nervous hand through his hair and sucks in some air before addressing you again. "What happened... it was a mistake. I fucked up. And you need to understand that you are well within your rights to go to HR and file a complaint. I don't want you thinking you can't, or that there would be any hard feelings—"

"HR?" you echo, eyes wide. "N-No. No, I'm not going to HR. It was just as much on me as it was on you. Actually, probably more so..."

You trail off, not really sure how much you want to divulge. What you really, truly want to say is, I've been in love with you for years, you fucking idiot, but of course, you bite your tongue.

"Well. You can. It was inappropriate and wrong," he says. His tone is so level, so devoid of emotion that it makes you wonder if he rehearsed it or was coached by someone. Yet the part you can only seem to fixate on is the word wrong.

It wasn't wrong. You didn't want him thinking it was wrong. Him saying that it was wrong makes you want to scream.

You could tell him it wasn't wrong. You could say you wanted it, that you dreamed of it for years. Now's your chance, really. You've already got one foot in the pool, you should probably just jump in, right?

But there's a lump in your throat and wild fluttering in your chest that's making you stall. You want to tell him. You really do. But you didn't prepare and you have no idea what to say, so you try to buy some time and afford yourself the opportunity to fucking think.

"I'm not going to HR, Harry."

He looks relieved, for sure. His shoulders sag a bit and he breathes a deep sigh like he had been holding in his breath.

"Well, you have my word it won't happen again."

That's the opposite of what you want. You swallow and look down at your hands, mind racing. How do you fix this? What do you say?

Well, confessing your feelings would be a good start. Just fucking say it. Fucking say it, get it out in the open, and let him deal with it.

"Harry," you say, voice audibly shaky. He hears it and he stiffens. He knows something you're about to say is going to turn his world upside down.

"Yes?"

He practically whispers it and your eyelids flutter closed for a moment. You allow yourself to remember how he smelled, how he felt, how he tasted just one night ago. You wish you got to hear him in bed. You want to know so badly what he sounds like when he's burying himself deep inside of you and losing control.

"Harry... I—I need to tell you something." Your voice sounds so small. Tears already begin to well up and you feel so fucking stupid.

"Okay..." he says slowly, waiting for you to finish your thought. You swallow again and take a deep breath.

"Harry—"

A sharp knock on his door startles you both. You glance up at him and for the first time you notice how tired he looks. His eyes don't look as bright, he looks paler than usual, and you feel responsible. Like it was your fault he couldn't sleep all weekend because he was worried about what happened.

Or maybe he was only worried about the ramifications with Lucy.

"Yeah?" he calls out, annoyed. The receptionist opens his door holding a small, expensive looking box in her hands.

"Sorry, your—oh," she says, spotting you. "I tried calling you because I was told this couldn't sit at reception but, well, anyway..." She glides across the room and places the box on Harry's desk. "Delivery came for you."

She gives you a friendly smile and turns to leave the way she came, entirely oblivious to the thick tension filling the room. After the door snaps shut, you look at the box.

It's matte black with two golden letters engraved on the side: HW. A matching gold ribbon is tied around the top and if you hadn't already recognized the label, the words on the silk certainly confirm it for you:

Harry Winston.

Your blood runs cold. He wouldn't shop at Harry Winston unless it's for one thing. There's a sudden ringing in your ears you can't seem to shake. It hurts, just like this entire conversation.

Harry scoops it up and sets it aside, out of your point of view, like it fucking matters now.

His face looks a little pink, like he's flustered again, but for a different reason. He looks like he got caught doing something wrong.

You wonder if he looked like that when he went home to Lucy Saturday night.

"Is that—"

Your voice sounds weird. It sounds tight and high pitched. You clear your throat and try again, although it doesn't really help.

"Are you... proposing to Lucy?"

Harry straightens his tie just for something to do. His jaw shifts and his eyes refuse to meet yours when he firmly says, "Yes."

All the air evaporates from your lungs. You can't breathe, can't hear, can't think. This is a nightmare, surely. They just started dating. Harry—who hasn't had a serious girlfriend in a decade—is proposing after, what? Two months?

This has got to be some kind of joke.

"Are you serious?"

His eyes flicker up to yours then. He must hear the disbelief, the shock, the fucking hurt.

He was moments away from fucking you a day ago when he knew he was going to propose to Lucy. He fucking knew. And he never said a word.

Harry doesn't answer. He must feel guilty, as he should. He just stares at you, watching you fight back the tears in your eyes, the tremble in your lip, the pain etching your face, and then his gaze drifts to your neck, where you had to cover two marks he left with the heaviest concealer you owned, and his eyes cast down with shame.

You have two moves here. You can cry and leave with your tail between your legs, or you can stand up for yourself for once.

You choose the latter.

"I guess you're capable of love, after all," you say bitterly. Harry still doesn't look at you. His fingers toy with a pen on his desk as he considers your words. Then—

"I care about her very much."

That's when it dawns on you. It's the same thing he said about Peter and Charlotte, that their marriage was more like a business deal and less like love. So this is what he's decided to do, then. He picked someone he could tolerate for the rest of his life.

Did he even love her? You want to ask but you're afraid of the answer. Your heart is already too fragile, you aren't sure you could take much more. So instead you sniffle and rise to your feet. You look down at him, at this man who you've obsessed over for years, this man who—unbeknownst to him—has kept you in a prison in your own mind, unable and unwilling to truly open your heart up to anyone else because you were so stuck on him that it was impossible.

You lift your chin and muster whatever dignity you have left.

"I'm sure you'll make your mother very proud."

He flinches but he says nothing.

Because that's what it's all been about, right? His mother wants him to settle down and get married. He's feeling the pressure so he picked the first girl that is respectable enough to pass as a worthy wife.

You don't know Lucy. You have to assume she's in this relationship for the same reason as him—she's got plenty to benefit from, even if she doesn't love him. But if she does love him...

God, you might actually pity her if she does. Because being in love with Harry Castillo hurts more than it should, and you would know better than anyone.

---

That day, you went home on time. It might have been the first time since you started that you actually left at five. A few others in the office were surprised to see you in the elevator with them, but said nothing.

On the way home, you start to connect the dots. This upcoming trip to Iceland wasn't just a vacation. Of course it wasn't. How could you not see it before? Harry never took spur of the moment vacations, especially during the busy season.

You felt sick. Your skin felt hot. Your heart was pumping so fast that your throat was flickering. When you lifted a hand to touch it, you felt the caked on concealer under your fingertips.

You make the decision to wear concealer around the clock until the marks fade so you don't have to look at them.

Mia's dragging her suitcase across the apartment when you come home and your heart sinks again. She's leaving on Friday for her sister's wedding. She'd be gone for an entire week, leaving you all alone to wallow in your misery. At least Harry was scheduled to leave for Iceland the following Monday, so you only had to get through one day of work and Harry without your best friend's shoulder to cry on.

And cry, you did. When Mia sees your face, she drops her suitcase and envelops you in her arms. You must have cried for an hour without explaining a word and she just held you silently the whole time, rubbing your back and shushing you and handing you tissues until your stomachs rumble, then she orders Chinese. When the food arrives and she opens a pair of chopsticks, you start to cry again.

After you eat, you feel a little better. You tell her everything. You tell her about the comments Harry's family made a couple months ago, about Peter and Charlotte, more details about Saturday night, then you tell her about this afternoon in Harry's office. About the ring and the regret and how you were seconds away from spilling your heart across his desk.

She listens and hugs you and assures you everything is going to be okay. That it hurts the most right now but every day will get better. And she leaves the biggest part unspoken because you both know you aren't ready to hear it:

You need to find a new job.

If you're really and truly invested in healing and moving on, you need to create distance. You know that, obviously, but you can't think about that right now. You don't even know where you'd start looking. Your resume hasn't been updated in years.

Besides, you're not ready to let him go just yet.

When you think things can't possibly get any worse, somehow, they do.

Before you go to bed, Brian calls. It's the first time he's reaching out since your fight on Saturday. Guilt settles heavy in your chest when you realize you're more upset about Harry proposing to his girlfriend than your own boyfriend flirting with another woman. The guilt gnaws a little deeper when Brian sounds like a nervous wreck on the phone, like he had spent the last two days worrying but trying to give you your space.

So you agree to see him later that week, because what the hell else are you supposed to do? Maybe you can still make things work.

That's how you find yourself at Starbucks on Wednesday night holding a black tea with tired eyes, waiting for Brian to wrap up his shift so you can "take a walk".

The last two days at work have been torture. Harry is treating you completely differently now. Like you're any other employee. You're pretty sure he hasn't smiled at you once. He's busy constantly. And today, Lucy showed up to take him to lunch.

She's never done that before. He didn't even have the decency to fucking warn you. It felt like getting hit with a baseball bat when you watched them leave, hand in hand wearing matching smiles.

You made it to the bathroom just in time to catch the tears that fell.

Needless to say, you're emotionally raw. Your throat hurts, your eyes are dry, and everything in your life feels like it's completely upside down. But you're going to try to fix at least one thing, so you forced yourself to come meet Brian.

At first, you think it might have actually been the right thing to do. When you see him and he gives you that sweet, lopsided smile, it warms your heart a little. So what if he made a mistake? You did, too. Maybe what you both need is a fresh start.

"Thanks for meeting me," he says again for probably the third time. He wipes his palms nervously on the sides of his pants as he walks next to you.

"Of course," you reply, still clutching your tea as you stroll down the unusually quiet street.

You turn down another street and you breathe in the fresh air. You're not really sure where you're going but you do know it feels nice to not feel so alone.

"Listen," he begins, swiping his palm over his mouth. Harry did something similar after Mia interrupted you Saturday and it makes your stomach clench. "There's no excuse for what I did. I got caught up in the moment. It was the biggest show we've ever had and we've never seen attention like that before. It was, like... indescribable."

You nod and sip your tea.

"The crowd was insane, our adrenaline was fucking pumping and we had a little too much to drink beforehand to loosen up... anyway. None of this excuses what I did. I shouldn't have let that girl sit on my lap but I swear to you, nothing else happened. Even after you left, nothing else happened."

You nod again, sidestepping to let an old man with his dog walk by on the sidewalk.

Beside you, Brian anxiously shoves his fists in his pockets. He's chewing on the side of his cheek, waiting for you to say something. But when you don't, he speaks again.

"Do you think we can start over? Can you give me another chance?"

Do you? It's why you came, isn't it? But if you do, if you really want to start fresh, you need to tell him the truth, as well.

"Well... I have to tell you something first," you say, and the seriousness of your voice makes him falter a bit. He glances at you sideways and sees the look on your face.

"Okay," he replies slowly.

You blurt it out. You tell him you were upset that night, that you were drinking—same excuse as he used—and you needed a ride. You called Harry, he took you home, and you kissed.

You leave out just how heated it was, which you feel guilty about at first, but you come to find out it doesn't matter because Brian stops dead in his tracks, making you stumble to a halt.

"You... you kissed your boss?"

You bite your lip and nod. "It didn't mean anything," you try, but what you're really thinking is it didn't mean anything to Harry.

Brian's jaw is slack, eyes wide with disbelief as he stares at you in the middle of the street. You swallow the lump in your throat and wait.

"I fucking knew it," he finally says. You frown.

"What?"

"I knew it. You're in love with that guy." Brian's shoulders stiffen. His energy completely shifts. He was so open and honest a moment ago, but you can practically see the walls being built back up right before your eyes.

"I—"

You want to lie, but what's the use? Your gaze falls to your feet and your body sags under the weight of your reality. It seems to be enough of an admission for Brian.

"I can't believe you let me feel like shit for this long," he utters with a scoff. He turns, rakes a hand through his hair and exhales loudly.

"We both made mistakes," you argue, but even you hear the weakness in your argument. He spins back around and pins you with a glare.

"I didn't kiss someone else," he hisses. "I'm not in love with someone else. Fuck!"

You press your lips together tightly and blink the tears away while Brian paces in a circle.

"I knew something was up," he says quietly. His back is to you now. He's breathing heavily as he works through everything you just told him and everything you didn't. He connects the dots and you just stand there, knowing you deserve his anger. He turns on you again and you flinch.

"You talked about him all the time. You wouldn't stay the night at my place because he might call you into work early in the morning. You made it sound like you were doing me a favor, but..."

He scoffs again and shakes his head. His disappointment is like a knife in your chest.

"You always made him a priority over me. Every time. You're always here but you're never really here. And I didn't fucking see it."

He sounds like he's disappointed in himself now and somehow that hurts even more.

"I'm sorry." You whisper it because it's all you can manage. You are sorry. You're sorry for the way you treated this relationship. You're sorry for kissing Harry. You're sorry for lying. You're sorry you ever let this infatuation with your boss get this far.

"Me, too."

And that's it. It's over. There is no fresh start. Just more heartbreak.

---

Thursday morning is torture. Mia is getting ready to leave tomorrow. Your skull feels like it's been split in half after spending yet another night crying. Harry is still distancing himself from you while he's no doubt preparing for his trip on Monday. He's probably rehearsing what he's going to say to Lucy when he asks her to marry him while your life falls apart right outside his door.

At least things couldn't get any worse, right?

Your email lights up with a new message from Harry. It's his preferred way of communication since Saturday. You sigh and open it, only to scan his words as tears once again fill your scratchy eyes.

It's simple stuff. He's just asking you to run a few errands for him before his trip. Pick up his dry cleaning, grab a few travel essentials from the stores he prefers. He needs a new bottle of cologne, too. It's nothing earth shattering, but the coolness behind him now combined with everything that's happened this week suddenly seems like too much. You've never felt so alone before in your life.

You figure at some point, you need to pick yourself up and make some changes. And for whatever reason, you decide today is that day. Maybe you get up and knock on Harry's door because deep down, you want to make him feel a fraction of the pain you've been feeling all week. But ultimately, you're doing this for yourself.

"Come in."

You slip inside his office and shut the door quietly behind you. Harry barely glances away from his computer.

"Do you have a minute?" you ask.

He nods and you sink down into one of the chairs across his desk. You nervously flatten the fabric of your pants as you wait for Harry to finish up whatever he's working on. The scabs on your palms snag on the fabric and you wince.

"What do you need?"

He's looking at you now, hands folded on top of his desk like you're some stranger and not his trusted assistant and friend for the last six years. His eyes are icy, jaw tight. Not even the hint of a smile. Weirdly, in that moment you realize the last time he called you Sunshine was on Saturday and you miss it because you'll never hear it again.

"I need to put in my two weeks notice."

Finally, some emotion. It's subtle, but it's there. His face falls. His spine straightens. His throat bobs.

The silence is deafening but you hold your ground.

"What?" he whispers. Your heart is hammering in your chest as you repeat yourself. No going back now.

His eyes scan your face and he actually looks a little softer now. They linger on your own eyes, at the puffiness there, and at the rawness around your nose.

"Let's—can we talk about this?" He looks visibly shaken.

"I don't really want to, Harry," you say, hoping you sound confident. His laced fingers tighten.

"Can I ask why?" He doesn't sound as cold now. He sounds worried.

Probably only worried about who's going to order his lunch and run his errands.

"I need a fresh start," you tell him with a deep breath. "And I can't... I can't do that here. With you."

Harry ticks his jaw to the side. He's scrambling, trying to think of whatever he needs to say or do to fix this, but it's too late.

His eyes flicker to the closed door once before finding you again.

"Is this because of the kiss?"

Your breath gets caught in your throat. Hearing him acknowledge it out loud fills you with a rush of emotions, a reminder that it really did happen and you didn't dream it up.

"No," you say softly. And it's true. It's what came after that is partially to blame.

He doesn't seem to believe you.

"Then what is it?" he pushes.

You sigh and let your gaze fall to your lap.

"It's... a lot of things," you say truthfully. "My life is just a huge mess right now and I need to make some changes."

He narrows his eyes at you but you're still looking down.

"It's because of me," he states plainly. And the way he says it makes you bristle a bit. Because, yeah, it is due to him, but it bothers you he thinks he's the only reason.

"It's not just that. Me and Brian broke up."

"Good."

Your eyes snap up to his and your brows furrow.

"Good?" Your voice is laced with venom. How dare he? It's good you're all alone while he runs off to get engaged?

"Yeah. Good because he's an asshole who let you wander off drunk in the middle of the night. Christ knows what would've happened if—"

"Oh, like what you did was much better?"

Harry flinches but shuts his mouth. You don't want to do this. You don't want to fight with him again. So you steel yourself and take a deep breath before looking him square in the eye.

"Harry." You're quieter now. Softer. Almost pleading. He hears it and stills. "I can't... I can't do this. I can't run errands for your wedding." Your voice cracks on the last word and your lip trembles.

His dark eyes fill with something you can't name. He's looking at you, examining you, and you feel so raw and vulnerable that you just want to turn and run out of there, but you hold steady. You lift your chin and gather up every ounce of strength you have and wait while he works out the meaning behind your words.

"Why?" he asks, sounding pained. He doesn't blink. He just pins you with this look like he's unraveling right before you. And when you open your mouth to respond but nothing comes out, you see a moment of clarity dawn upon his face.

"I just can't," you eventually breathe. There's no way you're telling him you're in love with him. You can't spill any more of yourself this week. You've had enough.

You feel yourself losing control so you stand, brush off your pants, and give Harry one more look.

"Thank you. For everything," you say.

He leans back in his chair and swallows roughly. Before you turn away, you swear you see his hand shake when he picks up his phone. Then you quietly open his door and go back to your desk, wondering what the hell you're going to do now.

---

Harry felt torn in half the rest of the day. He tried to focus on work, but he couldn't. Not with you sitting right outside his door—so close, yet so out of reach. How could he let it get this far? How did he always manage to fuck everything up?

He wanted to make it right. He wanted you to stay. All he could think of was to offer you his car. It was raining by the end of the day, pouring buckets actually, and the thought of you walking to the subway in a torrential downpour while you were already in so much pain made his chest hurt.

Please, he had said. Just take the car. Let Lou take you home.

But you refused. It stung more than it should and he didn't know why. He just wanted to help you in some small way, but he couldn't.

By the time he arrives home, he's no better. His mind is elsewhere, it's clear as day. Lucy picks up on it and tries to get his mind off it by talking about the trip, their plans, what restaurants she wants to try, despite still struggling with her own issues, but he can hardly give her more than one word answers. It gets to the point where he's checking his phone constantly and rarely sparing a glance in her direction that she finally forces the truth out.

"My assistant quit today."

"Oh," Lucy says softly. Her eyes dart around the room, waiting for him to elaborate, yet nothing came. "Is that all?"

Harry shrugs. "Yeah. She's been with me for almost seven years. It just—it's bothering me."

"Right," she says slowly. "Well, I'm sure you'll find someone new when we get back."

"But I don't want someone new. I want her."

The sharpness in his voice stuns Lucy for a moment. It's getting late, she's already had a stressful day herself, and to top things off, when Harry was in the shower earlier, she happened to notice a little black box tucked into his half-packed suitcase that made her stomach drop.

I have things going on, too, Lucy wants to say, yet she holds back because ultimately, she knows there's only one person she wants to talk about her problems with, and it's not Harry.

"Maybe you can make her a counter offer?"

Harry shakes his head and tosses his phone onto the charger. "It's not about money."

"Then what—"

"I don't know. It's not that," he snaps, turning off his light and tugging the sheets up to his chest. "She's not like that. She doesn't care about money. She's just not happy."

Lucy doesn't say anything more, but she stays up the next two hours staring blankly at the ceiling, mind racing while Harry snores peacefully next to her. Something doesn't feel right and she can't pinpoint what it is. Harry is perfect. A unicorn, she had told him. But when she saw that ring, Lucy felt... nothing. Only fear. And now after whatever the hell that was before he went to sleep, she's beginning to wonder if Harry has been holding something back, same as her.

For reasons she can't explain, Lucy sits up in bed and stares down at the sheets. Harry is bathed in darkness, but the moonlight shines through just enough to make out scars on his legs. It's not a good idea, he's not in a good mood as it is, but she needs to know. She can't go to Iceland with him and let him get down on one knee without knowing the truth behind what he's hiding.

Delicate fingers reach out to trace the scar on his right leg. When he doesn't move, she pulls the silk sheets further down to examine his calf. Suddenly, he shifts. Lucy yanks her hand away and peers at him in the dark, silently questioning. At first, Harry turns onto his side like he's going back to sleep. Then a second later, he angrily flicks the sheets off and stands to pull on his pajama pants. He sniffs, doesn't say a word, and leaves the room.

Lucy can hear him getting water in the kitchen, so she rises to follow in search of answers. Leaning onto the pristine polished wood counter top, she sighs.

"You know what they are?" Harry asks. Lucy looks up.

"I think so. It's not a big deal."

Harry's back is to her, head tilted down in shame, yet he says, "I know. I made an investment. Your body's like an apartment. You have to invest to get the value back."

When Harry turns to look at her, she nods, grateful he didn't look angry and defensive, like she expected.

"I understand you. I invested, too." She points to her nose with a small smile, then slowly points to her chest.

"Yeah. I figured."

She makes a face but lets his comment go.

"Did your brother, too?"

"Yeah, we did it together. Eight years ago."

"Six feet or taller was part of Charlotte's non-negotiables so, I'm glad he did."

Peter and Charlotte. Harry wants to laugh, but he holds it in. If only Lucy knew how Peter saw their marriage. Hell, maybe she did and that's why she's still here, with him, in his penthouse, ready to be whisked off to Iceland by the richest man she's ever met.

"Did it hurt?"

Harry leans against the kitchen counter with a subtle nod.

"I know it sounds stupid, breaking your legs to gain a few extra inches but we keep saying it's definitely worth it. Changed our lives." Harry swallows and shifts his weight. "With women, completely, of course. Women just approach us and talk to us now, which never happened before. I haven't struck out since."

Flashes on you perched on the edge of your rickety IKEA kitchen table on Saturday night cross his mind, but he pushes them away. It wasn't technically striking out, but he feels like he still failed because you're leaving. You're leaving him and he's never felt so adrift before in his life.

"You can also tell the difference at work. And at restaurants. And airports. You're... you're just worth more."

But not to you. Back when he told you something similar, you had said it wouldn't have mattered if a man was short or not, because you said when you love someone, you don't care about things like that.

Why can't he get you out of his head?

"Does this change anything?" he asks Lucy.

"No." Her voice is so soft, he barely hears it, but he's filled with relief. The corner of his mouth lifts and one arm sags at his side as he takes a few steps and crosses the room. Harry mimics Lucy and leans on top of the counter to look up at her.

"What are you thinking about?"

Something deep inside doesn't quite believe her, but he wants to. He really, really wants to.

Not every woman is as perfect as you, Sunshine.

Then her face shifts and suddenly she can't meet his eye and his heart sinks.

He's failed again.

"I'm thinking... thinking that you should go to Iceland without me." Lucy turns to him but still can't quite look at him and Harry can't believe this is happening again. That he's losing someone again.

"Why?"

He sounds desperate, he knows it, but he's had such a shit day and this is the last thing he needs. Lucy takes a nervous breath and finally, her eyes flicker up to his.

"I don't think that you and I are a good match."

A thick silence settles between them. Harry takes a moment, then rounds the counter.

"Is it because of the surgery?"

"No. Knowing that just makes me feel like I actually know you."

"Then what?"

Harry looks upset but as Lucy stares at him, she realizes he's nowhere near as upset as he was when he was talking about you quitting.

"It's really hard for me to feel like this is not about the legs."

"It's not. When I realized what you had done, it made me feel exactly how I felt about you before."

"Which is what?"

How the hell haven't they had this conversation before now?

"I'm not in love with you," Lucy says bluntly. It knocks the wind out of him for a moment, but he can't say he's surprised. Hearing the words still feel like a punch to the gut. "And you're not in love with me."

There's something unspoken there and they both know it. You're not in love with me, but you're in love with someone else.

"And there's no amount of money that can fix that," she adds.

Harry shakes it off, unwilling to let this go so easily. Not again.

"But we're such a good match," he says insistently. "You're exactly what I'm looking for. And I know I can make your life better."

"Harry. You don't wanna marry me. You wanna do business with me, just like I wanna do business with you."

Ah. So she does know about Charlotte and Peter

"Isn't marriage a business deal? If—"

"Yes, it is. But love has to be on the table."

Defeated, Harry turns his back on her to think. He rubs his chin in disbelief. How the hell did this happen? How did he lose you and Lucy on the same day? What the fuck is wrong with him?

"What if I'm not capable of it?"

It's the same concern he voiced to you months ago. Something that keeps him up at night and claws at his throat when he least expects it. Something that feels like people can see plastered in red letters across his chest as he walks through the city: unlovable.

"Of love?"

He nods, back still turned. "It makes me feel like an idiot. Like I'm... I'm just a clueless... child, I feel so... dumb, thinking about it." His voice cracks but he keeps going. "Or wanting it. I find it... so difficult."

He's never been this honest and raw with Lucy before. He's not sure what comes over him, but maybe he's just fed up and tired.

Lucy takes a step forward and gently rubs his back.

"You won't, when you love someone."

Harry sighs.

"It'll be easy. No math."

Slowly, he turns to look at her.

"Should I hire you for your services?" he asks dryly.

She grins. "If you call the office, they'll find someone great for you." Then he sighs loudly, exhales, and asks, "So this is it?"

Lucy nods solemnly and Harry takes a deep breath, sniffs, and finally looks back up at her. He extends his hand and she shakes it, effectively ending their business deal, as it were.

"You wanna know how many inches?" She nods again.

"Yeah."

"Six," he says.

"You were five six before?"

He notices the look in her eye. The one that, despite what she may think, tells him she never would have given him a second thought if he was that short. But you... you would have.

Slowly, Harry crouches down approximately six inches and looks at Lucy. They're eye level at this height. He says, "I wouldn't have had the confidence to hit on you at five six."

She smiles again. "I'm sure you would have."

"Am I still a unicorn?" he asks, and even though he's being sarcastic, she can hear the vulnerability in his voice. The uncertainty.

So she tilts her head, cups his face, and whispers, "You're perfect."

Lucy packs up her things, even though it's the middle of the night. Harry insists she can stay, but she doesn't want to. He's not sure how to feel about it, but he still helps her collect her things and bring them to the door.

She turns to look at him one more time before she goes. She gives him a smile and takes his hand, giving it a firm squeeze.

"Harry. Promise me you'll at least try."

Harry frowns. "Try what?"

Lucy gives him a knowing look, then sighs. "Call her. Tell her how you feel."

"Who?"

Lucy drops his hand and shakes her head. "Come on, Harry. Your assistant."

The earth pulls from underneath his feet. Even though he had his suspicions, he didn't expect to be seen so clearly, especially at three in the morning, no less.

"Wha—"

Lucy cuts him off. "Don't. It's okay. I promise," she laughs. Behind her, the elevator door opens and she starts to drag her suitcases into the car. Harry blinks and jumps to help, still rattled.

Before the doors close, she gives him one more smile.

"Call her. Take her to Iceland."

He still can't believe it.

"How did you know? I didn't even know."

Lucy shrugs. "I'm a professional."

Then the doors slide shut and Lucy disappears from his life forever.

Harry wanders around his apartment in shock, far too awake to go back to sleep. He sips his water, just staring blankly at the wall while trying to come to terms with this absolutely fuck up of a day. Then he goes back to his strangely empty bedroom. He lifts his phone and checks the time—it's nearly four. He can't call you. Even if he did, what would he say? He has no idea what to do with this boatload of information just dumped onto him in the middle of the goddamn night, but he feels like he needs to do something.

He'll text you. That probably won't wake you. He hopes it doesn't, anyway.

But what should he say?

Hey, can we talk tomorrow? I have very strong feelings for you, but this is all new to me—

Terrible.

Harry sighs and tries to think.

I need to be honest with you about Saturday—

Nope. Don't bring up Saturday over text. Not the right move.

He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.

If you're up for it, I'd like to take you for coffee in the morning. There's something we need to talk about.

That's not bad. He's leaving the ball in your court. Giving you the power. Keeping it light. Coffee is light. Just not that one Starbucks in mid-town...

Before he has a chance to chicken out, Harry sends the text and exhales a loud, shaky breath. Okay. It's out there. No taking it back. He might have already lost his chance entirely, but fuck it. The alternative is spending the rest of his life wondering—

His phone rings, putting a quick halt to his manic thoughts.

It's you.

You're fucking calling him.

Shit. He didn't expect this.

Harry drags in a deep, shuddering breath, and slides the bar on his phone to answer the call.

"Hello?"

What he hears next is not at all what he expects.

First of all, it's not you. He can tell right away. But the caller remains a mystery because all he can hear is sniffling and crying and some robotic voice in the background filtered through a speaker.

"Harry?"

The woman's voice is shaky and a little unclear, but he thinks he can place it.

"Mia?"

"Y-Yeah," she stammers. That's when Harry hears the beeping. Slow, monotonous beeps from a machine.

A machine you'd typically hear in a hospital.

Harry's heart practically lurches out of his chest. He sits up in bed, panic seizing his throat.

"What's wrong? Wha-what's going on?"

More tears on the other end has him leaping out of bed to get dressed. He doesn't know why yet, he just knows you need him.

"Harry... there was a c-car accident," Mia blubbers, "can you please come to Lenox Hill? She's—she's unconscious, but—"

That's all Harry needs to hear before his brain practically shuts down with fear.

"Is it bad? Is—Is she okay?"

He's grabbing his keys and wallet as he shoves on two mismatched sneakers. He doesn't care.

"She's gonna be okay, I think. But she won't wake up. The doctors, they said... shit, I can't remember... I-I can't do this alone. I don't know what to do," Mia sobs.

"Don't worry. I'm on my way. Text me the room number."

[punkshort]

long way down | 4: there's no way

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader

Chapter Summary: A really bad night has you leaning on Harry for help, and in the process, lines get crossed.

Chapter Warnings: language, food and alcohol consumption, over consumption of alcohol, drug use, angst, sexual tension, infidelity, hurt/comfort, mentions of sexual assault (the part from the movie)

WC: 8.6K

Series Masterlist

Harry fucked up.

He didn't check his messages until the following morning and guilt settled heavy in his chest when he heard why Lucy was calling him. She had a client who was assaulted on a date and she sounded like a mess. She felt responsible. She was reaching out to him for comfort and he wasn't there for her. Instead, he had his arms wrapped around you at dinner, breathing in deep the scent of soap lingering on your skin while you nervously picked at your sushi.

