Ash I love your WIP Wednesday game tag the only issue is that all of my documents are Untitled Document. I just search in the Google docs search bar to find which one I need at any given time
Hi! Can I ask for a Sylus fluff, where he gives the reader his bank card for her to go shopping, and he expects a bill to be at least $10,000, but all he sees is about $100. So he asks her if she bought everything she wanted, and she says something like "yeah, there were such good discounts, I didn't spend too much, did I?"
And man is just ಠ益ಠ GIRL GO SPEND MY MONEY I WANT TO SPOIL YOU
My beloved @lalaluch I cannot explain to you just how much fun this was to even imagine but let alone even WRITE 🩷 like I was losing my mind trying to bust out my Google docs to even make this. But my sickness was literally getting to me that all I could do was imagine--but anywhoo now that it's finally done I hope you all enjoy it ✨️
p.s: I hope this sickness finally leaves me because it be making me internally cry on the inside ...I pray for prayers lol 💅🏻
BUDGET QUEEN
It had taken weeks of gentle coaxing, half-joking remarks, and the occasional exasperated sigh before you’d reluctantly agreed. You had this stubborn streak, an insistence on independence that both irritated and fascinated him. But today, you’d finally caved.
“You’ll take it,” Sylus had said that morning, slipping the sleek card into your hand, his fingers brushing against your palm. “No arguments. No excuses.”
You had sighed, rolling your eyes. “Fine. But I’m not going crazy with it?!”
He had only smirked, knowing full well you would—and knowing full well that he wanted you to.
And now, hours later, he awaited the results.
Sylus leaned back in his leather chair, his crimson eyes flicking lazily over the documents cluttering his desk. A rare break in his usual chaos had him sipping on his usual drink, savoring the brief quiet. That was until his phone buzzed. He set his glass down and checked the notification, a message from his bank popping up.
He expected it—he wanted it. You had finally caved to his insistence after a literal month of convincing and taken his black card to go shopping. He’d envisioned the inevitable message all morning, something like:
One-hundred million spent at Celine and The Row’s combined?
Or perhaps?
Fifty million at Loro Piana?
You’d mentioned their beauty and elegance more than once.
Nevertheless, the man wanted indulgence, excess—you deserved it, after all.
Instead, the message read:
$157.45 at… Assorted Stores.
Sylus stared at the screen, unblinking. Surely, this was a mistake. He refreshed his balance multiple times. Same amount. He checked for pending transactions. None.
“…What?” he muttered, his irritation simmering beneath the surface. He slammed his phone down, crossing his arms as he waited for you to return.
Minutes later, the front door opened, and you walked in, humming happily, two bags dangling from your arms. You looked utterly content, your warm smile sending a pang through Sylus’s chest. He didn’t want to ruin the moment, but he had questions.
“You’re back,” he said, leaning against the doorframe to his study, watching you set the bags down in the living room. His towering presence cast a shadow over you, his white hair catching the light, giving him an almost otherworldly aura.
“Yup!” you chirped, rifling through the bags. “You wouldn’t believe the deals I found today! It’s like the universe knew I had your card!”
Sylus squinted. “Deals?”
“Yeah! Everything was on sale! I even had coupons for some things. Oh, and this boutique downtown was having a clearance event! It was amazing!” You beamed at him, oblivious to his growing disbelief.
“Clearance? ..…How much did you spend?” he asked, his voice neutral. Too neutral.
“Um…” You frowned, pulling your phone out to check. “About a few hundred, I think? Oh, wait—like one-fifty! I didn’t spend too much, did I?” You tilted your head, as if genuinely concerned.
Sylus stared at you, his expression shifting to one of incredulous disbelief. His red eyes seemed to glow, and his lips pressed into a thin line. It was the look of a man deeply offended. Not by you—but by the principle.
“…That’s it?” he asked, his voice sharp but measured, as if he were trying to comprehend an alien concept. “One-fifty?”
You blinked up at him, a little confused by his tone. “Well, yes… I mean, I didn’t want to waste your money—”
“Waste my—” He cut himself off, running a hand through his snowy hair. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his composure. “Sweetheart,” he said slowly, “do you have any idea why I gave you my card?”
“To… buy some stuff?” you offered, suddenly feeling like you were missing something obvious.
“To spoil you,” he emphasized, stepping closer. “To treat you like the queen you are. To shower you in luxury. And you—” He gestured to the modest shopping bags on the floor, his voice taking on a dramatic edge. “—come back with clearance items?”
Your cheeks flushed. “But… I didn’t need anything expensive! I found good deals, and I thought—”
“No.” Sylus leaned down slightly, bringing himself to eye level with you, his crimson eyes boring into yours. “Listen to me, love. I don’t care about the price tag. I want you to have the best. The fact that you’re this thoughtful is adorable—don’t get me wrong—but next time…” He paused, his voice dropping into a softer, more commanding tone. “…I want to see receipts that would make the average person cry.”
You couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m not.” He straightened, towering over you again, his arms crossing. “Do you know how much money I make? How much I’ve set aside specifically to spoil you?”
“I can guess?…”
“Clearly not if you’re spending less than a casual dinner out on everything.” His voice was calm, but laced with unmistakable disapproval.
Then, with a breath, he softened—only slightly. “I just want to see you dressed in diamonds,” he corrected, stepping closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. “To watch you slip into golden heels that make you shine like the goddess you are. To drape you in silk and velvet, to see you standing before me in a dress that costs more than a car and still doesn’t compare to your worth.”
Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the sudden weight in his words.
“I gave you my card,” he continued, voice lower now, intimate, “because I want you to indulge. To spoil yourself the way I ache to spoil you. Because you deserve to walk into a store and not think—just watch and admire”
Your throat went dry.
He lifted his hand, fingers brushing over your wrist before tracing upward, his touch featherlight against your skin. “I want to see you try on jewelry without looking at the price tag,” he murmured. “I want to sit back and watch as a saleswoman fumbles to put a necklace around your throat because her hands are shaking too much from the sheer amount of wealth wrapped around you.”
His gaze dipped lower, lingering on your frame as he exhaled through his nose. “And instead… you bring me deals?”
Your heart pounded, a mix of amusement and something else entirely stirring in your chest. “I didn’t think I needed to spend that much—”
“You don’t need to,” he interrupted, thumb ghosting over your jawline. His voice was softer now, but no less commanding. “But I want you to.”
Your face heated.
“Next time, I’m going with you.”
“What, to make sure I spend enough?” you teased.
“Yes,” he said, dead serious. “And to carry your bags. And to remind you that you can have whatever you want.” His red eyes softened slightly, and he tilted your chin up with two fingers. “All I want is to see you happy. No discounts required.”
You smiled at his sincerity, warmth blooming in your chest. “Okay, fine. Next time, I’ll go a little crazier. Maybe five million?” you joked.
Sylus groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Woman, you’re going to be the death of me.”
You laughed, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. “You’re so dramatic, you know that?”
“And you’re too frugal for your own good,” he shot back, pulling you into his arms. His voice softened, turning almost playful. “But I guess I’ll just have to teach you how to spend properly.”
“Looking forward to it,” you said, grinning against his chest.
Sylus sighed, resting his chin atop your head. As much as he wanted to spoil you senseless, he couldn’t help but love your thoughtful, practical side. It was part of what made you you—and he wouldn’t trade that for anything.
Still, next time… he was definitely making sure you left the store with at least an entire closet filled with designer bags.
op turned off reblogs so the correction i made cant be reblogged, so im making a new post, mostly just repeating what i said. tl;dr:
google docs is not randomly deleting peoples work for being nsfw. there is no evidence at all that you are at risk of having google delete your fics for having "inappropriate" content.
this article by the wired is the only "source" op has ever provided. i would very very much recommend both reading the entire article and looking at the linked posts in it for yourself. it is also self-admittedly the only source they've ever found - so keep that in mind. it's about k. renee, an open door romance novelist who had her work restricted by google. "open door romance" refers to works where sex scenes happen on screens and are described in detail. they are explicit works. the article talks about similar things happening to a few different authors who write in the same genre.
the incidents described in this article happened in march 2024, which is over a year ago.
those affected had their works restricted, with a warning message. they were not abruptly deleted out of no where. authors were able to file appeals with google to recover their docs, though i havent found any updates on if they were successful in doing so.
the reason this happened is because google docs incorrectly flagged the shared documents as spam.
That author later posted a video to Instagram explaining that it wasn’t the adult content in the files but rather “Google thought I was spamming people.” Apparently, sending the same doc to scores of people—for example, alpha and beta readers—can make it appear as though the doc was unsolicited.
sharing a document that contains "adult content" with a lot of people will trigger google's automod, but the adult content itself is not the problem. if you are sharing a doc with a handful of people, or arent sharing it at all, this is not going to happen. from my own personal testimony, i have dozens and dozens of explicit, nsfw work in my google docs that ive shared with people, and none of them have been touched. i have not seen a single claim with proof that anyone's work has been deleted in the manner the original op describes.
there is no source at all for original op's claim that google is "using AI to find inappropriate and problematic content". in the above article (again, the only source), ai is mentioned once, to say that k. renee had ai functions turned off and did not think that was the problem.
Renee hadn’t turned on any of the AI functions in Google Workspace, so she doubted it could be chalked up to a bot banning her books. After all, a 2016 paper coauthored by Google researchers revealed that its recurrent neural network language models had been fed thousands of romances. If for some reason a bot was crawling her work, wouldn’t it recognize what it was looking at?
and, lets just think logically for a moment. if google docs was doing some sort of mass cleans of nsfw content using ai, dont you think it would be a more widespread story? would it be this hard to find sources and testimony about it? google docs has literally millions of users, including published authors and scientists and academics. if an ai bot was crawling works and deleting any it deemed nsfw, it would be mainstream news because it would be affecting countless people. and especially without disclosing a change in policy beforehand? they would probably get sued for it!
i am not making this post in defense of google, god forbid. google is open about the fact that they use any "publicly available" information to train their ai models (and did get sued for it), though they claim that they dont take from docs that they dont have permission to. i honestly, genuinely, cannot tell you the veracity of these claims or how serious the scraping is. like, i just do not know if google scrapes from private gdocs. if someone knows more and has better sources they are free to add on to the post.
but i want it to be clear that google docs is not going to randomly delete your works for having nsfw content. docs and pages disappear sometimes because google docs is a mess. you should always back up your files locally (switching to programs like ellipsus doesnt make your work safer, per se, as ellipsus is still cloud-based), and you should consider switching away from google docs if youre staunchly anti-ai, but they are not going to abruptly explode all your fics. that is simply not happening. you do not have to panic.
Sims 4 Studio and CAS Tools are programs that are incredibly useful not only to content creators but to any Simmer who wants to keep their CC neat and organized. They might seem overwhelming at first, but they can be extremely powerful tools for fixing those minor but irritating CAS issues that quietly drive you mad, whether that be poor categorization, disappearing accessories, or that one hair that shows up on every single townie in your game. You'll be even more shocked at the laziness of certain paywalling creators when you realize just how quick and simple the majority of these fixes are.
There's a lot of scattered information out there, but I thought it might be useful to gather the tips and tricks I use the most in one place. I've learned most of what I know through trial and error, and I'd like to make it all a bit less intimidating for others if I can. I wanted this guide to be accessible for complete beginners, so it's perhaps more detailed than necessary. Still, I'm sure I left some things out, so feel free to comment or reblog with your own additions! And if you're afraid of breaking your CC, back-ups are your best friend! Make copies beforehand so that you can revert back if needed.
You'll find all these topics covered under the cut:
Setting Up S4S & CAS Tools
Modifying CAS CC Categorization (and More) in S4S
Supplementing S4S with CAS Tools
Unmerging Packages and Running Batch Fixes
Utilizing S4S's CC Browser & Changing CAS Display Index
You can access a Google Docs version here.
1. SETTING UP S4S & CAS TOOLS
It probably goes without saying, but you'll need to download and install Sims 4 Studio and CAS Tools first if you haven't already. Ensure you're downloading the latest versions. I use the installer version of S4S because it's easier. For CAS Tools, you just unzip the files to your preferred location. I usually create a folder for it in Documents. When you want to use it, open the .exe file. As far as I know, both programs are vetted, trusted and safe. If Windows gives you a hard time, you can bypass the warning pop-up to run them anyway.
When opening these programs for the first time, they'll likely prompt you to confirm the location of your mods folder and ask you for a creator name. S4S also has to process a bunch of game data whenever it or the game updates. It can take a while, especially if you have lots of packs and a slower computer. Just be patient. When it's ready to go, you should see this screen.
Once it's installed, I recommend setting S4S as the default program for opening package files. On Windows, you can do this by right-clicking on a package file and selecting "Properties." Click "Change..." next to "Opens with," and if Sims 4 Studio doesn't show up in the list of available apps, click "Choose an app on your PC" to manually locate the .exe. Now you can double-click any package to open it in S4S, which is what we're going to do next.
2. MODIFYING CAS CC CATEGORIZATION (AND MORE) IN S4S
When you open a package file in S4S, you should see something similar to the image below. If you automatically get sent to the "Warehouse" tab instead and see a bunch of technical jargon and numbers, that probably means it's a merged package. You can't edit these in quite the same way as standalone packages, but we'll talk more about that later.
The first tab is "Textures." This is where you'll find the files you need for recoloring, but there are also a few things you can fix here to help improve your CAS experience. See that "Catalog Thumbnail" section? If you notice that only one gender has a custom thumbnail, you can export the thumbnail, switch to the opposite frame, and import it. If there are no custom thumbnails, you could even make your own and add them. Another easy fix you can make here: you know how some CC turns your Sim into a shiny plastic mannequin? That's often a specular issue. Clicking "Make Blank" may resolve this, as it will remove the broken specular. You can also remove swatches you know you won't use.
