Summary: Harry decides he needs someone with more personality. When the band for his next gala quits unexpectedly, Lucy has a connection to a singer for him. A good one. One that's a little spitfire.
Warnings: cursing, sexual tension and remarks, SPOILERS to Materialists
Harry stared at Lucy, mouth opening and closing a few times. “Honestly, Lucy? I think this whole matchmaking thing isn’t working like I thought.”
Lucy frowned. “Why? Every thing about her was perfect for you. What did I miss?”
“She just… had no personality.”
“You didn’t specify that in your non-negotiables.”
“I know. It’s not anything you did. It’s just,” he sighs, rubbing at his forehead, “I have too much going on at work. How about we pause the dates until I get everything settled?”
Lucy nods. “Of course.” She writes something down before pausing. “Even with our past and all, I hope you know you can tell me stuff. Confide in me. As a friend. Or an employee. Whatever is easiest.”
He considers it, then almost denies it. But there’s some pull that is forcing the words out. He leans back in his chair. “Alright.” He takes a long drink. "I love my brother. I do. But with him being a newlywed, I'm picking up the slack at the business. Tonight is this big gala we're hosting. The band quit at the last minute, I don't have a date-"
"-Oh. I can help with that."
"Lucy," he warns. "I don't need a date."
"No, no. I meant the other thing. The one before that. The band." At his confused expression, she tore the corner of a paper and began writing. "A friend of mine sings on the weekends at the lounge down the street."
He leans forward curiously. "Which one?"
"Mountainside lounge."
"Oh. She any good?"
"Well, Harry. I wouldn't suggest her if she made my ears bleed, now would I? I will warn you. She's got… a lot of personality.”
He takes the torn paper like it's gold. "Thank you. I fear I owe you one."
"Maybe just one more date? I got this really beautiful woman-"
"-Alright. Bye, Lucy." He stands, exiting the restaurant with more pep in his step.
The paper between his fingers weighs on him. An email address. Interesting.
…
You reread the email with a puzzled brow. Lucy really suggested you to this guy? To the Castillos?
It's professional, but you can sense the desperation in his secretary's tone. Usually, you'd decline. But something about it has you replying back.
Within minutes, they get back to you.
And you're set to sing on Saturday. You frantically call your accompanist. When they say they can't make it, you managed to get your roommate to do it. She's far too good at the piano anyway to not use that skill anywhere.
…
You set up without seeing a single Castillo. Only the wait staff and the planning committee. They help you as much as you need. It was kind, but you were hoping to at least see the guy that hired you before the party.
You had put way too much thought into your outfit, just like you always do. Singing at the lounge on the weekends paid for a few fancy dresses. Ones way out of your price range. You use that to your advantage a lot.
Like tonight.
You present yourself like you're one of the most esteemed singers in NYC. In reality, you and your roommate barely make ends meet.
But for tonight, you can live it up a little.
It was like every other joint you've sang at. Men ogle you a bit too much. The women give forced claps after a few songs. You're used to the steady routine.
Half way through the night, you take a small break. You giggle to the side with your roommate turned accompanist until a voice breaks the conversation.
"Excuse me, I was hoping to get your ladies a drink."
You pause, lip tight at you stare at your roommate. Another one of those pervy guys hoping to take you home.
But when you turn to look at him, you don't get that vibe at all.
His eyes are far too kind.
"Oh. I can't drink," you nod, "bad for the voice."
"Oh, I'd definitely take a drink," your roommate interrupts.
The man grins and nods. "I can do that." His eyes set back on you. "Water then for you?"
"Yeah. Warm."
His eyes stay on you a little too long before he turns back to the crowd, disappearing to get those said drinks.
"He's fine as hell," your roommate teases. "If you don't fuck him, I will."
"Oh my god," you whisper-yell. "Keep it in your pants. We're working."
"You're working. I'm pitching in a favor from last Monday."
Last Monday. A sleazy bar fight started by someone getting a little too close to your roommate and you were the only one that did something about it. You're still sporting a wide bruise on your leg from getting knocked down.
"You don't owe me anything for that. C'mon."
"Well, no one else did anything until you fucking absorbed the first hit-"
"Okay. Stop. We'll talk about this later. Just… be professional for a few more hours?"
She sighs. "Fine."
In perfect timing, a tall glass on warm water is sat on the piano in front of you. You can feel him behind you, tie barely brushing your back before he's away from you once again.
"- and I got you a bit of champagne. Hope that wasn't a bad choice."
Your roommate takes it with greedy hands. "It's perfect. Thank you, Mr…"
"Harry. Harry Castillo."
You freeze, shoulders tightening. "Oh," you push out. "You're Lucy's… friend."
He seems to stiffen up too. "Yeah. Something like that."
"I only meant… you're the one that hired me?"
He relaxes at that, turning on the facade again. "Exactly so. She had good things to say about you."
"I think you were just desperate for a singer."
He laughs. "Maybe so. But you weren't a bad choice in any sense."
You lean against the piano. "I've been told I'm often a bad choice."
His brows raise. "Well, certainly not about your voice." He takes a moment to look at his shoes, recalling a thought. "Lucy did tell me you were a spitfire, though."
"She said that?"
He laughs and nods, content to get a little reaction out of you. "You disagree?"
You consider his words, fighting back and forth with yourself. Professionally, you were calm, cool and collected. Outside of work? A bull in a china closet. "'M not sure."
He keeps a subtle grin on his lips, puppy dog eyes trained on you. "You seem pretty tame."
You can feel the arousal work it's way down your spine to between your legs.
And with that, he taps the piano lightly like a send-off. "I'll enjoy hearing you the rest of the night, little songbird." And he steps away, businessman facade turned on high as he grins and shakes a man's hand like he hadn't turned your world on its side.
Your head slowly turns to your roommate, whose eyes are trained on the sheet music in front of her. 'Holy fuck,' she mouths, not having the courage to look at you after that.
You exhale, unsure of what to think. He's far too charming, alarmingly so. And yet here without a date. It's odd.
You take a little longer than you should've to collect yourself before beginning the second half of the night.
You know Harry's eyes are on you.
…
As the event comes to a close, you decide to pack up early. You have a busy day tomorrow and your voice needs to rest.
You help your roommate pack the sheet music carefully, preparing yourself to say forced goodbyes and shake a few hands.
You can feel Harry's presence before he even says a word.
"The songbird has a bedtime," you start first, not bothering to look up at him.
God, you know he's grinning. "Good. A songbird needs beauty rest. I can't see how looking so… radiant wouldn't require hours of sleep."