What the hell had gotten into him? He should have answered Lucy's call, and now that he's back in New York, she's pissed. She hasn't said as much, but he can tell. She's taking the situation too hard. He told her over and over that it wasn't her fault, but it was like she couldn't hear him. She looked numb. Distant.

All he knew was he had to fix it. So he offered to take her to Iceland, because she once told him it was her dream vacation. He wanted to see her smile again and he didn't know what else to do.

His office door is open. He can see you at your desk, tapping away at your computer. You've seemed happier since returning from Chicago. Maybe a trip will help fix things with Lucy, too.

Harry reaches for his phone to call you, then stops. For some reason, the thought of asking you to book a trip for him and Lucy makes his stomach turn. What the hell is that about?

He looks up again. You're talking to someone standing on the other side of your desk. You're laughing and the corners of his mouth twitch. His hand drops back down to his desk, phone untouched. Something tells him if he asks you to do this, you'll turn cold on him again. He remembers what you said to him during your fight in his office, a snide comment about using you to kick his one night stands out of his apartment. Throughout the years you've worked for him, you've grown close. He tells you things a boss probably shouldn't tell his assistant, but it's always been so easy with you. You know everything about him, things he hasn't even told Lucy, and you've never judged him. You've always stayed. Perhaps lines have blurred too much and he's overstepped by pulling you into his personal life the way he has.

But you're his assistant. Isn't that what assistants are supposed to do? Run personal errands? Organize his schedule?

Asking you to plan a getaway with Lucy certainly falls under your job description. Yet, he can't bring himself to ask, because the thought of you possibly icing him out again is too much to bear.

Harry opens up his internet browser and begins to research things to do in Iceland. How the hell does anyone do this? Where do you even begin?

He decides to start with Lucy, so he picks up his cell phone and sends her a text, asking if she can take a few days off, that he would make room in his schedule for whatever works best.

That seems to brighten her up. He receives an excited response almost immediately and things finally feel like they're getting back on track. Lucy is funny, smart, beautiful, but most importantly, she shares the same outlook on dating and marriage as him. She understands that, at its core, marriage is a business deal between two compatible parties, both looking to get something out of it. She's been upfront from the beginning—she wants someone with money. Someone who can take care of her. Someone steady. And Harry can give her those things in exchange for her trust and loyalty.

She's a perfect match and Harry is certain he won't ever find anyone more suitable. And as his mother recently pointed out, he's not getting any younger. Maybe this was it for him. Maybe Lucy is the one. And if she is, then he needs to make this work.

His desk phone rings, startling him out of his reverie. It's you.

"Yeah?" he answers when he picks up the phone.

"Harry, I have Peter on line two."

He glances down at the phone, spots the solid red light on the receiver, and nods.

"Thanks."

"Do you want me to order you lunch?"

His eyes flicker up. Your back is to him, you're typing on your computer, cradling the phone between your shoulder and ear.

"Sure. Thanks, Sunshine."

You hang up and Harry connects to line two.

"Peter?"

"Hey," his brother's voice says through the phone. "What are you doing?"

Harry rolls his eyes.

"You can't just walk across the floor and come here to talk?"

"You're all the way on the opposite corner."

Harry sighs and looks at his computer. A website declaring Iceland as the number one tourist destination around the globe is staring back at him.

"Are you busy?" Peter asks.

"I'm looking up things to do in Iceland," Harry says. His gaze flickers back to his doorway, where you're looking down at your cellphone and smiling. Probably texting the barista.

"Isn't that what your assistant is for?"

He doesn't like the way his brother's comment slices through him.

"It's a trip for Lucy. I thought I'd plan it myself. To show I... care."

Peter whistles low through the phone. "That's great. So things are getting serious?"

Harry nods and tears his eyes off of you.

"Yeah. She's great. I think she might be it for me," he says, voice tight.

"Oh, shit! Just wait til you tell mom, she's going be ecstatic," Peter replies, clearly more enthused than Harry.

Harry stifles a sigh and tries to match his brother's energy, but the mention of their mother sours his mood. For decades, Harry's been convinced he was never good enough. He was the one who broke his toys or spilled juice, never Peter. If Harry accidentally ripped a hole in his jeans, his mother was always exasperated with him, but if Peter did it, he was treated like a prince who never did anything wrong. Harry always got in trouble in school while Peter aced his classes. Even when his family sprung that Saturday morning meeting on him before the wedding, it felt like he was getting in trouble. And he always had a hunch his parents left the firm to both brothers because they didn't trust Harry to keep it successful alone. It made no sense otherwise, when Peter never showed much of an interest in taking over the family business until a few years ago when he was looking to settle down and get married.

Of course, Peter was able to do all that before Harry, too.

It felt embarassing, trying to keep up with his younger brother. But the rivalry that seemed to be engrained since birth was unavoidable.

"Yep," Harry manages to say, then clears his throat when his brother finally senses the discomfort in his tone. "I mean, I haven't gotten a ring or anything yet—"

Peter cuts him off. "I'll take you to the jeweler I used. The guy's fantastic. He's been in the business since the seventies, really knows his shit. He's got unique settings, too. I'll bet we can find something Lucy would love."

Harry considers it for a moment. He thinks about the way her face would look when he gets down on one knee, wonders if she would cry, and tries to imagine what their wedding would look like. What colors she would choose, what designer dress she would pick. He keeps waiting to feel something—anything—but everything is just... blank.

"How did you know Charlotte's the one?" Harry asks, and Peter just chuckles.

"C'mon. You know we talked about this already."

Harry looks up. You're standing from your desk and grabbing your purse. You're probably leaving to get his lunch. You turn back and when you catch his eye, your face brightens. He smiles when you give him a little wave and mouth I'll be back, then disappear.

"Tell me again."

"I didn't," Peter says, snapping Harry back. "She's just a good match. She wants the same things. She's a nice girl, pretty, and I mean... what else can you ask for?"

"Love?" Harry offers, but Peter just laughs.

"Of course, I love her."

"But are you in love with her?"

There's a pause. Peter's laughter is gone. Then—

"I told you. Life isn't a fairytale, Harry. Sometimes life is just finding someone tolerable."

Tolerable. There's that word again. When he said it in the back of his car, you practically recoiled. You wanted love. You wanted to be swept off your feet. You wanted the movie scene where the love of your life shows up on your doorstep in the pouring rain, professing his love for you. Why else would you be dating this barista with no direction in life? He scribbled his number on a cup and you probably thought it would be a good story to tell at your wedding.

Why was he thinking about this again? He shouldn't care who you date. He's been shrugging off his distaste for the barista as some type of protective instinct. He's known you for years and you've never seemed serious about anyone before. That's all it was.

"What if it doesn't work out? What if she wants the fairytale and you can't give it to her?" He doesn't know why he's asking these things. Maybe he's just looking for a sign that marrying Lucy is the right thing to do.

"That's what prenups are for, brother," Peter laughs. Harry tries to smile, but can't. Why the hell did he expect actual advice from his brother, anyway?

At first, he thought he just needed to sit with the idea for a bit. Then he thought picking out the ring would do something. But the closer and closer he got to the trip to Iceland, the heavier that feeling in his chest grew, and the less certain Harry became that he was making the right choice.

---

Okay, so when Brian first told you about the exciting gig his band booked at the Globe Theater, you didn't really get it. But now that you're here among hundreds of people crammed inside a beautifully renovated theater in SOHO... you kind of get it. The energy is electric. The strobe lights are warming up, signaling to the crowd that the performance is about to start. There's a buzz that ripples through the throngs of people as they wait with intense anticipation for some band that's coming on after Brian and his friends perform. It's exciting, no question, but you just wish you weren't alone. Mia bailed on you last minute when a colleague called her up crying that they lost their cat, and even though you only have a week left with her before she selfishly left you for her sister's wedding, you allowed her to go help her other friend.

You kind of wish now that you didn't let her off the hook so easily because you're fucking jammed between strangers, holding your third drink of the night, waiting for the concert to start.

You finish the rest of your drink and begin to make your way to the bar when the room goes dark. Deafening screams from the crowd roar in your ears and you wince, stumbling a little through all the people until you could wedge a spot for yourself against the bar.

Strobe lights begin to float wildly around the darkened room and in a flash, the stage lights turn on, exposing Brian and his band. The response from the crowd is unlike anything you ever expected. The screams and excitement make it sound like they're the fucking Beatles when in reality, no one even knows who they are.

"Hey, how's everyone doin' tonight?" Brian yells into the microphone, eliciting another roar from the crowd. The bartenders are slammed and it's taking forever to get a drink. Just as you're deciding to order two so you don't need to come back again, a group of girls nearby offer you an extra shot because their friend was being a little bitch, so you shrug and toss it back.

Probably not your best decision, but whatever.

A familiar riff of the guitar and a few chords fills the air and you nod along to yourself, already knowing most of the lyrics to their first song. A bartender finally makes their way over to your side of the bar and you order two mixed drinks, hoping they didn't catch the way you slurred your words. Two drinks isn't a great idea, but no one says you have to drink all of them. You'll just have them to sip on for the rest of the night if you want.

You manage to find a quieter spot near the back to post up and watch. The crowd is reacting unlike any other performance that you've seen. Girls are screaming and jumping, guys are recording on their phones and dancing. You can see how excited Brian and his band are, too. They've definitely never played for a crowd this responsive before and they're loving it. You would feel proud of them if you weren't developing a pounding headache from how loud everything is and you're beginning to understand why the other girlfriends stayed home tonight.

Thirty minutes go by and Brian's band finally wraps up to a manic crowd. Even from a distance you can see how sweaty they are. Their cheeks look warm and their chests are heaving from adrenaline as they scan the crowd and shout their thanks. You set aside an empty cup and pick up your second before searching for the restroom, hoping it will be mostly empty considering the main performance is about to start.

It takes about ten minutes of you pushing your way through the crowd until you finally reach the bathrooms. You stumble inside, grateful for how much quieter it is in here, and find an empty stall to relieve yourself. As you sit down, the door swings open to two or three girls giggling and hiccuping together.

"Did you see that guy? He's so fucking hot."

"I bet we can get backstage."

"Oh, for sure. I know one of the bouncers, he'll let us back."

You assume they're talking about the band everyone paid to see, the one on stage right now, and don't think much of it. Instead, you finish up, grab your drink, and fumble with the lock before heading to the sink to wash your hands, where three very pretty looking girls are fixing their makeup, entirely oblivious to you.

When you turn to dry your hands, you notice a redhead with loose curls who is reapplying her lipgloss, flanked by two brunettes staring at their phones. The redhead gives you a small smile in the mirror, which you return, then you head back out.

You suppose you should go find Brian. He said he would look for you in the crowd when he was done, but considering how packed it is, he would never find you, so you slink backstage. He had the foresight to give the bouncers your name in case there's an emergency, so you're ushered right back.

On wobbly feet, you wander down the dimly lit hallway, passing empty, open rooms. One is labeled equipment, the other media, and some are closed and unmarked. You have to assume most of the rooms are dedicated to the headliner. Did Brian's band even get a room? You never thought to ask.

You decide to rest against the wall and you carefully pull out your phone. You need to blink a few times until the screen comes into focus, then you squint very hard as you locate Brian's name. It's nearly midnight and you're already way too drunk. Once you find him, you're going to stay for ten minutes and tell him you need to catch an Uber home. There's no chance you'll last all night partying with him and his friends.

Just as you're about to call him, you hear his voice. Right behind you, actually. You frown and slowly turn to stare at the closed door you didn't realize you had been leaning against. Do you knock? Nah, they probably won't hear even if you did.

As your hand curls around the doorknob, you hear a girl giggle on the other side of the door. But your reaction is delayed and your alcohol soaked brain doesn't do you any favors because you just turn the knob and push the door open.

Your eyes land on Brian and his band. They're playing some music, passing around a joint, and clinking shot glasses together in celebration. Nothing out of the ordinary, until you register the redhead sitting on Brian's lap with her arms draped around his neck and her lips dangerously close to his.

"What the fuck?"

All eyes dart towards you and everyone's smiles fall. Brian quickly pushes the girl off his lap and stands, but you're already crossing the room to shove him hard against the chest. Off to the side, a couple of his other bandmates create some distance between themselves and the two brunettes you saw earlier.

"What the fuck?" you say again, the anger coiling around your words like a snake. Brian blinks and the rest of the band tries to act like nothing is happening, which pisses you off more.

"Babe, it's nothing—"

"Nothing? She was sitting in your goddamn lap!"

"So what? There's no room on the couch. We're all just hanging out, relaxing after the set and she was bringing us some drinks..." Brian trails off and gives his friends a look, begging for help. One of them—the drummer, you think—clears his throat and nods.

"Yeah. Seriously, nothing was going on. It's all good."

Of course he would say that. They all have girlfriends for them at home and yet they, too, had strange girls hanging off of them. You scoff and stumble backwards. "Good? I don't fucking think so."

"Babe, where are you going?" Brian asks, reaching out for you. Behind him, the redhead turns to hide her giggle and the blood runs hot in your veins.

"I'm leaving," you snap. "Have fun with whatever—this is." You wave your hand around the room, knowing you're not making much sense and wishing you didn't drink as much as you did.

"Don't be like that. C'mon, stay and hang out with us," he says, taking a step towards you. He grabs your wrist and you yank it free like he burned you.

"Don't touch me!" you yell, and Brian backs off immediately in surprise.

"Jesus, calm down—"

"This is so fucked up," you mumble, eyes sweeping around the room. Everyone guiltily avoids your gaze, but it seems like Brian is tired of being embarrassed in front of his friends.

"Oh, this is fucked up, but you running off with your boss to Chicago isn't?"

You balk and take another step back.

"That's part of my job," you sneer, but you feel the warmth flooding your face. You weren't sitting in Harry's lap at dinner but you damn close. Of course, Brian never knew about any of that, but you still feel hypocritical.

"And this is my job," Brian argues back. You laugh and turn on your heel to leave. There's no point in arguing with him over the absurdity of that statement.

"I'm leaving."

"You're too drunk, let me—"

"I'm fine!" you shout when his hand rests on your shoulder and you jerk away. You shoot him one last glare and say, "Have fun at work," then storm back out into the hallway.

Brian calls your name, begs you to come back, but you're moving as fast as your feet can carry you, back out into the theater, back into the thick crowds of screaming fans as tears blur your vision. You must look absolutely crazy pushing your way through everyone, desperately trying to get to the front door. You need fresh air. You need quiet. You need some fucking water.

When you finally manage to make it out onto the sidewalk, you breathe in the cool night air with a loud gasp. It sharpens your senses for a minute and you look around. There's a few small groups of smokers loitering on the sidewalk, and two bouncers clad in all black talking quietly amongst themselves near the door you just exited. One notices your state and straightens up.

"Are you alright?"

You nod and swipe at the tears that slipped down your cheeks.

"Y-Yeah. I'm fine."

The other one turns around and looks you up and down.

"Are you sure? Did something happen in there?"

"No. N-No, I just had a fight with my boyfriend," you stammer. They look visibly relieved but still concerned.

"We'll hail you a cab," the first guy says, but you shake your head and hold up your phone.

"I'm calling my friend. She'll come get me."

Before they can argue any further, you turn and walk a few paces away where the lighting is better and you try to call Mia. It takes you a few times, but you finally get it and hold your phone to your ear. When you get her voicemail, you squeeze your eyes shut and press your lips together. All you want to do is go home.

"Mia? Hey, it's m-me," you say softly. "I'm at the Globe, I—I just had a huge fight with Brian..." You sniffled into the phone and took a deep breath. There's no point in asking her to come get you, you'll be waiting here forever. "Nevermind. I'll get a cab home. Men fucking suck."

You hang up and look back over your shoulder. The bouncers have moved on but more people have filtered out from the theater and are sending you curious glances. You probably look fucking terrible—makeup smeared, hair wild, drunk as hell. You decide to go around the corner and order an Uber so you don't have so many pairs of eyes staring at you.

As you walk, you're looking down at your phone, searching for the right app when a crack in the sidewalk snags your heel and sends you flying forward. You muffle a cry when your knees and palms scrape the concrete, sending sharp jolts of pain up and down your limbs. The tears that are barely being held back fall freely now as you hang your head between your shoulders and sob. The only saving grace is you managed to get out of sight, so nobody saw you fall and embarrass yourself further, but your pride took a beating tonight and it just adds to the physical pain radiating from your hands and knees.

You look up. Your phone is a foot away, face up, bright and waiting for instructions. With a shaky hand, you reach for it, then force yourself to stand. You hiss through your teeth when you see the cuts on your skin, but the blood isn't too bad. You'll live.

On wobbly legs, you hop stiffly to the side of the building and lean against it with a sigh. It's stable and cool and helps ground you. Helps you think of an answer to the question how do I get home the fastest?

You look down at your phone again. No texts or calls from Brian. Nothing from Mia.

Your fingers move before you can stop them and you're lifting your phone to your ear. After one ring, his deep voice echos through the phone and you close your eyes.

"Hey?"

Harry sounds confused, as he should. You've never called him this late before. But he answered. He answered right away when he saw your name, not like when you were at dinner and Lucy—

"Harry?" Your voice is shaky and distressed. He immediately hears it.

"What's wrong?" He sounds alarmed now, and the background noise you didn't notice before is fading.

"S-Sorry. You're out," you begin, but then you sniffle loudly and choke back a sob.

"It's fine. What's going on?" He must have walked outside because you can hear some street noise now.

"I—I wanna go home," is all you can say because the tears are flowing faster again now that you're hearing the comfort of his voice after such a shitty fucking night.

"Where are you?"

"I'm—I drank too much, a-and I got into a fight with Brian—"

"Sunshine, where are you?"

You look around the dark street and squint at the signs.

"I was at the Globe Theater, but I started walking and I—wait, let me see what street this is..."

You hear Harry walk back inside and murmur something to someone. It's so fast, you don't even catch what he says or who he's with, but you can take a guess.

"Can you tell me where you are?" he asks again. This time you hear the jingle of his keys and the quick rhythm of his shoes on pavement. You take a deep breath and use all your focus to correctly tell him the street you're on.

"Stay right there. Do not move, I'll be there soon."

"Harry, you don't have to—"

"Are you alone?"

You pause. His door opens, you hear then welcome chime of his car, and then the engine turns over.

"Yeah."

He curses under his breath and then tires squeal on blacktop.

"He left you alone?" Harry sounds pissed. You sink down and sit on the sidewalk, back pressed against the brick building behind you.

"It's a long story."

"I have time."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Did he hurt you?"

Your eyes flash open. "No. Not like that. He's just... he's a fucking asshole."

You can hear his car rev up louder. He must be getting on an expressway. You begin to perk up a bit. The air is colder and the pain stinging your hands and knees is spiking your adrenaline and clearing the fog.

"Were you on a date?" you find yourself asking. Harry goes silent and you chew your bottom lip as you wait for an answer.

"Yeah, but it's fine," he tells you. You smirk and look down at your hands.

"Sorry," you say anyway. "Hope it was better than mine."

He chuckles but doesn't say anything else. It's probably for the best. The image of Harry and Lucy on a date might be enough to push your stomach over the edge. So you just listen to him drive and he occasionally checks in to make sure you're still awake until you hear his car slow and his blinker click.

"I'm almost there. You still with me?"

"Mhm," you say, already looking down the empty street, eagerly waiting for the bright beams of his headlights to bathe you in their glow. Then, sure enough, a black car turns the corner and lumbers slowly down the street. It's gotta be him—the car is sharp and sleek and completely out of place this time of night.

"I see you," he says.

"I see you, too."

He slows to pull up to the curb and you stand, still holding your phone to your ear as you waddle over to his car and lean over to peer inside the open passenger window.

"Hey," you say, relieved when you finally see him. Your voice echos in his car through the Bluetooth. You end the call after you slide into the front seat and shut the door, relaxing with a sigh into the soft leather seats.

"Rough night?" he grins, and you roll your head to the side to look at him properly. He's wearing a burnt orange button down shirt and a beige suit coat with dark jeans. You bite your lip and let your gaze travel slowly down his body, unable to feign subtly now that the alcohol is coursing through your veins.

He notices and his gaze darkens.

"Yeah," you reply, tearing your eyes away to look straight ahead. "You could say that."

He shifts the car into drive and pulls away from the curb. The difference in luxury cars is noticeable—the ride is so smooth, it feels like you're gliding through the streets of New York City without a single pothole.

"There should be a bottle of water in the glove compartment." He points and you lean forward eagerly to hunt for the water. When your fingers curl around the plastic, your eyes widen in surprise.

"It's cold," you say, pulling it out and gently shutting the door. "How is it cold?"

"It's refrigerated," he responds simply. Like that's a perfectly normal feature to have in a car.

You take a long sip and look around the interior, taking in how spotless and perfect it looks. You've never been in this car before. You usually only drive around in the town car. Soft music drifts through the speakers above your head, just loud enough to keep an awkward silence from forming but too quiet to tell what song is playing. You squirm a little in your seat and let your legs rest alongside the center console, between you and Harry.

Once you finish the bottle, you murmur your thanks and look over at him again. He's driving with one hand firmly on the wheel, dark eyes fixed on the road. Every time you pass under a street light, the warm glow highlights his face—his beautiful, perfect fucking face.

You must be staring for too long because the corner of his mouth twitches and when he comes to the next stop light, he turns to look at you.

"What?"

He's smirking now, gazing at you heavily in the semi-darkness, and you shrug, still unable to look away.

"I don't think I've ever seen you drive before."

"You've seen me drive before."

You shake your head and giggle when he blows air through his nose and looks back at the road. At the sound of your laughter, he smiles and casually rests his hand on your leg. It's so smooth, you don't even realize it til the next light.

"I'm glad you're smiling." He flicks his blinker and quickly grips the wheel again, refusing to let go of your thigh. "You scared me earlier. You sounded really upset."

"I was upset," you sigh. He's done this before—his hand on your leg—but tonight it's harder to ignore. It has an ache growing hot between your thighs and you figure if you slump down just a little bit, his hand would slide up, and—

"And now?"

You blink slowly and tilt your head in his direction, trying to remember what you had just said a moment ago to warrant that question.

Oh, right.

"Not so much anymore."

His cheek twitches and his eyes shine a little brighter, but he doesn't say anything more. He gives your leg a gentle squeeze in acknowledgment and you have to stifle a moan that threatens to claw its way up your throat.

This is trouble. Calling Harry was trouble. You're too fragile and he looks too good. Thank Christ you're almost home, where you can disappear inside and pray he has the decency not to mention this on Monday.

"Did I thank you yet?" you ask as Harry turns onto your street.

"You don't need to thank me."

"Yes, I do. I ruined your night," you say with a pout. He grins and his fingers move ever so slightly against your thigh. You stare down, willing them to move further up, all caution and pretense nowhere to be found, but to your dismay, Harry pulls over to park in front of your building and his hand loosens. He picks the spot his driver always picks—the thirty minutes or less spot—and his hand slides down to your knee when he parks and looks at you.

His eyes drift down to your mouth quickly, just once, and his tongue darts out to lick his lower lip. The air feels different, you're sure of it. Your breath gets caught in your throat and you think, oh my god, this is it. But then his fingertip grazes the scrape on your knee and his energy shifts when he leans forward to get a better look.

"You're bleeding," he says, like it's a newsflash or something. You glance down and push away the disappointment.

"I know. I fell."

You hold out your hands so he can see the scrapes and he grabs them with alarm. You let him hold your hands as long as he likes, admiring the way his look so much bigger against yours while he examines you.

"Why didn't you say something?" he asks when he finally lets them go, but then he's turning off the car and unbuckling his seatbelt.

"I—I don't know. I'm sorry. I don't think I got any on your seats—" You look down but it's too dark to tell. Harry scoffs and opens his door.

"I don't give a shit about the seats. C'mon, I'll help you upstairs, get you cleaned up."

The door slams before you have a chance to speak, and a moment later he's opening the passenger door to help you out and who are you to say no?

The whole elevator ride up to your apartment, you keep thinking this is a bad idea, this is a bad idea. He shouldn't be leading you gently off the elevator. He shouldn't be coming into your apartment right now. Not when your inhibitions are nonexistent and you've just had a fight with your boyfriend and you can't stop thinking how he left his date to come to your rescue.

When you push the door open and the lights are still off, somewhere in the back of your head you curse Mia for not making it home before you. If there was a buffer, maybe it would ease some of the tension brewing, but unfortunately you're left with only Harry's willpower as a barrier because yours was left somewhere in SOHO.

Harry looks around the small apartment, dark eyes sweeping over the pile of fuzzy blankets on the old couch and the dying plants in your window. It feels like he's seeing a piece of your life you've always kept separate. He's never been inside your apartment before. He always waits in the car. He looks so big and out of place here and your heart is skipping a beat as you watch him move around, shrug off his jacket, then roll up his sleeves.

"Bathroom?" he asks while pointing to the narrow door just off the kitchen. You nod and bend to take your shoes off but nearly trip over your own feet. Fortunately, Harry catches you. His strong arms wrap around your shoulders, he murmurs easy, and helps you straighten up.

"Thanks," you whisper, but you can't meet his eye. He's too close and if you look up right now, you'll do something really stupid.

"I got you. Come here."

He leads you to your small kitchen table three feet away. His hands grab your waist and he lifts you onto it with ease. It's so fast, you don't even process it until he's crouched down, taking off the heels from your dangling feet.

"You don't have to do all this," you protest. Harry switches to the other shoe and shakes his head.

"I know."

He stands and disappears into the bathroom in search of some first aid, leaving you to sway silently on top of your kitchen table. What's taking him so long? Oh god, did you leave tampons or bras out? You'll never live this night down, you're sure of it.

"You need a proper first aid kit," he finally says when he emerges from your bathroom, holding a small basket. Inside is an assortment of items you or Mia deemed worthy of saving, and Harry's long fingers are rifling through it as he returns to you.

"What's wrong with it?" You're grinning as he holds up a half used packet of Neosporin between two fingers.

"Is this all you got?" His eyebrow arches and you can't stop the giggle that leaves your lips. It has the corners of his mouth turning upwards.

"No. There's more in there. I think Mia swiped a handful of free samples from her doctor."

"Jesus," he mutters. He drops the packet and keeps looking. You bite your lip and watch while swinging your legs playfully back and forth over the edge of your table.

"A lighter? What, are you cauterizing wounds?"

"That shouldn't be in there."

"Expired Benadryl."

"It's probably still good."

"Hand sanitizer?"

You shrug. "Self explanatory."

Harry tries to give you a stern look but he's grinning from ear to ear.

"A condom?"

Your eyes go wide and your skin burns from embarrassment when he holds up the foil packet between two fingers.

"Probably Mia's, you should put that back," you mumble.

Harry shakes his head, mutters something under his breath, and drops it back into the basket. He holds up a mini bottle of vodka and you almost gag, which makes him chuckle, then he keeps searching.

"You have two bandaids. That's it," he says after he's sifted through everything. You shrug.

"I don't need bandaids. I told you, I'm fine."

"We gotta clean these, at least. Christ knows what you picked up from the street."

He retreats to your kitchen to wet a washcloth. You watch him squirt some antibacterial soap and rub it into the fabric, creating a white lather. Your head tilts to the side and you watch with hearts in your eyes as he does his best to help you.

"It was a nice part of town. Could've been worse," you smirk when he crosses the room with the dripping cloth. Harry pins you with a look and rolls his eyes before motioning for your left leg. You raise it up and his fingers curl around the back of your knee, keeping you still while he cleans the dirt and dried blood.

"Other one." You obediently lift your right leg and he does the same thing—he gently swipes at your knee until he's satisfied, then returns to your kitchen sink to rinse the washcloth and freshen it up with more soap to finish the job.

"Alright. Let's see those hands," he sighs. You straighten up and present your palms for him to inspect. He tuts under his breath and steps closer so he can clean you up, but you're getting lost in the small details of his face. The fine lines around his eyes. The soft dark curls that cascade past his ear, threaded with bits of silver. He smells so good, too. Like the leather from his car and the mint from the gum he had nervously chewed on his way to pick you up and a hint of spice from his cologne.

"Thank you."

You blink stupidly at him. Your brows furrow.

"Huh?"

"I said, thank you. For saying I smell good. Are you about to pass out on me?"

Christ, you said that out loud?

He's looking deep into your eyes now, scanning for any sign he's right, but you firmly shake your head and meet his gaze.

"No. I feel fine."

Your phone rings in your purse. It's somewhere over Harry's shoulder, maybe the couch or the table by the door. Neither of you move.

"You oughta get that," he says, but he doesn't move an inch.

"Why?"

"Could be your boyfriend. He's probably looking for you."

You bristle a bit but manage to let it roll off your shoulders. Thinking about Brian isn't something you want to be doing right now.

"I don't care," you reply simply.

Harry looks at you closer and something shifts when you don't look away. You can feel it. The electricity is humming between you, crackling to life once again, revived tension from the drive to your place is sparking back up.

Your phone stops ringing.

You widen your thighs a few inches and right away he takes up the space, standing between your legs, like a moth to a flame. Harry's still holding your hands, wet washcloth pressed against your scrapes, but he's not paying attention. His eyes are drifting across your face, same as yours. His lips part and your breath grows shallow when his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You're leaning closer, subtly. You don't even mean to. It's like you're trapped under a spell and you can't break it. Then his head tilts just a fraction and he leans forward as well. His gaze is fixed on your mouth and you're certain he can hear the steady beat of your heart because it's about to burst out of your chest any second.

Fuck it. You might lose your job tomorrow, but at least you can rest peacefully knowing you at least tried.

Your hands slip away from his and the washcloth falls with a wet smack to the floor, but neither of you register it. Your arms circle his neck and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat when you gently rest the side of your head on his shoulder. You're still gazing up at him and you can see his throat bob when his hands slowly drop to splay wide across the tops of your thighs.

"Tired, Sunshine?" His voice is so thick that it sends a shudder right through you. Is that what he sounds like in bed? Rough and low and oh so serious?

"A little," you breathe, hoping you sound more sexy than sleepy. He smirks, breathes deep, and bends forward a little more. His hands twitch, like he doesn't know what to do with them. Or, rather, he knows what he wants to do with them but isn't sure he's reading you correctly.

You decide to settle any doubt.

Your head lifts, eyes still locked with his, and you take the plunge. Your eyelids flutter closed and a moment later, your lips are brushing softly over his. Just a little. Just to test the waters. You want to give him a chance to pull away, if that's what he wants. But thank fuck, he doesn't.