The next tab is "Meshes." Now, this probably isn't very useful to you if you're not a CC maker. But it does show you the number of polygons in a mesh if you need to keep an eye on that for the sake of your computer.
Next, you've got "Categories." This is the tab of most interest, as this is where a lot of CC goes wrong and where you can customize your experience to make these categories work for you. Before we get into it, it's important to state that you must click "Apply to All Swatches" for every single category you change! Otherwise, the change is only going to affect the first swatch.
"Outfit Type" determines into which category the content will be sorted. This can be changed (when it makes sense)! For example, I move certain types of overlays or accessories that are usually scattered all over CAS into the same category for easier and more convenient access. This helps me remember to actually use them. Otherwise, I'll forget they exist or become so frustrated searching through each category for a specific overlay that I give up. Just keep in mind that this won't fix texture conflicts. If an accessory is in the hat category because it conflicts with hats, moving it to the bracelet category won't change this. If you're curious about learning that particular skill (which requires Blender), @surely-sims has a great tutorial on removing ring/lash conflicts that can also be applied to other types of CC.
Next, you see all the flags that help the game know how to filter the CC. If it's enabled for wrong frames, ages, or fashion choices, you can disable these. But if it's not enabled for genders, ages, or fashion choices that it should be, you can also change that. For example, many accessories like socks, glasses, and hats work basically the same across both frames, but some CC creators will only enable them for one. If you do adjust gender or fashion choice availability, make sure you also scroll all the way to the bottom of this section and double-check that neither "Restrict Opposite Frame" or "Restrict Opposite Gender" is selected. On the other hand, if you have CC that's broken on the opposite frame or shows up when you don't want it to, you might want to keep these options checked.
I don't really pay much attention to the "Occult" section and often just uncheck all the boxes. If you're having trouble with items showing up in CAS for specific occult types, this might help you. Generally, I haven't run into that issue so I can't speak much to it. I also usually don't care enough to bother with all the style categories. I simply never pay attention to or use these systems, so I generally leave them alone. It just depends on how granular you want to get with your organization. But they're there if you need them and you can select as many as suit the item.
"Outfit Type" and "Sub-Part Type" are very important categories. If a certain early access creator who's been doing this long enough to know better (not naming names) always has formal wear categorized as sleep wear, you can change that. With older CC, it might not be properly tagged for hot and cold weather, and you can change that. If a jacket is categorized as a t-shirt or a sweater categorized as a brassiere, you can change that as well. You can select multiple categories here if it fits more than one. I was always frustrated by how useless these were in CAS until I started fixing tags. Now, they actually contain exactly what they're supposed to and my endless scrolling is greatly reduced.
Finally, you might want to make sure "Allow for Random" is unchecked. This is what permits CC to show up on randomly generated townies. I personally don't care for it because it just adds fuel to the bad townie fashion fire. If you want to disable (or enable) all your CC for random, I wouldn't do it file by file, though. There's a much more efficient way that I'll show you in a minute! Anyway, once you've made all your changes (and applied them to all swatches), make sure to pound that "Save" button (if you're like me, three or four times, just to be safe).
Now, take a big breath before moving on! You've learned a lot. You already have so much power in your hands. But are you ready to have even more?
3. SUPPLEMENTING S4S WITH CAS TOOLS
If you switch over to the "Warehouse" tab in S4S, this is what you'll see. Pretty confusing, right? Aside from the indecipherable strings of numbers, you can only make these changes on a per swatch basis. There's no "Apply to All" button, which makes it way more tedious even if you know what those numbers mean. This is where CAS Tools comes in clutch.
I won't spend too much time on this because I cover it in depth here, but one use for CAS Tools is that it can easily help you fix any content that might be excluding parts unnecessarily (like necklaces, bracelets, or nails). You can simply uncheck the boxes under the "Exclude Parts" section, hit "Commit Changes," and then hit "Save Package." There are some other settings here I won't get into because they're a little more complex. For now, this is the main one you'll probably find yourself wanting to change.
4. UNMERGING PACKAGES AND RUNNING BATCH FIXES
All right. Back to S4S. Now that we're comfortable with editing individual package files, let's talk about unmerging packages and batch fixes!
Creators will often merge, say, a piece of clothing and its accessory overlay into the same package for efficiency. If you want to move the accessory to a new category, merged packages make that really difficult to do. But S4S has a nifty un-merge feature. You just direct it to the package you want to un-merge and where it should be un-merged to and voila! Be careful with this, as some content may break if un-merged or separated. This is one of those cases where you definitely want to hold onto the original file in case you end up with the red and white checkerboard of doom in CAS.
S4S also has a ton of batch fixes that you can run on entire folders! I keep all my newly downloaded and unsorted CC quarantined to one folder, and I always at least run "Disallow for random" and "Update images for DX11" on this folder before allowing any of it into my main folders. There's a useful (albeit slightly outdated) breakdown of what the other batch fixes do and how essential they are here. Usually they're meant to help resolve issues introduced by new content or patches. One helpful thing about batch fixes is that running them automatically creates back-ups (Documents > Sims 4 Studio > Batch Fixes). Just make sure to delete these every once in a while or they can fill up your hard drive quickly!
I do not recommend running batch fixes on your entire Mods folder. Not only will it take an incredibly long time, but you generally don't want to run things like default replacements and gameplay or UI mods through the batch fixing process. This is where having a Mods folder that isn't just a bunch of loose files chucked into one place is incredibly important. The more organized your folder is, the easier it will be to isolate specific types of files for batch fixes (or, as it happens, do game troubleshooting like the 50/50 method).
5. UTILIZING S4S's CC BROWSER & CHANGING CAS DISPLAY INDEX
Scroll back up to check out the home screen of S4S. See that "My CC" button? If you're not already using these to view the contents of your CC folder, you should be - because it's a game changer. I know some people prefer other file organization programs, but I've found that nothing works better for me actually being able to see (and edit) CC than this. Again, you might have to wait a while for the CC browser to load, especially if it's the first time or you've added/reorganized a lot of CC, but you should see everything in your Mods folder pop up on the left side.
When you click a package file within one of those folders, it'll pull up the same preview and settings we saw earlier. But this view is especially useful for a few reasons. If you're trying to edit a bunch of files, it's quicker and easier to move through them here than if you were to open each one independently. You can also easily delete files you decide you don't like the look of, and if you simply need to get your CC folder in any semblance of order, this is a good place to start. You can't move files or create folders in the program itself, but you can at least see items without going in game. You can make edits to merged packages in here too. (Just keep in mind that "Apply to All Swatches" in this case means all swatches in all packages contained in a file. You'll have to go swatch by swatch if you don't want this.)
But the biggest secret in the CC browser is its ability to batch change CAS display index (@vyxated has also made a tutorial on this). A lot of you are probably wondering what this means. Basically, the display index determines how far up or down the catalog of items in a category an item appears. In other words, you know how some CC creators' content is usually all lumped together? This is what they use to achieve that. As a player, you can use it too - to basically organize CAS however you like. The problem is it's a pain to change the CAS display index of items individually. You have to do it in Warehouse, which means you have to go swatch by swatch. This is impossibly tedious. The CC browser gives us another way.
Right click on any folder within the browser and you'll see the two options above. They allow you to change the CAS display index for everything in that folder. You can get even more precise by using the "sorted by package name" option. As an example, let's consider my clothing folder. I label my folders according to the clothing subcategories in game, so when I batch change, for instance, the display index of the t-shirts folder sorted by package name, this allows t-shirts to all appear together in CAS but also allows for creator organization within, which is very satisfying visually, I must say. It doesn't always work perfectly, but it gets pretty close.
Here's another example with hair. Again, I've got the packages sorted into folders by subcategory, and you can see how all my bun hairstyles appear together, (mostly) sorted by creator.
So what does this process actually look like once you click the "Change CAS Display Index" button? Good question! First, you confirm which folder you're editing and where you want the back-up to go. You shouldn't have to make any changes here, so just click "Run." Then you'll get a pop-up asking you to enter the value you'd like to change the CAS display index to.
How do you know what that number should be? Another good question. @adelarsims has made a post listing the display index numbers for various CAS categories. Basically, these are the maximum numbers given to vanilla content, so you want to choose numbers higher than those. But that's not all you have to consider. If you're organizing on a more granular level like I am, you'll also want each subcategory to have a different display index number. That way, when you're viewing an entire CAS category at once, say, bottoms, all the various types of bottoms will be neat and well-organized, making for much more enjoyable scrolling. As you can imagine, keeping track of these numbers gets a little dizzying. I have a Google Doc where I've got the ones I'm using listed. You can see a couple screenshots below, but here's a link to it in case you want to use it as a base. (It also tells you what categories I sort certain overlays and accessories into, if you're interested in that.)
Anyway, let the batch fix run, check to see if everything seems right in game, then delete those back-ups once you no longer need them (they really do pile up). This is, of course, an insanely time-consuming project, but if you can get past the initial pain of sorting all your CC, setting aside time once or twice a month to do it with newly downloaded files helps you stay on top of things. I usually don't. And then I suffer when it catches up to me.
But the organizational possibilities are truly endless! Combining CAS display index with recategorized accessories has improved the efficiency of my CAS experience so much. Here are just a few examples. I've got all my hair accessory overlays in toenails since it's an underused category. All accessory tops have been moved to the right wrist category. Hair color overlays are in body scars - dye in left leg and hairlines in right leg.
Okay! I think that's all I wanted to cover in this post, and it's certainly more than enough. If this level of organization isn't for you, no worries. But I've found that it's cut down my CAS time significantly and made me reach for items I hadn't been previously, so I have a feeling others might benefit from it too, even if you take a slightly less comprehensive approach. I've recently undertaken a similar project with build/buy CC, although there are some restrictions (such as no CAS index display numbers). If enough people find this one helpful, I might write a guide about some of the methods I've used there as well. And by all means, if you have any questions, please ask!
WHAT HAPPENED YESTERDAY: M.S.
in which. . .you find the manuscript of matt's book
warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, lil bit of arguing, reader being a snoop, talks of depression/self h*rm/anxiety/bullying, NO SMUT, mental health themes, this is lowk a vent post, i believe i saw a similar post by @immaqulate (correct me if i'm wrong!!) -> 1.1k
note: this is just a fanfic. i am not assuming matt has dealt with anything mentioned below, nor am i assuming that's what the book will be about. if this bothers you, don't read.
"matt? honey, can i use your computer? mine is missing the a key." you called out over the sound of the running water of the shower.
you'd gotten a notification on your phone about the annual sephora sale, and you'd be damned if you missed out on that. matt gave you an affirmative sound over the noise and you giggled to yourself, happily skipping to his bedroom and plopping down on the bed with matt's laptop.
within seconds, everything was catching your eye. rhode, summer fridays, charlotte tilburry, you wanted it all. you opened up a new tab, navigating to google docs to create a wishlist. you didn't mean to snoop; you really didn't. however, seeing a document titled "what happened yesterday" was bound to get your interest. matt was open with you about everything and vice versa, so what the hell was this about?
you knew you shouldn't. you should just ask matt about it and clear up any confusion. and yet, you didn't stop yourself from clicking the document open. the first page appeared to be a cover for a memoir of sorts. "what happened yesterday: matt sturniolo". it read. your brows furrowed. you knew matt had off-handedly mentioned writing a book one day, but you didn't know it would be so soon. nor did you know the idea had come so forcefully that your boyfriend had written over 100 pages of content for it already.
you should've stopped there. you really should have. instead though, you found yourself being sucked into matt's magical writing style. at first, the memoir was a recount of his and his brother's rise to fame and how that had motivated him to write a book. as the pages went on, though, you felt tears prick in your eyes.
i was four years old the first time i remember experiencing what i now know to be anxiety, and what would later be diagnosed as an anxiety disorder. even though i was being dropped at preschool with nick and chris, i had all these thoughts about "what if?". what if my mom didn't come back for me? what if nick and chris made new friends and forgot about me? what if i didn't make any friends? and that's pretty fucking heavy for a four year old to deal with.
i was six years old the first time i remember experiencing depression. by this point, i knew that i was different from other kids. when other kids were playing with plastic dinosaurs, i was busy wondering why it was so hard for me to make friends and why i was so consumed by constant worrying.
i was nine when i first learned about self harm. i had unrestricted internet access as most kids in the early 2000s did, and there it was: a video about the best ways you could hurt yourself. and the worst part? i believed i deserved it. if other kids didn't like me and my mind spent so many hours every day torturing me, then i deserved it. i deserved to hurt like that. but what that video didn't tell me what that it becomes an addiction. even now, at 23 years old, i am just now four years clean.
"what the fuck are you doing?" matt asked, towering over you and snatching his laptop from your hands, slamming it shut.
"i didn't mean to! i swear i was just looking!" you said, wiping your eyes.
"i didn't know you were going to fucking snoop on my computer, y/n!" matt yelled, in his pajamas and hair still wet from the shower.
"i-i'm sorry, matt. . .i really am. can we talk? please?"
matt took a deep breath, clutching the laptop to his chest. he'd been working on his anger in therapy lately, and he knew deep down it was only fair to hear you out. "fine. yes, we can talk." your boyfriend sat down beside you on the bed, still carefully holding his laptop like it was a prized posession.