You hum, finishing up. But he catches your arm and places a piece of paper in your hand.
You pause, finally turning your head to see him watching you like you're an addiction he has a craving for.
And your eyes dart to the paper, seeing it as a folded check. "Mr. Castillo, you already paid-"
"I know. Think of it as a tip. Tonight was wonderful and you made it so."
Your head tilts, eyes flashing with something. "You trying to tame me, Mr. Castillo?"
"No," he whispers, inching a bit closer, "No, I wouldn't dare." He takes a moment, decided where his bravery lies. Then, he closes the distance, kissing your cheekbone and then kissing your hand. "Goodnight."
…
The poor taxi driver. Your roommate could not contain her excitement. "He was like ALL over you! GOD the gorgeous babies that man would make with you! Please tell me you got his number!"
"No," you scoff. "I was working. This was all work related."
"Nothing about that man's eyes screamed work related."
…
The next day, there's a bit of a headache you're nursing. You're not sure why. Maybe a lack of sleep. Maybe the stress of the day before. But you stumble into the kitchen and start making the same shitty breakfast you always have.
"Oh yeah, I said I'd split that job with you from last night," you remind your roommate.
She laid across the couch, seemingly in the same mental position as you. Hand over her forehead. "Don't worry about it. Just buy me a couple drinks next time we're out."
You hum. "Well, I even got a tip. How about I at least split that with you?"
She sits up a bit. "How much?"
You shrug. "Haven't looked."
She's already darting for your coat pocket where you left it last night. She scrambles, pulling it out and unfolding it. You see her eyes open wide. "Holy shit."
"What?"
Her eyes just stay on the page. "Like Holy shit."
"Oh my god, just-" you round the counter, peering over her shoulder at it. Then it's your turn to gawk. "Fuck."
You're dialing the number at the top left of the check quickly, spatula in one hand as you nurse your scrambled eggs, phone in the other.
"You've reached Castillo Enterprises. How may I help you today?"
"Uh, yeah. Hi. I need to talk to Harry Castillo."
"Oh. Well, is this a matter of canceling an appointment or meeting?"
"No. I need to speak to him about a matter-"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Castillo is a busy man. Shall I take a message?"
"No. No. I'll just… forget it. Thank you."
You drop your phone on the counter, eyes trained on the pan on the stove.
The odds of a busy man like him calling you back is far too slim. There was no point in leaving a message.
No. You learned years ago that most things can just be taken care of in person.
So you finish your breakfast, rushing to look decently professional before getting in your car.
…
Castillo Enterprises is a huge fucking building. One you can't see the top of when you're standing in front of it.
It's all glass, and you see your reflection staring back. You're far from what you looked like last night, but you'd at least managed to slap a little makeup on before you left.
Clutching your purse, you take a deep breath and step inside.
You go to the first desk you see, the one placed in the middle of the room for lost souls like yourself. "Hi, I'm here to see Harry Castillo?"
The secretary is a young girl, one who clearly hates confrontation. "34th story. Elevators are that way."
So off you are again, check weighing heavily in your purse.
You stumble your way around to another desk. A secretary you recognize the voice of. You know you're getting closer since she's the one you spoke on the phone to. "Hi-"
"-You're the woman on the phone," she acknowledges. "As I said before, Mr. Castillo is very busy. He can't see you today."
"I know that but I just need to return a check that was written to me."
Her eyes suddenly widen with realization. "You're the singer from the gala. Sorry, but we can't accept that check back."
"Why not? There's nothing wrong with it."
"Mr. Castillo told me not to accept a returning check from you if you were to come in today."
You gawk for a moment before you get angry. "You know what? Where the fuck is he?"
"As I said before-"
"No. Where is he right now?"
There's a silent standoff that's broken as quickly as it starts. "Cathy, get the Westons a meeting with me t-" Harry pauses, eyes set on you. "Hi," he breathes.
You scoff. "Ten thousand dollars? Are you fucking serious?"
His face falls, confusing written clearly over it. "What do you m-"
"Don't!" You growl. You dig the check out of her purse, holding it out between two fingers. "Take it back."
He recoils from it like it's poisonous, hands up. "I already gave it to you."
"Really? The fuck are you trying to do, be my sugar daddy? You don't even know my fucking name."
There's a moment where he looks around, a bit embarrassed to be making such a scene at his work. But another part of him doesn't care. His main focus is the woman in front of him. His voice is careful and calculated. "I was only trying to appreciate a songbird. Forgive me if I was too forward. But please, accept it this once."
"For what?"
"Hm?"
Your eyes take in his dark blue suit, tailored just perfectly for him. "What… what do you want me to do? What are you paying me for?"
He frowns. "What? No. It's just… spending money. For you. I… I was doing something nice."
"No one is that nice."
He pauses. "God, you really are friends with Lucy, aren't you?"
"The fuck does that mean, Castillo?"
"Means you're untrusting! Just take the check."
"No," you push, holding it out again. "I don't want it."
When he recoils again, you take it back, holding it with both hands now. "I'll fucking tear it up all over this office floor."
He shrugs. "Fine. I'll mail you another by the end of the day."
"Fuck you."
He laughs. Actually laughs at that. "Consider me charity and I'm asking a favor of you."
You pause.
"Just listen to my proposal. Accept the money-"
You scoff.
His head tilts. "- or go on a date with me."
The paper in your hands suddenly feel much heavier than it was before.
At your pause, he shrugs. "Or do both."
"No," you scoff. "No. That is ridiculous."
"What's ridiculous about that?"
"I'm making a scene in the middle of the richest enterprise in New York in front of the richest man in New York, and you're asking me on a date?"
He nods.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" You ask genuinely.
He shrugs. "I'm all business. I need a little more liveliness in my life."
"And you think I'd do that for you?"
"You already have."
You consider all of it. Your voice calms, "You can't tame me, you know."
He nods, "I would never try to."
And with that, you begin to tear the check into little pieces. The rug catches them, the dark gray contrasting with the little white papers. And he watches. Not the peices fall. But you.
You pull the strap of your purse higher on your shoulder and storm your way past him, content with your victory.
But you pause, huffing as you turn and kiss him on the cheek. "Pick me up at 8."
He listens to your shoes against the expensive tile until you're gone.
summary: Late in his office, Harry Castillo faces the weight of work - but your presence grounds him, offering comfort, quiet intimacy and a rare chance to simply breathe.
wc: 2.2k
Harry Castillo’s office is never truly dark.