Harry breathes in sharply and leans all the way in, pressing his mouth firmly against yours with a soft groan. Your brain is a scrambled mess: years of aching for this man, of fantasizing about what this moment would be like is finally coming true and now you can hardly think. You want to memorize every second but you're too overwhelmed, too many thoughts and feelings are rushing through you that it nearly brings you to tears.

Your hand slides through the hair on the back of his head, soft curls like silk between your fingers. God, you've always wondered what his hair felt like, and now you know. Warm air fans across your cheek as he exhales and moves his hand up, under the hem of your dress, seeking a better grip on your thighs so he can roughly tug you forward. You squeak against his mouth in surprise then tighten your hold on his hair. He's moved you so you're now perched precariously right on the edge of the table. You're so close that your chests bump together with each shaky inhale.

His mouth is so soft against yours, so careful and delicate and slow. One hand is still placed firmly underneath your dress, at the top of your thigh. He doesn't ask for more, he just leaves it there. Keeping you close while his tongue swipes experimentally over your bottom lip.

You grant him access. Of course you do. There are no thoughts of Lucy or Brian right now. Just years of desperation fueled by alcohol and a really bad fucking night.

Heat flashes across your skin when you feel his tongue glide against yours for the first time. It has your arms trembling around his neck. Your fingers loosen and your wounded palms slide down to his shoulders. You map the broadness of them, firm muscles straining just underneath his button down, just like you've always imagined. Shaky hands curl around the fabric, pulling it tight and holding him to you like you're afraid he's going to come to his senses and back away.

When his other arm wraps around so his hand can snake up to get tangled in your hair, you nearly melt. A needy whine slips past your lips and spills into his mouth when his long, thick fingers spread wide to cradle the back of your head. He can maneuver you any way he likes like this, and he does. He tilts your head back so his tongue can plunge greedily into your mouth without any restraint.

Gone is the softness from before. Now it feels like you're trying to consume one another right there in the middle of your quiet little apartment. Every soft moan you make seems to spur him on, like gasoline on a fire. His hands grip a little tighter, his teeth graze your lip a little harsher, and you let him. You let him take whatever he wants and you do the same. You loosen your death grip on his shirt and slide your hands down, feeling his strong chest, his racing heart, his stomach as it tenses at your touch. Everything you can reach.

The fist curled in your hair tilts your head away so he can kiss and suck little marks down your throat. Your mouth hangs wide open, dragging in air like you're drowning as he nips and bites at your sensitive skin. Your lips tingle, swollen and bruised, but you need more. As much as you want him to leave his mark on you, the urge to taste him again is too strong.

You don't speak. Don't say his name. If you do, you fear you'll snap him back to reality and he'll stop. Instead, you cup his face with both hands and drag him back up. His lips fuse with yours and once again he pries your mouth open with a deep groan that has liquid heat pooling between your legs.

Your fingernails scrape against his stubble and you smile into the kiss because you can't believe this is real, that your wildest dream is actually coming true. It's not exactly how you pictured it but you don't care because he wants you.

Harry wants you.

You whimper when his teeth drag across your lip. It's sharp but you like the sting. You crave it. You want more of it, more of him. Without thinking, your hands seek out the buttons on his shirt. Clumsy fingers undo one button, then two. Harry doesn't seem interested in stopping you, either. His tongue keeps fighting with yours. He's licking into your mouth and stealing your breath and then a third button on his shirt is open.

The hand up your dress skirts higher. His fingertips toy with the fabric of your panties hugging your hips and you think you may be dreaming because how is this really happening?

Apparently it's too good to be true because right when two of his fingers hook over the band of your underwear, you both hear metal scratching at the lock of your front door.

In the blink of an eye, Harry withdraws his hands. He inhales sharply and tears himself away and all you can think is no no no.

There's no covering up what just happened—what was about to happen. You both look like a disheveled mess, yet Harry still tries to frantically fix his buttons and run a hand through his hair before Mia pushes open the door, calling out your name.

"Thank fuck you're home, your voicemail freaked me out! Why didn't you answ—"

She stops short when she closes the door and sees you sitting on the table staring down shamefully at the floor with wet, swollen lips. Harry swivels away briefly to clear his throat and drag his palm over his mouth, then he turns to great her with a polite smile, as if everything was perfectly normal and he didn't have his hand up your dress a moment ago.

"Hi, Harry," Mia says weakly. Her gaze flicks back and forth between you both. You slide down from the table and fix your dress.

"Hey, Mia. Long time, no see," Harry replies. He's trying to sound casual but the awkwardness is so thick it's making you squirm. He props his hands on his hips, then lets them fall to his side before glancing between you both. It's probably only ten seconds but it feels like ten minutes when he finally hooks a thumb over his shoulder at you.

"She needed a ride."

Mia nods and slowly sets down her purse.

"Yeah, I know. S-Sorry I missed your call, I tried to call you back but—"

Mia cuts herself off, embarrassed, then takes a step backwards, towards her room.

"Uh, it's pretty late. I'm gonna go to bed," she says. Your eyes are still cast down, staring uncomfortably at your hands. You twist your fingers together and nod.

"Good to see you," she adds to Harry before she slips down the small hallway and shuts her door.

Harry's back is to you when you look up. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking, but his shoulders seem tight. You shift your weight from foot to foot, wondering if you should say something, but you have no idea what.

"I'm sorry."

Your eyebrows raise in surprise at the tenderness in his voice, then he turns. You can see the despair in his eyes. The remorse in his face. The tension in his jaw.

His lips are still swollen. Your lipstick is smeared across his mouth. It makes your neck flush with heat.

"D-Don't be. I'm not—it's—"

Harry shakes his head and cuts you off.

"I shouldn't have done that. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm so sorry," he repeats, and his tone is pleading now, like he's asking you for forgiveness. But there's nothing to forgive.

"It's okay," you say, then take a step forward. When his feet shift back, you try not to take it personally. You take a deep breath.

"It's okay. I—I wanted—"

"You're drunk. That... I shouldn't... and I'm... fuck," he mutters, then pinches the bridge of his nose like he's in pain.

Your mouth twists. What can you do or say to show him you wanted this? That you've wanted it for years? That you lo—

Harry's phone rings in his pocket, slicing through the air like a machete. He sighs, pulls it out, and grimaces when he sees who's calling.

You don't need to see. You know it's her.

"I gotta go."

He silences his phone and pockets it before looking up at you once more.

"Are you gonna be alright?"

You nod, although you're not really sure. He takes a deep breath, looks you up at down, and for a moment you think he's going to say something. Maybe something to smooth things over, to make it hurt a little less, but instead he clamps his mouth shut and turns to snatch up his coat.

"We can talk Monday."

His voice is too sharp now. You don't like it. It makes you want to cry. But when he steps through your door without looking back, without a good night, without a reassuring smile that everything's going to be okay, that's when you actually do cry, alone in your bed wondering if you just made the biggest mistake of your life.

[punkshort]

long way down | 3: thin line

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader

Chapter Summary: A trip to Chicago with Harry has you falling even harder for him, and it leaves you wondering if he has feelings for you, too.

Chapter Warnings: language, angst, pining/yearning, jealousy, emotional infidelity, food and alcohol consumption, sexual tension, flirting, reader has hair (unspecified length)

WC: 6K

Series Masterlist

Two weeks. Two whole weeks go by where you spend your time in the office barely smiling and mostly muttering under your breath whenever Harry gave you a cold look or sharp order. Sharing a car with him actually wasn't terrible because he spent most of it on the phone while you stared out the window trying not to let him bother you.

But the most infuriating thing about it? Despite everything, you're still fucking head over heels. When he sits next to you in the car, you find yourself fixating on his cologne. When he's glaring at you over his desk, your heart flutters at the glint in his eye.

You're still drowning in him and there's nothing you can do.

"And then!" you exclaim while tossing more clothes into your suitcase. "He has the audacity to ask me to spend half the afternoon going through old financial statements after he literally just told me accounting was working on it. He fucking knew I wouldn't have much time to get ready tonight and he just wanted to ruin my evening!"

Brian watched you lazily from your bed as you toss clothes around like a madwoman.

"Babe, I know you're pissed, but can we have one night where we don't talk about your boss?"

You pause your manic packing and sigh, shoulders dropping under the weight of guilt.

"Yeah. Of course. I'm sorry."

Brian stands to circle his arms around you and you lean into him, letting his warmth soothe your frayed nerves.

"Don't be sorry. I'm just gonna miss you and I wanted to spend some time, just us, no work or Harry." He kisses the top of your head and you feel horrible. Brian is so kind and sweet and you like him, you really do, but you are still struggling to let Harry go. It feels like a betrayal of sorts, to think about Harry like this, even though you're not technically doing anything wrong.

"You're right. No more work talk, I promise." You let him kiss you until his arms squeeze you too tightly and he nibbles your bottom lip, making you giggle and squeal while you try to fight your way out of his grip.

You spend the rest of the evening packing and happily humming along to Brian's guitar as he practices quietly in the corner of your room. It's serene and calming, being with him. He's uncomplicated and patient. He's a good match, but you just can't force your heart to feel something that's not there.

The responsible thing would be to break up with him before you lead him on and possibly hurt him, but you don't. You decide to put it off and think about it while you're in Chicago with the hope that absence will make the heart grow fonder.

The following morning while you wait in the airport next to Harry, you think about what Brian said the night before: can we have one night where we don't talk about your boss?

Until he said it, you hadn't realized just how much you talk about Harry. In fact, you can't remember a conversation you've had with Brian in the two weeks you've been together where you didn't mention Harry at least once.

You need to work on that. You will be better at that.

"Still pissed at me for making you come along?"

His voice startles you. It makes your skin tingle so you shift, crossing and uncrossing your legs, before you answer.

"No. It's fine," you lie, pretending to be absorbed in people watching so you don't have to look at him, but it doesn't matter because you can feel his eyes on you.

You never spoke about it—that argument early one morning in his office. Each of you continued to operate like two ships passing in the night: acknowledging one another when necessary but otherwise remaining cold and silent. Unbeknownst to you, it had Harry concerned this whole time. He knew he fucked up and should apologize, but the timing was never right, and now he's afraid he lost his chance.

You tear your eyes away from the groups of sleepy people walking by dragging rolling luggage behind them to look down at your iPad, searching for something to break the ice and Harry's stare.

"Today's booked solid once we land, but you have dinner free tomorrow. Do you want me to make a reservation somewhere?"

Beside you, his shoulders loosen. He recognizes the topic as safe.

"Yeah. Sure."

"How about sushi?" you offer while scrolling options, eyes glued to the screen. "There's a place a block away from the hotel with really good reviews."

Harry nods, allowing his gaze to linger on the delicate curves of your face when you're not looking. "Sounds good."

You get to work quietly booking a reservation for him online when he suddenly interjects.

"Make it for two."

Your finger hovers above the screen as you process what he's said, then you tilt your head to the side questioningly.

"Two?"

"You have to eat as well, right?"

You blink. "Yeah."

"So, make it for two."

You swallow and look back down at the iPad. "Uh..."

Harry hears the discomfort in your voice and it gives him an unsettled feeling in his chest.

"Unless you wanted to do your own thing," he adds uncomfortably. Why did he have to be so bad at this? Why was it so much easier for everyone else? Why did everything feel so goddamn difficult lately?

"N-No, that's fine," you stammer. You blame your lapse in defenses on the early hour and certainly not on anything else. You make the reservation for eight under Harry's name and don't say anything else. You slide the iPad back into your carry on and glance up at the screen—your plane should be boarding soon. It's not a very long flight but you have plans to try to get some rest given the long day ahead.

"You're in meetings most of the morning," you remind him. His eyes lift to find yours and he nods. "What do you need me to do during that time? Do you have any errands you need done, or would you prefer I stay back and unpack your bags?"

"I want you with me," he says simply. Despite logically knowing the innocent context, your body still has a reaction to hearing those words leave his lips. He wants you.

"Taking notes, then?"

Your voice sounds a little tight and you hope he doesn't pick up on it.

"Please."

You swallow, nod, and look up at the board again to escape Harry's heated stare. As much as you want to stay mad at him, it's impossible. Not when you'll be forced to be so close to him for the next few days.

"I promise I won't nod off like that one meeting when we acquired Palmer," you say, then turn to him with a little grin. His gaze snaps to yours and you see the surprise at your unexpected olive branch flicker across his face before he smiles warmly.

"Well, that wasn't the worst thing in the world. It's not like you ate bad shellfish and threw up all over the shoes of my client's son."

You laugh and swat at his arm. His eyes crinkle from how wide he smiles at the sound, like he had been starving for weeks without it.

"You promised you wouldn't ever bring that up again!"

Harry shrugs, smile still plastered across his face as you hide behind your hands at the memory.

"You just know he's still telling that story at parties," Harry continues, laughing when you groan with embarrassment. Some people passing by do a double take at you both, wondering what on earth could have two people in such a good mood in the middle of JFK at five in the morning.

"Oh, like you're any better?" you tease back, palms dropping from your face so you can narrow your eyes at him. But your lips twitch with amusement and Harry knows what's coming. "At least I knew a certain client of yours was asking you to accompany them to a strip club and not a Broadway show!"

Harry's cheeks reddened.

"Cabaret is a Broadway show, in my defense," he says, but you're already laughing over him.

"Yeah, Cabaret—not Kitty Cabaret!"

"I thought it was the name of the club in the musical," he mumbles, but his embarrassment is well worth it to hear you laugh this much again.

"That's the Kit Kat Klub," you giggle. He tosses his head back with an exasperated groan, but he's still grinning like an idiot. Your laughter finally dies down when your cheeks begin to ache from smiling and you realize just how much you missed this with him.

"Still don't know how you knew the name of that strip club," Harry says, turning in his seat to look at you again. "You got a secret life or something?"

"You wish," you smirk, then add, "That's why you keep me around. 'Cause I know stuff."

His eyes soften for a moment, letting a heavy beat of silence pass between you before he responds.

"Yeah. Among other reasons."

You quirk an eyebrow at him, urging him to elaborate, and he shrugs.

"You keep me in check. Keep me organized, keep things moving. You're... you just know me, Sunshine. I couldn't do this without you, you know that, right?"

You nod, thinking it's as close to an apology as you'll get.

"I know."

And that seems to satisfy him for now because he settles back into his seat and glances at his watch.

"When the hell is this—"

"In a minute. The stewardess just opened the door."

Sure enough, a moment later a chipper voice filters through the speakers above your heads, letting you know they were getting ready to board and requesting first class members to approach the desk. Harry looks at you in disbelief and shakes his head before gathering your things.

"See? You always have the answers."

Yeah, I wish, you think as you pick up your bag and follow Harry to the terminal.

---

After you land, the morning and most of the afternoon are a whirlwind. Harry ends up going straight to the client's office from the airport while you head to your hotel to check you both in. Before grabbing an Uber, you inspect Harry's room and do a few little things you know he likes. You take three bottles of water and chill them in the fridge. You fill his ice bucket and set that next to the bottles of water. You inspect the glasses at the bar to make sure there's no stains and you tug at the corners of his sheets to make sure they aren't too tight. If you had the time, you would have unpacked his toiletries and hung up his shirts, but you knew he wanted you at the office as soon as possible.

Once you arrive, a secretary ushers you into a big board room filled with men wearing stuffy suits. They hardly spare either of you a glance but Harry's face relaxes the moment he sees you.

In the corner of the room, you find an extra chair and quietly sit to rifle through your tote, pulling out your trusted iPad, a legal pad of paper, and a pen to tuck behind your ear. On the iPad, you tap the record button and you settle in to scan the PowerPoint currently displayed on the projector.

The first meeting is two hours long with a ten minute break in the middle. Men rise from their chairs to try to introduce themselves to Harry, but he's already crossing the room to you.

"Everything all set?"

You nod and stand to stretch your legs.

"We're all checked in at the hotel. Your room is nice, good view, sheets are a little rough but you'll live."

"Rolling around in my sheets, huh?" he grins. You narrow your eyes and ignore that fluttering in your chest.

"Ha," you reply dryly, then glance over his shoulder at a group of men nervously fidgeting with their ties. "Looks like you have some fans waiting to meet you."

Now it's his turn to look exasperated. "Do you need anything? Coffee? Water?" he asks.

You look around the room and spot the beverage station that was set up by someone else's assistant.

"I'll help myself," you tell him, then move out of his way to use the restroom and grab a drink before the presentation continues.

At some point, you manage to send off a quick text to Mia and to Brian, letting them know you landed safely and you're already stuck in the most boring meeting in the world. Brian replies an hour later asking if things are still awkward with Harry, and you let him know whatever crawled up your boss's ass seems to have vacated the premises.

By the time lunch rolls around, you're on the verge of falling asleep in your chair. It's the sudden murmur of voices and the florescent lights flicking on that snap your eyes wide open.

You curse quietly under your breath while turning off the recording on the iPad. You'll be able to fill in any gaps with the recording when you're typing up your notes later.

"—great place around the corner, it's actually attached to a hotel. Seriously, best filet I've had in the city, hands down."

"They have great salmon, too."

"I'll bet Lily's working. She always takes real good care of us."

The tone behind the last comment makes your lip curl, so you turn around to pack up your things.

"Sure. Let me just grab my assistant," Harry says behind you, and you make a face. Please, no.

"Oh, uh... she's welcome to eat with our girls."

"Yeah. Bright young group. Real sweet and... accommodating. She'll be right at home," another man chuckles. With the echo of other conversations floating around the room, you have to imagine they think you can't hear them, but you definitely can.

Harry hesitates. "It's been a long day and I feel bad enough dragging her along for the trip. They can fit one more at the table, can't they?"

You sling your tote over your shoulder and turn around with a bright smile. By now, the conference room is half empty so it's easy to catch Harry's eye.

"Is it okay if I get lunch here?" you ask. He looks at you like he's about to argue, but you speak first. "I have some calls to make."

Harry's gaze flickers between you and the old men across the table pretending to talk about something else so the two of you can sort it out.

"I don't want to leave you all alone," he says, taking a step closer and lowering his voice. But out of the corner of your eye, one of the men glances furtively your way. You clear your throat and smile wide.

"Harry, don't be ridiculous. It's fine. I have stuff I need to do."

You can see the way he struggles with it—his lips purse and his hands fidget restlessly at his sides—but he finally agrees.

"If you need anything, just call."

You give him a fake salute. "Yes, boss."

As much as you would prefer a steak over a cold salad from around the corner, it isn't worth listening to that group of men drone on and on for the next hour.

You step out of the conference room and glance around, spotting the girl who had brought you into the meeting earlier, and share a smile. As you're about to walk towards her, Harry's hand is on your lower back.

"Be good, Sunshine," he murmurs in your ear before he strolls past with the other men. The deepness of his voice has you stumbling for a moment, and as you watch them all file onto the elevator at the end of the hall, your chest tightens when Harry winks at you.

The group disappears but your heart is still fluttering from his touch, just like always. When your phone vibrates in your hand, you hold your breath, expecting it to be Harry, but when Brian's name appears, your shoulders slump with disappointment.

"Do you want to join me and some other girls for lunch?"

The small blonde girl who helped you earlier was smiling at you from behind her desk. Her purse is slung over her shoulder like she's ready to leave, and you pocket your phone. Brian can wait.

"I would love to," you say warmly, then stretch out your arm to formally introduce yourself this time.

"I'm Ginny. We usually grab lunch at this nice bistro two blocks away when all the bosses are at a lunch like this. We know they'll be gone a while," she winks and laughs and you follow suit.

"Sounds perfect."

Turns out, the girls like to sneak some drinks when they know their bosses will be tied up. Less than an hour into this lunch has the alcohol taking effect and what started as pleasant small talk morphs into something completely unexpected.

"Did Jackson ever make another comment about your skirts, Penny?"

"Nope. But I've been keeping my distance and being careful about getting stuck alone with him, like you said."

"Good. Just keep brushing him off and he'll move on. Always does."

"What about you, Tina? Still polishing Beckett's knob after hours?"

Your eyes widen and you nearly spit out your drink when you swivel to look at Tina sitting next to you, who casually shrugs and gives Ginny a sly grin.

"I told you, I don't mind it. He's hung like a horse and it makes my job so much easier. I come and go whenever I want."

"Well, he's definitely the nicer of the bunch," Ginny sighs. She rolls her eyes and gives you a smile. "How about you? I'm guessing Harry's wife doesn't know about you tagging along on this little work trip?"

You balk and shake your head.

"N-No. Harry's not married," you say.

"Oh, that makes things a lot easier," Ginny replies airily, "less sneaking around." And it's then you realize you had focused on the wrong part of her question.

"And I'm not sleeping with him!" you exclaim, glancing around the table. "He's not like that. He—he doesn't—"

"Oh, honey," Tina says while patting your arm. "Trust me, they're all like that."

You only had one drink but the twist in conversation obliterates any chance of that alcohol relaxing you.

"Really, he's not. He's annoying sometimes and he likes to flirt, but he's never, ever been inappropriate."

Ginny and the rest of the table giggle softly amongst themselves and you look around.

"It's okay, nothing leaves these lunches. This is a safe space," Ginny tells you, then adds, "I saw the way he looked at you. I saw the way he touched you when he left."

Your face burns with embarrassment. The way he looked at you? You desperately want to ask her what she means, but you don't.

"I swear, nothing is going on. Nothing. He's harmless."

The girls exchange glances and a brief, uncomfortable silence settles over the table before Tina clears her throat.

"Well, that's good. Hang on to him, because these men are fucking atrocious."

Penny shifts in her seat and pipes up. "Seriously. We place bets now on new hires: how long they can hold out before fucking one of the partners or quitting."

"There is no in-between," Ginny says pointedly. She notices the horrified expression on your face and quickly pivots. "But the pay and benefits are great. Plus you can't discount the job security of knowing you could ruin any of these men with a singular phone call to their wives."

The table erupts into laughter but you feel sick.

Thankfully, the subject changes to something more light, but try as you might, you cannot shake the uneasy feeling in your chest.

What did Harry get himself into with these people?

---

The rest of your day flies by. You end up sitting in on meetings until end of the day, and mercifully Harry lets you off the hook for dinner when he sees how tired you are, so you go back to the hotel. Even though he didn't ask, you go to his room first and unpack his things. Because it's your job and certainly not because you like hearing his praise when you do something above and beyond.

It takes about an hour before you're finally back in your room two floors down. By then, you're so tired you don't even bother unpacking your own things. You hardly have the energy for a shower, but you force yourself to do it before laying down because you're pretty sure you'll pass out the second your head hits the pillow. However, when you finally do get cleaned up and tucked into bed, you remember you have a few unread texts from Brian that you feel guilty about, so you tap the little phone icon next to his name and close your eyes.

Hey, if you fall asleep, at least you tried.

"Hello?"

"Hi," you reply softly.

"You sound tired," Brian says, and you stifle a yawn.

"It's been a long day. Sorry I didn't respond to your texts earlier. Tell me about this gig you booked."

"Are you sure? We can talk tomorrow," he offers sweetly.

"I can stay awake for ten minutes. Besides, I miss your voice." You're not lying. Brian has a comforting tone that usually settles you. It's probably what makes him such a good singer. But if you're being truthful with yourself, Harry's voice does something different to you. Something stronger and harder to ignore. Brian's voice is kind and soothing, but Harry's...

Why are you thinking about Harry while your boyfriend is excitedly telling you about a show his band booked? Snap out of it.

"—it's in a month. A Saturday, babe, at the fucking Globe Theater. I still can't believe how lucky we got opening for this band. You sure you never heard of these guys? I'll send you their Insta, you gotta see how many followers they have."

You nod and hide a yawn behind your hand.

"That sounds huge, I'm so happy for you." You want to sound sincere but you're afraid you aren't selling it. Exhaustion is slowly creeping throughout your limbs, pulling you deeper into the mattress and weighing down your eyelids. Fortunately, Brian is too excited to notice your lack of enthusiasm. He drones on for another five minutes about the call he had with the band he's opening for and how cool they seem and if he's lucky, they'll hook him up with their record label.

"So Harry's not being an asshole anymore?"

Your eyelids fly open at the mention of Harry's name and adrenaline spikes in your veins.

"No," you answer after a moment of hesitation. "He's back to normal. For now."

"Maybe he got into a fight with his girlfriend and that's why he was being a shit," Brian suggests, and you know he's just casually speculating, but the thought of Harry and Lucy arguing about something and possibly breaking up has you sitting upright in bed.

"Yeah, maybe..." you trail off as your imagination wanders.

Silence follows and Brian mistakes it for exhaustion, so he says, "I'll let you get some sleep. Call me tomorrow after work?"

You nod. "Okay, I will."

There's another pause, then: "I miss you."

You swallow and cast your eyes down. "I miss you, too," you say tightly.

The call ends and you flick off your light. But as you stare at the ceiling, your thoughts are consumed with someone other than the handsome man waiting for you back home.

---

The second day is much like the first. It's filled with boring meetings and presentations that have you seriously wondering what more information this company could possibly give Harry tomorrow. Halfway through the day, you give up taking notes and begin doodling on your legal pad. When you get home, you'll just run the recordings through a program to dictate everything and you'll pick out the bullet points for him.

Thankfully, you aren't as exhausted as yesterday because Harry still wants to take you out for dinner, something that has you feeling giddy despite the recent argument that still lingers in the back of your mind. In Chicago, there is no Lucy or Brian. Only you and Harry. And for a couple hours, you plan to enjoy that little fact.

The sushi restaurant is very nice, just as the reviews said, but what you didn't expect was for the atmosphere to feel so romantic. It's dimly lit, soft music plays somewhere above your heads, and it seems like everywhere you look there are couples leaning in close to one another, whispering and smiling like they were the only ones in the room.

And although you know better, it doesn't stop yourself from getting lost in Harry's eyes as he looks at you across the curved booth.

"Have you ever been to Chicago before?" he asks.

You shake your head and look down at the pair of martinis he had ordered. Maybe it was the gin, but his gaze felt heavy tonight. His forearms are resting on the table and his hands are curled together, a mere inch away from the white candle flickering between you.

"No," you confirm, then clear your throat. "But it's nice. Quieter than New York." You smile and pinch the stem of your glass between two fingers for something to do. The table closest to you is a man and woman, and the flirty giggle bubbling up from her throat draws your attention. Your cheeks warm when you glance around at the intimate setting and briefly wonder if everyone else here thinks you and Harry are together. You assume they do and the thought sends a delighted thrill up your spine.

"What else do you like about it?" he asks, voice soft to match the atmosphere. You tilt your head back in his direction, catching the way the candlelight casts a glow over his sharp nose, highlighting the angles of his jaw and bringing out the bits of silver hiding in his beard.

Your phone vibrates in your purse but you ignore it.

"The river," you tell him, "I think it's beautiful how the city is built around it."

He nods, glancing down once at your dress before letting his eyes drift around the restaurant. You wonder if he's noticing all the couples and having the same thoughts as you.

"Do you like it here?"

His gaze finds yours and he nods again. "It's a nice place. Good find."

"I meant the city," you clarify. He grins at his mistake.

"Yes."

You lean forward a bit to sip from your glass and his eyes flicker down again to the cut of your dress. You bite back your smile and sit up straighter once he catches himself and looks away, embarrassed.

Did you bring a low cut dress with the hopes of wearing it in front of Harry on this trip? Maybe.

It's harmless, you tell yourself.

"What do you like about it?"

A slow smile stretches across his face, like you told some joke without meaning to. You cock your head to the side with a teasing look. His mouth curves down with a shrug and you find yourself staring a little too long at his dimples.

"I like the..." he drifts off, letting his gaze wander slowly around the restaurant, at the smiling faces and the gentle touches, until he finds you again.

"People."

"Hm," you say before taking another sip from your drink. Harry mimics you but you notice the extra second he takes to watch your lips curl around your glass.

You're probably just seeing what you want to see.

"People like Jackson and Beckett?"

His brows immediately droop when he hears the two names.

"Not exactly," he chuckles. You grin and glance up to thank your server when he places your food in front of you.

"Well, that's good because their assistants told me some pretty wild stuff at lunch yesterday." Harry opens his chopsticks and with the confidence of someone who has done this a hundred times before, easily lifts his first piece of sushi into his mouth while you fumble with your own chopsticks.

"What kind of stuff?" he asks once he swallows.

"Uh, they sound like pigs," you tell him bluntly. One of your chopsticks slips and you mutter a curse under your breath, but Harry is more concerned with what you just said.

"What do you mean?" His voice sounds harder now and it draws your attention from your food.

"Oh. You know." You wave your hands in the air like you're trying to downplay what you're about to say because the way the group of girls looked at you yesterday had you feeling like a prude. "Stereotypical men in power taking advantage of women. They told me all of the partners make a move on the secretaries there, like it's a rite of passage or something."

Harry's jaw tenses and you begin to wonder if you've said something you shouldn't have said.

"You mean as a joke, right?" he asks. Not that it would make it much better.

You shake your head slowly, shrinking a little in your seat when you sense how serious he suddenly looks. This was not how you envisioned the evening going.

"No," you breathe, and his eyes narrow. "One girl says she will regularly... y'know."

A deadly silence settles between you and you swallow the lump in your throat while Harry thinks. You watch a shadow pass over his face. His shoulders tense. You can practically feel the anger radiating off him in waves.

When he finally speaks, it feels like an eternity has passed.

"Did—"

He clears his throat, fiddles with his emerald ring, and casts his eyes down before trying again.

"Did any of them try anything with you?"

Your eyes bug out of your head. That thought hadn't even occurred to you.

"No!" you exclaim, then glance around and lower your voice. "No. Oh, my god, gross."

Harry sighs with relief across from you and the tension instantly lifts. His smile is back and his eyes look soft once again.

"Good," is all he says before picking up his chopsticks. You watch him for a moment as he chooses another piece of sushi, dips it lightly into some soy sauce, and pops it into his mouth. The alcohol in your veins emboldens you and you can't stop what comes out of your mouth next.

"Why? What if they did?"

Harry pauses mid-chew and locks eyes with you. He studies your face like he's trying to decide how to answer, but you give nothing away. Only curiosity.

"Then the deal is off," he says. His voice drops. It's dark and low and has you leaning closer.

"Just like that?" you practically whisper, transfixed by the heat of his gaze. In the back of your mind, you realize how inappropriate this could be, but you can't bring yourself to care.

He nods, entirely serious. He doesn't even bat an eye.

"Just like that."

You swallow, throat suddenly dry, so you pick up your glass and take a sip, hoping Harry doesn't see the tremble in your hand. He would do that for you?

"I'm sorry," he suddenly blurts out. Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"For what?"