"i truly didn't mean to snoop," you started. "i was on the sephora website and went to google docs to make a wishlist. i saw the document title and got curious, but looking at it without your permission was wrong. i'm sorry, baby. that wasn't right of me."
sure enough, when matt opened his computer, the sephora website was still pulled up. he closed the laptop again, shoving it away from the two of you and massaging his temples. "how much did you read?"
"a lot. . .'m sorry."
matt sighed, shaking his head. "it's fine, i just--i don't think i'm ready for anyone to read it. it's just stupid writing, like a diary of sorts."
"i didn't think it was stupid," you offered gently. "i thought it was really powerful, honestly."
"i dunno if i'm ready for anyone to know that much about me. . ." matt whispered, voice catching in his throat. "i know you probably look at me differently after reading all that." he said, letting out a pessimistic laugh.
you shook your head. you'd known about your boyfriend's struggles with mental health as long as you'd been dating. you'd pressed gentle, discreet kisses to his scars when he was asleep. you'd held him on nights when his anxiety was overwhelming, rendering him unable to speak. you'd simply laid in bed with him on days where the depression was so heavy that he had no energy to do anything but lie in bed.
"matt, babe. . ." you said softly. "having mental health struggles isn't something you can control, nor is it your fault."
matt didn't say anything else, looking off at his laptop. "do you think i should publish it?"
"well, that's up to you," you hummed, rubbing your fingers over his own. "but i think you should. people look up to you, especially young people. knowing that someone they look up to has also struggled in similar ways could help, even if it was just one kid."
the brunette cocked his head. "that's true, i guess."
"it's up to you, but i'll support you every step of the way, no matter what you decide." you whispered, pecking his cheek.
"god, what did i ever do to deserve you?" matt murmured, laying you back on the bed and peppering soft kisses all over your face.
you giggled. "be you, i guess," you said before pausing. "i really am sorry for looking without your permission. that wasn't right."
"i forgive you," matt hummed, burying his nose in your neck, inhaling your soft, slightly sweet scent. "i needed that, i think."
Hello hello everyone! Here's Serpens, the multi muse version of Ophiuchus and Alya. Dark, snake-themed and with a gothic touch just like its predecessors, this google docs template might be perfect for showcasing your characters that fit this aesthetic or perhaps Serpens could perfectly match your vibe as a writer. Serpens supports 12 muses (or more, since you can easily duplicate every page if you need) and offers plenty of space to write about your verses, your rules, and your characters. Hope you enjoy it!
➤ Instructions:
After purchasing, you’ll receive a pdf file containing the link to the google docs template and instructions on how to copylock it, along with a detailed editing guide. Open the pdf, click on the google docs link, go to “File,” and then “Make a copy.”
➤ Terms of use:
▪ Feel free to customize the template as you wish! Change colors, swap out elements, add or remove images, duplicate pages, etc. Make it your own and have fun!
▪ You're more than welcome to purchase my templates as a gift for a friend!
▪ Don’t remove my credits and the link to my Tumblr.
▪ Don’t share the pdf and/or the link you received for this doc.
▪ Don’t copy, resell, or redistribute my templates.
— Additional info:
▪ This document has drawings, which can only be edited in the desktop version of google docs.
▪ This document can be viewed perfectly on mobile when using the “print layout” option in the docs app or “desktop mode” in a mobile browser - preferably google chrome.
Placeholder pictures are of Jenna Ortega, Micheal Ward, Peggy Gou, Aaron Taylor-Johnson, Laura Harrier and Alex Schlab.
If you have any questions or need help, please feel free to contact me. I’ll be happy to assist you!
Summary: Your wedding was cancelled. Your fiancé ran off with your friend. Your honeymoon to Iceland is non-refundable.
So you go anyway. Alone. And you don’t expect to meet anyone, least of all the man who could quietly rearrange your entire life.
Pairing: Harry Castillo / f!Reader (reader's a florist, minimal physical description).
Rating: E (+18). Slow(ish) burn. Infidelity (mentioned). Eventual smut. Each part will have its own warnings.
Word count: 14.7k+
Taglist: @sunnytuliptime, @sincerelywithheartt, @inept-the-magnificent, @somedayheaven, @rainbowcosmicchaos, @perpetualharpyresonance, @isabellaboo2025, @pedrofan, @noisynightmarepoetry, @callmebyyournick-name, @southernbe, @brittmb115
a/n: Okay guys, this is it. The ending of the first series I ever dared to publish... and finish, in a really long while. You guys and your amazing response have blown me away, I'm writing so much more, even if it's in my phone because I'm chasing my toddler around the house. God bless Google Docs (phone version), that's all I'm gonna say.
ALSO, this was supposed to be posted yesterday but SOMEONE wrote the whole chapter in the present tense for some reason, when everything until now was in the past tense... and had to change every single verb. Yay me. So if you see weird stuff, maybe it's something that I didn't see. Sorry! Also it's extra long and juicy.
Anyway, I hope you like the ending, and after this, I'll post the epilogue during the week. I hope this is worth your wait, your support, comments, likes and reblogs. Ty all, more to come soon!
CHAPTER WARNINGS: Fluff. PiV sex. Creampie.
MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
TWO WEEKS LATER - NEW YORK CITY
Harry functioned flawlessly. Meetings started on time. Numbers aligned.
Emails were answered within minutes, concise and precise. From the outside, nothing had shifted. Inside, everything sat just slightly out of place. Not enough to disrupt anything. Just enough to notice if you were paying attention.
Peter had been paying attention for fourteen days.
A knock sounded once against the glass of Harry’s office door before he opened it without waiting for an answer. Peter stepped in with a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, already mid-sentence.
“Tell me you saw the message from Mom about the gala-”
He stopped. Not dramatically. Just… paused.
His eyes moved over Harry once, quick and practiced. The kind of scan that took in posture, expression, the invisible weight people carried when they thought no one was looking.
Peter set the coffee down on the desk.
“…morning,” he finished instead.
Harry looked up from the document in front of him. “Morning.”
Peter stayed where he was a second too long. Watching. Then he nodded faintly to himself like he’d confirmed something and moved on.
“Our parents’ charity gala,” he said, picking up the original thread. “Saturday. They want both of us there and preferably not looking like we’re being held hostage.”
Harry leaned back slightly in his chair. “We always look like we’re being held hostage.”
“Yes,” Peter said. “But apparently this year there will be donors who require eye contact and emotional warmth.”
Harry exhaled quietly. “I’ll go.”
Peter nodded once. Efficient. “Good. Charlotte already committed us to staying for the full dinner portion.”
“That’s cruel.”
“It’s family.”
Silence settled briefly after that. Not awkward. Just the quiet hum of work continuing around them.
Peter remained standing. He didn’t usually linger like this. Harry noticed. Didn’t comment. Peter picked up the pen nearest him, spun it once between his fingers, then set it back down exactly where it had been.
“You sleeping okay?” he asked casually.
Harry glanced up. “Yes.”
“Mm.”
Peter leaned against the chair opposite the desk but didn’t sit.
“You know, you never really told me, how was Iceland?” he asked.
“Cold.”
Peter waited.
Harry didn’t elaborate.
“Good trip?” Peter tried again.
Harry signed the page in front of him. Set it aside. Finally met his brother’s eyes.
“It was fine.”
Peter held his gaze for a moment longer than most people ever managed. Not intrusive. Just steady.
He’d been asking variations of this question for two weeks now. In passing. Over coffee. In the car. Each time receiving the same contained answers. Each time filing them away.
Today, something about the way Harry said fine seemed to settle whatever quiet suspicion he’d been carrying.
Peter moved around the chair and sat this time, resting one arm across the back.
“Okay, I have to ask… what happened there, man?” he asked calmly. Not accusatory. Not dramatic. Just factual.
Harry stilled almost imperceptibly.
“You’ve been back for two weeks,” he said. “You answer emails faster, talk less, and stare at your phone like it owes you money.” A small pause. “So either you joined a cult, got mugged, or something actually interesting happened for once.”
A beat.
“…did an elk try to eat you?” he added, almost thoughtfully.
Harry exhaled softly through his nose despite himself. Not quite a laugh.
“No elks in Iceland.”
Peter nodded once like that eliminated one possibility.
“Shame.”
Silence settled again. Not uncomfortable. Just… aware.
Harry reached for his coffee. Took a sip. Set it down carefully. He could feel Peter watching without pressing, which somehow made it harder than if he had.
“It was a good trip,” he said.
Peter studied him another second. That was answer enough. He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. Not frustrated. Just… registering.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
And let it drop. He stood, picking up his coffee again like the conversation had reached its natural end.
“Why don't you come over tonight,” he added as he moved toward the door. “Charlotte’s making that absurd mushroom thing you like.”
Harry looked up. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” Peter said simply. “That’s not why.”
A beat.
“Seven?” he added. “Eat something that isn’t takeout for once.”
He reached the doorway, then paused briefly, glancing back with a faint, knowing look that stopped just short of intrusive.
“…you’ve been off since you got back,” he said, not unkindly. “Whatever it is, just know we’re here for you.”
No pressure. No interrogation. Just acknowledgement.
Then he gave a small nod, like that was all he intended to say about it for now.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he finished, and left.
The door closed behind him. Silence returned. Harry sat there for a moment without moving.
Then, almost without thinking, his hand slid into the inner pocket of his jacket. His fingers brushed folded paper and stopped.
He didn’t take it out. Just let his hand rest there a second, feeling the faint impression of it beneath his fingertips.
Then he withdrew his hand, straightened the documents on his desk, and returned to work.
***************
Harry unlocked his apartment door and stepped inside without turning on the lights immediately.
He didn’t need to. He knew the space by muscle memory; the exact distance from the entryway to the kitchen island, the place where the floor shifted slightly beneath the rug, the faint hum of the climate system in the walls.
He’d been back for two weeks. Long enough for the fridge to be restocked. Long enough for laundry to be done. Long enough for life to resume its ordinary rhythm.
And yet, the apartment felt like somehow he’d just arrived.
He flipped the lights on. Everything was orderly. Controlled. Clean in the deliberate way he preferred. Nothing out of place. Nothing abandoned. No visible sign that anything in his life had shifted at all.
Except that it had.
He set his keys down, removed his jacket, and draped it carefully over the chair near the door. His movements were precise, automatic, the choreography of someone who liked systems because they required nothing emotional in return.
Silence filled the space immediately. Not peaceful silence. Just… absence.
He crossed into the living room and loosened his tie, his gaze moving across the room without settling. The couch. The glass coffee table. The skyline beyond the windows beginning to glow over Manhattan.
Two weeks. Two weeks since Iceland and somehow his life had divided itself cleanly into before and after without consulting him.
He poured himself a drink he didn’t particularly want and leaned against the kitchen counter instead of sitting. He’d been sitting all day. Thinking while pretending not to.
The apartment felt larger now. Or maybe he just felt less anchored in it.
He’d slept here every night since returning. Worked here. Taken calls here… And yet nothing about it felt inhabited.
He stared at the opposite side of the couch for a moment, not because there had ever been a reason for someone else to sit there, but because his mind supplied one anyway.
He exhaled slowly.
It wasn’t just missing you. Missing someone could be compartmentalized, managed. This was different. This was the quiet, relentless awareness that loving you had required no effort at all… and everything else suddenly did.
He moved back toward the entryway to hang his jacket properly in the closet. His fingers brushed something in the inner pocket.
He stilled. The folded paper.
He’d carried it every day since Iceland. Switched it from jacket to jacket without thinking. Not displayed. Not examined. Just… kept.
He could have found you in hours. Name, address… A few calls. A few quiet questions through the right channels. It would have been effortless, but he hadn’t made a single attempt. Respect her choice, he’d told himself.
You’d walked away because you were scared. Because it’d felt too big. Too fast. He understood that. He’d seen it in your face. If you’d wanted to be found, you would have left something more than a goodbye.
He pulled the paper out now but didn’t unfold it. Just held it between his fingers, feeling the familiar thickness of it. He hadn’t opened it again since that morning in Iceland.
He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes briefly. Some nights, respecting your choice felt noble. Other nights, it felt a lot like standing perfectly still while something worth keeping walked away.
He opened his eyes. Manhattan glittered beyond the glass. He folded the paper carefully and slid it back into his pocket.
Seven o’clock, Peter had said.
Harry checked the time on his phone and pushed himself away from the wall with a quiet exhale. He still had some time.
He moved through the apartment with that same efficient, practiced rhythm; not rushed, just deliberate. Jacket into the closet. Tie stored perfectly. Cufflinks set in the small tray by the dresser where they always went.
He paused for half a second in front of the mirror, taking in the version of himself staring back; composed, expensive, functional. Entirely presentable for dinner with his brother and sister-in-law. Entirely exhausted beneath it.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and turned toward the bathroom.
The shower ran hot. Hotter than usual. Steam gathered quickly, fogging the glass and softening the hard lines of the room until everything felt slightly less defined. He stood beneath the spray longer than necessary, letting it hit the back of his neck, his shoulders, his chest, like he was trying to wash off something that hadn’t left since Iceland.
It helped. A little.
By the time he stepped out, towel slung low around his hips, the edge had dulled enough for him to function again. Clean shirt. Dark sweater instead of another suit jacket. Something softer. More like himself on the rare nights he wasn’t performing for anyone.
He dried his hair quickly, checked the time again. Still early.
He dressed without thinking too much about it, moving on instinct; the quiet choreography of a man who knew exactly how to assemble a presentable version of himself in minutes. Watch. Wallet. Phone.
When he reached for his jacket again, his hand paused briefly over the inner pocket where he’d put the folded paper.
Still there. Always there.
He slipped the jacket on anyway and headed for the door before he could think too hard about that.