Even after most of the building has gone quiet, after assistants have logged off, elevators have slowed, and the hum of conversation has faded into memory- there is always light here. Soft, deliberate light. Lamps instead of fluorescents. Warmth instead of glare.
Tonight is no different.
The city stretches endlessly beyond the windows, glass and steel and movement, alive in a way that feels distant rather than inviting. Cars crawl along illuminated streets far below, headlights like veins of white and red threading through the dark.
Harry sits at his desk, shoulders squared, posture rigid from habit more than comfort.
His jacket hangs abandoned over the back of a chair. His tie is loosened just enough to be improper by his own standards and the top button of his shirt has been undone for hours now. The faint lines between his brows - those that only appear when he’s deep in thought - have settled in and refused to leave.
He scrolls through another document.
Numbers. Projections. Forecasts. Language that sounds confident and decisive but feels heavy with consequence.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
That’s when he hears the soft rustle of paper.
You’re sitting on the edge of his desk, legs crossed casually, flipping through a thick folder with the kind of determined concentration reserved for things you absolutely do not understand.
Your brow furrows.
You tilt the page closer to your face.
Harry doesn’t look up yet, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
“What,” you ask carefully, “does EBITDA mean?”
He pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Do you want the real answer or the answer that won’t make you regret asking?”
You squint at the page. “There’s a difference?”
“There always is.”
You sigh dramatically and flop the folder shut. “I hate this. Respectfully.”
That earns a quiet chuckle.
Harry finally looks up at you, dark eyes softening the second they land on your face. It’s subtle - something most people would miss - but you’ve learned how quickly his edges dull when you’re around.
“You don’t have to pretend to care,” he says.
“I’m not pretending,” you reply. “I’m just… aggressively confused.”
“You’re doing great.”
“I’m really not.”
He smiles anyway.
The office clock ticks softly on the wall. It’s late - later than either of you intended - but neither of you has said anything about leaving.
You swing your foot slightly, heel brushing the side of his desk. “So,” you say, “how much longer do you think this will take?”
Harry glances at his screen, then at the stack of documents still waiting to be reviewed.
“…Define ‘this.’”
You groan and lean back on your hands. “I knew that was a trap.”
“You could go home,” he offers, not unkindly. “I’ll probably be here a while.”
You look at him for a moment, expression unreadable.
Then, simply: “I don’t want to.”
Something in his chest shifts.
He nods once, like he’s accepted a fact rather than won a choice. “Okay.”
He turns back to his laptop, but his focus fractures more easily now. He’s aware of you in a way that’s impossible to ignore - the warmth of your presence, the faint scent of your perfume mixing with coffee and paper and late nights.
You pick the folder back up, determined, flipping to another page.
“This one has charts,” you announce. “That feels promising.”
“Does it?”
“No,” you admit. “But I like the colors.”
Harry laughs under his breath, quiet and fond.
He doesn’t realize how tense he is until the ache in his shoulders sharpens with every minute that passes. He rubs at the base of his neck absently, jaw tightening as he rereads a paragraph for the third time.
You notice.
You always do.
There’s a certain stillness that settles into Harry when he’s overwhelmed.
He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t snap. He doesn’t raise his voice.
He goes quiet instead.
Efficient. Focused. Closed in on himself like a locked room with too many thoughts echoing inside.
You slide off the desk without a sound.
Harry doesn’t notice at first. He’s too busy frowning at his screen, mentally rearranging priorities that refuse to cooperate.
Then he feels warmth.
Hands - yours - settling gently on his shoulders.
He startles, just barely, breath hitching before he exhales.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“It’s just me,” you say softly.
Your thumbs press into the tense muscle just below his neck, careful but sure. He stiffens for half a second out of reflex, then slowly - almost reluctantly- lets go.
His head tips forward slightly.
“Oh,” he breathes.
You smile to yourself.
“You’ve been like a statue for hours,” you say. “I’m worried you’ll crack.”
“I’m fine,” he lies automatically.
You don’t argue. You just keep going.
Your hands move with purpose now, kneading tension out of muscle and stress and long days he refuses to complain about. Harry’s shoulders drop inch by inch, his breath evening out as the tight coil inside him loosens.
The office feels quieter. Smaller.
He leans back into the chair just enough to give you better access, eyes fluttering shut.
“You didn’t have to stay,” he says after a moment. His voice is lower now. Less guarded.
“I wanted to,” you reply.
There’s no drama in it. No expectation.
Just truth.
Harry swallows.
“I don’t know how you put up with this,” he admits. “With me disappearing into work like this.”
Your hands pause briefly, then resume, gentler now. “You don’t disappear,” you say. “You just carry too much.”
That lands deeper than you intend.
His jaw tightens - not in frustration, but something closer to emotion. He lets out a slow breath.
“Some days,” he says quietly, “it feels like if I stop for even a second, everything will fall apart.”
You lean closer, your voice near his ear. “But it doesn’t. And even if it did… you wouldn’t be alone.”
Harry opens his eyes.
For a moment, he doesn’t speak.
Then he turns his head just enough to look at you, really look at you. The city lights frame you softly and for once, there’s nothing sharp in his gaze.
“Today,” he says, “was brutal.”
You nod. “I figured.”
“This,” he continues, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “was the worst part of it.”
You still your hands. “Was?”
“Past tense,” he confirms.
He reaches up, covering one of your hands with his own. His thumb brushes over your knuckles in a slow, absent stroke.
“You’re the best part of my day,” he says. “Every day.”
Your chest tightens.
You lean down, resting your forehead briefly against the side of his head. “You’re allowed to rest, you know.”
“Only if you’re here,” he murmurs.
You laugh softly, and the sound seems to ease something in him that no amount of spreadsheets ever could.
You return to your spot on the desk, but Harry doesn’t let you go far. His hand lingers at your waist, grounding, familiar.
He doesn’t open his laptop again right away.
Instead, he watches you flip through the folder again, pretending very hard to be invested.
“Are you actually reading that?” he asks.
“Absolutely not.”
“Good,” he says. “I was worried.”
You grin and close the folder, setting it aside. “Do you ever think about… not doing this forever?”
Harry leans back in his chair, considering. “Sometimes.”
“And?”
“And then I think about what it allows me to protect. Build. Provide.”
You nod slowly. “You don’t have to be everything all the time.”
He studies your face, the earnestness there. “I know.”
It’s quiet again.
Comfortable.
Harry finally reaches for you, pulling you gently off the desk and into his lap. You go willingly, settling sideways, your legs draped across his.
He rests his forehead against yours.
“I don’t say this enough,” he murmurs, “but I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
You smile softly. “You’d survive.”