Harry sets his chopsticks down and laces his fingers together on the table. He's looking at you solemnly, like something is weighing him down as you sit across from him, baffled.

"For what I said that morning," he says simply. You blink until it dawns on you he's apologizing for the fight you had. That's unexpected. Your shoulders relax and you exhale softly.

"It's okay. I'm sorry, too."

Harry releases a breath that had you thinking for a second he might have actually been nervous, but just as quickly as you saw it, it was gone. He's picking his chopsticks back up and giving you a stiff nod, one that confirms all is right with the world once again.

The moment passes and a comfortable silence settles between you after that. Harry checks his phone across the booth while you struggle once again with the chopsticks, only finally succeeding to pick up your first piece of food in the time it takes him to eat three.

When he's done reading whatever captivated his attention, he sets his phone down on the table and looks at your plate with a frown.

"Do you know how to use chopsticks?"

Your cheeks flare with heat. "No, but I think I'm getting the hang of it," you lie as you bring a shaky hand balancing a piece of sushi on the end of the chopsticks up to your mouth. You just barely manage to grab it between your lips before it falls.

"See?" Your mouth is full so your speech is muffled when you look up at him with pride. It makes him laugh before he sets his chopsticks down and he slides around the curved booth to your side.

"Here, let me help."

His arms wrap around you to guide your hands and you nearly choke.

"See? Like this," he murmurs while sliding his palms over the backs of your hands. You watch, frozen, as his thick fingers gently part your own so he can settle the chopsticks into a more comfortable position. You swallow roughly as his pointer finger presses down, testing the movement of the sticks, then does the same with his thumb.

"Mm," is all you can say because his breath against your neck and the slight prickle of his beard has you fighting for your life.

Harry's phone lights up across the table and you both look up at the same time. Lucy's picture flashes across the screen and the blood in your veins goes cold.

You expect him to let you go, to slide back over and answer the call, but instead Harry dips his chin down so it's practically resting on your shoulder and says softly in your ear, "Go ahead, give it a try."

He releases your hands and the chopsticks fall from your shaky fingers.

"Oops," you giggle. Behind you, you feel him smile, then he's reaching for your hands again and helps situate the chopsticks before letting go. This time, you're ready for it and keep a firm grip on the chopsticks, then timidly reach down for a piece of food, slowly pry them apart between your fingers, and carefully pick up a piece. All the while, Harry remains behind you, watching over your shoulder. The mixed scent of his expensive cologne and hair products so close is making your chest warm and your pulse jump but you still manage to successfully pop a piece of fish into your mouth.

Harry hums his approval as you chew, then leans back and swipes some loose hair from the back of your neck. The gesture is so intimate and gentle that your skin prickles at the brief contact. You can't help it. There's something about him that's so magnetic, it almost feels like you aren't even in control of your own body. Frankly, it's a miracle you don't turn your head and press your lips against his. You could, easily. He's so close, even now after you've taken another bite of food without any assistance. Why is he still on your side of the booth, his mouth an inch away from your neck?

Harry's phone lights up with Lucy's picture again, almost like she knew something was close to happening. Or maybe it's all in your head. Maybe Harry's just being nice and you're just a love drunk idiot, like usual.

But then he leans forward, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, and he murmurs, "Good girl," with a voice that has your thighs clenching under the table and your eyelids fluttering with restraint.

A second later, the warmth of his body is gone. He's moving back to his seat, finally giving you a chance to breathe. You notice with a sick sense of pride that he slides his phone into his pocket, ignoring the missed call notifications and what you assume is either a voicemail or text from Lucy.

It's wrong to feel this way. You know that. You both have people waiting for you back home. Yet you allow yourself the fantasy, just for the night, because what's the harm? It's not like you would ever do anything about it.

Right?

[punkshort]

long way down | 2: there is a light that never goes out

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader

Chapter Summary: When Harry begins dating someone, you decide it's time to date someone, too.

Chapter Warnings: language, jealousy, angst, alcohol consumption

WC: 6.3K

Series Masterlist

When you asked Harry how the wedding went, he said it was fine. Great. Everyone had a good time. He didn't elaborate much and you didn't really expect him to, but looking back on it, things changed after that night.

It was small things. There were less extra-early-morning wake up calls requiring you to be at his apartment, and when you did get those calls, there was never a girl stumbling out of his bedroom. There were no awkward encounters in the hallway, no uncomfortable conversations as they waited for the elevator. It took you about two weeks to realize it and foolishly, it filled you with hope.

Hope that came crashing down about a month later.

It was Clara's fault, actually. She was sick with the flu and had forgotten to send over some important merger documents for you to give to Harry before end of day. She woke up too early in the morning in a panic, and in-between coughing fits over the phone, begged you to pick up the documents and take them to Harry's before he got on a plane for L.A.

You figured she saved your ass the last time you called in sick, which you both knew to be a lie, so you dragged yourself out of bed and into the office. The pile of folders were sitting right where she said they would be and in the cab ride over to Harry's apartment, the dark sky overhead just beginning to show the first bits of light, you decided that she must have been deliriously sick in order to walk past them yesterday.

You didn't even plan on waking him. You were going to leave them on his kitchen island with a note, somewhere he couldn't miss them, and then text him later, just to confirm. But when the elevator opens up to his penthouse, the lights are already on. You step out and your eyes immediately lock onto not one, but two overnight suitcases waiting by the door.

Before you even had time to process it, you hear her voice.

"Hello?"

You swivel around, wide eyed and jumpy, feeling like an intruder. But why? Why would you feel like the one who didn't belong when Harry has had countless women here before?

You realize it was the way she sat primly at his counter, dressed beautifully with her perfectly smooth, long hair cascading down her back. She has one of his coffee cups in front of her like she's already been trained how to use the machine and knew where the mugs were. She looks comfortable. Secure. At home.

She looks like she belongs.

You know right away she's not like the others, but it's so early and you're so thrown off guard, it takes you a few extra minutes to catch up.

"Oh, h-hi," you stammer, slowly walking across the hardwood floor with your free arm extended. The other still holds the documents closely to your chest as you offer your name and shake her delicate, soft hand.

"Lucy," she says with a pleasant smile, despite still not knowing who you are but you presume she has an idea by now. When the name clearly doesn't ring a bell, she helps you.

"Harry's girlfriend."

The word knocks the air out of you. Cements you into the floor and has your mouth gaping like a fucking fish. Your arm stays suspended in the air long after the handshake is over and when you realize how stupid you look, heat rushes to your cheeks.

"Girl-girlfriend?" you repeat, and you fucking hate the way your voice squeaks. Lucy hears it and raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow but fortunately is too polite to say anything. You laugh awkwardly and wrap both arms around the folders, holding them against you like a shield.

"Sorry, that's—that's new," you chuckle, then clear your throat and look away when you realize how that sounded. "I-I mean, he didn't mention anything, I'm—I'm sorry, I was just dropping off these documents—"

"You're his assistant," she says. Her voice sounds clearer. Like it finally clicked. You wonder what he's said about you but quickly shake the thoughts from your mind.

"Yep. That's me, s-sorry again, he wasn't expecting me. Peter's assistant got sick yesterday and forgot to give me something he absolutely needs before he goes to L.A., so I thought I would just, uh, y'know... leave them here—" You stretch forward and plop the big stack of files down next to her. "Before he left. I didn't realize he had, well, that he—"

Lucy laughed, the sound soft and delicate. Nothing like your boisterous laughs or snorts that turn into giggles.

"It's fine! Please, don't worry. You won't get in trouble."

She shoots you a wink and you have the sudden urge to yank her perfect hair out of her skull. Of course you won't get in trouble. You never get in trouble with Harry. Sure, he's your boss, but never once has he disciplined you. And even if he did, who is she to assume she has some type of authority, anyway?

Before you can think of anything proper to say, Harry's voice echos down the hallway.

"I don't know how dressy this restaurant is supposed to be, but I think this should—"

He stops short when he rounds the corner and sees the two of you in his kitchen. He's holding two dress shirts in one hand and a blazer in the other, and his eyes are darting wildly between you both, like he got caught in a lie and he has no idea what to do.

You stare at him and wait while something heavy falls between you. You know you have no right to feel betrayed or lied to, yet you do. You fucking do. He tells you everything else in his life and somehow he's kept this from you? How? Why? And then you realize you don't know how long they've been dating and the question flies out of your mouth.

"Morning. Sorry to bother you, I was just dropping these off—" You point to the stack of folders but Harry's gaze doesn't leave your face. "And I met Lucy," you add, giving her the most polite smile you can muster. She beams back, not yet picking up on the tension. Then you look back at Harry. "But didn't say how long you've been dating."

"A month," she says from next to you. Your throat closes up and you cough, eyes dropping to the floor as you try to collect yourself. Meanwhile, Lucy is getting you a glass of water and the way she already knows exactly where the glasses are sets your teeth on edge.

"A month," you repeat, looking back up at Harry. His face looks pale but he managed to compose himself when he gives you a shrug and tries to force a grin.

"Time flies."

"We met at Peter's wedding," Lucy tells you, handing you the glass. You murmur your thanks and take a sip. "I work for Adore. I'm the matchmaker that set up Charlotte and Peter on their first date."

"Right," you say with a tight nod. You set the glass down and stare at the water. Things begin to click into place. The subtle changes in routine you had misread. And then your heart falls.

Before tears can spring to your eyes, you decide to leave.

"It was lovely meeting you," you tell her, hoping you don't look as heartbroken as you feel. She smiles back and you think she buys it, but Harry is another story. He frowns when he hears the tremble in your voice and the small sniffle you thought went unnoticed.

"Let me walk you down," he offers, quickly stepping forward to drape the clothes over the back of a chair. You shake your head, already halfway to the elevator.

"No, no, I'm good. You have a plane to catch."

"It's work related," he says, then turns to Lucy, who is watching from the kitchen, her smile frozen on her face like maybe she is connecting some dots. "It's work stuff," he repeats, "just have to go over a couple things before we leave."

We. It hits you like a punch to the gut. So she's going with him to L.A. That's never happened before.

"You can text it to me," you tell him under your breath when the elevator doors open, but still he follows you inside and doesn't speak until they slide shut. In fact, the ride down to the lobby is silent. Painfully so, because all the while you're fighting back tears you know he doesn't deserve. And he just stands there, right next to you, his arm just barely brushing yours, his scent engulfing your senses, and it's overwhelming. It's torture.

By the time the elevator reaches the lobby, you have to speak. It's driving you insane.

"What did you need me to—"

"I didn't know how to tell you. I haven't dated anyone seriously in years and it felt strange to just drop it into normal conversation."

The doors slide open but you don't move.

"I only just told my parents," he adds, and the fact he told them means it really is serious. Your biggest fear has become a reality.

You stare straight ahead at the empty lobby, blinking. Then his hand shoots out and stops the doors from closing and you snap out of it.

"You don't need to tell me anything," you finally say, "I'm just your assistant, Harry." The coldness in your voice makes him flinch, but you don't see it. Then you force your feet to move, one after the other, each step heavier than the last. He follows you and gently touches your shoulder, making you stop so he can catch up. He stands in front of you, between you and the doors. You feel the tension radiating off him, like he's struggling with what to say, but you keep your gaze pinned to his chest, unable to meet his eye.

He seems to feel the need to fill the silence. Or maybe he wants to explain himself for some reason.

"It just.. happened," he says weakly. "I didn't expect it to last."

You shrug. "I'm happy for you."

You're not. But what else can you say?

"She's a good match." He continues to speak like he hadn't heard you. "We want the same things. She's..."

He trails off and you finally lift your eyes. "Tolerable?" you offer. His expression is unreadable, then he slowly nods.

"Yeah."

You inhale deeply and look over his shoulder, out onto the street. The city is waking up. So are you.

"That's good. She's very nice and pretty. I think she'll be good for you."

It looks like Harry wants to say something, but no words come. He just looks down at you like he had stepped on something beautiful and he feels badly about it, but not badly enough to fix it.

He knows. He must know. It scares you to your core and you quickly skirt around him.

"Have a safe flight. Text me if you need anything."

The words are tossed over your shoulder just in time, because the moment you step foot onto the sidewalk, the tears come, and they don't seem to stop for a week.

---

"You need to quit."

You look up from your spot on the couch, the same spot you've been curled up in for days watching shitty television and letting the grief course through your system.

"I can't quit, Mia," you tell your roommate. "I'll never make this kind of money anywhere else. Besides, what else would I do? I don't exactly have a deep bench of skills here."

"You're making up excuses because you don't want to leave Harry, but if you really want to move on and protect yourself, you would find a way." She plops down on the couch next to you, her short dark curls bouncing, and grabs an open bag of chips from the coffee table.

She's known for years how you've felt about Harry. You didn't even need to confess—she could just tell by the way you looked when you talked about him, which was often. And when you came home complaining about the girls you've run into at his apartment, she could hear the jealousy in your voice. But she's never seen you this depressed before, and it's freaking her out a little.

"Maybe it won't last," you mumble, tugging the blanket around your shoulders a little tighter.

"Or maybe he'll marry her," Mia says plainly while shoveling chips into her mouth.

"Don't say that," you groan. Harry wouldn't marry the first serious girlfriend he's had in years. That would be insane.

"I'm just trying to prepare you," she says while dusting off her fingers. "Unless you tell him how you feel and shoot your shot, it's a very real possibility he's going to marry her. Remember what his family told him?"

You're beginning to regret telling Mia about that early Saturday morning where Harry's family confronted him about his romantic life—or lack thereof—because she's right. Harry could have taken what they said to heart and now he's trying to turn over a new leaf, but if you never tell him how you feel, how can you expect to be the one he chooses?

"I can't," is all you say. Mia sighs next to you and lets it go. For now. She knows you well enough to understand when you've reached your limit. So she sits with you the rest of the day, wallowing in self pity while occasionally laughing at trashy television. It's the support you need right now. Just someone steady nearby while you work through things. And it works, because the next morning when you wake up, you decide you're going to do something to snap yourself out of this funk. You take a shower, do your hair, and put on a little makeup. Not too much, just enough to glow a little.

Harry isn't supposed to be back from L.A. until this evening, which means you aren't in any rush to get to the office on time. You allow yourself a detour to a certain Starbucks, even though you pass six others exactly like it on the way to your destination. Right before you open the door you send up a silent prayer that he isn't working so you can say you tried and the stars didn't align, but alas, there he is: right behind the counter serving the line of customers ahead of you with that bright smile you remember from last time.

When you reach the front of the line, you see a flash of recognition in his eyes and his smile widens.

"Hey, you," he greets with warmth, and despite not calling him, still appears happy to see you. "Venti Americano?" he guesses, but you shake your head.

He remembers you. He remembers the coffee you ordered. It should mean something, but it doesn't.

"That was actually for my boss," you tell him. Your eyes briefly scan the menu and you pick the first thing you see. "Can I get a tall mocha?"

"Of course," Brian says as he punches your order into the system. You scan your card, wondering how on earth you made it this far across the city without formulating a plan. What do you say? Do you just brazenly give him your number? Would he even want to go out with you after ignoring his last attempt? Fortunately, Brian solves that problem for you.

"Ah, so your boss has my number then," he says with a grin. "I was wondering why I was getting texts from some old CEO in the middle of the night."

"How did you know I work for a CEO?"

"Just a guess. And he keeps inviting me on his private jet."

You laugh at his joke. You didn't even have to fake it. He genuinely seems funny. Maybe you could make this work.

"Sorry about that. He tossed the cup by accident." Brian nods and keeps his eyes cast down as he works on your drink, a little smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"That's too bad. I was gonna ask you to come to see my band this weekend," he sighs, and you curiously tilt your head to the side.

"Oh? You're in a band?"

"Lead singer and guitarist," he confirms proudly as he stirs your drink. Then his crystal blue eyes dart up to meet yours, giving you a playful look. "Just such a shame you lost my number."

You giggle, unable to keep up the facade any longer. "I'm free this weekend, too. My roommate is heading home to Connecticut for her sister's bachelorette."

He raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like it would've been perfect timing."

"Sounds like it," you agree with a smile that wouldn't stop growing.

Brian looks down at the drink in his hand and hesitates.

"This one is for you, right? No other bosses?"

You nod. "It's mine."

"Good."

He reaches across the counter and hands you the cup. When you go to take it from him, your fingers brush and it sends a shock right through you. You bite your lip and look up at him through your lashes, then he grins and lets go.

"Don't lose this one."

You nod and take the cup with both hands. Your eyes trail after him as he goes back to the register to help the next customers, but you catch his line of sight before you leave and he gives you a wink. You feel your cheeks warm, lift your hand to wave, then walk back out onto the sidewalk. It's a short stroll to the office and the weather is nice, so you take your time, sipping your drink and reading the numbers scrawled onto the side of your cup over and over.

Maybe this is exactly what you need.

---

You don't tell Harry about Brian the next day. Or the day after. You keep it to yourself, same way he didn't tell you about Lucy, and as petty as it sounds, it puts you in a better mood. And Harry seems relieved to find you more like yourself after the last time he saw you.

Everyone wins.

"Any exciting plans this weekend?" he asks distractedly. Harry is hunched over his desk reviewing offer letters he needs to sign off on as you wait impatiently. You want to take them down to HR on your way out of the building and he's taking forever to look them over.

"Actually, yeah. I'm going to see a band."

He glances up at you, those soft, brown eyes you daydream about boring into you. You hate the way it makes your heart jump.

"Oh, yeah? MSG?"

You shake your head. "Local band at a shitty bar."

He smiles and you try not to let the images of him and Lucy tangled up in bed somewhere in Los Angeles fill your mind.

"With Mia?"

"She's out of town, actually. It's her sister's bachelorette this weekend."

"Shit, that's coming up fast." Harry looks back down at the papers in front of him and scribbles his signature with a flourish, then sets it aside to review the next one. You tap your fingers anxiously against your crossed arms.

"I know. The wedding is in less than two months."

"You going?"

You shake your head. He signs another paper.

"I've only met her family a couple times."

"That's it? Hasn't she been your roommate for years?" He looks up at you in surprise.

"She usually goes to visit them, not the other way around. Not exactly a ton of room in our tiny apartment so she meets them at their hotel if they come to the city."

He chuckles, signs the last offer, and begins to collect the rest. He's forming a neat little stack, tapping the edges of the papers on his desktop when he says, "Come to think of it, I've never even seen your place. Only the outside."

"Why would you have a reason to come in?"

The sentence comes out a little harsher than you mean it to and Harry picks up on it. Your eyes lock and you try to remain composed and act like nothing is wrong, but he knows you too damn well. Same way you know him. It's impossible to hide from each other.

"Good point," he finally says before handing you the papers. You take them from him and spin on your heel, eager to get the hell out of there. But just as you're about to leave, he calls out your name, stopping you in your tracks.

When you turn to look at him, he's standing behind his desk, fingertips pressing firmly into the wood. He looks like he's struggling with something, like he wants to say something but doesn't know how. You don't throw him a lifeline. You wait in silence, making him work for it.

Say what you want to say, Harry.

"Do you think it's strange that we—"

His question is cut off when his receptionist buzzes through the phone on his desk.

"Harry? I have Lucy on line two."

Your skin prickles. His eyes don't leave you. He doesn't reach for the phone. He just stares, and you stare right back.

"Strange that we, what?" you ask softly.

Then his throat bobs and his gaze drops and you know you won't get your answer.

"Nevermind. Have a fun time this weekend."

Your heart sinks. "Thanks."

Then you're gone, grateful you are far enough down the hall before you have to hear the happiness in his voice when he picks up the phone.

---

The bar is small, giving the illusion it's packed with more people than it really is. The floors are sticky and the walls are covered with random graffiti, but the drinks are strong and you found a barstool that wasn't too wobbly so it isn't too bad.

You sip slowly on your gin and tonic and look around while Brian's band tunes up on stage. It's not your usual crowd or the type of place you would pick to hang out, but it's nothing a shower when you get home can't fix. In retrospect, it's probably silly for you to show up without anyone you know. The patrons don't look like they've come here for the band, they seem entirely unphased by their presence, and you're growing a little uncomfortable with no one to talk to. But then, Brian catches your eye just as he taps on the mic and he gives you a brilliant smile that makes your knees weak.

The first riff of his guitar changes the atmosphere almost immediately. An excited roar lifts from the crowd, bodies turn toward the stage, the lights dim and suddenly what you thought would be an embarrassing performance you would have to lie about enjoying turns into a private little rock show.

Brian's voice is surprisingly good. It reminds you of soft rock from the nineties and the poetic lyrics mixed with sexual innuendos just amplify that feeling. It's actually... not bad. The strong drinks might help you get into the mood a little bit because after about two songs, you're standing and swaying with the crowd. You cheer when they finish a song and jump excitedly when they start the next. Your head swims. The bar is hot, you're sweaty and your feet are starting to hurt in the shoes you should have swapped out for the more comfortable ones you left at home, but it didn't matter. For once, your mind is blank. No thoughts or visions of Harry and Lucy tugged at the corners of your brain. You're relaxed and actually having fun. And when you bounce up from the crowd to watch Brian, he spots you instantly. His lips curve into a sexy smile as he sings, his eyes pinned on you like you're the only one in the room.

You are quickly understanding why so many girls think it's hot to date a musician. There's something exciting and powerful about being the one they're thinking about when they're surrounded by people screaming for them, begging for their attention. Every time his eyes find yours throughout the night, it has warmth flooding your veins. Brian's nice, handsome, and talented. By all accounts, he's a great catch.

You end up spending more time with Brian after his early morning shift at Starbucks on Sunday. You go to his apartment and formally meet the other members of his band. Their girlfriends are there and they're nice enough. You feel a little out of place considering you don't really know if you're dating Brian or not, but it's fun nonetheless. It's a good distraction from the impending work week.

Somehow, you spend all afternoon and well into the evening at his place. His friends leave slowly until all that's left is the two of you and Brian's little brother, who is currently playing some video game in his room while you straddle Brian's lap on the couch with his tongue halfway down your throat.

He's a good kisser. He's attentive and sweet and doesn't pressure you. He even smells good, but not as good as—

"Wanna go to your bedroom?" you ask, breathlessly pulling away. You need to get Harry out of your head. Brian nods eagerly and practically trips over his own feet leading you down the hall.

Later, when he's snoring softly next to you and you lay wide awake, staring at his cracked ceiling, you mentally try to talk yourself into this... thing. Brian is a good guy and not half bad in bed, either. He has everything most girls would ever want.

The problem is he still isn't Harry. But maybe, one day, you can learn to let your feelings go and give yourself to somebody who actually chooses you over anyone else.

As much as it hurt, you have to try.

---

Your cell phone rings next to you, jolting you out of a sound sleep. With your heart hammering in your chest, you sit up and feel around in the unfamiliar sheets until you find your phone and silence the ringer.

Harry.

Fuck.

Next to you, Brian moans softly and turns onto his side, away from you. You slip out of bed, snatch his shirt from the ground, and toss it over your head as you sneak out into the kitchen.

"Hello?"

"Morning, Sunshine. Did I wake you?"

You squint at the microwave to check the time, but it's blinking twelve o'clock.

"What time is it?" Your voice sounds rough and your head aches from hardly any sleep.

"It's just after five. Sorry, I know you like to sleep in, but we got big news. I gotta be in the office early, I'm sending Lou to your place right now."

"Five in the morning is not sleeping in," you correct before shaking your head and remembering the most important piece of information. "But... I can't."

He pauses on the other end. You've never said no before.

"What? Why?"

You clear your throat softly and pad over to the window. The street is dark and silent, as you expected, but the bigger issue is you're a good thirty minutes from home.

"I'm not home," you tell him. Your pulse skips as you listen to him work it out on the other end.

"You're not... home?" he repeats dumbly. You nod, even though he can't see you. "Where are you? I'll have Lou come—"

"I'm far. I'm in the Lower East Side. Listen—"

"Who lives all the way out there?"

There's something different about his tone. It almost sounds like he's bristling. You swallow tightly.

"Uh, this... this guy."

"Is it the barista?"

Your eyes widen. How did he know?

"Wha- Harry, this isn't any of your business," you snap. It could be your imagination but it sounds like he's annoyed.

"It is the barista."

"Shut up," you grumble. Harry begins to say something else but you're distracted when you hear the squeak of Brian's door behind you.

"Hey, gorgeous," he says sleepily as he walks across the room, still shirtless, since you're currently wearing the one he had on earlier. He yawns and runs his fingers through his hair before wrapping you up in his arms and kissing your neck. "What's going on?"

His voice is deep and sexy and it stops Harry mid-sentence.

"Uh, it's my boss," you tell him, pulling the phone away from your face. But it's early and quiet and you know Harry can still hear you. "I'll be right there."

Brian hums, kisses you again, and lets you go.

"I'll be waiting."

Even though Harry can't see you, your face still burns. This feels weird. Like you're rubbing his nose in his mistake, but Harry never did anything wrong. And it's presumptuous to assume he would even care at all.

Everything else aside, Harry has been parading countless women in front of you for literal years. So what if you finally manage to get laid?

"Are—are you still there?" you ask sheepishly.

There's a long, painful pause. Then— "Yeah."

"Okay. Uh, I can be at the office in an hour. Maybe a little more—"

"Forget it. Take your time. You're busy."

"No. I'm—I'm good. I just need to—"

"I said forget it."

The coldness in his voice stops you. You blink, utterly confused.

"Then why did you—"

"I'll see you at eight."

Then the line goes dead.

You should have just went back to bed for another hour and went to work at a normal time, but now your blood is pumping and you feel more alert than any amount of espresso could inspire. So you go back to Brian's room, whisper an apology in his ear with a quick explanation that you have to go, then gather your things and take a shower.

The subways are actually running on time, so you're able to stop off at your place, change your clothes, and rush back out. You're in the office before seven, and by the looks of it, Harry has been there a lot longer.

You do your normal routine: drop off your bag, turn on your computer and lamp, then go to the kitchen to make you both coffee. People are in the office, but they're quiet. It's Monday, it's early, and nobody is in the mood for chitchat.

When you return carrying two mugs, setting one on your desk before heading for Harry's office, you find out he's not in the mood for chitchat, either. At least, not the type of chitchat you're used to.

"Hey," you greet when you enter the room. He barely looks up from his computer when you set the mug down on his coaster, then you take a seat across from him and pull out your iPad to review his meetings for the day.

"You have a busy morning, but your after—"

"I know."

Your gaze lifts, sensing the tension in his voice, but he still doesn't look at you. His face looks lined with stress as he reads something on his computer. You sit quietly, waiting for him to say something else, but minutes tick by and you start to squirm.

"I was going to run out and grab your dry cleaning this morning. And your mother's birthday is coming up, so if you want, I can go to Neiman Marcus and pick up something for her."

Harry shakes his head. "I need you to run some errands for me. My luggage got beat up in L.A., I need something new."

You frown and make a note on your iPad. "Is it urgent?" you ask.

Finally, he tears his eyes away to pin you with what can only be described as a glare. "If I'm asking you to do it today, then it's urgent."

It knocks you sideways. Even on his worst days, Harry has never taken out his frustration on you. It's uncharted territory and you don't know how to react, so you don't say anything. You press your lips together and look down at the tablet in your lap.

"Okay."

He shifts in his chair but you keep your eyes cast down. You're already on very little sleep and so far, zero amounts of coffee, so it's easier to just move past it and think about it later.

Well, if it had stopped there, that would have been a great plan. However, Harry chose to push your buttons that morning.

"An entirely new set or just a certain piece?"

He sighs across from you, the noise sounding quite a bit like irritation.

"New set. Why would I want one piece that doesn't match the rest?"

You clench your jaw and write more notes on your tablet.

"Okay. Do you have a style preference, or—?"

"Just get something good quality, like you should have done the first time."

"Hartmann is the best there is," you argue back. Your eyes find his again and you can now see the icy look that matches his tone. He's legitimately pissed off and you can't fathom why.

"Then why'd it get destroyed last week?" he snaps. You've had enough.

"Define destroyed."

He narrows his eyes at you. "I find it unsettling that I need to explain what that means to my assistant."

Your jaw ticks to the side and you bite your tongue. Whatever crawled up his ass this morning is his problem, not yours.

"Anything else?" you grit out.

He regards you silently for a moment, looking like he was gearing up for a fight and he's disappointed you aren't giving him what he wants. His nostrils flare slightly and his fingers lace together tightly on his desk. You refuse to let him get to you—you just sit there, waiting for an answer with an unamused expression.

"Yeah," he finally says. He holds your stubborn gaze. "Do you have luggage or do you need some, too?"

You frown, unable to hide the confusion that paints your face. "Why would—"

"Because," he says, cutting you off, "had you been available earlier when I called, you would know that in two weeks, you're coming to Chicago with me."

You balk and sit back in your chair. "What?"

Harry raises his eyebrows at you. "You're my assistant and I'll be requiring your assistance in Chicago."

"Wh-Why?" you sputter.

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose like he's annoyed.

"Is this going to be a problem?"

You think about it for a second, but before you can answer, he adds, "Or did you have plans with your boyfriend?"

What the fuck? Is he being serious right now?

Anger courses through your veins so fast, you can't stop it.

"Is that why you're pissed? Because I went on a date for once and I wasn't free to work at an ungodly hour for you?"

Something flickers across his face and the heat building between you rises. It's unmistakable, tension so thick it's hard to breathe.

"I thought you valued your position here," he says through clenched teeth.

"I do. But I'm allowed to have a social life outside of working hours," you bite back.

He glares at you like he's trying to burn a hole through your chest. His shoulders rise and fall a little faster, the anger radiating off him in waves. It just spurs you on, knowing you're getting under his skin.

"Besides," you say, your voice cutting through the suffocating silence, "you took Lucy on your last trip. Or is Chicago not exciting enough for her?"

That does it. Harry rises from his chair, glowering down at you from the other side of his desk.

"Watch it."

You cock your head to the side innocently. "What? You're allowed to bring up my personal life but I can't bring up yours?"

His neck is flushed pink now as you stand, gathering your things.

"I am your boss," he reminds you, his words practically coming out in a hiss. "You work for me. Remember that."

You scoff, too tired and too fed up to care.

"Harry, you crossed that line ages ago when you started making me escort your dates out of your apartment when you were finished with them, and you know it."

You swivel on your heel, determined to get the last word, when his voice shouts out your name so harshly, your body stops before your brain can register it.

When you look back at him, he's angrier than you've ever seen him. The veins in his neck bulge as he fights to control his rage. The skin over his knuckles are white from how hard he's curled his fingers into fists. And you wait, hoping you're giving him a convincing, unbothered look.