Dinner. Conversation. Normalcy.
He stepped out into the hallway, locked the apartment behind him, and walked toward the elevator with the steady, composed stride of someone who looked entirely fine from the outside.
Only his brother, if anyone, would notice the difference.
**************
The shop smelled like eucalyptus, coffee, and faintly of cinnamon from the candle Julia insisted on lighting every afternoon “for ambiance.”
Late autumn light filtered through the front windows in that muted, honey-gold way New York got in early November, when it was cold enough for scarves but not yet miserable. The street outside hummed with the steady rhythm of the city heading toward evening; footsteps, traffic, someone laughing too loudly as they passed.
Inside, everything was warm. Ordered. Exactly as it should be.
You stood behind the work table with a pair of shears in hand, trimming the ends of a bundle of ranunculus with slow, precise movements. Stem by stem. Angle consistent. Pressure controlled. The kind of focus that looked like concentration to anyone watching.
It wasn't.
“You’re cutting those like they personally insulted your family,” Julia said lightly from the counter.
“I’m cutting them like always,” you replied without looking up.
A beat.
“Mm,” she said, unconvinced.
You kept working and you were halfway through stripping the thorns off a bucket of garden roses when the door chime rang. You didn’t look up immediately.
“Hi, welcome,” you said automatically, voice polite but distracted. “Give me one sec.”
A man’s voice answered. Confident. Slightly too loud for the space.
“Yeah, sure. I just need some flowers.”
He was early thirties, gym jacket, expensive watch, the air of someone who has read exactly one article about emotional intelligence and now believes himself an expert. He gave you a friendly, explanatory smile.
“For a… situation,” he added.
Of course it was. You set the roses down carefully and wiped your hands on your apron before stepping toward the counter.
“What kind of situation?” you asked.
He leaned one elbow on the counter like you were about to co-manage a startup together.
“Well. I messed up.”
Julia quietly turned her back and began aggressively reorganizing ribbon that did not need reorganizing.
“I want something that says,” he continued, lowering his voice as if imparting crucial strategy, “I’m sorry I told your cat he wasn’t really my step-son, but also that I’m still a high-value man.”:
You stared at him.
“…a high-value man.”
“Yes.”
“With no cat step-sons.”
“Exactly,” he said, relieved you were following. “So nothing too desperate. No roses. Roses are, like, begging. I’m not begging. I’m acknowledging.”
You blinked once. Twice.
“Right,” you said slowly. “We definitely want to avoid… emotional accountability.”
He nodded. “Yes. Exactly.”
Julia made a strangled sound that could have been a cough or the beginning of cardiac arrest.
He gestured vaguely toward the display cooler. “Maybe something modern. Structured. Minimal. Like… confident remorse.”
You pressed your lips together.
“Confident remorse,” you repeated.
“Yes.” He brightened. “You get it.”
You did. Unfortunately.
You moved toward the cooler and started pulling stems with careful precision; eucalyptus, hellebore, something textured but not romantic. Your hands worked automatically, muscle memory taking over even while your brain was somewhere else entirely.
He kept talking.
“I just think men get a bad rap, you know? Women say they want vulnerability, but when you show it, suddenly you’re too ‘whiny’.” He said, doing quote signs with his fingers, looking enlightened. “So it’s about balance. Strength. With a hint of emotional growth.”
You arranged stems in your hands without looking at him.
“I see,” you said, perfectly neutral.
Julia had fully abandoned all pretense of work and was now facing the wall, shoulders shaking silently.
He watched you build the arrangement like you were performing minor surgery.
“You’re really good at this,” he said. “You must see this kind of thing all the time.”
You glanced up at him. Finally.
“Yes,” you said. “Men come trying to outsource apologies through plant life daily.”
He laughed like you’d just bonded.
“Exactly!”
You finished the wrap with efficient movements and set the arrangement on the counter.
“There,” you said calmly. “This says: I recognize I behaved poorly, I’m making a gesture, and I’m open to a conversation that may or may not end well for me.”
He studied it. Impressed.
“Yeah. That’s… yeah. That’s exactly it.”
“Great.”
He pulled out his card.
“Honestly,” he added while you rang him up, “women are complicated.”
You looked him directly in the eye as you handed him the receipt.
“No,” you said pleasantly. “We’re actually not. Do send my regards to the disowned cat though.”
Julia choked behind you.
He didn’t notice. He left a minute later, bouquet in hand, confidence restored, completely unaware he’d been gently but thoroughly dismantled.
The door closed. Silence. Then Julia collapsed against the counter wheezing.
“‘High-value man’? ‘Confident remorse’? I’m going to pass away.”
You exhaled slowly and picked up your shears again.
“At least he didn’t ask for something that says ‘I cheated, but spiritually.’”
Julia made a noise that sounded like she actually died of laughter.
You tried not to smile. Almost succeed.
For a few seconds, the shop felt warm again. Normal. Safe. Then the familiar restlessness crept back in. Subtle. Constant.
Every time the door opened, your head lifted before you could stop it. Every tall figure passing the front window caught your attention for half a second too long. Dark coat. Broad shoulders. Wrong stranger. Always the wrong stranger.
You hated that it was becoming automatic. You hated that you couldn’t seem to stop.
“You’re doing it again,” Julia said softly.
You blinked. “Doing what.”
She nodded toward the window without looking. “That thing where you pretend you’re not checking.”
Heat rose faintly in your cheeks. You busied yourself with the stems. “I’m not checking.”
“Mm.”
You trimmed another stem. Placed it carefully in water. Adjusted it twice.
You were being ridiculous. He lived in this city. Millions of other people lived in this city. The odds of him passing this exact storefront at this exact moment were basically nonexistent.
Julia watched you for a second longer, then looked away on purpose. Giving you dignity. Giving you space.
“You know you’re allowed to not be fine,” she said eventually.
“I am fine,” you answered automatically. Inside, you felt anything but.
You slept badly. Ate because you had to. Moved through your days with a kind of rigid precision that left no room for mistakes, no room for softness, no room for anything that might unravel if you let it.
And everywhere you go; crossing streets, waiting for coffee, walking home; your gaze searched crowds without permission. Catching on every tall man with dark hair for a split second before logic reasserts itself.
It was exhausting. It was humiliating. It was constant.
Julia finally met your eyes. Not pitying. Just… there.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “You’re fine.”
You nodded once, grateful for the lie.
You picked up another bundle of stems and began trimming again with careful, deliberate focus, keeping your eyes firmly on the work in front of you.
Not on the window. Not on the door. Not on the impossible, ridiculous hope that still flared every time the bell above it threatened to ring.
*****************
Dinner ended late.
Not formally late. Just the kind that stretched because no one was rushing to leave; wine refilled without asking, Charlotte insisting on dessert even though no one was hungry anymore, Peter telling a story that kept detouring into three others.
Normal. Easy. Familiar.
Charlotte had cooked one of Harry’s favorites, something slow and rich and slightly nostalgic, and it worked exactly as intended. By the time plates were cleared, the sharp edge he’d been carrying all week had dulled just a little.
He wasn’t fixed. Just… temporarily human again.
Peter gathered plates with a satisfied little hum.
“Okay,” he said, nudging Charlotte’s shoulder with his hip. “You two stay there. If either of you comes into my kitchen and ‘helps,’ you’ll only create more work.”
Charlotte lifted both hands immediately. “Heard and obeyed.”
Harry smiled faintly into his glass.
A few minutes later, Peter reappeared, drying his hands on a dish towel.
“Before I forget,” Charlotte said, glancing at them. “Can either of you help me for a second? I moved a box earlier and now I can’t find something.”
Peter didn’t even try to be subtle. “He’s the tall one. Use him.”
Harry set his glass down automatically. “Sure.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes and led Harry down the short hallway toward the small study off the living room; half office, half storage for the beautiful but unnecessary objects she refused to throw away.
“There’s a stupid wedding gift from my great-aunt,” she said, already pointing to a tall box on top of a really high cabinet. “She’s coming to visit and if she doesn't see it on full display I know she’ll just have a hissy fit. I moved it somewhere with the other gifts we haven’t placed yet and now just can't find it. I thought I may have put it there with some wedding stuff.”
Harry stretched his arm and carefully put the box in Charlotte’s hands.
Inside were neatly stacked photo albums, a few envelopes, a shallow box of keepsakes... Charlotte began handing things out without looking.
“Can you just put those on the desk?” she said absently.
He took what she passed him. A small stack of thank-you cards tied with ribbon. A program from the ceremony. A frame wrapped loosely in tissue.
He set the cards down first. Then unwrapped the frame without really thinking about it… And stopped.
Pressed between glass was a delicate arrangement of dried flowers; pale, soft tones, carefully preserved. Elegant without trying.
Charlotte kept rummaging behind him.
“Oh! There it is,” she said, triumphant, pulling out the missing (and ugly) candle holder she’d apparently been looking for. “I knew I’d put it somewhere sensible.”
He didn’t answer. The dried bouquet sat in his hands like something fragile enough to alter gravity. It was unmistakenly beautiful… But that wasn’t what caught him.
In the lower right corner, tucked neatly inside the frame beside the flowers, was a small note. Handwritten.
His pulse kicked once, hard.
It was a short message. A thank-you. A quiet, thoughtful line about preserving moments that matter.
The handwriting hit him first, not the words. The slant. The spacing. The confident loops at the end of certain letters. The way the “y” dipped slightly lower than it should have.
Charlotte finally turned, noticing he’d gone still.
“Oh!” she said lightly. “You found that.”
He looked up. Slowly.
“That’s from the wedding,” she went on, crossing the room to take a book from the stack he’d made. “Our florist did it for us after, by surprise. She preserved part of my bouquet and framed it.” A fond little smile. “I cried, obviously.”
Harry swallowed.
“Your florist,” he repeated, keeping his tone neutral.
“Yeah,” Charlotte said, already rearranging something on the shelf. “She was incredible. Honestly saved my sanity that month.” She nodded toward the frame in his hands. “Did you see the note? Her handwriting is adorable.”
His heart lurched. Hard enough to be almost physical.
Of course he’d seen it. He knew it the way you’d recognize a voice you’ve been replaying in your head for weeks.
His chest tightened sharply. Charlotte was still talking, oblivious.
“She has the cutest little shop, actually,” she said, putting things back in the box. “On Grove Street, in the West Village. Feels like going back in time. I keep meaning to send her more clients.”
Grove Street. The words hit like impact.
He stared at the note. Then, almost involuntarily, his hand moved to his jacket pocket. Felt the familiar folded paper there. Still carried. Still unread since Iceland. His pulse started climbing.
Charlotte glanced back at him finally, noticing the way he’d gone very still.
“You okay?” she asked casually.
He looked up, careful. Controlled.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just… nice work.”
She smiled. “Right? She’s amazing.”
She shifted the candle holder in her hands, then glanced toward the kitchen. “Oh! And Peter! You know what? Jennifer told me something awful...”
Peter looked up from where he was stacking plates. “About who?”
“The florist,” Charlotte said, lowering her voice slightly in that instinctive, conspiratorial way people do when sharing someone else’s misfortune. “Apparently her fiancé cheated on her right before the wedding. Like… she found him with a friend? Can you imagine? Poor thing.”
Peter winced. “Jesus. That’s brutal.”
“Right?” Charlotte said softly. “And she still pulled everything together for us like nothing had happened. I swear, I would have burned the venue down.”
The room went very quiet in Harry’s head.
Not a coincidence anymore. Not a maybe. A direct line, drawn in ink and timing and something that felt very much like fate refusing to stay subtle.
His heart started pounding hard enough he could hear it.
Charlotte was still talking.
“I remember thinking she looked a little sad that day, but she was so professional… Honestly, I just want to hug her.” She shook her head. “Men are trash. No offense.”
Harry didn’t respond. He was staring at the handwriting. At the flowers. Thinking about the name of the street now echoing in his head.
Grove Street. So close to his apartment he could walk it in ten minutes.
His chest tightened with something sharp and electric and almost frightening in its sudden certainty. Not coincidence. Not chance.
The universe, apparently, had decided it was done with subtlety.
*******************
The shop was quieter now.
The street outside had shifted into evening mode; headlights streaking past the window, the occasional burst of laughter from a group heading to dinner, the metallic groan of a bus braking at the corner.
Inside, the lights felt warmer. Softer. The day almost done.
You were exhausted. Not physically, not really. You’d worked longer days. Harder days. This was something else.
Julia was finishing up at the counter, tallying the last of the receipts. You were in the back, washing your hands longer than necessary, staring at your reflection in the small mirror above the sink.
You had bags under your eyes, but other than that you looked… fine. Which was infuriating.
“Do you want me to lock up?” Julia called gently.
“Don’t worry, I’ll do it. You go home.”
Your voice sounded steady. Practiced.
You stepped back into the shop and began straightening things that didn't need straightening. A ribbon spool. A vase. A stack of kraft paper that was already perfectly aligned.
Julia watched you for a moment.
“You barely slept again,” she said, not accusing. Just stating.
“I slept,” you replied automatically.
“For like three hours.”
You shrugged. “That’s technically sleep.”
She set the receipts down and leaned against the counter, arms folded.
“You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“I’m fine.”
The words landed heavier this time. Julia didn't let it slide.
“You’ve been back for two weeks and you’re worse than before you left,” she said quietly. “At least before Iceland you were just heartbroken. Now you’re… somewhere else.”
You laughed, but it’s thin. “Somewhere else?”
“Yeah. Like you’re grieving something you never actually had.”
That one hit. You looked away. For a long second, the only sound in the shop was the faint hum of the refrigerator.