“Maybe,” he concedes. “But I wouldn’t be this happy.”
You press a kiss to his temple, then his cheek.
Outside, the city keeps glowing.
Inside, Harry Castillo allows himself - just for tonight - to stop carrying the weight alone.
Harry doesn’t rush it.
He never does with you.
When you settle more fully into his lap, the chair creaking softly beneath the shift in weight, his hands come to rest at your waist like they’ve always belonged there. Not possessive. Not hurried. Just steady, grounding.
You can feel the warmth of him through your clothes, the solid reassurance of his chest against your side. His thumb traces a slow, absent arc along your hip, as if he’s reminding himself you’re real.
“Comfortable?” he murmurs.
You hum softly, curling a little closer. “Very.”
He exhales, something like relief loosening in his shoulders, and rests his forehead against your temple. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The quiet isn’t awkward - it’s full. Heavy in the best way.
Harry’s nose brushes your hair when he breathes in.
“You smell good,” he says quietly.
You smile. “That’s the stress leaving your body.”
He lets out a soft laugh, the sound low in his chest. “If that’s true, you should be on payroll.”
“Benefits included?” you tease.
“Unlimited,” he replies without missing a beat.
You turn toward him then, slow and deliberate, one hand coming up to rest against his jaw. There’s a faint shadow of stubble there - evidence of the long day he hasn’t quite shaken yet. Your thumb brushes along it gently.
Harry stills.
His eyes soften, dark and intent, flicking briefly to your lips before meeting your gaze again. He doesn’t lean in right away. He waits - always waits - for you.
It makes your chest ache in that familiar, fond way.
You close the distance instead, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s light at first, almost tentative, but Harry responds immediately, turning his head just enough to meet you properly.
The kiss is slow.
Unhurried. Warm.
His hand slides up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades, pulling you a fraction closer as if he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he doesn’t anchor it.
When you pull back, barely an inch, he follows instinctively, brushing another soft kiss against your lips.
“Hey,” he murmurs, smiling faintly against your mouth.
“Hey,” you echo.
You kiss him again, lingering this time. Harry sighs into it, the sound gentle and content, like he’s finally exhaling after holding his breath all day.
You don’t stop there.
You kiss his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth again - small, affectionate kisses that make his grip tighten just slightly, not in urgency, but in appreciation. In gratitude.
Harry presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed. “You’re going to ruin me,” he says softly.
You smile. “You seem okay with that.”
“I am,” he admits. “More than okay.”
He shifts then, carefully, turning the chair just enough so you can settle more comfortably against him. You tuck yourself into his chest, your head fitting perfectly beneath his chin like it’s always known where to go.
His arms wrap around you fully now, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles into your back, the other resting warm and secure at your side.
You can feel his heartbeat.
Steady. Calm. Yours syncs with it before you even realize it’s happening.
The city outside hums on, unaware, uncaring—but here, in this pocket of quiet, time feels suspended.
Harry presses a kiss to the top of your head.
Then another.
And another.
Each one unspoken, each one saying something different. Thank you. Stay. I’m here.
You nuzzle closer, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re really tired,” you murmur.
“I am,” he agrees.
“Do you want to go home?”
He hesitates - not because he doesn’t want to, but because the word home has started to mean something different lately.
He tilts his head, brushing his lips against your hair again. “Only if you come with me.”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you lift your head, meeting his gaze, and kiss him - soft, sure, and full of promise.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you say quietly.
That does something to him.
Harry’s arms tighten around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face briefly against your shoulder, breathing you in like you’re oxygen.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, “how much I needed you tonight.”
You stroke your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, feeling him relax beneath your touch. “I know.”
He laughs softly. “You always do.”
You stay like that for a long while - cuddled together in his chair, trading soft kisses and quiet touches, nothing demanded, nothing rushed. Just presence. Just closeness.
Eventually, Harry presses one last lingering kiss to your lips, then rests his forehead against yours again.
“Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“For staying,” he replies simply. “For reminding me that there’s more than this.”
You smile, heart full. “There’s always more. Especially with you.”
He kisses you again - slow, tender, full of everything he doesn’t always know how to say.
And for the first time all day, Harry Castillo feels truly at ease.
♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger!Original Female Character
♫⋆｡♪ WC: 9.4k
♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, P in V Sex, 2 Rounds, Size kink, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Cum as Lube, Creampie 2x, Doggystyle, Missionary, Fingering, Cunnilingus, Age Difference, Catherine being submissive, Harry losing control, first fight, hospital visit, FLUFF, Slow Burn, Yearning, Mutual Pining, Soulmates, Romcom Vibes, Domestic Harry Castillo, Billionaire Harry, Harry learning how to fall in love the human way, Emotional vulnerability
♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Dating life of Harry the billionaire and Catherine the composer.
Months passed the way good months sometimes do—quietly, quickly, tucked beneath the folds of routine. Not without its challenges, but gentler, more bearable when the days were stitched with shared meals and familiar faces. Harry worked. Catherine spends her days helping the studio. Sometimes, they occupied different orbits entirely, but they found their way back to each other more often than not. His reason was mostly because she needed to help him eat the groceries she bought before it went bad.
He had started sending for her. Not every day, but enough to call it a pattern. His driver would pull up outside her building like clockwork, and she’d emerge—always with something in hand, a coffee or a tote bag or a violin, talking on the phone, laughing. She never asked for the car, and when he offered to get her her own driver, she declined immediately.
“Mr. Williams is fine,” she had said, slipping into the seat and adjusting her coat. “He’s kind. And besides, he’s saving up for something. He could use the extra hour. I think his wife’s expecting again.”
Harry had blinked. “How do you know that?”
“I ask.”
And she did. She asked people things. How their day was. How they slept. If their mother was still in the hospital. She remembered names and faces and allergies. Mr. Williams—a scary looking man with a small scar on his lips—once told Harry that driving her around was therapeutic. “Talks my ears off,” he’d said fondly. “She reminds me of my youngest niece. One that thinks too hard about the world.”
Harry had laughed at that. “You’ll get a bonus.”
He said he would have done it without the bonus anyway.
It was astonishing, how quickly people opened up if you just knew where to look. Williams needed the extra cash, yes—three kids and another on the way. But more than that, he needed someone like Catherine in the car with him, asking questions that made the day pass easier. Something that Harry knew nothing about.