The silence stretches on for what feels like an eternity. You stare each other down, both of you silently daring the other to say what's truly bothering you. But of course, you don't.

"I will send you the dates," he tells you, each word falling slowly and dripping like poison from his lips. "Book the flights today. And clear your schedule."

You storm out of his office, your body shaking from how pissed off he just made you. The coffee you poured sits untouched next to your computer but the way your adrenaline is pumping, it feels like you drank an entire pot.

Chicago should be fun. That is, if you don't kill each other first.

[punkshort]

long way down | 1: please notice

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader

Chapter Summary: It's just another early Saturday morning as Harry's personal assistant, where you're privy to a family meeting regarding concern over Harry's personal life.

Chapter Warnings: language, angst, pining/yearning, sexual tension, flirting, jealousy

WC: 5.9K

Series Masterlist

It's Saturday. A day normal people typically get to spend doing whatever they please; like sleeping in, hanging out with friends, shopping... but not you. Not today, because just after five in the morning, your cell phone goes off next to your head. The offensive ring shatters the peaceful silence and has you scrambling to answer it before your roommate wakes up.

"Hello?" Your voice cracks, broken and thick with sleep.

"Morning, Sunshine. Did I wake you?"

You grunt softly as you pull yourself up and flick your bedside lamp on. The soft glow burns your eyes and you wince.

"Harry... it's so early—" you begin to say.

"I know, sorry."

"And it's Saturday," you add.

"Something came up last minute, are you free for a few hours?"

You sigh and rub your eyes. With every second that passes, your body wakes up more and you can feel sleep slipping away.

"Seriously?" But you're already flinging the covers off.

"I'll make it worth your while. I'll send Lou to pick you up," he teases over the phone, voice low and gravelly. He's trying to entice you into putting in more overtime, but it's having an entirely different effect.

It wasn't the first time he asked you to adjust your work schedule and it wouldn't be the last because every single time, you agree. In the six years you've worked as his personal assistant, Harry always made sure to pay you appropriately for any overtime he asked you to do, which was generous, to say the least. You liked to blame the odd hours whenever your family or friends bugged you about your lack of a boyfriend or much of a social life in general, but you knew the real reason: you were hopelessly and painfully in love with your boss.

You realized it about a year into your job. He had asked you to work late one night without realizing it was the Fourth of July until fireworks began to explode in the night sky.

"C'mon," he had said excitedly after he rushed out of his office. You were slumped over your desk right next to his door, staring at your computer with tired eyes as you scrolled, oblivious to the noise outside his windows. You had hurried after him to the stairwell, where he led you up to the roof of his building. You had spent the next hour tucked under his arm, watching fireworks burst all around you, and even though you were in the center of the busiest city in the world, it really did feel like it was just the two of you. It was intimate and cozy and when he smiled at you — like, really smiled — your chest ached and your pulse raced. And when you tilted your head to look up at him, with fireworks reflecting in his gorgeous, deep brown eyes, it hit you.

For a few months you tried to talk yourself out of it, but every day you fell harder and harder. When he called, your heart fluttered. When he took you to lunch, those rare times it was just the two of you, you pretended it was a date.

Your infatuation went far beyond his looks or money. It was the little things that you found yourself thinking and smiling about when you thought no one was looking, like the way he always has to make a comment to you every time he bites into an apple — this is a good one; oh, this is tart; where did you buy this? It tastes mealy. Or how he's shit at playing piano because he had the biggest crush on his tutor growing up and he could never focus. Or the way he prefers to watch movies on Tuesday nights because it reminds him of his childhood when the theater near his best friend's house would run classic movies for half admission. Or how every time he sees a corvette, he tells you growing up it was his dream car, and even though he's never gotten around to buying one now, he still wants to one day so he can drive it with the top down on warm summer nights.

You wrote it off as a harmless crush, but the first time you had to watch Harry flirt with another woman at a charity auction, it made your heart sink. When he told you Lou would drive you home alone while the gorgeous model behind him in a short, tight dress waited with a tipsy smile, you thought you were going to be sick.

"And what if I have plans today?" you fire back as you yank on a pair of black pants, hopping on one foot to the next while you hold your cell phone between your ear and shoulder.

"Do you?" he asks. His voice sounds echoey now and you realize he probably walked into his bathroom.

"Maybe," you mumble under your breath. Then you hear his shower turn on and you freeze as the image of him partially—or even entirely—naked flits across your mind.

"C'mon Sunshine, I need you," he pleads. You practically melt into the floor.

No matter how hard you've tried to deny it, your feelings for him have only grown stronger, which is why the word pathetic is rolling around your head at six in the morning as you make you way up to his penthouse, because it seems like no matter what, if Harry asks you to jump, you'll just ask how high?

The elevator doors open to his sprawling apartment. The lights are mostly dim, as you expected. He's probably still in his bathroom or the kitchen. But when you step out of the elevator, big tote bag slung over one shoulder and phone clutched in your hand, you spot the pair of black high heels kicked off next to his couch and you stop short.

"Come on," you mutter angrily under your breath. You already know what's facing you — some girl way too young to be messing around with a man Harry's age is somewhere in his apartment, overstaying her welcome. You've dealt with it a hundred times before and while five years ago, it hurt to have to come face to face with Harry's latest conquest, by now you've grown numb to it. Once you realized these girls don't mean anything to him, it became a lot easier.

Still, you hated that you had to cross paths with these girls because envy always managed to swirl in your stomach every time.

Right on schedule, a leggy blonde wearing last night's wrinkled dress stumbles down the hallway barefoot. When you lock eyes, she freezes with a look of fear stricken across her face.

"Oh my god, are you his wife?"

You give her your most professional, tight lipped smile and shake your head.

"No," you say, relief flooding her features, "I'm Mr. Castillo's assistant. I'm here to pick him up for work."

She looks around, kohl smudged eyes taking in his impressive kitchen before she finds the time.

"It's Saturday," she says slowly. You shrug and clasp your hands together.

Yeah, no shit, is what you really want to say. But instead—

"I guess you don't get all this without working a few weekends."

She looks at you again, bites her full lower lip, and awkwardly shifts her weight.

"Your shoes are in the sitting room," you add, pointing behind you with another forced smile.

"Right," she replies softly, tiptoeing past you to pick them up. Her blue eyes dart around again while she slides her heels back on. "Can I leave my number? Will you give it to him?"

"Of course."

You pull your leather padfolio out of your tote bag and flip to a clean page before plucking out the pen and looking up at her expectantly. She rattles off her number and you write it down before asking, "And your name?"

"He knows it," she tells you, heading for the elevator. Then she pauses and thinks better of her answer. "It's Kali."

You scribble her name and make a show of clicking your pen before putting everything back in your bag. "I'll be sure he gets it."

Kali nods, taps the button for the elevator, and the doors slide open. She steps inside and looks at you once more.

"He's not gonna call, is he?"

You actually feel pity for a second and regretfully shake your head. "Probably not."

Her face falls and she taps the button for the lobby before giving you one more brave smile and little wave, then she's gone.

"Mr. Castillo? So formal."

You spin around as Harry is strolling down his hallway, clad in only a towel tied loosely around his waist. You swallow and force yourself to look away from his smooth, tan chest dotted with specks of water.

Your faux professionalism instantly slips. "Stop calling me over here to kick these girls out, Harry," you scold before sliding onto a barstool at his kitchen counter.

"I'd be hopeless without you, Sunshine," he coos as he waltzes by with a wink. You ignore the flutter in your chest and instead, set down your tote next to you while he opens his fridge and pulls out a glass pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice.

"Want some?" he asks, holding it up. You shake your head and he turns to grab a glass from his cupboard.

"I didn't ask you to come just for that. I really do have a meeting at eight."

"On a Saturday?" you ask, parroting Kali from ten minutes prior.

He puts the pitcher back into the fridge and nods. "Family meeting. Last minute."

"That doesn't sound good," you mutter. Now that his back is to you, you allow yourself to dreamily admire the strong muscles framing his shoulders all the way down to the dip of his spine.

"It's about Peter's wedding."

Oh. You should have figured. It was coming up soon.

"If you're looking for a date, I have Kali's number." You pull your padfolio back out and rip out the page, sliding it across the smooth wood counter. Harry takes a sip from his glass and stares at the paper before his gaze slips back up to you.

"You don't wanna go with me?"

You roll your eyes as heat slowly burns your cheeks. He does this all the time and it's part of the reason you can't seem to let your fixation go. He flirts with you, knowing it's just a joke, but you can't stop replaying those moments when you're all alone with a goofy smile on your face.

"I promised her I would pass it along," you tell him softly. He nods once, tosses back the rest of the juice, and puts his glass in the sink.

"I'll be ready in twenty."

You sigh and watch him leave, knowing full well that paper will get discarded when his housekeeper comes on Monday. If logic had any say in matters of the heart, you never would have allowed yourself to fall for Harry because despite how you constantly yearn for him, your brain knows better: Harry Castillo will never, ever settle down with one woman.

---

"Harry, I don't know what's worse: my eldest son arriving to his brother's wedding with a hussy, or single."

You smile to yourself and drop your chin to your chest so nobody sees. Harry's mom, Eleanor, is a trip. Smart as whip and just as sharp as day one, despite her age. You figure she had to be, coming from a family of all men.

"I assume a hussy would be worse but I suppose we could find out," Harry smirks from his side of the table. The office is quiet except for the four family members, Peter's fiancée Charlotte, and yourself. Typically Peter's assistant, Clara, would be in attendance, but he actually allows her to have the weekends off, so it's up to you this time to make everyone coffee and tea.

"That is not funny," Eleanor says firmly from the head of the table.

"Your mother is concerned about you," Harry's father says from the next chair. "We don't want to go to our graves worried our son hasn't found his path at fifty years old."

"Jesus," he balks, then looks at Peter. "Help me out, here."

Peter sighs and lets go of Charlotte's hand. "They're being dramatic but they have a point."

Harry's gaze darts between three sets of eyes, searching for some type of sign this was all a big joke.

"Are you being serious? I thought this meeting was about the wedding — why does it feel like an intervention?"

"It's not an intervention. More like a wake-up call," their father says. "We want you to find someone who can make you whole. Who can be by your side when you're weakest. Laugh with you when you're happiest. Care for you when you're sick and make you a better man. Like your mother does for me and how Charlotte does for Peter."

Harry exchanges looks with Peter, who drops his gaze to the table, then Harry sits back in his chair in disbelief.

"I have a path," he begins to say defensively. Eleanor shakes her head.

"Professionally? Yes, you do. Privately? You're a mess."

"That's harsh," Harry mumbles while fidgeting with a pen left on the table.

"What's harsh about your family wanting you to be happy?" Eleanor picks up her teacup and takes a sip.

"I am happy."

Their father scoffs and Harry shoots him a look.

"I am much happier than I would be dating some socialite. I've tried and trust me, the girls you're expecting me to marry are boring and either are functioning alcoholics or suffering from undiagnosed depression."

"We never said date socialites. Just stop dating floozies. Settle down with a nice girl. We don't care who she is or what she does for a living, so long as it's respectable. Maybe contact the matchmaking service Peter used," his father says.

"They're miracle workers," Charlotte gushes. "In fact, I'll introduce you to Lucy at the wedding."

Peter's gaze is still fixed firmly on the cup of coffee in front of him, avoiding Harry entirely.

Harry groans and drags his palms roughly down his face.

"Fine. I will... consider it."

Later, after Harry ushers you into his car where his driver was waiting at the curb, he turns to you in shock.

"That was an ambush."

You shrug. "Yeah. Probably."

Something sits heavy in your gut. It's fine seeing Harry with other women because you know they don't mean anything. It took you a while to accept it, but you finally got there because you convinced yourself he would never settle down. What if he takes his family's advice and actually finds love, gets married, and starts a family? Your heart wouldn't be able to take it. You would have to quit and move out of the city. Maybe get a lobotomy so you can forget he ever existed.

"It's bullshit," he mutters, propping his elbow up onto the armrest. He stares out the window, lost in thought. You glance sideways at him, a question rolling around in your head you don't know if you can handle the answer to. And yet—

"Why don't you want to get married?"

He tilts his head back in your direction. The way his soft brown eyes pierce through you has your mind going blank for a second.

"Do you really want to know why?"

You find yourself nodding and holding your breath. You hate how effortlessly good he looks in just a black sweater and dark grey slacks. He even still smells good from his shower and it's not the first time you find yourself fantasizing about what he looks like, all soapy and wet, and you wonder if he's the type that wouldn't mind if you slipped into the shower with him, or if he preferred to just take care of business, undisturbed.

"I don't think I'm capable of it."

His words feel like a hammer to your head. It knocks you back to reality.

"Capable of... marriage?"

He shakes his head. "Capable of love."

You frown and try to come up with something supportive to say while he stares at you, waiting.

"Harry—"

"You want some coffee?" He leans forward in his seat without waiting for your answer. "Lou? Can we stop at Starbucks?"

"Sure thing, boss."

"Harry, you are capable of love," you say, bringing his focus back onto you. "Look at your family. Your friends. You love them and they love you."

"That's a different type of love and you know it," he chides, clicking his tongue against his teeth like he caught you in a lie.

You swallow the lump in your throat and your gaze flickers nervously to the review mirror before lowering your voice.

"Is it because of..."

You trail off and point wordlessly at his legs, referring to the surgery he had eight years ago to make himself taller. Something he rarely talks about and you suspect he keeps hidden from most of the women he brings home. He follows your finger and his shoulders stiffen briefly before he sniffs and waves you off.

"Without that, no woman would look my way twice, so my chances at finding love without it would be damn near impossible."

"That's not true."

Harry laughs dryly and turns to look out the window again.

"Yeah, right. You're telling me you'd date a guy who was five six?"

"Yes," you say quickly. Too quickly. He swings his head back around to you. "When you love someone, you don't care about things like that," you add.

You didn't know Harry before his surgery, but you knew him before he gained his confidence from it, and you loved him anyway. And somehow you still managed to love him, regardless of all the women he's since fucked to boost his ego.

Harry smiles and pats your knee. "Not every woman is as perfect as you, Sunshine."

"Perfect is a stretch," you say, eyes stuck on his hand, which still casually cups your knee as he stares out the window. The car falls silent, with Harry lost in thought and you trying not to move a muscle for fear he will remember his hand on your knee and remove it.

"Maybe I'm overthinking it."

You frown and murmur, "Huh?"

He turns back to you with a shrug. "Peter says it's not love at first sight, like the movies," he begins, fingers still curled around your knee. It's hard to stay focused on his voice when his touch feels like it's burning an imprint into your skin.

"What's it like, then?"

What you've been looking for has been right in front of your face all along, maybe? you think to yourself.

"He says it's like a business deal," Harry tells you, deflating what little hope you have. "It's like finding someone who has the same understanding as you. Someone who wants the same things. Someone you can tolerate enough to spend every day together."

"That sounds kind of depressing." The words fly out of your mouth before you can stop them. He gives you a little smirk, one that always sends your pulse skipping.

"Why? Are you looking to be swept off your feet?" You roll your eyes at his teasing tone and he gives your knee a little squeeze. Naturally, you give the gesture some meaning. So he didn't forget it was still there.

"Bare minimum? I'm looking for someone to love me. I don't want someone to just tolerate me."

Harry laughs and his hand slips back into his lap. "I'm not explaining it correctly."

"It sounds like you're saying Peter doesn't really love Charlotte," you say with an arched brow. For a second, you think you sound crazy, but then Harry surprises you.

"He cares for her deeply and believes that they share the same values and goals. I don't think it's a bad deal for either of them."

He cares for her, you repeat in your head, noticing how Harry didn't mention the word love, and suddenly those looks the brothers were exchanging in the conference room make sense. You take a deep breath and shift away from him to look out your own window. It isn't a shock to hear his take on love. You've known him a long time and he's never been in a serious relationship. But some foolish part of you still holds out hope that maybe one day, his feelings will change. You just pray you don't get yourself hurt in the process.

"Are you mad at me?" Harry asks after a few minutes of quiet. You scoff and glance at him.

"Why would I be mad at you?"

He has a playful grin on his face when he scoots an inch closer and raises his arm to rest on the top of your seat.

"You're quiet. You don't agree with my thoughts on marriage and it's bothering you." It sounds like he's teasing you again and it gets under your skin.

"You're partially right," you say, unbuckling your seatbelt as Lou pulls up to the curb. "I don't agree with you, but it's not bothering me. What do you want to drink?"

His gaze drifts up and down, studying your face, trying to see through your lie while you wait patiently for an answer.

"That americano I like, please," he finally says, sitting back to watch you slide out of the car. His eyes track you through the tinted windows as he mulls over what you said. Something isn't right, but he can't pinpoint what it is. Yet.

---

Why the fuck did you have to fall madly in love with the most difficult man on earth? If kicking his one night stands out of his apartment weren't enough of a hint that this man was never going to be an option, he practically spelled it out for you in the car: marriage is a transaction, love isn't on the table.

Getting some space inside the Starbucks helps. The rich aroma of espresso beans mixed with the low hum of a blender and soft indie music instantly relaxes you. Or maybe it's just breathing room from your incredibly infuriating yet devastatingly handsome boss.

Glancing around, you realize you arrived at the perfect time. You must have missed the late morning rush because there are only two tables filled and nobody in line. Then again, most people probably have better things to do on a beautiful Saturday in New York City than sit inside a Starbucks.

"I can help you whenever you're ready."

Your gaze locks onto a very cute guy behind the counter — Brian, according to his name tag. He has a dazzling smile that has one of your own pulling at the corners of your mouth.

"Sorry, I'm ready," you say. You reach inside your tote for Harry's credit card, using the moment to mentally commit the way his light brown stubble dusts along the sharp cut of his jaw.

"Oh — I'm reading that, too. How do you like it so far?" he asks, and it's only then you realize as you were digging for Harry's card, you pulled out your copy of Station Eleven. You glance at the book before shyly grinning at him across the counter.

"I haven't started it yet, but I heard it's incredible," you say sheepishly before shoving the book back in your bag. You bought it months ago and you carry it around like one of these days you may actually have the time to crack it open.

"It is. It's got me hooked," Brian says with a laugh. His eyes scan your face, pausing a moment before clearing his throat and looking down at his register.

The silence feels heavy as you scramble for something else to say, but unfortunately you barely even remember the premise of the damn novel, so your mind is blank. That is, until you remember why you're there.

"Oh, uh — can I get a venti americano with an extra shot and two pumps of vanilla?" The tips of his ears look hot as he punches your order into the computer. You smile to yourself as you swipe Harry's card through the reader and the heat begins to rise to your own face — it's not every day you make a cute guy blush.

"What's your name?" he asks, glancing up at you with a boyish grin.

You tell him with a giggle and ask him in return, "Do you live around here?" It's not until you see the marker in his hand that you realize he's asking your name for the order and it's not an attempt to get to know you. The smile slips from your face. Oh, you fucking idiot.

"Lower East Side," he says easily, putting you out of your misery. "How about you? You probably live in one of these fancy high rises, don't you?"

It makes you laugh and leaves you a little flustered. "N-No. Brooklyn. But, like, just over the bridge, so I'm not far. You can hear the expressway from my bedroom."

"Very cool. Yeah, I have a buddy who lives not too far from Pebble Beach." He scribbles Harry's order onto the paper cup and shifts to the espresso machine. You drift to the left like a magnet, following him on the other side of the counter as he works. "I was actually looking to move in with him about two years back but then he had to go and get a girlfriend," he tells you with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. You giggle again and he looks up at you through his lashes while the espresso pours. "You have a pretty laugh."

Your face burns but you can't stop smiling. "T-Thank you. So, uh..." You glance around, noticing an older couple walking in. Luckily they stay back to read the menu, giving you a few more minutes with your handsome barista.

You swallow nervously and turn back to Brian just as he's filling the rest of the cup with steaming hot water. "So, where did you end up finding a place? With your girlfriend or maybe another friend...?"

It's unlike you to be so bold. In fact, you haven't been on a date in ages, but the timing this morning seems to work: after your conversation with Harry, you just feel like flirting a little. See who else is out there.

He grins at your less-than-subtle attempt at asking if he was taken.

"Nope. No girlfriend. Just my little brother."

He passes you the tall cup and you take it with a quiet thanks.

"Hey, if you ever get around to reading that book, come back and let me know what you think." Brian points to your bag and you look down in surprise, like you forgot you were holding it.

"Yeah. Yeah, I will."

"Excuse me?" The older man waves Brian down from the register and Brian gives him a friendly nod.

"Be right with you," he calls, then looks at you once more. His eyes sparkle and you're pretty sure he hasn't stopped smiling since you walked in. "Enjoy the coffee. It was great talking to you."

And just like that, he disappears to help the next customers. Oh, well. It would be stupid to try and date when you know where your heart really lies — right outside in his sleek black car, waiting for you at the curb.

Your feet feel heavy as you leave. You wish you could let this stupid fantasy go, but you just can't. Some days it feels like your soul is tied to Harry's and there's nothing you can do about it.

When you open the car door, he's on the phone. You slide in beside him, passing over his coffee as he mouths the word thanks and gives you a smile that has your chest pulling tight. As cute as Brian was, as nice as Brian was, nothing beats that spark you feel when you're with Harry.

It's infuriating and you love it.

While Harry finishes his conversation, you pull out your copy of Station Eleven and open it to the first page. He's talking about some art gallery opening in Chelsea — it sounds like the artist may be his buddy's daughter. You tune it out and begin to read while Lou merges back into traffic, carrying you both through the congested city. The tourists visiting for the weekend have woken up and it's slow going.

A few minutes later, Harry says his goodbyes and hangs up, and for a moment, the car is silent. Your eyes are still glued to your book, trying to ignore the way his thighs spread open next to you as he sips his coffee.

"You didn't want anything?" he asks after a several minutes of quiet. You shake your head, eyes already losing focus on the words.

"I was kind of hoping we were done for today and I might be able to take a nap," you say, "caffeine wouldn't exactly help."

He pauses next to you. You feel his heavy gaze on the side of your face and the words on the page are now a blur.

"Yeah. We're all set for today. Lou? Let's head towards Brooklyn." Lou nods but you're lost in the way Harry speaks. His voice sounds different. Tight. You soon find out why.

"Who's Brian?"

The book is a lost cause. Your eyes dart up to his dark ones in surprise, lips parted like you were about to ask the question he was already answering — he's holding up his cup, where Brian had scribbled his number on the side with his name and a smiley face. Heat starts to rise to your cheeks.

"O-oh," you stammer before clearing your throat. "He was the barista."

"I gathered," Harry says dryly, then takes a long sip from the cup. You fixate on the way his plush bottom lip curves around the lid, the way the tip of his angular nose bumps against the plastic, and you find your mind drifting, wondering if that's how he looks when he kisses.

"He makes a good coffee. You gonna call him?"

You blink slowly. Why did you feel guilty? And why did he sound a little jealous?

No, he isn't jealous. You're just wishing he is.

"Uh, I don't know. Maybe," you lie as you put the book back in your tote, looking for any excuse to avert your gaze from the way Harry is staring at you. Studying you.

A long silence stretches after that. It's not the usual quiet that settles. It feels tense, like something between you had pulled tight. It has your mind racing, wondering and hoping you were wrong, that maybe he does feel jealous. Or possessive. Or, hell, feels fucking anything at the idea of you going on a date with someone.

After enough time passed with your head turned towards the window, you decide he must have picked up his phone to busy himself, that he wasn't sitting next to you stewing in his thoughts like you can't seem to stop doing.

Then—

"I didn't realize you were looking to date."

The statement sucks the air from your lungs. You swivel your head to look at him, eyebrows raised, but he's staring down at the cup in his hands, at the numbers scrawled in thick, black ink.

"Yeah. Maybe," you finally breathe. He nods, just once, then it's quiet again. What did that mean?

You can't help yourself. You have to ask.

"Why does it matter?"

He shrugs. The corners of his mouth turn down with the movement before locking eyes with you again.

"It doesn't." Then a beat passes. "You've never talked about dating anyone before."

You shift in your seat and his knee knocks against yours, making your pulse stutter when he doesn't make a move to pull it away. Just like his hand from earlier. Just like all the touches before that tethered you to him.

Maybe it's one sided, maybe it's not, but the moment feels too heavy. So you opt for a joke.

"Well, my job is very demanding, Mr. Castillo. I don't have a lot of free time to date."

You grin at him, hoping to lighten the mood or end the conversation — anything to stop your heart from beating out of your chest like it is right now.

His eyes flicker from your knee to your face, then back again once more. Your breath stalls when he twists to face you, one arm reaching to rest behind your seat. His knee still presses against yours and it feels like he's slowly enveloping you in the backseat of his car. His other hand lifts and you swear it looks like he's about to place it on your thigh, but at the last second it lands innocently across his lap.

"Are you saying it's my fault you don't date?"

You swallow tightly. The air feels thin. The way he's looking at you, his proximity, the low timber of his voice inches away from your ear has a slow tingle moving down your spine. And somehow, you manage to answer.

"You could say that."

You don't smile and neither does he. Does he see right through you? Is it all in your head?

Stop it. He flirts, that's what he does. It doesn't mean anything.

And yet, you feel something, and you're pretty sure he can feel it, too. Something shifts, like a rock was lifted and sunlight streaked across the earth for the first time underneath it. Light is shone onto something you have tried very hard to keep buried and it has your hands trembling under his heavy gaze. He scans your face silently, searching, waiting for you to say more, but you don't.

Mercifully, his phone rings and breaks the spell. His arm behind your head retreats and he looks down at his phone before answering. You turn to stare blankly out the window, at the water as you cruise over the bridge, and you exhale shakily through your nose.

When Lou reaches your apartment, Harry is still on the phone. With Peter, it sounds like. He covers the mouthpiece and tilts the phone away so he can address you.

"Thanks for coming in last minute. Enjoy the rest of your weekend. I promise I won't bother you."

He's back to giving you a teasing smirk and things feel normal again. You grin as you step out of the car, then bend down to look at him.

"I'll believe that when I see it."

He laughs, shakes his head, and leans back in his seat. You shut the door and head up to your apartment, where your roommate is sprawled out on the couch, watching television, still in her pajamas and looking hungover.

"I didn't even know you were gone."

You laugh and kick your shoes off.

"Good to know if I'm ever kidnapped, you'll be the first to my rescue."

You manage to take a short nap, grocery shop, and do some laundry with the rest of your day. And just like usual, your thoughts are mostly consumed with Harry: overanalyzing every word and look until the sun dipped and the moon shines brightly in the sky.

It's around eleven when your phone chirps with a new text. And just like any other time when his name appears on your phone, your heart leaps excitedly in your chest.

Harry: I forgot to take a picture of that guy's number for you and I tossed the cup somewhere on Hudson. Sorry, Sunshine.

You had forgotten all about it. Brian didn't cross your mind since you left Harry's car that morning.

You: it's okay. don't worry about it.

Three little dots appear and disappear repeatedly. You watch and chew anxiously on your nail as you wait almost five minutes for him to say whatever it was he had to say. The amount of time it takes has you thinking he's either sending you a novel or he is very, very distracted.

Or maybe he can't decide on what to say.

Finally, his text comes through and it's simple. Two words.

Harry: good night

You exhale slowly, trying to calm your racing heart, then type out the same reply before plugging in your phone.

Across the city, in the heart of Tribeca, you will never know that the coffee cup in question was actually just discarded in Harry's own kitchen, right after he wished you good night and he wandered to bed, all alone.

[punkshort]

'long way down' masterlist

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader

Summary: Working as a personal assistant for the most eligible bachelor in New York City has its perks: above average pay, expensive goody bags from parties, traveling to exotic locations, dining at exclusive restaurants. It's a dream job that practically fell into your lap. The downside? You've been hopelessly in love with him for years and he has no clue. Even if he did, he isn't willing to give up his playboy lifestyle for a steady relationship. That is, until he meets Lucy, and everything changes.

Warnings: slow burn, power imbalance (boss/employee), language, food and alcohol consumption, some minor physical trauma, hurt/comfort, mention of SA (the part from the movie), eventual smut (18+ MDNI), angst, minor infidelity, so much fucking pining and yearning, more warnings to be stated each chapter

Status: in progress

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Chapters:

please notice

there is a light that never goes out

thin line

there's no way - posting Oct 18

potential - posting Oct 25

bruises - posting Nov 1

head over feet - posting Nov 8

-> if you wish to be notified of chapter updates, please follow @punkshort-notifs and turn on notifications

[inkeddaydream]

THE GHOST OF YOU

✦ chapter one ✦

"I still sing it. Thought maybe you'd hear it again someday."

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Word Count: ~3k (est.)

Warnings: Post-apocalyptic grief, canon violence (wounds, blood), deep emotional angst, vivid memory recall, haunting imagery, hallucination sequence, themes of abandonment and longing, musical memory, separation, guilt, survivor's sorrow, reunion tease, Joel Miller being quietly destroyed by love, and reader humming a melody that never leaves him.

Summary:You and Joel Miller survived the outbreak together — until the world tore you apart. He never found your body. Never stopped hearing your voice. And even years later, with his hands stained and his heart hollowed, Joel can still hear the melody you used to hum through the quiet. From Boston to Bill's house, through fevers and guilt and half-spoken dreams, he chases the sound like a ghost. Until one day... someone else starts humming it. And everything changes.

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

Here I am waking up...

The house was still, that rare kind of stillness that only came before dawn—soft light sliding across the kitchen tiles, birds not yet daring to call. Joel leaned against the doorframe, broad shoulders hunched, a mug of coffee cooling in his hands.

You were at the counter in his old Zeppelin shirt, sleeves rolled to your elbows, humming under your breath as you rinsed the dishes. The tune wasn't from the radio. It wasn't from anywhere. It was yours. He didn't know the full words, only that it lived in you like a quiet heartbeat and came out when you thought no one was listening.

He watched the steam curl off your coffee. The lipstick stain on the rim was fading, same as it had every morning this week. Same cup. Same ritual. It had become a quiet anchor for him in a world that felt like it was beginning to tilt. Outside, the news was noise about strange infections in faraway cities, but here, in this kitchen, there was only the hum of your melody and the smell of fresh coffee.

"'S that the same one you always sing?" Joel's voice was low, still wrapped in sleep. He didn't move from the doorway, just watched you.

You smiled over your shoulder without looking at him. "Depends what you mean by 'same.' I make it up as I go. It's a little... mutable."