“Can you even fall in love in a week?” you asked, suddenly, before you could stop yourself.
It came out smaller than you meant it to, your eyes filled with unshed tears.
Julia didn't hesitate.
“I’d say you did.”
You swallowed hard.
“That’s insane.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” you said quickly. “It’s irresponsible. It’s hormonal. It’s… proximity and good lighting and foreign country syndrome.”
Julia raised an eyebrow. “Foreign country syndrome.”
“You know what I mean.”
She studied you carefully. “You don’t look hormonal. You look wrecked.”
You let out a quiet breath that feels dangerously close to breaking.
“I can’t…” You stopped. Tried again. “I can’t do that again. I can’t let myself fall like that again. Mike nearly broke me. And that was five years. This was a week and I-” You cut yourself off.
Your throat tightened.
Julia’s voice softened. “He must have been something.”
You nodded once.
“He was,” you admitted.
Silence settled between you. Not awkward. Just heavy.
Julia pushed off the counter.
“Go home,” you said quickly, forcing brightness back into your voice. “I’m not paying you overtime to psychoanalyze me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t pay me overtime anyway.”
“Exactly. So leave.”
A small smile touched her mouth. She grabbed her coat.
“Lock up properly,” she said. “And try to sleep.”
“I will.”
She didn't believe you. And before she left, added “By the way, if you have to talk about ‘not letting yourself fall’, it’s already too late.”
The bell above the door chimed as she left. The shop was empty now. Too empty.
You stood there for a moment, hands braced on the worktable, staring at nothing. What a bitch, you thought. Because after that comment, you closed your eyes… And he was there immediately.
The warmth of his mouth at your neck. The quiet sound of his laugh in the dark. The way his hand always found yours without looking. The way he said your name like it meant something.
Your chest tightened. You opened your eyes again, and the emptiness that rushed in felt louder than the memories.
You stared at the phone on the counter. Then you did something you’d sworn you wouldn’t. You reached for it. You googled the hotel number. You stared at it for a full ten seconds before pressing ‘call’.
It rang twice. A calm, professional voice answered.
“I… this is going to sound strange,” you said. “I met someone there. Another guest. And I-” You stopped. Regrouped. “I was wondering if you could tell me his last name.”
Silence. Not offended. Not surprised. Just careful.
“I’m very sorry,” she said gently. “We’re not able to share any personal information about our guests.”
You nodded even though she couldn't see you.
“Right. Of course. I figured that might be the case.” Your voice was thinner than you would have liked. “I just… I don’t have a way to reach him. I thought maybe if I had a last name I could…”
You trailed off.
“I understand,” she said softly. “But for privacy reasons, we can’t disclose names, nor can we confirm whether someone stayed with us.”
You closed your eyes.
“Okay,” you whispered.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“It’s okay,” you replied automatically.
It wasn't. You stood there in the quiet of your shop, fluorescent lights humming softly overhead, feeling like you’d just reached across something vast and touched nothing at all.
“Thank you anyway,” you managed.
“Of course. Have a good evening.”
“You too.”
You hung up. You stood there in the quiet shop, phone still in your hand, feeling something collapse inward.
Of course they couldn't. Of course it didn't work like that. You swallowed hard and set the phone down.
This is what you’d chosen. You exhaled slowly.
The bell above the door chimed. You didn't look up immediately.
“Did you forget something?” you called lightly, assuming it was Julia.
And then you lifted your eyes.
*****************
Harry didn't remember the drive. He remembered leaving too quickly, Peter saying something behind him. Charlotte asking if everything was okay. His own voice answering yes when it clearly wasn’t. Parking the car and almost running from it.
Then the street. Grove Street.
He walked it slowly, like he might have been wrong. Like he might have imagined the whole thing. Small storefronts. Warm light spilling onto pavement. Restaurants. A bookstore. A narrow wine shop.
And then he saw it. The window. Not flashy. Not overdesigned. Just… unmistakably you.
Soft arrangements in muted tones. Wild stems that looked accidental until you really looked. Handwritten price tags. A small ceramic vase that felt chosen rather than placed. The kind of aesthetic that wasn’t trendy, just instinctive.
His chest tightened. This was you. Of course it was.
He stood across the street for a second longer than necessary, hands in his coat pockets, heart doing something unfamiliar and uneven, like it was about to burst.
He could turn around. Leave. Respect what you’d asked for… He didn't. He crossed.
Each step felt louder than it should. Gravel under his shoes. A passing car somewhere behind him. The faint hum of the city in early evening. He reached the door and stopped with his hand on the handle.
This was it. No rehearsed speech. No plan. No control.
He opened the door. The bell above the door chimed softly.
Warm air. The faint scent of greenery and clean water. Something citrusy. Light spilled across wooden floors and glass vases arranged with deliberate, effortless care.
It felt like stepping into a space that already had a pulse. Yours.
He didn't move further inside at first. Behind the counter, you were bent slightly over something, phone still in your hand, shoulders familiar in a way that hit him somewhere physical. Real. Not memory. Not imagination.
Alive. Here.
You spoke without looking up.
“Did you forget something?”
Casual. Distracted. For someone else. His chest tightened so sharply he almost couldn't breathe.
You turned. And the world… stopped.
Not dramatically. Not cinematically. Just a quiet, absolute halt.
Recognition hit your face in stages. Confusion first, because your brain didn't accept what it was seeing. Then disbelief, then something softer. Something that looked almost like pain.
You went completely still.
He’d never seen someone freeze like that without moving a single muscle. Not stepping back. Not forward. Just… suspended.
For a second, he wondered if he’d made a mistake coming here. If this was intrusion. If he was about to watch you shut down completely.
He almost spoke. Didn’t. Because he realized he didn't actually know what to say.
So he did the only thing that felt honest. He let his gaze take you in like he hadn’t been able to for two weeks.
You looked tired. Beautiful. A little thinner, maybe. Same eyes. Same mouth. Same everything he’d been trying very unsuccessfully not to replay at night.
Real. Looking back at him like he just stepped out of something impossible.
His heart was beating too fast. Too loud. He was suddenly aware of every inch of his own body in a way he hadn’t been since Iceland.
He didn't move closer yet. Didn’t want to startle you. Just stood there, inside the shop that felt unmistakably yours, and finally said the simplest thing he had.
“…hi.”
For a split second your brain refused to process what your eyes were telling it. It rearranged reality. Tried to turn him into a stranger. A customer. Someone else entirely.
It failed.
Harry. Standing in your shop like he’d always been part of the room. Your lungs forgot how to work. Your mouth opened. Closed again.
You took a step forward before you even realized you were doing it.
He saw it. Felt it. Something in his shoulders loosened; not relief exactly, but the absence of immediate rejection.
“You’re…” Your voice failed halfway through. You cleared your throat softly. “You’re here.”
Brilliant. Truly articulate.
He huffed the faintest breath of a laugh, not mocking. Just… overwhelmed.
“Yeah,” he said. Quiet. Honest. “I’m here.”
Silence again. But this time it was different. Not frozen… Not shocked. Just… full.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It trembled slightly on the way out.
He heard it.
Harry’s gaze softened in a way that felt almost dangerous. Like he was watching something fragile return to life and didn’t want to startle it. He took a step further inside.
For a second neither of you mentioned the obvious questions, because the fact of him standing there already felt enormous enough.
Your fingers tightened around the phone still in your hand. You didn't remember picking it up. Didn't remember what you were doing before the bell rang. All you knew is that five minutes ago you were trying not to cry over a hotel receptionist who couldn’t help you… and now he was standing in front of you like reality had folded in on itself.
“You-” You stopped. Tried again. “How-?”
It came out soft. Not accusatory, just bewildered.
Harry shifted his weight slightly, hands sliding into his coat pockets for a second like he needed somewhere to put them before he did something impulsive. His heart was still pounding. Seeing you had knocked the carefully composed version of himself completely off balance.
“I didn’t mean to find you,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t… looking.”
You blinked, thrown. Trying to catch up to the reality of him standing here at all.
“Then how-?”
He hesitated, like he was still not sure he had the right to follow the thread even after it appeared.
“My brother,” he said finally. “And Charlotte.”
You frowned faintly.
“They showed me something from their wedding. A frame. With a note.” A small pause. “Your handwriting.”
Understanding hit slowly. Then all at once.
“Oh.”
He watched it land on your face; the realization, the inevitability of it. How small New York suddenly felt.
“I didn’t push for anything,” he added gently. “Didn’t ask for an address. She just… mentioned the shop.” A brief breath. “I almost didn’t come.”
That last part settled between you. Quiet. Honest. Not manipulative, just true.
Your heart stumbled slightly.
“But you did,” you said, softer than before.
He met your eyes.
“I had this… very strong sense,” he said quietly, almost like he was admitting something irrational, “that not coming might offend the universe somehow.”
You stared at him.
“Harry,” you whispered, and your voice breaks before you can steady it.
The tears came before you could negotiate with them. You turned your face slightly, embarrassed by how fast they’d risen.
“Hey,” he said, more firmly now. “No. Don’t cry.”
He stopped a breath away from you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him again after two weeks of nothing.
His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall properly. The touch was careful. Almost reverent. Like he wasn't entirely sure he was allowed to do even this.
You inhaled sharply. God. You’d forgotten what it felt like to be touched by him.
“There,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “That’s… better.”
It wasn't. You were still crying. But quieter now. Less like you were breaking and more like something inside you had simply given up pretending to be fine.
His hand didn't drop immediately. It stayed there, lightly cupping your cheek, thumb resting just beneath your eye like he was anchoring himself to something real.
You touched him too.
It happened almost without thought; your hands lifting, finding his face the way they had a hundred times in Iceland, like memory survived everything your mind tried to erase. Your palms settled against his cheeks, warm, slightly rough beneath your fingers.
He stilled.
Your foreheads touched. Breath mingling. Close enough that the rest of the shop disappeared.
For a second neither of you spoke. You just stood there, suspended in the fragile space between hope and self-preservation.
He closed his eyes briefly, like he needed the contact to steady himself.
“I need to say this,” he murmured quietly. “Before I lose my nerve.”
You didn't pull away. You couldn't.
His hands settled lightly at your wrists, not removing them, just holding them there against his face.
“If you tell me to go,” he said, voice low but steady, “I will.”
The words land softly but heavily between you. Your stomach dropped. Your fingers tightened slightly against his skin.
“I mean it,” he continued. “If seeing me here… if this makes things harder for you instead of better, I won’t make your life complicated. I won’t show up again. I won’t push.”
A small breath left him. You felt your throat tighten.
He opened his eyes then. Met yours. There was no performance in his expression. No charm. No practiced composure. Just a kind of raw honesty you’d never seen on him before.
“In Iceland,” he said quietly, “you told me you were scared. That this felt too big. Too fast.”
A faint, almost self-conscious breath.
“I understood that. I still do.”
His thumb brushed lightly along your wrist where he’s still holding you.
“But these last two weeks…” He exhaled slowly. “I kept hearing something someone once told me.”
His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile.
“She said… when you love someone, it isn’t supposed to feel like math. Or strategy. Or a negotiation.”
A pause.
“It’s supposed to be easy.”
Your eyes filled again, but you didn't look away.
He swallowed once.
“And loving you,” he said, softer now, “is like breathing.”
The words landed without drama. Without flourish. Just… true.
He held your gaze, not letting himself retreat from what he was about to say next.
“I love you,” he said simply, “so much, it scares me.”
The shop felt suddenly too small to contain the weight of it.
“I don’t expect that to fix everything you’re afraid of,” he continued quietly. “And I’m not asking you to promise me anything right now.”
A faint shake of his head.
“But I’m not… letting this disappear without at least trying. Without at least telling you what this is for me.”
His forehead pressed more firmly to yours, grounding himself.
“So if you still want me to walk away,” he finished softly, “I will. I’ll respect it. I won’t make you fight for distance.”
A small pause. One breath. Two.
You pulled back just enough to look at him properly, hands still framing his face. You emitted a sound, between a laugh and a sob. His expression was careful now, braced for impact in a way that made something inside your chest twist.
“Being without you,” you said, voice trembling but steadying as you go, “feels way worse than being safe, by myself.”
He stilled completely.
You swallowed hard. There was no elegant way to say this. No composed version. So you didn't try.
“I thought distance would make it easier,” you admitted softly. “Secure. That if I left before this turned into something real, I’d protect myself.” A shaky breath. “But it didn’t. It just… felt like drowning slower.”
Your thumb brushed beneath his eye without you realizing you were doing it.
“You’re not the thing I need to run from,” you whispered. “You’re the life jacket.”
The words hung there, fragile and earnest and terrifying in their honesty. He didn't move. Barely breathed.
“I kept telling myself I was being rational,” you continued, voice softer now. “That this was too fast, too intense, too… risky.” A small, watery laugh escaped you. “But being without you feels worse than all of that. Worse than doubt. Worse than fear. Worse than looking like an idiot if this all falls apart.”
Your throat tightened.
“Because I love you too,” you say.
There was a tiny pause after it. Like the world itself stopped to listen.
His eyes closed for a second, the words landing somewhere deep. When they opened again, something in them had gone almost unbearably soft.
You didn’t give either of you time to overthink it. You leaned in and kiss him.
Not tentative. Not careful. Just full of everything you’d both been holding back for weeks; relief and longing and the fragile, exhilarating certainty that neither of you had to pretend anymore.
The kiss landed fast. Warm. Real.
His hands came up almost at the same time as yours, sliding to your face like he needed to be certain you were actually here and not something he’d invented out of longing. Your fingers curled at his jaw, thumbs brushing the faint stubble there, and for a second neither of you moved beyond that first contact.