Catherine had that effect. A kind of soft interference in people’s patterns. She didn’t always mean to fix things, but sometimes she did. Harry saw it on a random Thursday near Times Square, when she stopped walking to listen to a busker with a bent trumpet and a torn glove. Some teenagers were heckling, loud and careless. She gave the musician a fifty and an address—her studio—and told him to come record something, no charge.
“You can’t run a studio giving free services to everyone,” Harry had said later, not unkindly.
“I know,” she said, tying her hair back. “But he’s talented. Think of it as an investment.”
And then he understood. Funny how she could speak his language so easily. She made the world a little more tolerable. For people like him and Mr. Williams. For Emma, too.
The night Catherine played a private concert for Emma’s anniversary—Harry wasn’t there, but he heard all about it the next day. Emma came into work glowing. She showed him videos, grainy but still lovely, of Catherine in a small personal fancy dining room that they rented, playing an impromptu rendition of a song Emma’s husband used to sing when they were first dating.
“She played it after hearing it once,” Emma had said, eyes a little misty. “And she made us laugh, too. I think she’s magic.”
Harry had nodded slowly, then asked her to send him the pictures—just the ones of Catherine. He said it was for some press kit. It wasn’t.
Catherine still spent nights at his place, though not every night. And most nights ended the same way—him watching her fall asleep mid-sentence, her hair splayed across his pillows, her breath soft and even. She’d kiss him, and they’d kiss some more, and sometimes her hand would slip under his shirt and stay there, and his heart would race, his body would follow. But eventually she’d fall asleep against him, warm and tangled, and he’d lie there, wanting her in ways he didn’t even have words for.
He had taken more cold showers in the last month than he had in the last decade. But he didn’t complain. He wouldn’t have changed it for anything.
Because something in the way she reached for him without thinking, curled toward him in her sleep like he was a constant, made it all worth it. Because this—this was a rhythm he could live with.
And even in his frustrated quiet, he knew what it meant. He was falling in love with her.
Not in the impulsive, blindfolded way of his younger years. Or the way he usually gets attached to someone, with his head and his needs. But slowly. Precisely. Differently than his past experiences when the urgency of getting old got to him. It was a slow process, especially for someone his age, but he didn’t really care. He did it happily. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like there had never been any other outcome.
The first two months were nearly over before either of them noticed. Not because the days went fast, but because they were full. Appointments. Rehearsals. Meetings.
Catherine’s documentary deal was set to begin—her first screen project. She’d turned down films before, but this one felt right. A quiet, poetic piece from the BBC, part of a larger series about the universe. She’d read the project aloud to him once, on the couch, bare-legged and wrapped in his sweater, and he remembered thinking that only she could make gravitational waves sound romantic.
They decided to have a night out before the chaos began. A dinner. A real one.
He took her to Emma’s husband’s restaurant. It was fancier than the usual places he took his girlfriends. There were multiple utensils, arranged according to a specific etiquette that most of his regular girlfriends wouldn’t know, even the upper middle class. It was the kind of fine-dining place that required serious reservations, or at least knowing someone important—which, of course, Harry did. But he hadn’t ever bothered to go before. Not with anyone.
She noticed.
“Why haven’t you been here before?” she asked, between sips of wine. “I know it’s hard to get a table, but a couple weeks' wait isn't the end of the world. You could’ve asked Emma ages ago, or one of your colleagues. I’m sure you have business with important people.”
He folded his napkin with unnecessary care. “I guess I just didn’t like the hassle of putting my name on waiting lists.”
She tilted her head. “You don’t like romantic dinners?”
“I do, but not the hard ones.” He paused. “Not ones that required waiting.”
Her eyebrow rose. “What about your previous girlfriend?”
He took a sip of water before answering. A beat too slow. That slippery territory again. Still embarrassing.
“I guess I haven’t really bothered before,” he said finally. Or wanted to, he thought. “A multi-course meal isn’t just for anyone.”
He didn’t tell her that he used to take women to the same three places on rotation—quiet but forgettable to him. He liked women who thought a couple hundred was expensive. It made him feel like he exceeded expectations by just avoiding food truck meals. Conversations kept surface-level. Nothing that stuck. Nothing that lingered. He wanted the romance just enough to get by, to make them stay. He’d take them to a somewhat fancy place and they’re already looking at him like he’s amazing, like part of his charm is his money. He didn’t mind. Love had felt like something abstract and theatrical then.
“Besides,” he added, “this is to make up for our first date.”
Catherine smiled. “I love that burrito truck. It’s seen me at my worst.”
He chuckled.
Back at the penthouse, it was late but neither of them were tired. They talked for a while—feet on the coffee table, glasses still half-full—until the conversation drifted to early years. He told her about the time he’d somehow earned a B in high school art by charming his way through a final presentation. Claimed his poorly drawn still life was a commentary on irony in postmodernism. The teacher had blinked at him, probably too tired to argue.
“I had no idea what I was talking about,” he said. “Still don’t.”
She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine. He liked making her laugh. Probably more than he should.
And then, maybe out of some buried insecurity, he asked if she would get bored of him. If it was strange to date someone who couldn’t tell a C major from a D minor. Someone who, despite his power and polish, couldn’t really understand what it meant to be moved by your own creation.
“You think I pick people based on whether they can do art?” she asked, grinning, her voice soft in the quiet.
He didn’t answer. Not directly.
The pageant conversation happened by accident. A thread pulled too lightly, and suddenly it unraveled. One moment they were teasing each other over bad yearbook photos, and the next they were watching old videos of Catherine—aged somewhere between seven and ten—answering questions on a televised stage, her voice small but oddly composed. A pink sash, a tiara, a winning smile that looked practiced.
Harry hadn’t expected to find it so endearing. The clip was buried deep online, grainy and compressed, dug up through some obscure archive website with buffering issues. Catherine was red-faced the entire time, fingers clutching the edge of the couch cushion as if it might help her disappear. She kept insisting it was awful. She claimed her voice was too squeaky, her dress ridiculous, her walk stiff. But what Harry saw was a child who already knew how to charm a room. Articulate, even then. Witty in a way that didn’t feel coached.
“You won,” he said, softly. “Don’t know why you have to be so embarrassed.”
She rolled her eyes and reached forward to close the tab before the video could finish. He didn’t fight her on it—but he bookmarked the link. He’d watch the rest later, when she wasn’t looking.
Later that night, they were brushing their teeth together when her sister called, a picture of a woman who looked a little bit like Catherine but with darker hair glowed on the screen. Jane. The name flashed on the screen just as Catherine was finishing rinsing. She answered it without hesitation, putting it on speaker like Harry was already in the fold—just another pair of ears in the room, welcome to whatever family mess came through the line.