He tried to smile back, but it came out crooked. "Sounds real," he said. "Like somethin' you'd hear on the radio."

"It's not." You reached for another plate, your fingers slick with soap. "It's just a little ghost of a song. Keeps me from thinking too much."

He set his mug down, the soft click against the table sounding loud in the quiet. The sunlight caught the lines at the corners of his eyes, making him look both older and softer at once. He crossed the room, slow, deliberate, boots quiet against the tile. He always moved that way with you—like he didn't want to spook the moment.

You felt him come up behind you before you heard him. His warmth at your back. His hands braced on the edge of the sink, bracketing you but not quite touching. "Sing it again," he murmured.

You did. You hummed the verse—So I drown it out like I always do... dancing through our house with the ghost of you—soft and low, the way you did when you thought you were alone. He closed his eyes and let the sound sink into him. He didn't know the lyrics. He didn't have to. He had you.

You shut off the tap and turned, still holding the dish towel, damp between your fingers. "Joel."

He looked down at you, that unreadable expression he wore when something mattered too much. "Yeah?"

"If things get loud out there," you said, your voice barely a whisper, "don't let the noise change you."

His brow furrowed. "Don't plan on it."

You reached up, smoothing a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead—a gesture of such intimate familiarity it made his chest ache. "I don't know," you laughed lightly, though your eyes were serious. "You forget everything else."

Joel shook his head once, a decisive, definitive move. "Not this. Not you."

You smiled—a small, quiet smile, the kind he'd remember later when there was nothing left to hold. You brushed past him to put the towel on the counter, your shoulder grazing his chest. He caught the scent of your shampoo, the warmth of your skin, the sound of that unfinished melody still hanging between you.

He wanted to say more. To tell you he liked the mornings like this, with your song instead of silence. To tell you it made the hollow ache in his chest go quiet. But Joel Miller wasn't a man of many words.

So he just reached out and caught your wrist as you passed, a gentle, hard squeeze, a silent promise. "Ain't no way in hell I'd forget you."

You tilted your head, eyes soft. "Then remember this," you whispered, and hummed the tune once more, just for him.

And Joel did. He stood there, coffee going cold, while you moved through the kitchen with that ghost of a song, and tried to memorize the sound before the world took it away

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

The Lipstick Stain Fades With Time

The QZ was louder than the outbreak ever was.

Not in volume—that had been all screams and sirens and shattering glass. This was different. This was a noise that lived under the skin: the buzz of tension, the snap of boots on pavement, the hollow clang of fences being checked twice, three times.

It had been four days since the Highway 1 patrol.

The mission was simple: two trucks, in tandem, securing a route outside the perimeter. You had been in the trailing truck, his eyes fixed on your vehicle's dust cloud through the back window of his own. But then, it happened—not a breakdown, but a sudden, violent eruption of chaos. A series of IEDs went off near a choke point, followed by the metallic rasp of automatic gunfire.

His truck was immediately ordered to accelerate and secure the far side of the breach. He remembered screaming into the comms, demanding to know the status of the second truck.

The only reply was static, then an officer's cold, clipped order: "Second unit is compromised. Secure your objective, Miller. They're rerouting survivors to Boston South."

Compromised. The word was a clean, bureaucratic knife. It left no room for hope or for a body.

He hadn't slept. Not really. He stayed near the main gate, near Tommy, near the spot you were supposed to be. Every coat, every silhouette, every face not yours was a punch to the ribs.

You'd been right behind him. He remembered your hand in his, knuckles white as the truck jerked forward. You hadn't been scared, but you'd hummed anyway. That same little tune. A thread of melody, barely audible over the engine and the radio static. Your voice, anchoring him.

Dancing through our house with the ghost of you...

He could still hear it. Especially now.

"Joel."

Tommy's voice pulled him back. His brother stood at the base of the stairs, jaw tight.

"You gotta come in. They're locking down for the night."

Joel shook his head, eyes flicking back to the fence. "Not yet."

"She was in the last truck, Joel," Tommy said, stepping closer. "Could be she took cover, slipped out, and is halfway to a safe house. She's smart. She'll find her way back."

"Or gone," Joel's voice was flat. Heavy. "Could be she's gone."

Tommy exhaled, but before he could speak again, the silence of the city pressed in.

Then—faint.

Too faint.

But real.

A hum.

Not from the street. Not from the gate.

From memory.

So I drown it out like I always do...

It hit him in the chest like a punch. The way your voice curled around that line. Not sad. Not afraid. Just soft. Accepting.

He remembered the last clear sight he had: you looking back through the rear window of the truck, meeting his eyes. And you'd smiled. Then you'd put your hand to your chest and hummed one last note before the turn in the road—and the sound of the explosion—swallowed you whole.

He sat on the stairs, the concrete cold through his jeans, and closed his eyes.

Tommy said something else—something about food, about rest, about moving on—but Joel didn't hear it.

Because you were gone.

Because when he tried to hum it himself, the melody got caught in his throat.

Because Joel Miller never remembered the lyrics.

But he remembered you.

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

So I drown it out like I always do...

The sun was low when they reached Bill's house—casting long, dusty fingers of gold across the hollow shell of what had once been a dining room. Joel stood in the open doorway, hand still on the frame, like if he moved too far in, the walls might remember and mourn. It was too quiet.

He stepped inside. Ellie walked ahead, boots crunching softly over papers.

Joel's eyes scanned the room—the table set, half-finished, two glasses on the counter, water long evaporated. Time had made everything soft at the edges. Time and grief.

And that's when he saw it.

Folded—or maybe just dropped, hastily—across the back of a dusty armchair: Your shirt.

The old Zeppelin one. Black. Threadbare. Frayed at the collar where you used to pull it loose. Joel's breath hitched. His feet carried him across the floor before his mind caught up.

He picked it up like it was glass. The cotton was stiff with dust, but a faint, ghost of a familiar scent—soap, or maybe just the air you used to breathe—clung to it. He knew it like he knew his own hands. The left sleeve still had that slight tear from the QZ fences.

Joel swallowed hard.

There was something underneath it.

Tucked beneath the cushion.

A small notebook—faded green, warped from moisture. When he opened it, his heart stilled. The margins were full of little doodles and lyrics—some familiar, some twisted, half-finished. Pieces of that old tune, the one you used to hum in his kitchen.

So I drown it out like I always do...

Dancing through our house with the ghost of you...

Joel ran a calloused thumb over the ink.

You'd been here. You were alive then. Close enough to touch the air he was breathing now.

His hand shook.

On the last page, in smudged pencil, you'd written one line:

Tell him I still sing it.

Joel closed the notebook. Pressed it to his chest like a shield.

He didn't say anything when Ellie came back into the room, chewing on a protein bar. She paused when she saw his face, the notebook clutched in his hand.

"You good?" she asked, cautious.

He nodded once. "Fine."

But he wasn't.

Because your shirt was in his hands. Your voice was in his ears. And your song was still moving through the dust like it knew the way back.

Joel sat down with your notebook in his lap, back against the armchair and hummed the only song he remembered that didn't have a name.

And I chase it down with a shot of truth...

Time didn't move right when you were dying.

Joel had lived through gunshots and heartbreak, but this was different. This was slow. Sticky. A crawl through darkness so thick it tasted like iron and smoke.

The ringing was constant. His fever was a roaring inferno in his skull.

But your voice?

That was new.

At first, he thought it was Ellie—but the edges were too soft. Too familiar. You were humming that same damn melody.

Joel blinked into the haze. The cabin's ceiling loomed above him like a closing tomb. His side pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, hot and wet and heavy.

Then your silhouette appeared.

Kneeling beside him in the dim light, hair tucked behind your ears, wearing that old hoodie of his that used to swallow you whole.

Your fingers brushed his temple. "Joel."

He flinched. The heat of your touch felt too real for a dream.

"You always did find the worst places to bleed," you murmured, your voice a silken thread against the ringing.

He swallowed. Tried to lift his hand. Couldn't. "You're not—"

"Shh." Your smile was tired. Sad. "I'm here now."

Joel closed his eyes. Just to feel it.

"I've been hearing you," he rasped. "That song. Everywhere."

"You never remembered the lyrics," you whispered.

"I remember you," he said. "That's enough."

"I thought you were dead," he choked out.

You leaned in—so close he could smell the Sunday morning soap you used to steal from his bathroom. "I'm not. Not yet."

"But you left."

"Not by choice."

"Are you real?" he asked, the words scraping his throat.

You smiled again, and this time, it reached your eyes. "Does it matter?"

He opened his mouth to answer.

But you were gone.

The cabin was quiet. No humming. No warmth. Only the searing throb in his gut and the crunch of snow outside as Ellie burst through the door, hands full of medicine.

"Joel! Hey—stay with me, you stubborn bastard."

He didn't speak. He was too busy trying to remember the way your voice sounded on that last note.

The ghost of it lingered in the corners of the room, soft as smoke.

And Joel—broken and burning—chased it down like he always did.

With a shot of truth.

You were never really gone. You just lived in the parts of him no one else could touch.

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

That my feet don't dance like they did with you...

The sun was sinking behind the mountains when Joel heard it.

Just a faint melody at first—barely more than a hum carried by the wind. He'd been walking the outskirts of Jackson, trailing behind the stables where the grass grew patchy and quiet. His legs ached, and his chest was tighter than usual. Tighter since Salt Lake. Since the lie.

But the sound—it stopped him cold.

It came from near the communal fire pit, where a handful of teenagers were gathered. A girl had a guitar in her lap—a battered old thing, strings barely holding tune—and she was playing a soft, drifting song.

Not loud. Not polished.

But unmistakable.

Joel froze.

The chords weren't exact, but the melody—the melody—it hit him like a fist to the gut.

Your song.

He walked slowly toward the fire pit, boots crunching over the gravel, his eyes fixed on the guitar. He waited, motionless, until the girl finished the verse.

When she lifted her head, he cleared his throat. "That tune," he said, his voice flat and controlled. "Where'd you learn it?"

She shrugged, unfazed. "Lady who stayed here last month. Before you came back."

Joel's blood went ice cold.

"She teach it to you?"

The girl nodded. "Yeah. Said it helped her sleep." She tilted her head, curious at his intensity. "She said it was just a little thing. Not a real song."

Joel's throat clenched. He stood too quickly. "Do you know her name?" His voice was a tight coil, barely leashed.

Before the girl could answer, Tommy's voice came from behind him, soft but firm.

"Joel."

Joel turned, his expression wild, raw. "You knew."

Tommy hesitated, the guilt already crawling up his face. "She asked for privacy, Joel. I was honoring her choice."

"Bullshit." Joel took a step forward. "You let me walk around this town every goddamn day thinkin' she was dead. You heard me."

"She didn't want to be found," Tommy insisted, his own frustration rising. "She stayed a few weeks. Helped fix up the armory. Said she had reasons for leavin' it all behind. Said she was trying to start over. Away from the... the ruins."

"You don't understand," Joel muttered, his pace frantic. "That song—she used to sing it. It's the only goddamn thing I got left of her. I've been hearin' it in my sleep, Tommy. Every night."

Tommy sighed deeply, reaching into his coat. "I figured you'd hear it eventually."

He pulled out a folded note. No envelope. Just his name on the outside, in handwriting Joel hadn't seen in years.

He opened it. His vision blurred over the single line.

I still sing it. Thought maybe you'd hear it again someday.

There was no signature.

There didn't need to be.

Joel folded the note with shaking hands, slid it deep into his chest pocket, and looked out at the edge of the valley. The wind picked up, carrying the distant scent of pine.

"Tommy," he said quietly, his voice dangerously even.

"Yeah?"

"Where'd she go?"

Tommy didn't ask why. Didn't try to stop him. He just looked toward the distant ridge, toward the west.

Joel nodded once, jaw set like stone. He didn't look at the fire. He didn't look at Tommy.

And without another word, he walked toward the stables, already thinking about the next horse. The next town. The next place your voice might be waiting.

He was chasing the song.

Chasing you. Again.

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

Now with 5SOS coming back out with a new album, I have been throwing back into my 2014 era days. (To be fair I think my writing has turned back too) I was so excited for this one shot then I started writing it and I’m like nope don’t like it. But a few people have told me to publish, won’t hurt. I’m not too fond of it but maybe I hope someone out there reading this is fond of it. Anyway here’s a Joel Miller x Reader, 5sos ghost of you inspired one shot. Cause why not

[ohjoelmiller]

extremely fond of this

[kassy-djomunson]

My fantastic family

[kassy-djomunson]

as a family

[javiersvest]

breathe, hold, release (pt. 2)

joel miller x f!pilates instructor reader 

part one here

summary: joel comes to fix the sink and you both finally stop avoiding what's between you.

tags: mdni (18+ only), no outbreak au, no use of y/n, reader is afab/able bodied, has long hair, no other physical descriptors, age gap (joel is 40, reader is 28), catch the mr. darcy reference, kind of a slow burn bc i love tension, dom!joel, praise kink, fingering, mirror activities, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, unprotected piv (be smart), slight voyeurism ig?, creampie (reader is on bc cause i’m nasty), joel is a freak in this omg, please DO NOT attempt sex on a reformer, if anything is missing pls let me know!

word count: way too fuckin long 10.3k 

a/n: first of all, thank you SO much to the response to part one. it warmed my little heart that so many people enjoyed it. i hope this makes up for the long wait! thank you to my three pookies (@naiadonis, @tmpestuous, & @imaginesbymonika) for beta'ing and feeding my delusions. this will be the last part but i would love to write some drabbles for these two, so please send in requests if you have any! also, i'm on twitter! come say hi :) enjoy ♡

Your mornings always started the same: shades up, door open, music low. The soft hum of downtown Austin stretched itself awake in time with you, the city exhaling with the same slow rhythm you followed to start your day. Even the most mediocre sleep melted away when you clasped your hands together and pressed them toward the ceiling, arching your back, breath spilling from deep in your abdomen. 

You weren’t a Texas native – that much had been obvious the second you stepped on the plane. Southern drawls of varying intensities filling your ears, the heat coating your skin with a wrathful flair. California still lingered at the edges of your thoughts, sun-warmed pavement and salt in your hair. You’d built a life there; mornings guiding people through movement, regulars who felt like old friends, a humble studio tucked between your favorite bagel place and a long-abandoned repair shop.

You’d memorized the ebbs and flows of that neighborhood like the back of your hand. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours. And for a while, it felt like enough. But comfort has a funny way of turning stale the moment you let your guard down. In the middle of all that comfort, a crack had started to form – subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.

The breakup didn’t knock the wind out of you – it eroded you slowly. You and him lived parallel lives for months before either of you said anything; passing the coffee creamer, taking turns with laundry, showing up to mutual plans like clockwork. He wasn’t cruel, just tired in a way that made everything feel like effort, including you. Eventually you stopped trying, learned to keep your heart tucked behind a smile. It was safer.

When it ended, it wasn’t explosive. It was practical, like canceling a subscription. You moved out quietly, took on more classes at the studio, pretended you were unbothered. Clinging to your routine made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t fall apart.  But the spark was already dimming, and maybe deep down you’d known it was time for something new long before you let yourself admit it. A couple of months passed in a blur. You picked up more classes, then lost them. By the time the text came in, you were already half-unraveling.

It came through late at night, and you had stared at the blinking cursor of a blank calendar where you’d been drafting next month’s schedule far too long. Of course. Your studio’s owner, who’d always joked that she’d die with a foam roller in her hand, announced that she was retiring with her family. The space sold faster than you thought possible, and within a week, the foundation you’d built everything on was gone. You tried to patch things up with rec rooms, park sessions under swaying palms, but the roots had already loosened.

When Nia called from Austin, practically buzzing through the phone with excitement, the last of your resistance crumbled. Unlike you, Nia had discovered her need to get the hell out of dodge much earlier. She’d always been more adventurous, brave enough to step foot in a new place and carve a spot for her regardless of anyone’s opinion about it. You’d met in training years ago, the kind of instant bond that felt more like a reunion than an introduction. 

She’d caught wind of a space opening downtown, and somehow decided you were the perfect person to take it over. At first, you dismissed it. You’d never been one for cowboy boots or country music, and the thought of leaving everything familiar behind made your chest ache. The more you sat with it, the emptiness of your space, the fading glimmer of your routine, the exhaustion – her offer sounded less like risk and more like possibility. 

So, you said yes. You packed up your life, let go of the familiarity, and tried your best to embrace the unknown. You said goodbye to the Pacific, but most of all to the version of you who thought she'd never leave. You started again from scratch; introduced yourself to strangers, tried to find your new normal, and smiled so much your cheeks hurt. For the first month or so, the smiles were fake. You spent your days rebuilding what you’d lost, piece by piece, and your nights wondering if you’d made a mistake.

But soon enough the days stopped feeling so foreign, and all the things from home that you thought were irreplaceable began to lose their appeal. You built up rapport with new clients, had a new favorite lunch spot, and the barista a few doors down memorized your name and regular order. Week after week, familiar faces returned to the studio, fulfilling your purpose. Your first classes of the day were usually quiet, made up of older clients who enjoyed waking up hours before the sun. They liked your calm and the way it seemed like you were a morning person just like them. You knew who was rehabbing a bad hip, who didn’t like too much tension, who needed extra encouragement. 

It wasn’t about doing a hundred perfect reps or getting people’s stomachs as flat as possible. It was about watching someone walk taller after six weeks, saying they’ve never felt stronger. About a woman thanking you because her back didn’t hurt for the first time in years. That mattered to you, it always had. That’s why you’d started teaching, to show the ways movement could soften even the hardest parts of someone’s day. Pilates was precise, yes, but it was also gentle in a way the world often wasn’t. You’d had students cry during classes before. You never asked why – just helped them breathe through it.

Saturday mornings became your favorite. You weren’t held to the five a.m classes like you were on weekdays, accommodating teachers and early risers who started their day in the quiet of the studio. Saturdays moved slower, giving you time to relish in each stretch, each song, each thought. You had time to sip your coffee between check-ins, time to let your voice warm into the room instead of launching straight into the rhythm of cues and counts. 

Then, you met Joel. 

Met was a generous word – you were more so acquainted with him. His jaw tight, hands stuffed into his pockets nearly the entire first interaction. Clearly he’d be more at ease with those boots in dirt rather than on the pristine tile. You’d thought, at first, he was just being a dad – maybe irritated he had to wake up on his day off to drive her, maybe just tired. 

You greet him the way you greet everyone, with warmth that borders on effortless. It’s second nature by now, this instinct to disarm. You lead with brightness, offer softness in your tone, a joke curled lightly at the edge of your mouth. And it usually works. You’d encountered your share of prickly people around Austin, but most of them put on a performance: a polite smile or a stilted joke. Everyone yielded to it eventually. 

But not him.

Not when you beam at his daughter. Not when you hand him the clipboard with the sunflower pen that you’d made during your lunch break yesterday. What you get is a squint and a dry, unimpressed “Really?” Like you’d just offered him a glittering child’s toy instead of a waiver. He doesn’t play the part, doesn’t pretend to be someone easier to be around. His face is unreadable in a way that feels unintentional – like he’s so accustomed to his indifference that it’s not even spiteful anymore. 

You try – gently, playfully to pull something out of him. A smirk. A single syllable of amusement. Anything. You laugh, easy and unbothered. “I know. But everyone seems to like them.”

Still nothing. His shoulders stay locked in place, pen aggressive on the page like the words themselves are offensive. His handwriting is slanted and uneven, rushed like he can’t get out of there fast enough. 

Sarah is the complete opposite, it seems.

She’s light – bright-eyed, curious, open in a way that feels rare in teenagers these days and even rarer in the people who raise them. You take to her instantly, eased by the amiability in her voice, the bounce in her step. You can’’t help but wonder where it comes from – because it’s certainly not him. You follow the movement of his hands, rugged and large. 

No ring.

You shouldn’t be curious, but you are.

You take the clipboard back, eyes scanning to the bottom of the page. “Thanks… Joel,” you say, softening the syllables like you might smooth over rough fabric. He grunts in response, a low, noncommittal sound. You get the sense he’s not used to taking people up on kindness. Like it costs him something. You invite him to stay, watching him struggle to look for a response. For a moment you think he’s going to say something. 

He doesn’t.

You feel his eyes on you the entire class. At first, you tried to explain it. Maybe he was zoning out like other parents did, counting down the minutes until they could beat the traffic back to their neighborhoods. But Joel wasn’t checking his phone repeatedly, wasn’t tapping his foot, didn’t look around. He just… watched. Not an ambient glance or idle observation. It was intentional. Trying not to notice was futile. You were trained to read bodies; breath patterns, posture, hesitation. And you see all of it in Joel. 

The restraint that lived in the corners of his mouth, the divet between his brows each time you moved. You catch the way his jaw locks and releases when your spine curves, the faint twitch of muscle beneath his cheekbone as your voice dips into instruction. The way his hands, broad and calloused, strained and flexed against his knees like he was holding something back.

It took a lot to throw you off balance, but the autopilot you’d relied on all these years began to short-circuit. You roll your shoulders back a little straighter, suddenly being extra mindful of your posture, paranoid that you’ll trip over a mat, or hit the carriage against the board with too much strength. The weight of his stare clings to you like humidity, slick and unrelenting. It prickles at your neck, curls low in your belly. You keep moving, voice steady, but inside, everything is fraying. 

You blink, adjust a client’s foot bar and try to refocus, fighting the urge to look over. Just once, that’s all you needed. Just a second to confirm if you were making it all up. You were not new to attention. You’ve been watched before, admired even. But this was something else entirely. Joel watches you like he’s trying not to break. Like there’s some quiet part of him that doesn’t believe he deserves to look, but can’t help it anyway.

You’re pulled from the fantasy as you check on each student, moving down the line until you get to Sarah. With your fingers on her ankles you guide her through, encouraging her as she starts to get the hang of it. She looks towards the bench, a hopefulness in her eyes that makes you melt. You follow her gaze instinctively – and see how Joel’s expression softens the moment their eyes meet. Pride blooms across his face and tugs at something in you, and you have to push down the guilt that starts to creep up your throat. 

You don’t mean to look directly at him, you just wanted a glance. A peek into his true nature, not the barricade he’d placed around him. His head turns before you think it will, and you both seem to go rigid. The right thing would be to turn around, check on someone else – anything. But you’re held there.

His eyes move over you with slow precision, and you welcome it. They seem to be mapping your body, the slope of your throat, the line of your shoulders. While he inspects you, your head is fueled with images of him taking you apart with his hands. You wonder what he sounds like when he groans, what his mouth would feel like against your skin. Wonder how many times he’d make you come before showing mercy, or would he? Would he be as merciless as he looks, ruining you and apologizing for none of it? 

You let him see that you see it; let him feel your curiosity inch toward want. Let him know you’re not innocent to it. You blink slowly and pull yourself away like it hurts. You turn your attention back to the class and pretend that he didn’t just strip you bare with a single look.

With each passing Saturday, the two of you moved in a quiet orbit. It stayed innocent enough for your guilt to dissolve under layers of niceties and easy chatter. Joel never volunteered much information, but the little he gave felt like something hard-won. Over time, you both softened. A brush of your fingers against the firm curve of his bicep. Smiles that lingered in the space between you, unhurried and a bit too long. But Joel never crossed the line, and neither did you. 

Some days, you wondered if you'd imagined that first flash of heat. A byproduct of a lonely year, a new city, a fresh start. But then he'd show up again, every Saturday, planted on that bench watching you and Sarah. Sarah. She slipped into your life like she’d always belonged there. There’s a quick intelligence behind her humor, a deep-rooted enthusiasm for life you definitely didn’t have at her age. You take to her immediately, starting to look forward to seeing her just as much as seeing Joel. 

You didn’t ask her to help around the studio, she just started doing it. She’s unfiltered in the best way, and underneath all of it, achingly sincere. She asks questions about your day, offers commentary that makes you laugh from the gut, and more than once, makes jokes about her dad being single. 

Today was no different. The 11:30 class wrapped right on schedule, and Sarah darted to the back to fold towels, unprompted. Joel waited at the front, leaning casually against the desk, ready to talk to you. Today the exchange between you, once cushioned civility, stretched into something charged. You saw it in the way his smile faltered, like he'd strayed too close to a thought he wasn’t supposed to have. In the drawl of his voice, the dry wit, the way his eyes dipped to your mouth and quickly back. You pushed a little further, let your words flirt with implication, and watched the color rise in his face.

“And here I thought you were sitting in here cause you liked the view.” 

He hesitates and you see the moment the mask slips. You let the silence stretch, not to punish him, but to watch him squirm beneath the weight of his honesty. There’s something tender about the way he tries to walk it back, like a man afraid of his own shadow. He offers a stammering apology, but you give him a way out with a smile. Make it clear he hadn’t misread you. His name tastes good in your mouth. 

When he pivots to the sink in the men’s room and offers to take a look, you catch the flicker of something behind his eyes. It’s cute, the way he tries to pass it off as nonchalant. Like it’s not a thinly veiled excuse to stay close – and you say yes.

Not just because the sink needs fixing, but because the thought of him here on a Monday, with no Sarah and no audience, pulls something tight in your chest. Sarah clocks the shift immediately, the shared glance and unpulled string taut between you and her father. Her smirk is sharp and knowing as you offer her a pin, a feeble attempt at distracting her. Joel groans like it physically pains him to be perceived and you know there’s no avoiding it anymore. After that, Joel barely meets your eye. He stumbles over a “See you Monday,” and follows Sarah to the door. 

Your heart thuds with something warm and bright that you haven’t felt since California. You exhale slowly. The studio falls quiet again, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning.

The thing you’d been tiptoeing around was no longer unknown. It had a name now – Monday. 

The air is thick with the beginnings of Austin heat when you step outside of the coffee shop, keys jingling between your fingers and you grasp onto two, not one, cups this time. In your left, the usual overly-sweet latté that you made no exceptions for, and in your right – hot, no cream or sugar. Just bitter and bold. It was a hunch, but Joel didn’t seem like the type to ask for his cup to be drizzled with caramel sauce and topped with sweetened cream. Weeks of him sitting in your studio, gruff and unreadable informed your guess. The barista, knowing your usual, couldn’t help herself as she asked if it was for a special someone. You’d laughed as if it was silly, but it wasn’t. 

The way your body anticipated waking up kept you from getting any meaningful sleep. That, and the fact you’d spent a couple hours imagining Joel’s voice in your head; gravel-worn and measured, your fingers easing yourself open. It was scary how easily you’d pictured it. His weight on top of you, the ache in the pit of your stomach, his lips forming the filthy things you wanted to hear him say once he let go of whatever had him wound up so tightly. There was too much of him beneath your skin.

The door to the studio groaned as you pushed it open with your shoulder, and you set the drinks down on the front desk with care. You busied yourself next, giving your hands something to do until Joel showed up, if he even did. Maybe you had been too forward and scared him away. Maybe he was being polite, appeasing your ego so as not to embarrass you in front of his daughter. 

The soft jingle of the bell sends a jolt through your body and you emerge from the back with too much excitement in your limbs, smoothing your beige tank top like it mattered. Joel stood just inside the door, a heavy tool bag hanging from one hand, the other raking through his hair in that nervous, unconscious way he did when he didn’t know what to say. You had picked up on that, too. 

“Mornin’,” he says, his voice low, roughened with what you assumed was sleep. You looked at him and every line looked the same, but it felt… warped. Like a song you knew well played a few keys too low, breath baited while you tried to figure out what was off. 

“Good morning,” you replied, offering a soft smile.”You’re right on time, that’s good for business.”

He gives a small nod in response. Not unfriendly, but definitely distant. No trace of the quiet fondness you’d seen Saturday. No lingering look, no hush of amusement curling up at the corner of his mouth. Odd, you think. Still, you press on and gesture toward the front desk, the coffee waiting there.

“I got you something, no cream or sugar. I took a gamble,” your fingers grasp the cup and you extend it out to him. His eyes flick to the drink, then to you. There’s a beat of hesitation before he steps forward, his fingers brushing against yours to take the offering. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, unreadable.

You shrugged, smile unwavering as you try to keep it light.

“I know. Dinner might need a little more planning,” you reply, half a shrug rolling through your shoulder. That earned you something. His mouth twitches slightly, almost a smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s better than nothing. 

Joel shifts his weight to his other leg and jerks his chin towards the back. “I should get started, get outta your hair.” 

Your heart sinks into your stomach, but you nod without protest. He doesn’t wait for you to follow, or respond. Just turns and walks down the hallway like it made him ill to be in your presence. You swallow hard, the anticipation you’d felt all day yesterday subsiding. It felt more like dread now – your worst fears starting to be confirmed. You take a deep breath and let your head fall back, willing away the stress building with little accomplishment. 

Unwilling to let the distance, physical or otherwise, settle too thickly between you, you follow him a few moments later. He’s already crouched by the sink, sleeves pushed up and wrapped around his elbows a bit too tight, not that you were complaining. His tool bag lay open at his side, the cup of coffee sitting to the left of the faucet. He doesn’t look up when you settle in the doorway, just keeps fidgeting with the knobs and studying the sluggish flow. You try not to let your disappointment come through your voice. 

“So, gotta toss the whole thing out or can it be saved?” You ask, trying to get a peek at whatever it was he was doing. 

“Pipe’s just backed up with debris. Gotta pull it apart, clean the whole thing out.”

You don’t respond, caught up in watching his hands reach for whatever tool he was looking for. Joel sits back on his heels and starts unscrewing the pipe beneath the basin with a practiced ease. The muscles in his forearms flex with each turn, veins taut beneath sun-warmed skin, and you can’t help but follow the motion, mesmerized by the quiet focus. His knees brace on the tiled floor as he leans in closer, the worn cotton of his shirt pulling taut across his back. You can hear the faint grunt of exertion as he loosens something stubborn, followed by the hollow clatter of old water draining through rusted metal. 

Joel grunts something under his breath, more to himself than to you, and reaches for a cloth, wiping his hands absently before adjusting the trap. He’s all concentration; jaw set and brows drawn. Despite the task in front of him, he knows you’re watching. He can feel it. 

“Don’t know how anything was getting through this,” he says without looking up. He dives into an explanation of what was keeping the drain moving so slow, but your brain is turning to mush the longer you stare. You hum in acknowledgment, but the words barely register. All you can think about is the way his fingers move, capable and deliberate. 

Joel finally glances up at you, but you’re unaware. His eyes linger, still no smile on his lips as he tracks your gaze down. He clears his throat and your eyes snap up, like a camera flash freezing you in the act of wanting.