Then he kissed you again. Mouth finding yours with a kind of quiet urgency that felt less like desperation and more like relief. Like something that had been held too tightly finally letting go.
You leaned into him without thinking, one hand sliding into his coat, grounding yourself in the solidness of him. He exhaled softly against your mouth, and you felt the tension leave his shoulders by degrees.
When you pulled back, it was only a few centimeters. Still close enough to share breath.
“You actually came,” you murmured, almost like you’re still confirming it.
He gave the smallest, almost incredulous huff. “Yeah. Turns out ignoring what feels like a giant cosmic neon sign is harder than I thought.”
You blinked. “Cosmic neon sign.”
“Very tasteful one,” he said. “Minimalist. Said ‘she did your brother’s wedding flowers, you idiot’.”
A tiny laugh escaped you before you could stop it, shaky but real. Your forehead dropped briefly to his shoulder as relief and disbelief collided somewhere in your chest.
He let you. Just stood there, one hand steady at your back.
When you looked up again, your eyes were still bright, but you were smiling now. Really smiling.
“I can’t believe you’re standing in my shop,” you admitted softly.
He glanced around for the first time, taking in the buckets of stems, the half-finished arrangement on the worktable, the soft light. Then back at you.
“I can,” he said quietly. “It’s very… you.”
You rolled your eyes a little, because if you didn't you might cry again. “Careful. That sounded dangerous.”
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Jet lag. Emotional instability. Been a rough couple of weeks.”
You huffed a breath that almost turned into a laugh. “Same.”
A small pause settled between you. Not awkward. Just full.
His hand shifted slightly at your waist, like he was checking you were still there. Still letting him be this close.
“Hi,” he said again, softer this time.
You swallowed.
“Hi.”
You didn't step away immediately. Neither did he.
There was a quiet recalibration happening; like your bodies were remembering the shape of each other after weeks apart. His hand still rested at your waist. Yours still held lightly to the front of his coat. Not dramatic. Just… anchored.
You let out a small breath.
“I called the hotel,” you admitted suddenly.
He blinked. “You did?”
You nodded, a little embarrassed. “About ten minutes ago. Asked for your last name like a complete lunatic.” A faint, self-conscious laugh. “They very professionally told me absolutely not.”
His mouth curved despite himself.
“Castillo, by the way,” he said gently. “In case you’re still wondering.”
You froze for half a second. Then looked up at him.
“Castillo,” you repeated softly, like you’re testing how it feels in your mouth. Something about finally knowing it landed deeper than it should.
He watched your reaction with quiet amusement. “That was easier than calling international hospitality chains.”
You huffed a breath. “I panicked.”
“I gathered.”
A small silence settled. Not awkward. Just… full.
You glanced around the shop like you were seeing it through his eyes for the first time; the buckets of flowers, the soft lighting, the half-finished arrangement on the table.
“This is a lot less glamorous than Iceland,” you said quietly.
He followed your gaze. “I don’t know.” A beat. “Feels about right.”
Your throat tightened again, but this time it didn't spiral. It just… settled. He studied you for a second. Not intensely. Just… taking you in. Like he was still confirming you were actually here.
“Are you closing?” he asked softly.
You glanced toward the clock. Almost. Julia gone. Lights already dimmed to evening warmth.
“Yeah,” you said. “I was.”
The words hung there, open-ended.
You met his eyes again. Neither of you moved yet. But the possibility was suddenly everywhere.
He didn't speak first. He just looked at you. Really looked; like he’s still grounding himself in the fact that you’re here, within reach. Your hands were still on his face, thumbs resting lightly along his jaw, and something in his expression shifted when you didn't pull away.
You felt it too; the quiet recognition that neither of you wanted to step back again.
So you didn't. You leaned in.
The kiss was soft at first, almost cautious; a test to see if this was still real. But the second his mouth moved against yours, that caution dissolved. His hand came up automatically, warm at the side of your neck, thumb brushing just under your ear as he deepend it.
Relief tasted different than desire. This was both.
You felt him exhale into the kiss like something inside him had finally unclenched, and your fingers tightened slightly at his cheeks in response, holding him there. The world narrowed quickly; the quiet shop, the dim lights, the street beyond the glass all fading until it was just warmth and breath and the familiar pull of him.
And then it deepened.
His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading lightly into your hair as he kissed you again; slower at first, then with a growing urgency that felt less like impatience and more like recognition. Like something long paused finally resuming.
You moved with him without thinking, and a second later your back met the wall behind the counter. The contact pulled a small breath from you, and he felt it; his mouth shifting, pressing more firmly, like he’d been waiting to touch you without restraint since the moment he walked in.
One hand braced beside your shoulder. The other settled at your waist, steady but warm, thumb moving once like he was reacquainting himself with the shape of you. You leaned into him instinctively, hands sliding into his hair, holding him there.
It was not frantic. Just… inevitable.
He kissed you like he remembered everything. Like he’d been carrying it around for weeks and finally had somewhere to put it. When his mouth drifted briefly to the corner of yours, then to your jaw, your breath caught in a way that made him pause for half a second before doing it again, slower.
“Harry,” you murmured, not a protest. Just his name.
He let out a quiet breath against your skin, forehead resting briefly against yours like he was steadying himself.
“If we go on like this in here… we’ll get arrested,” you added softly, though you didn't move away. Your hands were still in his hair. Your body still angled toward his.
“I know,” he said, voice low, a little rough. Not arguing. Just acknowledging reality.
For a second neither of you pulled back. The heat between you didn't disappear; it settled, humming just beneath the surface, waiting.
His thumb traced once along your side, almost absentmindedly. Then he glanced toward the front windows, the dark street beyond, before looking back at you.
“My apartment’s… really close,” he said quietly. Not a proposition. Just an option laid gently between you. “Ten minutes.”
You felt the words land low in your stomach.
He didn't move his hand. Didn't press you for an answer. Just stayed there, close enough that you could still feel his breath.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he added, softer now. “I just… don’t really want to walk away from you again. Not yet.”
That did it.
Your fingers tightened slightly in his hair. You looked at him for a second longer than necessary, like you were committing something to memory even though he was right here.
“Ten minutes?,” you repeated under your breath.
He nodded once. “Five if we go really fast.”
You leaned in and kissed him again; slower this time, but no less certain.
That was your answer.
**************
You flipped the sign to closed with fingers that still didn't feel entirely steady.
The tiny bell above the door gave its familiar soft chime as you locked it, the sound somehow louder tonight. Final. You glanced once through the glass at the shop; the worktable, a half-finished arrangement, the quiet order of everything that had been your whole world for the past two weeks.
Then you turned.
He was still there. Exactly where you’d left him on the sidewalk. Hands in his coat pockets, like he hadn't moved at all. Like he wouldn’t have moved no matter how long it took.
For a moment you just looked at each other again.
The city moved around you; taxis passing, distant horns, a couple laughing somewhere down the block. Ordinary New York noise. But it felt strangely muted, like you were both walking inside something slightly separate from the rest of the world.
“Ready?” he asked.
You nodded.
You fell into step beside him without discussing direction. He didn’t reach for your hand immediately. Didn't rush anything. Just walked close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed when the sidewalk narrowed.
It felt… careful. Not distant. Just aware. Like both of you were trying not to shatter whatever fragile miracle just happened inside your shop.
The air had that late-autumn bite; not fully winter yet, but close enough that your breath ghosted faintly in front of you.
After half a block, you felt it; his fingers brushing yours once, lightly. A question rather than a grab. You turned your hand. Let your fingers slip into his. The contact was simple. Warm. Immediate. Like your bodies remembered this without needing to renegotiate it.
He exhaled quietly beside you. Not dramatic. Just… relieved. You walked like that for a while.
Past small restaurants glowing gold through fogged windows. Past a deli closing for the night. Past a couple arguing softly in front of a taxi. New York at that hour when everything felt both alive and slightly suspended.
You glanced at him. He was looking straight ahead, but his thumb was moving slowly over the back of your hand without realizing it. Back and forth. Absent. Grounding.
It did something warm and unsteady inside your heart.
“Where are we going?” you asked softly.
He glanced down at you then. Brief. Almost shy.
“My place is… two blocks,” he said. “If that’s still okay.”
You nodded immediately. Too quickly. Then laughed softly at yourself.
“Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”
Silence settled again, but it was different now. Less fragile. More… charged. The kind of quiet where awareness hums just beneath the surface of everything.
At the next crosswalk, he shifted slightly closer to you as you stopped, instinctive. Protective without making a show of it. When the light changed and you started walking again, his hand slid more securely into yours.
You glanced up at him once. He was already looking down. A small smile passed between you. Not giddy. Not disbelieving anymore. Just real.
You saw the building before he said anything. Tall. Quiet. Glass catching the last of the evening light.
Your steps faltered without meaning to. Harry noticed immediately. He always did. His hand, warm around yours, stilled slightly.
“…hey,” he said softly.
You looked up at the facade again. Then back at him.
“You live here.”
It wasn’t accusation. It wasn’t awe, exactly. Just… realization.
He nodded once. Careful. “Yeah.”
A small silence settled between you on the sidewalk. Traffic moved behind you. Someone laughed down the block. Ordinary city sounds that suddenly felt very far away.
You tilted your head back again, studying the height of it. The quiet glow in the windows. Trying to reconcile this with the man who had stood barefoot in a hotel room in Iceland, hair still damp from the shower, looking at you like you were the only thing that existed.
“You said you had a good job,” you murmured.
“I do.”
You glanced at him, a faint, almost apologetic smile touching your mouth.
“You didn’t say it came with… a skyline.”
He huffed a soft breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Just nerves easing a fraction.
“That’s just an added bonus,” he said gently.
You squeezed his hand once. Small. Reassuring.
“I’m not running,” you said quietly. “Just… adjusting my expectations of where you keep your socks.”
That got a real laugh out of him. Soft, relieved.
Inside, the lobby was warm and hushed. Marble underfoot. Low lighting. The faint scent of something clean and expensive you couldn’t name.
A doorman looked up immediately.
“Good evening, Mr. Castillo.”
The name landed softly in your chest. Mr. Castillo.
Harry nodded easily. “Evening.”
You glanced sideways at him as you walked toward the elevator. Not dramatic. Just… taking it in. The way he moved here. Known. At ease. Like this world fit him as naturally as the one you’d shared for a week.
“This is really your place,” you murmured under your breath.
He leaned slightly closer so only you heard. “Yeah.”
The elevator doors slid open. You stepped inside together.
Just before they closed, a man in his late fifties hurried down the hall and slipped in with a polite nod. Expensive coat. Silver hair. The kind of presence that filled a space without trying.
He glanced at Harry and smiled with easy familiarity.
“Harry. Good. I was hoping I’d run into you.”
Harry shifted slightly beside you, posture relaxing into something effortless. “Evening, David.”
The man’s eyes flicked briefly to you, polite curiosity, then back to Harry.
“Quick question,” he said. “Are we still looking at Thursday for the call with Tokyo? Or did that get pushed again?”
“Still Thursday,” Harry replied calmly. “Nine a.m. their time. I sent revised numbers this morning.”
David nodded, satisfied. “Saw those. Clean work.” A beat. “You saved us about six months of unnecessary panic.”
Harry gave a faint, self-deprecating shrug. “That was the goal.”
David chuckled. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Your mother cornered me at the gala committee meeting. I assume you’re attending or she’ll disown you all?”
“I’ll be there,” Harry said dryly.
“Good man.” David glanced at you again, friendly but discreet. “Enjoy your evening.”
“You too.”
The elevator slowed. The doors opened. David stepped out with a final nod and disappeared down the corridor.
Silence returned.
You turned your head slowly toward Harry.
He felt it before he saw it; the look you were giving him. Not judgment. Not alarm. Just… processing.
“What?” he asked softly.
You blinked once. Then huffed a small breath.
“Nothing,” you said. “Just recalibrating the mental image I had of your job being ‘boring.’”
He let out a quiet laugh under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck briefly.
“It is boring,” he said. “Mostly spreadsheets and people worrying about spreadsheets.”
“Mm,” you murmured.
The elevator doors opened again, this time onto a quiet hallway. Soft carpet. Warm light. Only one door.
You stepped out first, then paused.
“…oh.”
It wasn’t a floor with multiple apartments. No long corridor lined with numbered doors. Just a short stretch of hallway leading to a single, understated entrance at the far end; wide, dark wood, discreet brass handle. Nothing flashy. Which somehow made it worse.
You turned slowly toward him.
“This whole floor?”
Harry’s mouth twitched, almost apologetic. “It’s… technically the penthouse.”
You stared at him.
“Technically,” you repeated.
He slid his keys from his pocket like this was all perfectly normal. “It sounds more dramatic than it is.”
You let out a soft, disbelieving breath that turned into a small laugh before you could stop it.
“Harry.”
He glanced at you, a little sheepish now. “Yeah.”
“You live in a penthouse. In the middle of Tribeca.”
A beat.
“…yes.”
You shook your head once, more amused than anything else now, and let him take your hand again. His fingers tightened around yours automatically, grounding.
“Okay,” you murmured. “Just… give me a second to emotionally catch up with your square footage.”
He huffed a quiet laugh under his breath and guided you toward the door anyway.
When he unlocked the apartment and pushed it open, he stepped aside for you first.
You walked in… And stopped. Not dramatically. Just… still.
The apartment was beautiful. Wide windows spilling the city into the room. Soft light. Warm wood. Space that felt calm rather than showy. Lived in. Real.