Jane’s voice was sharp, slightly amused. “Heard you accepted a movie deal.”
“It’s a documentary,” Catherine said, mid-spit.
“Same thing.”
“It’s not a movie,” she corrected. “It’s for the BBC. They’re interviewing Ashoke Sen.”
A pause. Then a scoff. “Like I know who that is.”
Harry tried not to laugh.
“I’m with Harry,” Catherine said, grabbing a towel to dry her face. “Say hello, Harry.”
“Hello.”
“The boyfriend, huh?” Jane said, too smoothly. “Heard a lot about you, Harry.”
They talked about some other stuff too, mostly about family. Harry trailed to his bedroom, half listening.
“Anyways, Jane, It’s late here and I’m having a sore throat. Plus tomorrow is my first day doing the soundtrack, so this is my last chance to get a really good rest.”
When she closed the phone, Harry already went rifling through his medicine cabinet, returned with a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
“For your throat,” he said simply, holding it out to her like it was nothing. “You have to drink it again tomorrow. Next time you feel sick, even just a little, you tell someone. Alright?”
She paused. Looked at him for a beat longer than expected.
Then nodded, quiet, and took the pill. He watched her slowly, making sure she really did drink it. He then took the glass and went out again to refill it, to put it on her bedside table— at least the one he assigned to her.
She stood in the bathroom doorway, sleeves of her shirt rolled up to her elbows. Her hair was half-damp, soft at the ends. She looked at him the way she always did—like she was trying to memorize him.
Harry waited, silent, the way he often did with her. Some words had to arrive on their own.
“I like you, Harry,” she said.
He smiled, slow. “Well, I should hope so.”
But something lingered behind her voice. A shadow of guilt, maybe, or melancholy. She’d said earlier how emotional she was about tomorrow—how work would consume her, how her schedule would change. That she hated missing things. Her friends, her studio. Him. There was something about knowing what was coming that made her softer tonight. Like she needed to hold onto something.
She stepped toward him and kissed him. Lightly, at first. A cautious hello, a silent sorry. Then she kissed him again. Deeper. Longer. The kind of kiss that said she’d been thinking about this all day. Her mouth tasted like peppermint. Her hands touched his jaw, the side of his neck, slow and certain.
He kissed her back and found her pulse with his mouth, just under her ear. She inhaled, shallow.
“Thank you for being so patient with me,” she whispered.
He laughed under his breath. “Hasn’t been easy.”
Her laugh pressed against his skin. Then she kissed him again, slower this time. Hungrier. Her hands curled into the back of his neck, her breath a pattern he already recognized. Familiar and new. He groaned before he could stop himself.
“You’re trying to torture me,” he murmured.
She smiled, full and amused. Jumped a little into his arms, light as she always felt in moments like this. He caught her easily, carried her a few steps toward the bed. Their routine.
He laid her down to his bed.
“I want you, Harry,” she said.
His heartbeat stopped. He stared for a moment, eyes refused to blink, dark with desire, looking down at her on the bed. His frame caged her in.
“I want you—”
“Don’t say that,” he told her quietly. “Not unless you really mean it.”
She looked at him. No blink. No hesitation.
“But I do,” she said. “I think about you all the time. I’m going to miss having you around.”
“You're not going anywhere,” said Harry, giving her cheeks kisses. “I’m going to visit your studio everyday. Check if you’re still alive or not.”
“Everyday? That’s an awful lot of time, isn’t it? You’re not busy?”
“Everyday.”
He kissed her again—soft, and long, and grateful. She was starting to kiss desperately, clinging to him harder than she had ever done before.
“Please, Harry,” said Catherine, her eyes dark with lust.
He looked the same way, but he’d argued his feelings were more intense. It was long bottled up and stored away, waiting for her to start the fire. “You don’t need to beg, sweetheart. My beautiful Catherine.”
His hands trailed her body, braver than he ever was before. He touched breasts, slowly at first, then rougher when she approved with her moans.
“I wanted you so much. Would’ve waited a lifetime,” he said. He took his shirt off slowly, then hers. She was eager, raising her arms then wrapping it around him again.
“I’m sorry it took so long. I wanted you too,” she said, bringing him for a kiss again.
He groaned. “Don’t say sorry.”
She moaned, and the sound woke something so guttural inside him that he stopped.
She kissed him still, then asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m going too fast,” he said, his breathing heavy, inhaling more of her smell that somehow travelled down to his crotch, making his length hard, wanting to be inside her.
He was desperate. Oh so desperate. How long had he wanted this? So long, so long he wanted to touch her, to be inside her. To hear her moan as she writhed under him. The thought was too strong, traveling through his body like electricity.
“I’m not a virgin, Harry,” she whispered.
“It's not that,” he said hurriedly.
“I’m on the pill. Just started last—”
He groaned, stopping her words.
“No, it's just… I don’t think I can hold back, sweetheart.” He winced at the surge of feeling. How pathetic he sounded.
“You don't have to.”
It took a few seconds for the words to settle. Then Harry took off the rest of their clothes, and his hand moved rougher, faster. Took off her bra in a hurry, her panties with the same urgency. He touched her there, felt the wetness and groaned again.
“So wet, Catherine,” he said, his voice unfamiliar. Lower.
He touched her clit, his fingers moving in slow circles.
Harry loved touching her, making her sigh. It made him look at her in a different light, like she was older than she is. And when he touched her, he felt intoxicated. His fingers caressed her velvety insides, hot and wet. She was, simply, the most beautiful woman in the world. He’s not exaggerating. Her curves, entirely woman. Soft, lovely.
His lips trailed down her collarbone, then lower to her breasts. He took one nipple in his mouth, sucking gently before biting down softly. She gasped quietly as he moved lower still, kissing her stomach and hips before settling between her thighs.
Harry buried his face between her legs, his tongue licking up her slit before finding her clit. He sucked hard, making her arch off the bed. He was hungry for her taste and sounds. Her moans always urged him on. His tongue worked her with skilled precision, each lick and suck more intense than the last. His hands gripped her thighs firmly, keeping her pinned down as he ravaged her.
“Fuck, Catherine”, he muttered against her. “Tastes so good.”
She moaned, a low sound that made him harder, had him searching for more friction. He groaned against her clit, the sound vibrating through her sensitive flesh. He knew he was pushing the limits of his own control, but he couldn't stop. He needed more of her sounds. More of her taste. His mind repeating the name Catherine like a prayer.
He slid two fingers inside her, curling them upwards to hit that spot deep inside.