There’s no teasing in his expression – no smug lift of his mouth or arch of his brow. Just… quiet. You try to speak, some flimsy defense, a redirect. But your throat is dry, your mouth clumsy with words you don’t trust yourself to say aloud. Suddenly you realize how he must have felt on Saturday. He tilts his head slightly, brow furrowing as if trying to make sense of it. Of you. Then his head is shaking and he turns back to his work, but his hands aren’t as steady now. 

“Just here to fix the sink,” he mutters. It sounds like a rehearsed mantra he’d created to keep himself in line. 

“What?” you say softly, watching his brows furrow. 

“You’re not makin’ this easy,” he says louder this time. You exhale slowly. 

“Did I –” The words stick for a moment, and you try again. “Was I too forward? If I made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.” 

He shakes his head, slow and almost imperceptible. “No, it ain’t that.” For a moment, it seems like that’s all he’ll give you. He sets the wrench down with a quiet clink. "Thought if I kept my head down, didn’t look too long, it’d go away."

You blink, caught off guard by his honesty. “I didn’t mean to push,” you say quietly, unsure whether you’re trying to reassure him or justify yourself.

“You didn’t, it was easier to pretend I was just passin’ time staring at you from that bench,” The words weren’t bitter, but they weren’t easy, either. They landed with the weight of confession, like he hated admitting it almost as much as he needed you to hear it. 

“Sarah knew, can’t keep shit from her. Knew the very first day when I shelled out that money like that.” His thumb twitches on the edge of the counter, a small sign of Saturday Joel, the one who did let himself look too long, who smiled when you caught on.

Joel takes a breath and keeps fiddling with the sink. “And now, I’m here fixin’ a sink for a woman I can’t stop thinking about, trying not to say somethin’ I’ll regret.” 

The words fold into the stillness between you. You don’t move, don’t breathe either, it felt like. You’re not sure how much time passes before Joel pushes to his feet, still not meeting your eyes. You wish he’d just look at you, give you any indication as to where this was going. 

Joel turns his back to you and twists the faucet open, letting the water rush against his palms as he washes his hands. His focus stays on the steady stream, testing the pressure and checking his handiwork. Anything to avoid looking at you too soon. The running water stops and he stays there, both palms braced on either side of the sink. Then, he straightens, his shoulders rolling back as he turns to face you. When he does, there’s no mask left. His eyes have softened, and you’re standing face to face with the Joel you’d become fascinated with. His hands settle on his hips and he looks at you expectantly. 

“So tell me what you want me to do. ‘Cause I can’t keep standin’ in front of you like this if it’s not gonna mean something.” 

You don’t answer right away. Your throat is tight, heart knocking against your ribs like it’s trying to get free, and the air between you has taken on a weight you don’t know how to carry. But you feel the shift – the choice he’s making, the seemingly timid and hesitant version of him long gone. You’re yelling at yourself to say something, to not throw away the fact he’s willing to present himself so openly to you.

You blink at him, pulse thrumming like a struck wire. “I don’t…you can do whatever you want.”

He shakes his head, not in dismissal, but refusal. Refusal to let you duck behind hesitation like you’d both been doing the last month. He needed a clear answer. Your weight shifts to your other leg as you take a shaky breath, stepping closer with quiet bravery. 

Your voice cracks a little when it comes. “I want you, Joel. But I don’t want you to regret it.” 

No flourish, just fact. 

He exhales hard, like you knocked the wind out of him. “No way in hell I’d regret this,” his voice dips lower. “But there’s no going back after this, no more pretending. You okay with that?” He lifts a hand and lets his fingers brush your jaw, slow and tentative, like he's still restraining himself. 

You were trembling, not visibly, but deep inside – where his words struck chords you’d kept hidden. Where all your what-ifs and daydreams had lived quietly until now.

You meet his eyes without flinching, and you nod.

His thumb grazes your cheekbone, then he leans in, and you can feel your heartbeat throb between your legs. When he kisses you it’s not rushed. His mouth meets yours, warm and sure, a slow press of lips that steals the air from your lungs. 

He pulls back just an inch, his forehead pressing against yours. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, voice rough with restraint.

You don’t. You can’t. You shake your head, small and certain. “I don’t.”

And that’s all it takes.

His mouth finds yours again, hungrier this time, and his palm presses to cradle the small of your back. You arch into him, realizing the room feels too small now. His body crowds yours as you feel him take a step forward, trying to guide you out of the bathroom. 

Joel pulls back just enough to speak before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick. “Not here.”

You both stumble a little in your own urgency, breathless as he leads you through the hallway into the open space. Your legs bump against one of the machines, but he never wavers. You get a bit paranoid, wanting to peek and make sure you were, in fact, alone. You wouldn’t survive something interrupting this. One part of the studio is cast in gold from the completed sunrise pouring through the window, the rest of the blinds pulled down. The cold from the mirror’s glass meets your back, sharp and startling – but Joel is there, warm and inviting.

Joel’s hands slide up under your tank top, the compressive material molding to your body. You feel his thumbs dig into your hips as he pulls away. Your eyes are closed as you relish in the fact you now know what he tastes like, a tinge of bitterness mixed in. You take it you were right about the coffee. 

“Take this off f’me,” he requests.

“Gonna need help,” you laugh softly, no time wasted as you move to pull it up, the stubborn fabric unforgiving in your haste. 

“Relax, baby,” Joel steadies your hands, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time all morning. You huff and shake your head, heat rising to your face. You let him take the lead and lift your arms up, momentarily blind as he pulls it up over your head. Joel tries not to stare, but like every time before, he fails. His touch grows more confident, more consuming. You feel it in the way his lips press in a pattern over your neck, the way his fingers deliberately press through your leggings right where you’re aching for him.

“These off too,” he mumbles, already peeling away at your matching leggings. He’d imagined taking these little outfits off of you so many times, and he wanted to take his time, but god he’d been waiting for what felt like years. 

Your breath hitches as he traces his fingertips over your back, body shuddering from the chills he left behind. The fact he’s still completely clothed doesn’t escape you, but a part of you likes that. The fact he’s here, in your space, staking his claim and undressing you. 

“Joel, wait –” You interrupt him, his eyes flickering up at you in confusion. 

“You want me to stop?” He asks, about to stand back up and help you with your clothes. 

You lick your lips, hyper-aware of your heart pounding. A few seconds of silence pass before you’re shaking your head. “No,” you whisper, “I just… I want to see you too.”

That earns a pause.

Joel’s gaze softens, something tight in his expression releasing as his hands still at the curve of your hips. He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. 

“Yeah?” he asks, voice warm. You nod again. 

You reach for him as he moves, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt. The fabric drags up over rigid muscle and sun-kissed skin. Your eyes rake over him – the strength in his chest and arms, the scattered scars, the way his shoulders stiffen with your eager eyes drinking him up. 

You press your palms to his bare chest and feel his heart kick. Then, he takes your wrists and turns you towards the mirror, hovering behind you. His hands trail down your sides, thumbs tracing the skin just beneath your ribs before they settle on your hips. You try not to squirm when you feel his hand dip lower. One is running down the length of your back, the other nestling between your legs. He presses two fingers against your clit, rubbing small circles as your body tenses. He feels it, and glances up at you like he knows you’re in your head. 

You hear your name and look at him through the mirror, lips parted in awe that he was touching you. “I’ve got you, okay? Just relax,” he tells you again. His voice is rough, breath warm against the back of your neck. The rough denim of his jeans scratches against your bare skin when he ruts into you, and you feel all of him – even through the thick fabric. You’re unprepared when you feel his fingers circle your entrance before they’re slipping in up to his knuckles, slow and brushing over every ridge. You gasp and dig your palms into the wooden barre. 

“Look how fuckin’ beautiful you are,” he murmurs behind you, his hand steady at your hip.

His words aren’t lost on you, but you can’t bring yourself to look; can’t watch the way your mouth parts with every stuttering breath as he works you open after months of being touch starved. You squeeze your eyes shut and dip your chin down, flustered, but he notices.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, the hand at your hip shifting to your jaw, moving your chin back up to center. “Let me see that pretty face, wanna see you feel it.”

It’s not a demand – it’s a plea. Joel thinks he should slow down, ease up and let you process what’s happening. But you’d stirred something in him that he thought had gone dormant for the foreseeable future, and he just couldn’t get enough of you. 

A noise of protest sounds from your lips but you listen anyway, looking at yourself and taking in your already disheveled appearance. Then, you look at Joel. Your eyes meet again, and despite his clenched jaw and furrowed brow, he looks back at you with a tenderness you’ve never received. 

“Fuck, Joel –” you whimper, hips rocking helplessly against his fingers. “Feels so good…” Your hips stutter, back arching as you start to match the push and pull of his fingers. Each stroke is measured, not hurried, like he’s trying to memorize how you come undone. 

He feels your pussy clench around his fingers and groans, unable to stop thinking about how much he wishes it was his cock. But this was about you, not him. He listens for every catch in your throat, every tiny twitch of your hips, adjusting his touch like he’s tuning an instrument.

And God, do you feel it – the dragging weight of his fingers as they bury inside you. The nights chasing this feeling felt ridiculous, your own fingers no match for his. Your grip falters on the barre as he moves with unshakable focus. Not a single part of you feels untouched; not with his breath ghosting over your ear, his hand buried between your legs like he belongs there. 

Your thighs clench and Joel can feel it before you say anything, the sound of your moans like music to his ears. Two thick fingers stay buried inside you, curling with maddening precision. They move just right, pressing into the soft spot so deep in your pussy it makes your whole body lurch forward. He tightens his grip on you and chuckles in realization. 

“Shit – there, huh?” he mutters, almost to himself, and the pads of his fingers rub slow, earnest circles against that soft spot inside you while his thumb finds your clit again. He watches you unravel in the mirror, lips parted, skin flushed, straining toward every stroke. 

Your breath stutters when he curls his fingers again, his name leaving your lips like a prayer. “You’re crazy,” you say with a weak laugh, and Joel shakes his head in amusement. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “‘Cause of you.” His fingers go impossibly deeper, like he’s carving his name into you. The mirror captures everything: your parted lips, the desperate crease in your brow, the flushed skin blooming over your chest. His hand never falters, fingers relentless now, faster, messier, wetter – until you cry out, your whole body seizing against him.

Your knees buckle but he’s already there, holding you up as your orgasm rolls through you, wave after wave. Your walls clench around his fingers, and he groans into your skin, biting down gently as if to anchor himself through it.

“Attagirl,” he growls, helping you through the end of it, slower now. “Jesus, baby. Feel so fuckin’ good, makin’ a mess all over my hand.” You sag in his arms, panting, skin damp and shining in the low studio light. Joel doesn’t let go, holding you to his chest.

You’re in a haze, acutely aware of Joel guiding you to sit on the nearest reformer slowly, letting you catch your breath. The carriage shifts under your weight, none of the springs keeping it steady, making you brace yourself on the frame. Immediately, his brow knits.

“How the hell d’you keep this thing from moving?” he mumbles, frowning down at the machine like it’s insulted you.

You let out a faint, dizzy laugh. “You’ve gotta put the springs on, all of them keep it pretty still,” you explain.

Carefully, he reaches under the carriage, fingers brushing over the cold metal until they find the spring hooks. One by one, he pulls them forward with quiet effort, securing them into place until the carriage holds steady. 

“What about you?” you ask, reaching out to latch your fingers into the top of his jeans, wanting to return the favor. Before your hands make any progress, he catches your wrist firmly.

“I’m okay, don’t need that from you, sweetheart.” Joel shakes his head once, his eyes scan over your body like he’s already thinking about what to do with it next. You open your mouth to insist, but the moment falters when he interrupts you.

“Lie down for me.” 

You blink at him, still swimming in the aftershocks. “What?”

He says it again, more pointed this time. “Lie back, on the machine, baby.” 

There’s no edge in his voice – just heat, thick and steady, anchored by the quiet rasp of someone who’s holding back far more than he’s letting on. His palm slides to your lower back, coaxing you down gently until your spine meets the carriage. He moves then, straddling the machine and pausing when it groans under his weight. 

“This thing gonna hold me?” he asks, and you roll your eyes. 

“It’ll hold,” you reassure him. He hums skeptically, but settles down anyway, his back to the footbar. You watch him adjust, and it wrecks you a little. Because you’re not sure when this stopped being about flirting, or power, or just the thrill of wanting someone impossible. You want him. Want him when he’s steady and quiet and full of things he’ll never say out loud; and also like this, in power and unafraid.

“What’s that move you do?” he asks suddenly, interrupting your thoughts. He asks like he’s been saving the question. You blink, caught off guard and he clarifies. “The one with your ass up in the air.”

You lift your head from the headrest and laugh, eyebrows arched up. “You mean bridging?” 

“That’s the one,” he drags out the first word, his hands running up your calves. You smile knowingly. 

“Knew that one would stick, you liked that move, huh?” you ask, and Joel smirks. 

“Couldn’t get it outta my fuckin’ head,” he admits, laughing with you. You both trail off and you meet his eyes, a suspicious glint in them. His gaze lingers, heavy and fixed – and that’s when you realize where he was going with the line of questioning. His thumbs skim the soft crease behind your knees, pulling up gently and you feel your breath hitch. 

“Do it for me,” he says, almost pleading. He guides both of your legs up on top of his shoulders, and you’re completely stunned. How can you say no to him? 

You breathe a little hard from your nose amusedly and lift your hips from the platform with slow precision. You shake a little this time, legs still aching from your first orgasm, but anything Joel wanted – you would give it to him. Your spine peels from the carriage in a slow roll, just like you’ve done a thousand times. You remember when you did it in class, intentionally putting on a show for him while he struggled with his own desire in the corner of the studio. 

His mouth parts slightly, eyes dragging over the new shape of you; exposed, tilted, perfectly on display for him. He’d seen it from that bench in the corner, but now up close, he was losing his mind. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. You go silent, every nerve pulled tight like the springs beneath you. 

And then he leans in, no more hesitation, like he’s got something to prove – with his mouth, this time.

The first brush of his tongue is featherlight, but it’s enough to steal every thought from your head. When he hears you whine, he flattens his tongue and licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, slow and considerate, like he’s memorizing the taste of you in case he never gets to have this again. He stays there, focused, with one hand steady at your hip while he wraps his lips around your swollen center, a soft cry echoing this time. 

“Jesus, Joel –” you choke out, head thrown back, both hands clutching the side rail. 

He pulls back just a touch, teasing now, cruel in the only way Joel can be, with praise that tears your heart open. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” his voice is thick and guttural. “Knew you’d sound pretty like that when I finally got my mouth on you,” he tells you between soft kisses to your thighs, his beard scratching the skin.

Before you can reply, he lowers his mouth to you, his tongue parts you, warm and searching. Your hips twitch under his hold, toes curling as he pulls you tighter against his mouth. Thankfully he knows you can’t hold yourself up, one of his hands gripping your hip and the other supporting you just under your tailbone. Your body bows, thighs tensing around his neck. 

You say his name repeatedly, chest heaving, and that only seems to drive him deeper. His hand brushes behind your knee and he grunts, sending a vibration through to the pit of your stomach. He draws circles, then suckles gently, alternating pressure until your grip on the frame turns white-knuckled. He hums low in his throat, pleased with the way you respond, the way you buck your hips towards him. Joel’s in a trance, his brows furrowed with concentration while he devours you. 

“Oh my god,” you whine, the air in the studio starting to feel stuffier. His only reply is a soft growl of encouragement and the tightening of his grip as he pulls you closer, lapping up your wetness like he’s been waiting his whole damn life for the chance. Like you’re the center of the fucking universe. 

He pulls back just enough to talk, his voice rough as gravel and thick with praise. “So fuckin’ good, can’t get enough of you.” The sound of his voice alone makes you whimper, head tilting back. 

“Please don’t stop,” the words tumble out before you can catch them, raw and aching with need. They crawl under his skin and burrow there, hopefully for a long time, he thinks. Hopes. The coil in your belly tightens with every pass of his tongue, your body beginning to shake for the second time. He hums, hungrily and intentional, sending a pulse through you that makes your vision blur. You’re back on that ledge faster than you anticipate. 

“Joel,” your voice breaks, a warning more than anything. 

He doesn’t let up, doesn’t pause. If anything it only fuels him. His mouth seals over your clit while two fingers slide into you again, immediately finding your sweet spot after memorizing it like scripture. 

Your hips jerk, thighs trembling around his head, but his grip holds you firm – one hand on your ass now, the other working in time with his mouth, and it’s too much. Too good. The pressure builds fast, white-hot and blinding. He groans again, savoring it, and the vibration is what does it.

Even when your cum coats his tongue he doesn’t stop, holding you through it, mouth and hands steady, guiding you through each convulsion until all that’s left is the soft, trembling aftermath. Your leg threatens to slide from his shoulder, but he steadies it, finally pulling back only when your head falls back onto the headrest with a thump. 

When your eyes flutter open, he’s already there; watching you like you’re the only person in the world. Lips glistening, eyes dark and endlessly soft. There’s nothing cocky in his expression, just something reverent – like he’s grateful to have been the one to bring you there. You force yourself to sit up, dabbing at your forehead with the back of your hand. Joel’s hands are there at your sides, helping you up. 

There's too much to say, too much swelling in your chest that you’re not ready to name. So instead, you let your fingers curl around his shoulder, dragging him in close, and kiss him. He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth meets yours hungrily, tongue pushing past your lips so you can taste yourself on him. You groan against his mouth, and Joel grunts, like it’s taking every ounce of control he has not to press you back down and fuck you right there on the reformer – if that was even possible. 

“You with me?” he asks, voice low, hands cupping your face now.

You nod, barely able to speak. “Fuck – I mean, yes. I’m with you.” You correct yourself with a shake of your head, and Joel smiles. 

“Good,” he says, and his eyes don’t leave yours, not even when your fingers trail to his waistband again. This time, he lets you pop the button free and his shoulders relax when the zipper follows. His breath catches when your hand brushes against him through the fabric, warm and straining – waiting for you. The sound he makes is nothing short of wrecked.

“Lift a little,” you whisper, and he does without question, just enough for you to ease the denim down his hips. His legs spread slightly for balance and you move to straddle him, calves pressing against the wooden frame. 

You shift forward on your knees, reaching between your bodies until your fingers graze his cock. He’s already hard, sucking in through his teeth when you wrap your fingers around it and squeeze. With your hips lifted you guide him to your dripping core slowly, pushing only the tip through your slick folds. 

Joel’s hands wander; up your back, on your waist, to your thighs – like he doesn’t know where to touch first. They only settle with his fingertips digging into your hips the moment you begin to sink down, lips parting as you relish in the stretch. It isn’t too uncomfortable, thanks to Joel’s incredibly thorough services. His hands are there, guiding you not to take too much at once, letting you go at your own pace despite the overwhelming temptation to fill you up the rest of the way. 

“Here,” he mumbles, helping you angle your hips. You wrap your fingers around the footbar behind him for balance, eyes locked on his as you take the rest of him. He’s big, thick and hot and perfect. You both exhale like it’s a relief to finally, finally feel this. The moan he lets out is guttural and desperate. You grin, teeth dragging lightly across your bottom lip as you start to move. A quick drag up, a slow slide back down onto his cock. His breath shudders out, and you feel that he’s still tense, like he's holding himself back. 

“Christ,” he rasps, and you can feel his thighs tense under yours. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Like you were made for me.”

The words make you clench around him, his head tipping back for a second before he’s looking at you again, unable to miss another second of it. “Don’t stop,” he begs, and you don’t – you can’t.

Your rhythm stays steady; a slow grind that leaves you gasping each time you take him a little deeper. Your grip tightens on the footbar, the metal cool under your palms, grounding you as the pressure builds. He lets you take what you need, lets you move at your own pace, but his hands never stop roaming; thumb stroking your thigh, palm sliding up your back, hands guiding you  while you tuck your face into his neck. The closeness allows you to feel every breath he takes, hear every strained noise he makes. 

The reformer creaks beneath you with each rise and fall of your hips, the tension cords beneath the frame stretching in tandem. His mouth grazes over your collarbone, warm and wet, and then without warning, he starts to fuck up into you. It makes you sit up straight, and Joel’s hand comes up to your neck, his fingertips grazing your throat. He’s all concentration as he looks between your bodies, watching you take him like it’s his last chance. 

In his fervor, you feel his fingers dig into the side of your neck, but he’s so absorbed in you he doesn’t notice. His fingers flex softly at your pulse like he’s feeling how hard your heart’s racing. Your legs work to meet his thrusts, one of your hands leaving the bar to rest on his shoulder. The muscle contracts each time he moves, and the sight of him so focused, jaw tight and brows tense, makes you melt. Your pace quickens, the sound of your skin slapping together echoing in your ears. 

And then, his fingers tighten. Your breath catches in your throat, and your pussy clamps around him even tighter like it’s been waiting for it. Joel feels it instantly. His eyes rip up to look at you, catching the pleasure written in all of your features. 

“Oh, you like that, baby?” he asks, brow ticking up in amusement at yet another discovery. You can only nod in response, breath slipping out in a fractured moan.as he continues bucking up into you, deep and sharp. 

The pressure in your belly builds fast again, molten and consuming. His hand tightens, just holding you there and squeezing the sides in a way that makes your mouth practically water. A firm reminder that he’s the one guiding you now, that he’s been controlling you this whole time, bending you to his will. Your hips stutter, thighs shaking, and Joel speaks up, voice rough at the edges. 

“Gonna cum for me again?” he whispers, voice rough at the edges. Your hips stutter, thighs shaking, and Joel keeps his grip on your throat secure. 

“I can’t –” you whine, the words fragile and disbelieving, more plea than protest. Your body is heavy with the weight of sensation, the sharp edge of overstimulation skimming close to pain, but it only winds you tighter.

“Yes, you can.” His lips brush your cheek, his words sounding more like a demand than encouragement. “Ain’t so easy when someone else is in charge of your breath, is it?” His voice is thick with satisfaction, power lacing every syllable, and something about the way he’s so in control, so certain – it only makes you burn hotter. 

You laugh, breathless and wild, but it turns into a whimper as he bucks into you again, perfectly timed with the curl of his fingers at your throat – and the tension snaps. Your head falls forward against his shoulder as your body jerks in his lap, thighs shaking uncontrollably. A third orgasm rips sharp and stunning through you, a strangled cry lost against his skin. Your remaining grip on the footbar slips, both hands squeezing his shoulders instead, clinging to him. 

Joel holds you through it, easing the pressure at your throat immediately, his other hand stroking up your spine as he murmurs against your neck. “That’s it, baby,” he whispers. “So good. So fuckin’ perfect.”

Your whole body sags into his, boneless and raw. He cradles your back like you’re something precious, chest rising and falling in sync with yours. You can feel he’s still inside you, still hard – but he makes no move, doesn’t chase his own release. He just holds you. You lift your head slightly, eyes fluttering open to find him already watching you with something that guts you. .

“Still with me?”

You nod, barely. “Yeah. Just… need a second.”

“Take all the time you need,” Joel says earnestly. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You smile, heart hammering, breath still shaky. You press your forehead to his, grounding yourself. His touch never falters, just warm and steady like an anchor. He notices you’re still shaking and traces shapes on your back, trying to assist. 

“Gotta breathe, darlin’," and you do, letting him coax air back into your lungs one breath at a time. His thumb strokes your cheek in soothing circles. His cock is still pulsing inside you with need, begging for something he’s ignoring. 

You shift slightly in his lap, your thighs still trembling but pliant now. You feel the way his breath stutters when you clench around him, slow and gentle. It makes him grunt softly in disapproval, his head shaking once. 

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You don’t gotta do that.”

“Let me,” you whisper, insisting. Joel pulls back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, forehead creased with something deeper than pleasure. He cups your face like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. 

Your hips roll forward with care, not rushed this time, but steady; giving him what he wouldn’t take for himself. His hands twitch on your hips, not guiding anymore, but bracing. He buries his face against your neck like he’s trying to hold on, trying not to break too fast.

“Took such good care of me, you deserve it too,” you say, barely audible above your shared breath. That undoes him. He finally lets go, hips thrusting up into you again in slow, devastating strokes. You meet each one, nails digging into his shoulders as you let him bring himself to the edge with your pussy. You're still reeling from your own high, breathing through it the best you can.

You feel the tension winding tighter in him, the way his breath falters, each sound caught between a groan and a prayer. His hand trails down, settles at the base of your spine, pressing you down to meet each thrust.

“Fuck, baby, I’m –” His voice breaks off as his head falls back, jaw slack. You ride him through it, holding him steady, giving him the same patience he gave you.

“Give it to me,” you whisper against his mouth. 

It’s a full-body thing; a shudder that takes him over completely, pulling him under in waves. He lets out a broken moan as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, one arm banding tight around your back while the other cradles the side of your face. You stay with him through it, stilling only when he does, pressing your lips gently to the line of his jaw, then his cheekbone, then his temple. 

His heart is racing. So is yours. Joel lets out a long, shuddering exhale, forehead dropping to yours again. His voice is soft, breathless. “Fucking hell,” a shaky laugh catches in his throat. “Can’t believe you’re real.”

You smile, stroking a hand through the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck. “The feeling is mutual.” 

His arms still holding you close, bodies still joined and glittering with sweat. 

“Was that three?” he asks after a beat, eyes fluttering open. You nod with a faint, dazed grin, and he groans, like that knowledge alone is enough to destroy him all over again. “Shit, I’m sorry.” 

It makes you pause, your forehead touching his. “Sorry?” you echo. “If that’s what sorry looks like, I hope you mess up more often.”

He smiles, corners of his eyes scrunching and you can’t help but stare. For just a moment, the world outside of the studio doesn’t exist. There’s only this. Neither of you moves, not wanting to be anywhere else. 

Joel breaks the silence with a tap on your thigh, motioning for you to stand up. He helps you, steadying you until you find solid ground again. You’re still dazed, but start to pull your clothes back on – the thought of his cum filling you makes your heart soar. You catch him watching you like he’s half expecting you to disappear.

He dresses himself while you spray down the machine, unable to bite back the smile on your face. Every damn class, he’d be imprinted on your mind, the machine taunting you with reminders and flashbacks. Then, as you toss the towel in the bin, you hear him speak behind you.

“I ain’t good at this,” he says. “Talkin’ like this, feeling like this. But I swear, it’s been damn near impossible to think of anything else lately.” His brows twitch like he wants to smile more, but something vulnerable tugs at the edge instead.

You close the distance, instantly reaching up to caress the edge of his jaw, catching the coarse stubble there. You can see something hovering over him, almost like he’s still waiting for permission from you, to have you outside of the studio walls. 

“I’m not asking you for anything you can’t give,” you say reassuringly. “I just didn’t want to pretend like it wasn’t there. And… I really like you.” You admit it out loud, and he lets out a stunned chuckle. He’s floored, not quite able to believe you’re equally as fascinated with him as he’s been with you. 

“I really like you too,” he says, quiet but sure. “More than I probably should.”

That earns a real laugh from you. “We’re way past shoulds, don’t you think?”

He huffs, amused but in agreement. His head dips just enough to brush his lips against your forehead. 

“Should’ve said this before I had you ridin’ me on that damn machine,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely toward the reformer, like the memory alone short-circuits his brain a little. “You maybe... wanna get dinner sometime?” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but your face for a second.

You smile so wide it hurts. “Joel Miller,” you chide, tilting your head, “Are you asking me on a date?”

He smirks, eyes crinkling in that way that already feels like home. “Think I might be.”

You lean in close, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Then yeah, I’d like that.”

That charged, delicate silence that always hummed between you two is still there, but neither of you feels strange about it now. He squeezes your hand once reluctantly before stepping back, going to the bathroom to collect his tools – but not before you give him your phone number. 

As he opens the door, sunlight spilling into the quiet studio, he pauses with one hand on the frame. He glances back at you, lighter now, like the weight he’s been carrying finally lifted.

“See you Saturday?”

You meet his eyes, warmth blooming in your chest. “Yeah,” you say, light but certain. 

“See you Saturday.”

Joel steps through the front door just after lunchtime, toolbox in hand, shirt wrinkled and clinging faintly to his back. He’s quieter than usual, like he’s moving through a dream he hasn’t quite woken up from.

Sarah doesn’t look up from the couch right away – she’s mid-scroll, headphones half on, but her eyes flick toward him when the door shuts.

“How’d fixing the sink go?” she asks, one brow arched.

Joel sets the toolbox down on the floor with more care than necessary, grunting as he stands up straight. “Went fine,” he says plainly, avoiding her eyes. 

Sarah’s eyes narrow, and before she can comment back, they zero in on the back of his shirt: the tag sticking out and wiggling as he walks past the air conditioner to the kitchen. A slow, knowing smile takes over. 

“Your shirt’s inside out,” she remarks, smirking triumphantly when Joel freezes mid-step. 

His hand lifts automatically to the back of his shirt, fingertips brushing over the telltale edge of the tag. He frowns, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “God damn it.” 

Sarah watches him retreat toward the stairs, his inside-out shirt like a billboard for guilty as charged. His boots thud heavily against each step, and before disappearing, he throws a glance over his shoulder; a sharp look that’s more of a warning than denial.

“Don’t start,” he mutters gruffly. 

“I didn’t say anything!” she chirps, clearly enjoying herself. The bathroom door clicks shut a second later. Sarah barely holds in her laughter as she pulls out her phone, putting the other headphone back over her ear. She opens her text messages and clicks on the thread with Vic. 

dude... i think my dad just hooked up with our pilates teacher.

[ilikeevilblondes]

Beck and Call

18+ MDNI!

Summary: You’ve been divorced from Joel for a little while, now. But when your sink breaks and threatens to flood your house right before a date, you have no one else to call but him. Why does he come? You don’t know. Why does he look so fucking good? You don’t know, either.

W.C: ~6.2k

TL;DR: Rule number one of getting divorced: don’t fuck your ex-husband. (Optional).

Warnings: ex-husband!joel x ex-wife!reader, sappy love confessions, improper use of a sink, praise, oral f!receiving, mirror sex, unprotected p-in-v sex, (no outbreak!)

Note: as a child of divorce, i am allowed to touch upon this matter. anyway, happy fucking i mean reading

One-third. A married couple’s least favourite fraction. 

It was (and is) a well-known fact that one in three marriages ends in separation. And of course, you—being the lucky duck you were—found yours rapidly accelerating toward that destination.

You and Joel had agreed that you’d be better off apart. Joel got his own place while you kept the house. And Sarah lived with you every other week.

All you needed to do was send your attorney the signed divorce papers.