You took a few slow steps inside, almost unconsciously.
“…oh,” you breathed.
He closed the door quietly behind you but didn’t say anything. Didn’t rush you. Just watched as you took it in.
You moved a little further. Turned slowly.
“…my entire apartment fits in your kitchen,” you said, half to yourself.
A faint smile touched his mouth. “That seems unlikely.”
You glanced back at him. There was no sharpness in your expression. Just quiet wonder.
“I’m serious.”
You set your bag down without thinking, eyes drifting back to the windows. The skyline beyond them. The life he returned to every day.
For a moment, something small and vulnerable moved through you. Not quite insecurity. Just the sudden, unavoidable awareness of how different your lives were. How different they had always been.
You let out a small breath and tried to make it sound light. Failed a little.
“I yell at flower suppliers for delivering peonies that look emotionally unstable,” you said quietly. “And spend my weekends wiring centerpieces and arguing about table linens.” A faint, crooked smile. “You have… parents who apparently host charity galas?”
He said nothing yet. Just watched you.
You gestured vaguely around the apartment. “I decorate other people’s weddings and events. You seem to fund entire industries.” Another small breath. “I’m just… trying to figure out where I fit in all of this without feeling like someone who wandered into the wrong room.”
The honesty hung there before you could soften it.
“I’m not saying I don’t want this,” you added quickly, almost under your breath. “I do. I want you.” Your eyes lifted back to his. “I just… I’m scared of being the thing that doesn’t quite belong in your world.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Because for a split second, something sharp and unexpected moved through him too; recognition. Not of your fear, but of how different it was from what he’d known before.
Most of his adult life, he’d had the opposite problem: women who saw his world first. Who stepped into it easily. Who liked the access, the comfort, the shine of it. Who never once questioned whether they belonged there.
You were standing in the middle of his apartment looking almost apologetic for existing inside it. It did something quiet and profound to his chest.
“Darling…” he said softly.
You turned. The affectionate word landed deep, settling somewhere low and certain inside you.
He hadn’t moved closer yet. Like he was giving you space to decide how you wanted to stand inside this.
“I live well,” he said quietly. “I have a good job. That’s… all true.”
A small breath.
“But none of this is the important part.”
You held his gaze.
He took one slow step toward you.
“The most important part of all,” he said, voice gentler now, “is that you’re here.”
Something in your chest loosened. You looked around once more. Then back at him. And then you crossed the remaining distance yourself.
Your hands slid up the front of his coat, settling lightly at his chest. Grounding. Familiar.
“You’re still you,” you murmured.
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Yeah.”
He let out a slow breath, like something inside him had been braced and was finally allowed to settle.
“I’ve spent most of my life being valued for things that have nothing to do with who I actually am,” he said quietly. “What I make. What I can provide. What kind of rooms I can get people into.” His hand came up, resting lightly over yours where it lay against his chest. “And for the first time, none of that feels like the point.”
You swallowed softly.
“With you,” he continued, voice low and steady, “it’s just… me. And somehow that’s enough. More than enough.” A small pause. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles, almost absent. “I don’t think I understood how rare that was until you walked away and everything else felt… louder. Emptier.”
Your chest tightened.
“I love you,” he said simply. “Not because you fit into my life. Not because you make it easier or more presentable or more impressive.” His gaze softened, almost unbearably so. “I love you because being with you feels like the first time I’ve ever been entirely myself and not had to adjust even the edges.”
The words settled quietly between you.
“I don’t need you to fit into this world,” he added gently, glancing around the apartment for a brief second before returning to you. “I just need you in it. So I can be myself. Happy. With you. So it can be ours.”
A small breath.
You studied his face another second, letting the last of the overwhelm settle into something quieter. Warmer. Then you nodded once, very small.
“…okay,” you said softly.
He waited.
You felt a flush rise faintly to your cheeks, but you held his gaze anyway.
“I can live with that,” you added.
Relief moved across his face like sunlight breaking through clouds.
He stepped closer. Close enough now that you could feel the warmth of him again, solid and real and exactly the same man who had held you in Iceland.
He watched you for a second longer, something warm and certain settling in his expression.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he said quietly.
You let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh, your fingers tightening slightly in the front of his shirt.
“You better,” you murmured.
He didn’t rush it.
The kiss landed slow, deliberate, like he wanted to feel every second of it. Your hands slid into his hair immediately, anchoring yourself there, and he let out a quiet breath against your mouth that felt almost like relief.
You were still a little breathless when your coat slipped from your shoulders. When his followed. Fabric fell somewhere behind you, forgotten almost instantly.
For a moment you just stood there, close enough to feel each other breathe.
It hit you then, not the heat, not the urgency. The reality of him.
You lifted your hands to his face again, almost disbelieving. He leaned into the touch without thinking, eyes soft in a way you’d never seen before Iceland.
“Still you,” you murmured.
“Still you,” he answered quietly.
And then something shifted.
He took your hand and led you towards the bedroom. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just certainty. You followed without a word.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft spill of city light through tall windows. The bed sat wide and perfectly made, but neither of you paused to appreciate it. You turned toward him instead, fingers already at his shirt, pushing it from his shoulders with quiet urgency.
He let you. Watched you.
There was something almost reverent in his stillness, like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening in his own space, that you were here, touching him; like you belonged.
When his hands finally moved, they did so slowly. Palms settling at your waist. Sliding upward. Relearning the shape of you through fabric before it disappeared entirely.
You were the one who guided him down to the mattress. The one who pressed him back gently. The one who climbed into his lap without breaking the kiss.
He made a low sound in his throat when you settled there, surprised, almost undone by the quiet confidence of it. His hands found your hips automatically, steadying you, but he didn’t try to control anything.
He let you lead. Let you choose the pace. The closeness. Everything.
It didn’t feel like urgency anymore. It felt like inevitability. Like two people who had already fallen and were finally allowed to land.
Clothes disappeared gradually. Not frantic. Just unnecessary. Skin met skin again after two long weeks and both of you stilled for half a second, feeling it. The warmth. The familiarity. The quiet shock of being allowed this again.
You leaned down first, kissing him deeper, slower. He answered immediately, hands sliding along your back, your waist, your thighs, reacquainting himself with every inch like he’d been starved for it.
When you finally guided him inside you, the breath left both of you at the same time.
Not shock. Not urgency. Just… intensity.
You closed your eyes for a moment, forehead resting against his as you settled fully. Letting your bodies adjust. Letting the closeness sink in instead of rushing past it.
His hands tightened at your hips. Not controlling. Just holding on.
“God,” he murmured under his breath, almost disbelieving.
You moved slowly at first. Careful. Feeling.
The rhythm found itself without effort, the same way it always had with him. Natural. Unforced. Like your bodies already knew how to meet. Because they did.
It built gradually. Heat layering over tenderness. Hunger returning, but softened by something steadier underneath. He took your breast in his mouth as you bounced softly up and down.
You opened your eyes and looked at him. Really looked.
His expression hit you harder than anything else, not just desire. Something deeper. Almost stunned. Like he couldn’t quite process how right this felt.
“I love you,” you whispered. “So much.”
It slipped out without planning. Without fear. Just truth. He went still beneath you for half a second. Like the words physically struck him.
Then his hands came up to your face, holding you there as you kept moving together, slower now, more deliberate. His forehead pressed to yours, breath uneven.
“I love you,” he answered quietly. “I’ve never-”
He stopped himself. Not because he didn’t want to say it. Because he didn’t quite have language for it.
This didn’t feel like anything he’d known before. Not like attraction. Not like the polished, performative intimacy he’d always assumed was normal.
This felt… inevitable. Effortless. Like breathing. Like coming home to a place he hadn’t known he was missing.
The angle changed slightly and suddenly you felt him even deeper. You felt completely full of him. You moaned helplessly. His arms wrapped around you fully then, pulling you closer as the rhythm deepened naturally. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just… building. Until thought started to blur at the edges and all that remained was closeness and warmth and the quiet, overwhelming certainty of each other.
You buried your face briefly in his neck, breath catching. He held you tighter, murmuring your name once like it meant everything.
And when your release finally came, it wasn’t explosive or dramatic. It was deep. Grounding. Almost emotional in its quiet intensity.
You stayed there afterward, draped over him, still connected, neither of you in any hurry to move. His hands kept moving slowly along your back, like he was reassuring himself you were real.
“Well,” you murmured softly. “That was… worth obeying the universe.”
He let out a quiet laugh, still a little breathless, and pulled you closer against him.
“Yeah,” he said. “It really was.”
He didn’t move right away.
Just kept one arm around you, palm drifting slowly along your back like he was mapping something familiar and still slightly unbelievable. Your weight on him felt… right. Not temporary. Not borrowed. Just right.
For a while, the room stayed quiet except for your breathing gradually returning to normal. The city hummed faintly beyond the windows, distant and irrelevant.
You traced a lazy line along his collarbone with one fingertip, still half-dazed.
“This feels… different,” you murmured.
He huffed a soft breath. “Yeah.”
A pause.
“Better,” you added.
That made him smile; not the polished public one, but the private one that only ever appeared when he wasn’t trying. His hand slid up into your hair, smoothing it back gently.
“I kept thinking about this,” he admitted quietly. “Not just… this.” His thumb brushed your shoulder. “You. Being able to just… exist next to you again.”
Your chest tightened in that warm, almost painful way.
“You have me,” you said softly.
He closed his eyes for a second like the words landed somewhere deep.
“I know,” he answered.
“And I’m not letting go again. Not because of fear. Not because of timing. Not because we overthink ourselves into oblivion.”
You lifted your head slightly. “Okay, that feels personal.”
“It is,” he said calmly. “Against both of us.”
You laughed softly and tucked yourself closer, cheek settling against his chest. His arms wrapped around you more securely without thinking, holding you there like he finally could.
For a while, neither of you spoke. Then you shifted slightly, pushing yourself up just enough to look at him properly.
“You realize,” you said, “I still haven’t actually seen your apartment.”
He blinked. “You’ve seen the important parts.”
“I’ve seen… one horizontal surface.”
He considered that. “Fair.”
You slid off him reluctantly, grabbing the nearest shirt, his of course, and putting it on as you stood. The fabric fell almost to mid-thigh, sleeves too long, collar slipping just enough off one shoulder to make it clear you weren’t wearing anything else.
He noticed immediately.
The room felt different now. Warmer. Lived in. Yours as much as his.
You took a few slow steps across the bedroom, bare feet quiet against the floor, finally letting yourself look properly. The tall windows. The soft lighting. The space. Everything that had existed long before you walked into it… and somehow felt altered now that you had.
“…okay,” you said after a beat. “This is still very intimidating.”
He propped himself up on one elbow. “It’s a bedroom.”
“It’s a penthouse bedroom,” you corrected, glancing back at him. “There’s a difference.”
He smiled faintly, and shifted onto one elbow, watching you. Not the room. You.
Watching the way his shirt moved against your thighs when you walked. The way your hair fell slightly messy down your back. The quiet, unselfconscious way you existed in his space like you weren’t trying to impress it.
It did something dangerous to him.
“What?” he asked softly.
You glanced back at him, half a smile forming. “Nothing bad.” A small pause. “Just… this is your home.”
It came out quieter than you meant it to.
He followed your gaze briefly; the windows, the high ceilings, the carefully designed calm of the place, then back to you. And suddenly none of it seemed particularly important. Not compared to the sight of you standing there in his shirt.
He let out a slow breath through his nose.
“You’re going to kill me walking around like that,” he said quietly.
Your brows lifted faintly. “Like what?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at you, really looked, the way the hem of the shirt brushed your bare legs, the way the collar slipped when you moved, the faint marks he’d left along your skin that only he would notice.
“Like you belong here,” he said finally. Low. Honest.
Something warm moved through your chest at that.
You turned slightly, taking another step toward the doorway, curiosity getting the better of you now that the initial awe had settled. “I want to see the rest,” you admitted. “Unless there’s, I don’t know, a panic room I shouldn’t wander into.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Nothing that dramatic.”
You disappeared briefly into the hallway, and he let his head fall back against the pillow for a second, staring at the ceiling. Listening to your soft footsteps moving through his apartment.
He’d lived here for years. Hosted people. Worked here. Slept here. It had never once felt like this.
He pushed himself up and followed shortly, stopping in the doorway when he found you standing near the living room windows, looking out over the city. His shirt against your skin. Your silhouette reflected faintly in the glass.
You turned when you sensed him behind you. Your expression had softened.
“It’s beautiful,” you said quietly. Then, after a small beat: “It doesn’t feel… intimidating. Well maybe a little. But just a tiny little bit.”
He stepped closer. Close enough that his fingers brushed lightly at your waist. “Good.”
You looked at him for a moment. Then moved back toward the bedroom with him without needing to say anything else.
When you reached the bed again, you climbed onto it easily, settling on your knees near him, his shirt falling around you. Comfortable. Familiar already.
You paused near the edge of the mattress, looking back at him. The shirt slipped slightly from one shoulder and you caught it absently, more focused on him than on modesty.
He studied you for a second. Then said, softly:
“Hey.”
You turned fully.
“Stay tonight,” he said.
Not possessive. Not urgent. Just hopeful. Like he was offering something simple and real instead of asking for anything complicated.
You didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” you answered quietly. “I’d like that.”
Relief moved across his face so quickly it almost looked like surprise. He reached for your hand when you stepped back toward the bed, pulling you down gently beside him again.
This time there was no urgency. No fear of time running out. Just warmth. Closeness. The quiet certainty of two people who had finally stopped walking away from each other.