Catherine let out a sound. The sound of her nearly screaming his name, but somehow lost in thought, like she felt too much pleasure she forgot. It nearly made him lose it. His fingers went faster, and faster.
He growled low in his throat. A sound of pure primal need.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered against her thighs as he moved back up her body quickly. “You’re killing me, Catherine.”
His cock pressed against her entrance.
“I want you too,” he said, desperately. “So much.”
Without waiting another second, for fear of his growing insanity, he pressed the head of his cock against her soaked entrance and pushed inward. Harry's mind went blank, his pulse inconsistent. It was, simply, the tightest, warmest cunt he ever felt. It made him forget all the others. He was sure nothing came close. He wondered how he went so long without it.
He took his time, savoring the feel of her tight heat enveloping him inch by tortuous inch. Once he was fully sheathed, he paused, his breath coming hard and fast against her neck.
Then in an effort to not pounce her immediately, he bit her neck, sucking, making a mark. He couldn’t even focus on her breath, didn’t even notice when her hands trailed around his back, urging him to move. He stayed there for a minute, holding himself back despite her moans. He couldn’t be too rough, even if he wanted to. Maybe someday, when they were both desperate for each other. But not now when he was sure his needs excelled hers. When it nearly clouded his control.
Harry began to move, his hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm that made her back arch off the bed.
He filled her up slowly, inch by inch, watching as she took him perfectly. He was overwhelmed by how good it felt. How tight, how it squeezed his cock almost painfully. It was a hard fit, but it didn’t matter. He liked the feeling. Revelled in it. It was hot, wet, and perfect. Frankly, he wanted to stay buried in her forever.
She was caressing him, as if urging him to go on. Her soft hands went from his shoulders to his arms.
“Fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart,” he finally said.
With a sound of pure desire, he began to move gradually faster. His hips slammed into her with brutal force, each thrust designed to take her to the edge and beyond. He fucked her harder, his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her vision blur.
She begged, repeating the word “please” but never got to the end of the sentence. There was something about her voice, the way she said it that made Harry hungrier. She was so polite, so soft in her request. And although he told her not to beg, he loved it. Loved the way she said his name like a prayer, as if her desire is close to anything he ever felt for her.
His thrusts became punishing, almost violent. He watched as her breasts bounced with each snap of his hips.
He knew he wasn’t being gentle anymore. He couldn’t. His body took control, claiming her hard and deep like he always wanted to.
Her moans filled the room, pushing him further.
His large hands found her breasts, squeezed it roughly, thumbs rubbing her hard nipples. He leaned down to capture a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as he continued hammering into her. His balls slapped against her ass with each thrust. He was grasping the last bit of control he had left, fucking her like a wild animal.
He switched between her breasts, lavishing them with equal attention. His teeth grazed against one sensitive nipple, making her gasp.
“Such beautiful breasts, sweetheart,” he growled, pinching one nipple between his fingers while he continued to suck the other. His hips still hammering.
“Fuck, you’re so tight. I can’t control myself, I’m sorry.” He went back to her mouth, kissing her again.
Her erotic face looked up at him, her brows furrowed, her voice softer, “It’s fine. I want you to.”
Those words were his undoing. He groaned so hard, his deep voice finally out from its restraints. Somehow, he thrusts faster. If his bed wasn’t expensive, it would’ve made a sound, would’ve moved with them and banged the walls. Internally, he cursed himself for not being able to stay quiet, focus on her body. Catherine, though, seemed to enjoy it. She didn’t mind that he went harder. Even better, she moaned right into his ears. The sound became louder when he groaned too. It was like a song, harmonizing, except it was erotic, filled with need.
His balls tightened, warning of his impending release. He squeezed her breasts roughly, sucked on her neck, marking her with hickeys.
Harry's body was a landscape of hard, coiled muscle beneath her trembling fingers. He could feel her hands. She mapped every ridge and valley, committing it to memory. He did the same, more out of need than to urge her. He explored the soft, yielding expanse of her skin. His hands roamed, possessive and hungry, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He cupped her breasts again, thumbing her nipples into aching peaks, before trailing lower, over the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.
"Fuck, Catherine," he groaned, his voice rough with desire, "You're exquisite. Every inch of you." He settled between her thighs, his hard length pressing against her slick folds, making her gasp. "I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you. Needed you."
She moaned louder.
"You feel incredible," he murmured, nipping at her earlobe and making her shudder. "Like you were made for me. Made to take my cock so perfectly." He began to move again, his thrusts deep and powerful.
Catherine’s fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails leaving red crescents in his skin. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him to go deeper. Harry obliged, pounding into her with a fervor that stole her breath. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin and their mingled moans and cries of pleasure.
Harry felt her tightening around him, her inner muscles clenching, as if close. He redoubled his efforts, determined to bring her to the peak, to hear her scream his name in ecstasy. He was close, so fucking close, and he could tell she was too. He reached between her legs, finding her clit again and rubbing it furiously as he pounded harder and harder.
“Come on my cock, sweetheart. Milk me dry. Squeeze me, just like that,” he said, urging her on.
Catherine let out a sharp cry as she came undone, her body shaking beneath his as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. His name came out in a desperate moan as he felt her pussy clench around his cock.
That squeeze of her release did something to him. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he found his own release. He let out a loud roar, his hot cum shooting into her pussy. He kept coming. His balls were emptying completely inside her.
Harry collapsed on top of her, still buried deep inside. His heavy breathing filled the room as he tried to catch his breath. His softening cock remained inside her, still leaking cum. God, he felt like he was a few decades younger.
“You did so well. Such a good girl,” he whispered against her neck.
“I could still feel you,” she whispered. “Your cum is so warm.”
He felt her warm breath on his neck and her squirming body against him. His soft cock twitches inside her, still sensitive. He presses a kiss to her neck, then her lips, swallowing her heavy breaths. He remained buried inside her, not ready to pull out just yet.
After some time, Catherine squirmed some more.
A deep groan escaped his throat as his cock started to harden again inside her, slowly. Some of his spent leaked from her, making a sound that sounded too erotic. He tried to tune it out, think of anything but how it good it felt to be inside her.
“Stop, Catherine,” he whispered against her lips, but his hips moved involuntarily, thrusting slowly this time. “You’re making me hard again,” his hand gripped her hips, trying to somehow stop it. Not because he didn’t want to, but because she needed the rest.
He looked at where they were joined. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the slight amount of blood on her thighs.
“Fuck, you’re bleeding,” he said apologetically. “You're sure you're not a virgin?”