Outside of the sympathetic comments you received from acquaintances and relatives almost daily, you were doing just fine.

In fact, tonight you had a date.

A date. The kind that made you choose a tight-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. The kind that inspired you to wear your hair in something other than a claw clip. The kind that provoked you to shave places you haven’t shaved in a long time.

The lucky bachelor was a fellow divorcee named Mark, whom you had met on a single-parent dating app. He had a full head of hair, a decent sense of humour, and two rescued Labradors. He offered to bring you to his favourite Italian restaurant, bringing up the fact that he’d pick up the bill no matter what, much to your protests. Needless to say, you had a good feeling about him.

After one last check in the mirror, you grabbed your coat and slung your purse over your shoulder, ready to head out the door.

Then, you heard it.

A faint gurgling. 

You blinked twice, trying to zero in on the sound. Proceeding a few moments of intense concentration, you followed the sound into the ensuite bathroom.

The faucet was running. Had you forgotten to turn it off?

You reached for the handle. Twisted it. It spun freely, and nothing happened. 

You tried and tried again, but all your efforts were in vain. You could only watch the tap stubbornly defy you as the handle jutted uselessly, loose in its socket.

“Shit.” You breathed.

The faucet sputtered out a particularly heavy spurt of water as if to say: shit, indeed.

You sighed, staring helplessly at the sink as it stared contumaciously back, water that couldn’t be swallowed by the drain toppling over the edge of the sink.

A quick Google search informed you that you needed to turn off the principal water pipe—the mains. Which you didn’t know how to do. 

So, you resolved to delegate the problem to more capable hands. Like, a twenty-four-hour plumbing service. No, they could easily overcharge you. You could call your dad? No, he was too far.

Or…

Sighing, you dug out your phone from your purse and called your only remaining option. Someone who was a seasoned contractor, someone who dealt with this sink before, and someone who you just so happened to be divorcing. 

He answered on the third ring.

“Hey—everything okay?” Joel’s concerned voice filtered through your phone.

“No.” You inhaled. 

“No?” Joel echoed hesitantly, then waited for elaboration.

When nothing came, he cleared his throat.

Slightly confused, slightly wry, he continued, “This is the part where you tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Um, my sink’s busted.”

“Your sink… is busted?”

“Yeah. Faucet won’t turn off. It-It’s a lot of water.” You bit the inside of your cheek, leaning on the wall. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

A moment of silence, then:

“You need me to fix it?” 

Was that annoyance? Exhaustion? It definitely wasn’t exhilaration at the prospect of doing manual labour at eight o’clock on a Friday evening.

“You know what? Forget I called. This was stupid. Sorry to bother you—”

“I’m on my way.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, after he hung up, the smallest of smiles began forming on your face. 

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came from your front door.

You swung the door open, and there he stood. Tool bag in hand, flannel shirt stretching tightly over his broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair just a little bit unkempt.

It had been a good few months since the two of you went your separate ways, but there he was—still at your beck and call. What that meant, exactly, remained to be seen. 

But you were glad to see him, nonetheless.

“Hi,” You said breathlessly.

Upon seeing you, Joel’s brows shot up, and he blinked a few times.

“Hi.” He said back slowly, then cleared his throat. “Am I… interruptin’ something?”

You glanced down. Right. Tight dress and makeup.

“I have a date in…” You raised your left wrist and winced as you looked down at your watch. “Five minutes ago.”

“A date.” He clicked his tongue, nodding to himself. “Well, I’ll try to make this quick, then.”

You hummed a noise of agreement, pivoted, and, with a wave of your hand, invited Joel inside.

He stepped through the doorway with a quiet grunt. And, as he bent down to undo his boots, his coffee-brown gaze landed on a pile of unopened mail by the entryway table. A few envelopes had slipped to the floor, and he crouched to gather them without thinking. 

But, as he straightened up to his full height, his eyes lingered on the recipient line.

“Mrs Miller?” Joel read aloud.

“What?” Your breath caught in your throat, and you spun around to meet his stare.

Joel wordlessly held the envelope up with two fingers, the corners of his lips slightly upturned.

“Oh.” You cringed inwardly. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t, uh, realise that you were keepin’ the name.” He shrugged offhandedly, tossing the stack of mail onto the entryway table.

“I’m not. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. “Paperwork isn’t final.”

For the divorce.

Joel’s eyebrows pinched together. “I sent you my signed copies, if—” 

“I know you did. I just haven’t sent the papers to my lawyer yet.” You pressed your lips into a thin line and avoided his gaze. “Just got a lot on my plate, recently.”

That was very unconvincing.

Joel hummed a noncommittal noise.

“Well…” He huffed sheepishly. “You know I always liked my name on you.”

You swallowed, feeling your stomach do a funny flip and your ears burn up. Why were your ears burning up?

“C’mon. The problem is upstairs.”

The faucet, to your dismay, hadn’t stopped. It was worse now, if that was even possible, spitting little rogue sprays of water alongside the main stream. Great.

You checked your watch again. Fifteen minutes late. You would no doubt have a few missed calls from your poor suitor if you had the guts to check your phone.

Joel sank to one knee as he inspected the sink, squinting at the appliance and shaking his head. Miraculously, he reached in and, a few rusty squeaks later, the water stopped.

“You fixed it.” You blinked.

“Far from it,” He muttered, frowning. “The cartridge’s shot. And the valve stem’s stripped. Who installed this?”

Without missing a beat, “You did.”

“…Right.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. “So?”

“So, this isn’t a quick fix. I need to pull out the whole assembly. Maybe replace the handle, too. And judging by the corrosion around this nut—” He held up a discoloured metal hexagon like it had personally offended him—“you’ve probably had a leak back here for a while.”

You blinked. “And you didn’t notice that when you lived here?”

Joel turned to shoot you a look. “I was your husband, not your handyman.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn I married you for that toolbox of yours.”

“And here I thought it was ‘cause of my radiant personality.”

“Definitely not that.” You huffed out a laugh.

Despite his back being turned to you, you could just about make out a reluctant smile forming through his slightly greying stubble.

You watched as he rolled up his plaid sleeves, exposing tanned forearms that were entirely too bulky for someone in his mid-forties. He then dug into his bag, fishing out an Allen Wrench.

“You can go on your date,” Joel added, not looking at you. “I’ll be out of here in an hour. Two, tops. But… if you feel like gettin’ frisky, maybe do it at his place. Just in case.”

Right, your date.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you took out your phone. Six missed calls and a flurry of concerned texts.

Decidedly, you typed out an apologetic message mentioning a water-related emergency and stuffed your phone back in your purse.

“I’m staying with you.”

Joel froze and turned to look at you from over his shoulder. “No, you ain’t. I’ll take too long.”

“Well, I can’t leave you to fix my problems while I’m out eating overpriced ravioli.” You shrugged and, with a soft grunt, took a seat against the wall near him. “You’re not a plumber, you’re a… you’re my…”

Ex-husband.

You cleared your throat, then emphasised, “You’re not a plumber.”

Joel let out a slow exhale. “Do whatever you want, but I doubt watching me fix your sink is gon’ be as fun as your date.”

“I’ve got a full bottle of Pinot Noir in the fridge.” You tilted your head. “We can make it fun.”

Joel’s eyebrows shot up.

“Not—not in that way.” You rubbed a clammy hand down your face.

To your surprise, that earned you a small, gruff laugh from Joel, his eyes crinkling momentarily the way they only did when he was truly amused.

His voice was soft when he responded. 

“Go on and get the wine, then, sweetheart.”

Two crystal glasses and a little while later, Joel had put down his wrench and opted instead to sit beside you on your tiled bathroom floor, his shoulders brushing up against yours in the cramped space.

Efforts to tame the defiant sink had long since been forgotten. He did the best he could, but retired upon discovering that you had no spare sink handle lying around—how very unprepared of you.

The bad news was that you weren’t going to be able to wash your hands in the master bedroom ensuite tonight. The good news was that you were having a surprisingly good time with Joel. The conversation evolved from discussing your stood-up date (you showed Mark’s profile, Joel was convinced he was lying about his dogs being rescues), then to how his company was going, and then, reminiscing about the good ol’ days.

“All I’m sayin’,” Joel continued through a laugh. “Is that she did it on purpose.”

“My mom has always been bad with names!”

“Bad enough to still call me ‘George’ after a year of us datin’?” He scoffed.

You stifled a giggle. “In her defence, it’s a very similar—”

“Like hell it is. And your dad? He was worse.” Joel chuckled, finishing the last of his wine. “How is he?”

“Fine. Just called him yesterday, actually.”

“He still callin’ me–?”

“He still calls you ‘porn stache’, yes.”

Joel snorted into his hand, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter. Real, genuine laughter.

You smiled and turned to steal a glance at his profile.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hooked nose scrunched mid-chuckle, and his laugh was exactly as it was before—low and rough, but somehow boyish and unguarded.

You had almost forgotten how his whole face lit up when he laughed.

And, you didn’t mean to stare. But you did. 

God, you missed this.

“I think I prefer George.” Joel ran a hand down his face, still smiling.

You cleared your throat and leaned over to retrieve the almost-empty wine bottle, refilling your glasses.

“Sarah told me to say hi to you, if I got the chance, by the way.” You said, pouring the Pinot Noir into his glass. “She’s with my parents in the lake house.”

“The lake house?” Joel hummed, taking another sip of his drink. “Still disappointed I didn’t get that in the settlement.”

You snorted, amused. “You don’t even like lakes.”

“No, I don’t like the mosquitoes that come with the lakes.” Joel corrected you, pointedly. “But, I don’t know, I guess I just miss it. A lot of good memories there.”

You felt yourself smile. “Yeah. Yeah, there were.”

A beat.

“Hey, at least you kept the cars. And the boat. And the frequent flier miles. And, well, you see Sarah every other week.” You turned to look at Joel, but he was already looking at you.

A certain vulnerability swam in the brown of his eyes. Something you hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Yeah, well… there were more important things I couldn’t keep.”

The air thinned. The wine, the laughter, the conversation—everything dissolved in the quiet admission, hanging thickly in the space between you.

And suddenly, there was only you and Joel and the mistakes that had wedged you apart yet somehow brought you back together again; on a random Friday evening on the floor of a bathroom you used to share.

“Joel…” You swallowed, your hand falling from your lap onto the tiles.

But you couldn’t form any semblance of a sentence. How could you? 

There was nothing to say. Yes, you missed him. ‘Missed’ was an understatement. 

Sometimes you’d roll over in the night, wishing to feel the weight of his arm resting on your waist, reassuring you that these past few months had only been a bad dream. Sometimes you came to pick Sarah up early, just to get a few more minutes with him. Sometimes—no, a lot of the time, memories of him came rushing back, cleaving your heart into two, further and further each time.

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t let go of the man you spent so many years loving. 

Joel’s eyes still bore into yours. And nothing in the world could have torn you away.

He exhaled slowly, then set down his glass with care. His hand barely brushed yours, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

“I think about it,” He said softly. “More than I should.”

“Think about what?”

A quiet, almost sad laugh escaped from his throat. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“How things used to be.”

“Oh,”

A moment passed, marked only by the metre of your incessant heartbeat pounding in your ears.

And then, “Do you ever miss us?” Joel asked.

You faced him once more. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Because that was too complicated. Because that would break you.

Joel didn’t need you to say it. He found the answer in your eyes.

All the time.

Instead, you asked, “Do you? Miss us, that is.”

“Of course, I do.” He said softly. “More than you can imagine.”

You held your breath.

Joel heaved a sigh.

“I think about calling,” He added, voice low. “Just to hear your voice.”

“I’d answer,” You said, barely above a whisper.

He smiled in a bittersweet, melancholic sort of way and leaned in just slightly. Unconsciously, you mirrored him.

And then his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.

This was dangerous. You should’ve told him to leave ages ago. Or, maybe you should’ve left yourself and gone on your date.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

“Can I ask you something stupid?” You whispered.

Joel whispered back, “Always.”

“Do you…” You trailed off, biting your lip.

“Do I what?”

“Do you—does even a part of you… want what we had back?” 

You knew what he was going to say. You just wanted to hear it for yourself.

And you did.

“Yes,” He admitted earnestly.

You searched his face for any sign of deception, but found none. The only thing in his coffee-brown eyes was regret. And, maybe, something else, too. Something softer.

Your eyes widened. “We fought a lot.”

“We did.”

“And we probably said some shit.” You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the answers were written there. Joel did, too.

His voice came softly, sadly, “We did.”

Silence again. Thick and fragile and charged with so many unspoken words.

Joel’s knee brushed yours, neither of you pulling away. It was nice to have him close, to feel his familiar warmth, to see him—really see him. Bare and raw and vulnerable. No facades of indifference. No hiding behind closed car doors. Just Joel, your Joel, there beside you; soft-eyed and quiet, like maybe he was seeing you, too.

Your fingers twitched on the floor beside his. You wanted to reach for him, but you wanted him to reach first. 

He looked at you then. Not a glance, but a full turn, slow and deliberate. His dark eyes searched your face, pausing on your mouth, your cheek, your lashes, then settled on your eyes again. He looked at you like you were something he’d spent months trying to forget, and only just now remembered why he couldn’t.

You held your breath.

Joel’s voice, when it finally came, was low, cracked around the edges.

“I know it was bad in the end, but I meant what I said.” He breathed. “I miss us. I miss you.”

Your heart twisted. And there went that cleaver again, slicing further.

“I miss seeing your keys on the kitchen counter and knowing you were home. I miss kissing you before work and smudgin’ your lipstick. I miss watching stupid movies with you that we’d fall asleep to halfway.”

His throat bobbed. He leaned back against the wall, like it hurt to say it out loud.

“Yeah, we fought and said some real mean shit. But God help me, I’d give anything to go back in time and fight for you like I should have. Because you were it for me. You were everything. Still are.”

His eyes glistened as he held your gaze, fierce and unflinching.

“Because, no matter how hard I try to ignore it,” He smiled to himself, shaking his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you.”

He loves you.

Those three simple words rang in an echo in your mind. He loves you, he loves you, Joel loves you.

“You love me?” You could barely hear your voice above the deafening thrum of your pulse.

Your faces were barely an inch apart, now. You could smell the familiar scent of his laundry detergent, and traces of his cologne, and wood, and tobacco, and something that was so uniquely him.

Joel nodded.

“I never stopped.” He whispered.

Without thinking, you closed the remaining distance, smashing your lips against his. Joel grunted in surprise, but quickly gave in, exhaling through his nose like he’d been holding a breath in for years. 

He returned the kiss with equal fervour, reaching out to cup your face and pouring all his pent-up emotions against the haven of your lips—longing, relief, desire.

You pushed yourself closer against him. Closer, impossibly closer, until you were straddling his lap, moving against the tent in his jeans, feeling his big hands instinctively settle on your hips, and tasting the Pinot Noir on his lips.

Shit. Was this even a good idea?

You pulled away suddenly. A tiny whine came from Joel, who tried to chase your mouth, but you were insistent.

“Wait,” You panted.

His eyes opened fully. His brows were knitted, his lips were kiss-swollen, and his chest was heaving slowly.

“What?” Joel asked quietly, his thumbs idly tracing circles on either side of your hips.

“This…” You breathed. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing. I don’t want it to mean nothing.”

Joel smiled softly at your words.

“Means a whole lot to me, sweetheart.” His hand went to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in his wake. “We can talk about what this means, if you w—”

“Okay, good. Means a lot. Talk after.”

“After?” His eyebrows rose.

“After you fuck me.”

A breathy ‘Jesus Christ’ slipped from his throat, but Joel didn’t spend a second refusing your bold assumption.

With a hand on your nape, he leaned forward to capture your lips in another searing kiss, which you happily accepted, sighing against him.

His big hands then travelled to the back of your thighs, and the next thing you knew, he carelessly swept away whatever was decorating the base of your faucet, and carried you with ease to perch you atop the sink.

“Joel.” You mumbled urgently into his lips.

“Mmm?” He hummed back, not wanting to break your mouths apart for even a second. 

“Might break the sink again.”

“Don’t care. I’ll fuckin’ fix it again, then. Just… need you,” Joel groaned. “Look too fuckin’ good,”

And he pulled away. His half-lidded, cloudy gaze drank you in, sweeping down the snugness of your dress, and lingering on the generous amount of cleavage it revealed. His hands drifted higher and higher up your thighs, until they reached the hemline—dipping under just slightly.

“Too fuckin’ good,” He snarled.

You smirked. Knowing him, he was definitely going to ask if—

“How much was this dress?”

Sighing amusedly, “It wasn’t cheap.”

“How attached are you to it?” He mumbled, a hand reverently skirting up to your hip.

“A moderate amou—”

“Can I rip it off you?”

There it was.

In the many years you were married, Joel shredded more than enough articles of your precious wardrobe in similar heated moments. If you were to count the offences, you’d likely run out of fingers. Your wedding dress had been among the few survivors of his destructive tendencies, though not for lack of trying on his part.

You stifled a snort and shook your head, reaching up to caress his face. 

“No.” You smiled. “Because I’d like to wear it again.”

Joel held your hand against his face and huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Next time.”

And then his hands found the zipper on your side, pulled it sharply down, and tugged the dress off you.

His eyes darkened.

You had chosen to don an intricate, black, lacey number underneath your dress that teased just enough and only hid the bare minimum. Of course, you had. You hadn’t had an opportunity to wear anything vaguely provocative in ages and were expecting some luck after your date.

You certainly didn’t expect that your ex-husband would be the one seeing it.

“This for him?” Joel’s lip twitched.

Heat rose in your cheeks. “Well, I—”

“Yeah, these don’t get a pass.”

With a sharp tearing noise slicing through the air, Joel ripped the flimsy lacey bra clean in half, watching intently, hungrily, as your tits spilled out.

“Joel!”

“I know, I know,” Joel grunted. “I’ll buy you a new set… buy you all the fuckin’ sets.”

You were about to object, intent on citing the price attached to that particular pair, but Joel had sunk back on his knees and spread your legs apart.

He pressed his lips on your inner thigh, scruff tickling your skin as he slowly, softly trailed his mouth upward, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

His face came to a stop in front of your core, noticing how heavily you were breathing, and his eyes flicked up to yours, smirking. Smug fucking bastard.

“Joel.” You gritted your teeth.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Don’t fucking tease me.” 

And he leaned his forehead against the lower part of your navel, taking a second to breathe in the unmistakable scent of your arousal seeping through your lingerie. 

He was practically salivating, now. 

“I’ll try not to, ma’am.” 

Without another word, he took the lace into his teeth, yanked his head sharply, and tore your panties open.

Confirming his suspicions, you were absolutely soaked. Slick drooled freely out of your puffy folds, taunting him and draining every ounce of self-restraint he had. 

Fuck, you were gorgeous.

“Tell me,” Joel said lowly, meeting your gaze once more as a thick finger swiped lightly through your lips, collecting your arousal. “This for him or me?”

“You.” You breathed without a second thought.

“Louder, sweetheart. My ears ain’t what they used to be.”

“You.”

Smirking wider, “Damn fucking right.”

Then, he happily hitched your legs over his shoulders, leaned forward, and dove in.

His tongue prodded into your heat, dragging down your walls and sending jolts of electricity down your spine. He worked fast and sloppily, sliding through your folds and flicking into your walls, urgently tasting you like he wouldn’t get another chance. 

Your arousal coated the lower half of his face, his eyes were almost black with desire, obscenely wet noises echoed in the silence of the tiled room as his tongue eagerly devoured you whole—

“Fuck, almost forgot how good you taste. So fuckin’ sweet.” Joel mumbled against your sex, entirely, wholly bewitched. “She missed me, too, huh? Just drippin’ for me…”

He continued to furiously lap at your entrance, scruff rubbing against your inner thighs. And then he moved up, planting messy kisses higher and higher until he reached your swollen clit.

You gasped brokenly, flinging a hand to grasp his curls as his lips alternated from pressing messy kisses along your seam to greedily sucking at your bundle of nerves, latching onto it almost desperately.

After a particularly delicious drag down the roof of your core, you rolled your hips up into his mouth and brought him closer to you with your grip in his hair.

“Shit—sorry.” You panted, breathing heavily.

He barely pulled away to look at you.

“Don’t fuckin’ be. I can handle it, you know I can.” Joel all but growled, before returning to attend to your needy fucking pussy.

He was like a man possessed; lapping frenziedly, groaning lowly into your sensitive skin, curved nose swiping through your folds as he worked.

Very soon, a familiar tingle in your lower stomach introduced itself.

“Joel,” You called urgently, attempting to warn him.

He knew you were close. Oh, he knew. So, he went faster and harder, pressing himself further against you, suffocation be fucking damned.

His low, wrecked voice came slurred and slightly muffled by your sex, “y’gonna come? Go on, baby, all over my face—thaaat’s it.”

A shattered moan escaped from your throat, and you felt your release take over your body almost violently. You couldn’t help the way your legs clamped down around his head, but Joel loved it, letting you smother him and humming happily into your heat as he worked you through your climax, swallowing your release and eating like a man starved.

Finally, he pulled away with a wet squelch, softly pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and gently let your legs down.

And you were immediately greeted with the sight of his lower face shining with your slick.

A good look on him, if you’d say so yourself.

He smiled lazily, eyes blown-out and absolutely fucking pussydrunk. 

“That good for you, sweetheart?” He mused.

“You, Joel Miller, are what we call a munch.” You smiled back.

Pride bloomed across his face. “Gladly, sweets.” 

And you pulled him up by the collar of his flannel shirt into a filthy kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips.

He let his eyes fall shut and reached up to curl a hand around your jaw as he returned the kiss, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Not wasting any time, your hands flew to his belt, blindly fumbling at the leather material to slide it out of the loops of his jeans.

Joel chuckled, leaning forward to trail his lips down your neck, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses.

“Need somethin’, baby?”

“Wanna return the favour,” You glanced down at the bulge in his lap.

“Mm-mm. That was more for me than you. Missed your sweet fuckin’ pussy.” Joel mumbled against your pulse point.

“Munch.” You couldn’t help but giggle.

“Yeah, yeah.” Joel sighed, lifting his head and undoing his jeans just barely enough to pull himself free from his boxers. 

You heard yourself swallow.

Joel Miller was a big man, and you were very aware of that fact. It was written all across his body; from his impossibly broad shoulders, to his beefy arms, to his thick fucking cock.

He stroked himself, once, twice, as his eyes fell to your pulsating, slick core. Beads of precum leaked from his flushed tip and down his length as he did so.

“Spread those legs wider for me, baby. Let me see you,” He breathed lowly.

And you very willingly obliged.

“There’s my girl,” Joel hummed.

With a hand around his base, he guided himself closer to your drooling cunt, nudging his swollen head against you.

Sighing, “Deep breath, baby.”

And he slowly forced himself in, one hand on the small of your back, the other on the underside of your thigh, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist as he steadily fed you his cock.

You gasped some variant of a plea.

Needless to say, he was a tight fucking fit.

“Takin’ me so well. That’s it, baby, let me in.” He blabbed mindlessly as he continued to sink deeper inside. 

Deeper, deeper, deeper…

He winced. “Shit—there you go.”

When all of him was nested inside your welcoming channel, he let out a gasped expletive at the sensation.

Full. You felt so full with him inside. You always did.

“Fuck, missed this.” Joel panted, resting his forehead against yours. 

You tried to echo the sentiment, but the only thing you were capable of doing was letting out an incoherent groan of his name.

Joel got the message, though.

Maintaining an unhurried tempo, he rolled his hips back and forth, slowly dragging his thickness against your walls, making you painfully aware of every last inch of him.

“How’s that feel, baby?” He mumbled, voice airy.

“Good. Feels so good.”

And, fuck, he did. 

He felt amazing.

His tempo soon picked up, leaving your mouth to fall open as you took every inch of him again and again, stretching you open with enough pleasure to dull the slight pain.

“Tell me,” Joel hummed as he continued to drive ceaselessly in and out of your tight channel, adopting a false lilt of indifference. “Who’s fuckin’ you so good, huh?”

An incoherent syllable slipped from your lips.

“Who, baby?” Joel urged you, unrelenting in his pace. “Sure as hell ain’t fuckin’ Mark.”

Dumbly, you shook your head.

“You, Joel.”

Your words were almost drowned out by the symphony of your own moans, which were accompanied by the obscenely wet slaps that sounded every time his hips fully met yours.

“Louder.” He snarled, punctuating his response with an intentionally rough ram. “Neighbours can’t hear you yet, c’mon.”

“You, Joel!”

Satisfied, his hands went to hold you by your waist, keeping you as still as possible as he drove insistently into you, his tip now kissing your cervix with every thrust.

You cried out at the feeling, nails raking down his back.

Heat pooled in your gut, your vision blurred, a high-pitched ringing almost deafened your ears.

“Joel, Joel, I’m…” You babbled.

“Close? Go on, gorgeous. Let me feel you choke my dick.”

With his blessing, his name left your mouth in a high-pitched scream, and you felt yourself clench around his throbbing length as your orgasm rippled across your body like an earthquake.

Joel, being the overachiever he was, didn’t stop for even a second until your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered open again.

And, once he saw that you had recovered, he leaned forward to slant his mouth against yours, swallowing your sighs.

“You okay?” He mumbled into the kiss, barely breaking away.

“Yeah.” You exhaled. 

He smiled against your lips.

“Good. Almost there, baby. Gonna take you against the sink, now, and you’re gonna give me one more, how’s that sound?”

You nodded dreamily, feeling him slowly pull out.

He leaned back and, with his hands on your waist, delicately set you down.

“Turn ‘round for me, sweetheart.” 

You acquiesced without hesitation, bracing yourself on the porcelain countertop.

Joel hummed, kicked your legs open even wider, and, not long after, sank the entirety of his cock into you in one deep thrust.

A sharp breath hit the air behind you, and an airy ‘fuck’ followed it. This angle made him feel bigger, if that was even possible.

He didn’t wait long after that. He couldn’t. Overcome with the need to feel you, he started moving. The first thrust was slow. Experimental. The second was hard. The third was harder.

Before you knew it, his big hands found a home on your hips, and he began to drive roughly into you, as if making up for lost time.

He certainly proved he was willing to atone for his absence, thrust after thrust.

“Oh, look at you.” Joel tutted and pulled your hair to tilt your head upwards.

You came face to face with the woman in the bathroom mirror.

Somewhere in between thrusts, your mouth had fallen agape, letting loose a long whine of pleasure, which was stuttered by every slam of his hips against yours.

Your hair was frizzy, your face was flushed, your hooded gaze was flooded with desire, and a light sheen of sweat doused every inch of your skin.

You were a wreck, thanks to the man fucking you so well behind you.

“Eyes up here.” Joel sighed. “Keep ‘em open. Gotta watch how well you take me.”

Joel was even more of a sight. 

The top few buttons of his flannel were undone, his sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, his hair was wild, and the look on his weathered face was nothing short of territorial as he held you to him and fucked you with reckless abandon.

Your eyes fell to where your bodies were connected, hypnotised by how easily his tanned cock disappeared in and out of your puffy cunt.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The corners of his lips were coyly upturned when he cooed, “Don’t we look good, baby?”

You could only respond in broken syllables.

“Yeah,” He grunted. Then, after a particularly forceful thrust, “we do.”

He continued to ram into you, finding your cervix with each thrust, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror, fixated on how your tits bounced so prettily for him.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, jaw tight.

If your brain hadn’t been turned to mush after the two orgasms he forced out of you, you would’ve heard him. But all you were focused on was the rush of another climax approaching.

You gripped the countertop harder and gritted your teeth, feeling warmth collecting in your stomach and bracing yourself for impact.

As if reading your mind, Joel’s hand moved from your hip to your front, trailing down until he brushed your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-cricles and whispering sweet things as you whimpered.

“You gonna give me one more?” He murmured encouragingly, his nose nudging the side of your face.

You could only manage an open-mouthed nod.

His fingers sped in their motions, swiping at your clit feverishly as he continued to rut into you, grazing your cervix each time.

Again. And again. 

“Come for me, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.” He whispered gently.

Your jaw slackened, your heartbeat quickened, and, in a blinding flash of pleasure, you came with his name on your tongue, helpless to the throes of your climax.

“There you go. Shit… so good for me.” Joel groaned. And then, urgently, “Where—where do you want me to–?”

Not even a full second later, “Inside.” 

“You sure?” He panted, starstruck. 

“I have an IUD, just—please.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, letting you feel every shaky pull of his breath as he caged you in. His hands found yours at the edge of the sink, lacing over them gently. His head dropped beside yours, his forehead nearly touching your temple, and a warm breath fanned across your skin as he sighed. 

And then he resumed his earlier pace.

He rammed into you hard and fast, chasing his own release as if it were a life-or-death situation. And all you could do was take it.

After a dozen more jerky thrusts, his breath caught in his throat and, with a low curse, he came. Hot ropes of his spend spilled inside you, and he rode it out until he couldn’t give you any more, which took a few more lazy rolls of his hips.

His breath evened not long after, warm and steady against your browbone. Soothing, almost.

Gently, he pulled out of you, and you felt his come slowly drip down your thighs.

“Fuck,” He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, scruff rubbing against your crown as he did so.

And he bowed his head to rest it on the crook of your neck.

“That was great, George.” You panted.

Joel snorted tiredly. “Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

“Nope.”

He huffed out a chuckle.

Then, he languidly pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses wherever his lips could reach—the underside of your jaw, your throat, your neck, and down, still.

A warm, fuzzy sort of feeling radiated from his touch, lulling you into a state of bliss. It felt like love; it felt like coming home.

You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your face.

Joel mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder.

“What?” You replied, breaking free from your trance.

“I said,” He pulled away and, with two fingers on your chin, tenderly turned your face to look at him. His voice was wrecked and so very earnest when he finally repeated himself. “Don’t send the papers. Please.”

He held the rest of his plea in his eyes in the way they shone with a certain sincerity.

You smiled softly and shook your head. Because you knew you never really had any intention to. Because you wanted to hold on to him. And you were glad he wanted to hold on to you, too.

Your lips found his. Gentle, delicate, a reassurance. He gave in to the kiss almost immediately, sighing into your mouth.

“I won’t.”

And you meant it.

thanks for reading!!! reqs are open, if you wanna send an idea or anything over :)

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[ohjoelmiller]

oh i need him

[pedropascal24-7]

Trailer #3

[iamasaddie-deactivated20251105]

PEDRO PASCAL and DAKOTA JOHNSON in the new 'Materialists' trailer