*****************
Neither of you had slept particularly well, because neither of you had wanted to waste the night sleeping when you could be touching instead.
You’d drifted in and out of rest tangled together; legs woven, hands finding each other even half-asleep, quiet laughter in the dark when one of you shifted and woke the other. At some point you’d ended up sprawled across him, his arm tight around your waist like even unconscious he wasn’t entirely convinced you were real.
By the time grey morning light began filtering through the tall windows, you were awake first.
You lay there for a moment, not moving, just feeling the weight of his arm across your waist. Warm. Solid. Real.
He stirred slightly when you shifted, eyes opening slowly.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep.
“Morning.”
A small silence settled. Easy. Comfortable.
He studied you for a second like he was confirming you were actually there. Then pulled you a little closer without fully waking.
“Stay a minute,” he mumbled.
You smiled, brushing a light kiss to his shoulder. “I’m just making coffee.”
He made a soft, sleepy sound of approval and let you go reluctantly, hand trailing once along your back as you slipped out of bed.
You wandered into the kitchen in his oversized shirt, the apartment quiet in that early-hour way; city noise still distant, everything softened.
You found coffee. Eggs. Bread. Familiar movements, like you’d done this here before.
You were at the stove when you felt him before you heard him. Warmth at your back. Smelling like he’d just showered. Bare chest. His hands settling lightly at your waist.
You smiled without turning.
He leaned in, pressing a slow kiss just below your ear. Then another, softer, at the curve where your neck met your shoulder. His breath was still warm with sleep.
“Morning,” he murmured again.
“Morning,” you replied, trying, unsuccessfully, to sound unaffected.
His mouth brushed your neck again. Slower this time. Less sleepy. More deliberate.
Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.
“You know what will happen if you keep that up,” you said quietly.
A faint huff of amusement against your skin.
“I do,” he said.
His hands shifted slightly, not possessive. Just… there. Anchoring. Like he’d spent two weeks without touching you and still hadn’t quite caught up.
You turned your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder. Hair messy. Eyes soft. Entirely too handsome for someone who’d only just woken up.
“You’re supposed to be getting ready for work,” you reminded him.
“Mm.” Another light kiss. “I am.”
He didn’t move away.
You flipped a piece of toast with exaggerated patience. “This doesn’t look like getting ready.”
“It’s a transitional phase.”
You laughed under your breath.
He stayed there a moment longer, holding you lightly, occasionally pressing absent-minded kisses to your shoulder or jaw while you finished making breakfast. Nothing rushed. Nothing urgent. Just the quiet intimacy of being in the same space without needing anything more.
Eventually he did step away, reluctantly, disappearing down the hallway.
You plated the food, poured coffee, tried not to feel absurdly… content.
When he came back… You nearly dropped the mug.
Suit. Perfectly tailored. Hair done. Tie loose around his collar as he adjusted his cuffs with quiet efficiency.
The transformation was frankly offensive. You stared. He looked up, catching your expression immediately.
“…what?”
“You can’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“You were just in bed,” you said slowly. “Soft. Warm. Harmless.”
“I’m still harmless.”
“You look like you’re about to acquire a small country.”
He smiled faintly.
You walked toward him, eyes dragging over him in a way that made something shift in his posture. Your fingers went automatically to his tie, straightening it even though it didn’t need straightening. The smell of his cologne subtle but intoxicating.
“That’s deeply unfair,” you murmured.
“What is?”
“You being that attractive before coffee has fully kicked in.”
His hands settled lightly at your hips. Familiar. Easy.
“You seemed fine with me five minutes ago,” he said.
“That was before you turned into… this.”
He laughed softly. The sound low and warm. You looked up at him then. Really looked.
“You look very sexy,” you admitted quietly.
Something in his expression softened. He leaned down and kissed you.
Slow. Unhurried. Like there was no clock yet. Like the rest of the world could wait another minute. When you pulled back, you were both slightly breathless.
He brushed his thumb once along your jaw, like he was still reacquainting himself with the fact that you were here. Real. Within reach.
“Go shower,” he said quietly.
You blinked. “That sounded suspiciously like an order.”
“A gentle suggestion,” he corrected, mouth curving faintly. “If you don’t leave in the next minute, I’m not going to work and you’re not opening your shop.”
You considered that. Briefly.
“…tempting.”
He leaned in and kissed you once more, slower this time. Warm. Certain.
“Shower,” he murmured against your mouth. “I’ll walk you to your shop.”
Something about the simplicity of that, the normalcy, settled softly in your chest.
“Okay.”
His hand lingered at your waist a moment longer before he finally stepped back, giving you just enough space to actually go.
******************
You pushed the shop door open with your shoulder, laughing under your breath at something he’d just murmured against your ear.
The bell chimed softly overhead.
Warm air. Familiar scent of greenery and coffee. Morning light filtering through the front windows in thin, pale stripes. It felt almost surreal to be back here after a night that still hummed quietly under your skin.
He stepped in behind you, one hand still at your waist like he hadn’t quite remembered to let go yet.
“You’re going to have to stop doing that,” you said under your breath as you set your bag down behind the counter.
“Doing what?”
“Kissing my neck in public like we don’t have responsibilities.”
He leaned in anyway, lips brushing just below your ear.
“No,” he murmured. “I don’t think I will.”
You let out a quiet, helpless laugh and turned toward him.
The bell chimed again. Both of you froze.
Julia walked in, coffee in hand, mid-text, not looking up.
“Morning, I swear if that ranunculus shipment is late again I’m-”
She stopped so abruptly she nearly dropped the coffee. Silence. She looked up. Saw you. Saw him. Saw his hand still resting at your waist. Saw the suit. Her brain very visibly short-circuited.
“…oh.”
You froze. He froze. Neither of you let go of each other. Her eyes moved slowly between you.
“…is this,” she said carefully, “the man-friend.”
You closed your eyes briefly.
“Yes.”
She inhaled. Exhaled. Took one step forward.
To Harry: “Okay. Hi.”
“Hi. Harry Castillo,” he said easily. Then, with a small glance toward you, “the man-friend, apparently?”
You groaned under your breath.
Julia did not laugh. She was too busy scanning him like a suspicious customs officer.
Her eyes moved over the suit first; tailored, expensive without screaming about it. Then the watch. Then the way he stood; relaxed, but unmistakably… composed. Someone used to rooms and decisions and being listened to.
Then she looked back at you. Then back at him. Then back at you again.
“…oh, he’s a man-friend alright,” she said quietly. Almost impressed.
You closed your eyes. “Please stop calling him that.”
Julia tilted her head.“I will,” she said. “Give me a minute. I’m still recovering.”
She gestured vaguely between the two of you.
“You disappeared into Iceland heartbroken and came back with a… this.”
“What is ‘this’?” you asked.
She waved at him. “A fully formed, sharply dressed, emotionally articulate hunk who says his last name out loud. Do you understand how rare that is in Manhattan?”
Harry laughed softly beside you.
Julia’s attention snapped back to him immediately.
“Okay, good. He laughs. Important.”
Then, narrowing her eyes slightly:
“You’re staying, right?”
“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate. “For as long as she’ll have me.”
That answer landed somewhere deep. You felt it as much as she did.
Julia studied him another long second, like she was measuring something invisible. Then she nodded once. Sharp. Decisive.
“…okay,” she stepped closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “If you hurt her, I will not threaten you,” she said calmly. “I will simply become an administrative inconvenience in your life. Forever.”
“Didn’t expect less,” he said with perfect seriousness.
She looked at you again then, really looked, and whatever she saw made her expression soften.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “You’re actually happy.”
You nodded.
She inhaled sharply, then covered it by grabbing her coffee and taking an aggressive sip like she hadn’t just had a small emotional experience.
“Okay,” she said briskly. “I need coffee. And a full timeline. And possibly a chair.”
Then she pointed at him.
“You can stay.” A beat. “I like you. You should have seen the trainwreck she dated before you. I mean, Mike once bought her a printer for her birthday. A printer. As if romance lives in Office Depot-”
“Julia…” you murmured, lunging across the counter.
She dodged you easily, completely unfazed.
“And don’t get me started on the time he tried to plan a ‘surprise date’ and just… took her to Costco,” she continued, turning back to Harry. “He said and I quote, ‘We both needed things.’”
Harry was already laughing, hand coming up to cover his mouth, shoulders shaking.
“I like her,” he said, recovering. “She’s very… thorough.”
Julia beamed. “Thank you. I’m invested in quality control.”
You buried your face in your hands for a second. “I’m changing the locks.”
“Too late,” she replied sweetly. “I know where you keep the spare key. And your emotional baggage.”
Julia stared at both of you for another long second, like she was committing the moment to memory. Then she clapped her hands once.
“Okay,” she said briskly. “I’m going to the back to pretend to organize ribbon and absolutely not eavesdrop like a civilized person.”
You snorted.
She pointed at you on her way past.
“I want details later. Chronological. With emotional footnotes.”
Then she disappeared through the curtain. Silence settled softly in the shop.
You and Harry stood there facing each other in the warm morning light, the city already humming outside the windows. It felt strange suddenly, not fragile anymore. Not precarious. Real.
He glanced at his watch, then back at you, almost apologetic.
“I do actually have to go,” he said. “Unfortunately, capitalism persists.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Rude.”
He stepped closer, hands finding your waist automatically like they belonged there now. There was no hesitation anymore. No question about whether he was allowed.
“I’ll call you later,” he said. “Or text. Or show up with coffee. I’m flexible.”
“Text first,” you said. “Let me maintain a tiny illusion of professionalism.”
He smiled, softer this time. More private.
“Dinner tonight?” he asked. Not tentative. Just… building forward. “Somewhere quiet. Or not quiet. Or we could cook. Or order something and ignore it completely.”
Warmth spread low in your chest.
“Dinner sounds perfect,” you said.
His thumb brushed once along your jaw, a small, grounding touch.
Then he leaned in. The kiss wasn’t frantic like the night before. It was slower. Certain. The kind of kiss people share when they already know there will be another. And another after that.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead briefly against yours.
“I’m really glad I walked into this shop,” he murmured.
You smiled. “Me too.”
He pressed one last, softer kiss to your mouth. Then another, because apparently he couldn’t help himself. Then he stepped back with visible effort.
“I’ll let you work,” he said.
You watched him walk to the door. Watched the familiar, steady way he moved. This time, there was no panic under your ribs. No sense of something ending. Just continuation.
He glanced back once before stepping outside, like he needed the visual confirmation that you were still there. You were. Gave him a soft wave goodbye. The bell chimed softly as the door closed behind him.
For a moment you just stood there, hands resting lightly on the counter, heart full in a way that felt almost unfamiliar after so long spent bracing for impact.
Julia peeked around the curtain immediately.
“…did he leave?” she whispered.
You nodded, still smiling.
She studied your face for half a second. Then broke into a slow, delighted grin.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re done for. Okay, now spill.”
You laughed. Really laughed this time.
And for the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel like something to fear. It felt like something you were walking into together.
*****************************************
MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
a/n: Well this was it. I hope you liked it. It was a pleasure connecting with all of you. Let me know what you think if you can ❤️
why I have 47 unfinished drafts and counting (it's not commitment issues, it's INSPIRATION) ✨
okay listen. LISTEN. before you come for me in the replies about "finishing what you start" and "discipline" and whatever other capitalist propaganda they're teaching in writing workshops these days, let me explain something.
those 47 unfinished drafts? they're not failures. they're not evidence that i can't commit to anything (though my dating history might suggest otherwise but that's IRRELEVANT). they are pure, crystallized inspiration caught in digital amber.
here's the thing about inspiration that nobody talks about: it's not supposed to be monogamous.
you know that feeling when you're three chapters deep into your current WIP and suddenly—SUDDENLY—your brain goes "but what if there was a world where music was illegal and the protagonist was a black market violinist" and your fingers are already opening a new google doc before your rational mind can intervene?
that's not ADHD (okay it might be a little ADHD). that's your creative brain doing exactly what it's supposed to do: making connections, building worlds, birthing stories that NEED to exist.
and yeah, sure, i could force myself to ignore that violinist story. i could be "disciplined" and stick to my current fantasy about the girl who talks to shadows. but here's what happens when you ignore inspiration: it dies. it shrivels up like a raisin and takes a little piece of your creative soul with it.
so instead, i honor it. i give it 2,000 words and a basic character sketch. i let it live in its own little document where it can breathe and exist and maybe—MAYBE—become something beautiful later.
because.. the secret: those 47 drafts aren't separate projects. they're all connected. the magic system from draft #12 might be perfect for the world in draft #31. the character voice i developed in that werewolf story i abandoned last month? she's exactly what my current protagonist needed.
it's like having a massive creative compost pile. everything breaks down and feeds everything else and eventually you get this rich, fertile ground where your REAL stories can grow.
also can we talk about how arbitrary "finishing" is? like, who decided that stories need endings? some of my favorite pieces of writing are fragments. half-thoughts. the literary equivalent of a really good tweet that makes you feel something indefinable.
my 47 drafts are love letters to possibility. they're proof that my brain is CONSTANTLY creating, constantly reaching for something new and exciting and weird. they're evidence that i haven't been beaten down by the publishing industry's obsession with "marketable" and "complete."
and honestly? having 47 unfinished drafts means i never run out of things to work on. writer's block who? i don't know her. i've got a cyberpunk fairy tale, a cozy mystery with necromancers, and a romance between a time traveler and someone who's stuck in a time loop just WAITING for me.
commitment issues would be giving up entirely. this? this is commitment to the craft itself.
(draft #48 is already calling my name but i'm trying to finish this blog post first. see? growth.)