Catherine, still finding it hard to speak, whispered, “I’m sure.”
He hissed, looking down at the mess they made. His thick length was almost fully inside her. He withdrew slightly, watching his shaft coated with her juices and a little blood. He was supposed to pull all the way out, but instead he pushed in slowly again. It was arousing, watching her pussy clung to him. He watched as some of his cum from a few minutes ago went down to his balls. The sensation made him want to thrust again.
She was so tight. Tighter than any woman he had ever been with.
“I want you again,” he said and winced as he tried his best to halt any motion.
She moaned, her eyes half-lidded. He couldn’t tell if she was tired or if she wanted more too. Then she squirmed again, and that did it for him.
"Fuck, Catherine," he growled softly, "you're so goddamn tight." He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside her and making her gasp. "It's like you were made for me, molded to take my cock, aren’t you sweetheart? To take every fucking inch of me. You can take me, can’t you? You’ll stretch just for me, hm?"
“Yes,” she said, breathlessly. “I can take you, Harry. I’ll be good.”
“Good girl,” he said. “So eager to please.”
Harry leaned down and sealed her lips with his in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth to tangle with hers. He devoured her moans and whimpers, swallowing them greedily as he began to move faster, his hips snapping against hers with increasing urgency. The wet, obscene sounds of their coupling filled the room again, spurring him on as he lost himself in the exquisite feel of Catherine's body beneath him.
"That's it, baby," he panted harshly against her ear, "Come for me. Squeeze my fucking cock with your perfect little cunt. I want to feel you come undone again. It feels good, doesn’t it?"
“It does,” she said hurriedly, nodding. “You’re so big. I’ll stretch for you. It hurts so good, it feels so good. I want you deeper. Please, Harry.”
Harry agreed but too busy with ecstasy to say so, almost laughing with relief when she said it.
He flipped Catherine onto her hands and knees, his large hands gripping her hips tightly as he positioned himself behind her. She felt the head of his cock pressing insistently against her dripping entrance, ready to plunge back inside her welcoming heat. With a swift, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside her, making her cry out in a mix of pleasure and slight pain.
"Fuck, baby," he groaned, pausing to let her adjust to the depth and girth of him stretching her open. "You're so tight like this. I can feel every inch of your little pussy clenching around me. You like it hard, sweetheart?"
“Yes, please, Harry.”
He began to move, his hips rolling in a deep, sensual rhythm as he held her hips steady. The new angle allowed him to reach even deeper inside her, stroking that special spot that made her knees shake. His balls slapped against her clit with each thrust, the lewd sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the room yet again.
One hand reached up to tangle in her hair, gripping it lightly as he pulled her back against his chest. She was smaller than him, yet still fit perfectly. His other hand slid around to her front, finding her swollen clit and rubbing it in tight, quick circles. Harry could feel her getting closer to the edge, her pussy fluttering and clenching around his pistoning cock.
"That's it, my good girl," he growled in her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine, "Come on my cock. Milk me, sweetheart. Good girl. So wet. Soak me. Tighten, just like that. Yes, just like that."
His words were filthy, dirty, and oh so effective. They pushed Catherine over the precipice, her body convulsing and shaking as a massive orgasm ripped through her for the second time that night. She screamed his name, a guttural, primal sound of pure ecstasy as her pussy clenched down on him like a vice. The sensation was too much for Harry, and with a roar, he slammed into her one last time before exploding, his hot seed spurting deep inside her spasming channel.
They collapsed together onto the bed, Harry's weight pressing Catherine into the mattress as they both struggled to catch their breath. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as the aftershocks of their intense coupling subsided. Harry pressed a tender kiss to her shoulder, letting her finally rest.
⊹
Harry had never known anyone to disappear quite so completely into their work. Not the way Catherine did. She didn’t just work at the studio—she lived there. Morning coffee gave way to late-night tea, which bled into caffeine-fueled dawns. She existed on crackers and adrenaline. When her hand began to tremble, she brushed it off—this happens when I forget to eat, she’d said with a smile. He didn’t find it amusing.
So he made a point by bringing her food. Had asked for her manager’s number to keep track of her when she’s not answering.
A bag dropped off at odd hours. A thermos. A warm pastry in the morning. A full dinner in a box, even if it was eaten cold. Sometimes he sent Emma, always with the excuse that he was running late, but never because he forgot. It became a habit. A quiet rhythm. Nourishing her had become the most important part of his day.
Her replies slowed. A text here, a missed call there. Sometimes silence altogether. He could’ve taken it personally, but he didn’t. He knew the pattern. She usually doesn’t answer when she’s with the whole orchestra. When she’s too preoccupied with other people. He knew how she worked, now that he knew her.
So he came to her everyday. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Even if it was just for a few minutes. Even if he stood at the edge of the room while she adjusted microphones or ran through a melody again and again until the sound was right. He always made time, because there was always time, if you looked for it. Although, that hadn’t been the case before her.
During spring, when she was supposed to be done, the word done lost its meaning. The BBC sent back notes—two tracks needed to be redone at some parts— higher or lower or more mellow in the parts they needed it to be. At first, she handled it. Smiled. Shrugged. The usual. But then she stopped sleeping properly. Stopped leaving the studio at all. The notes had burrowed in. Perfection became an obsession. He watched her slow down between takes, sometimes staring at the same page for twenty minutes, searching for something only she could hear.
She didn’t complain, but he saw the shift— in the way she tucked her knees into the studio chair, in the clutter around her, in the quiet frustration that lived in her shoulders. She was usually very neat.
Their first fight came during that period of time. Partially, it came from sleep deprivation and cheap takeout. From too many nights curled up on the studio couch, too many cold coffees reheated twice. It also came from a bump on her wrist that had been growing for a few days, under the skin like a second bone trying to form.
Harry walked in just as Talia, her manager, raised the book.
He didn’t register it at first—just the sound of voices, laughter maybe, and then that strange, high-pitched urgency he recognized as Catherine’s voice. He moved fast. His hand caught Talia’s wrist mid-air. The book stopped inches above Catherine’s arm.
She looked up at him, annoyed. “Stop, Harry. I need it to get fixed fast.”
He didn’t answer her right away. Just looked at the bump. It’s not red, it just looked like her joint got bigger in size. Though he noticed how she winced when she moved it. That was enough proof that she was in pain.
“That’s enough, Catherine,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”
“But I have to finish this song. And it’s hurting. I can’t concentrate—”
“You’ll finish it later.”
“No,” she snapped. “I’m so close. Just one more day. You don’t know how hard it is to get it right. I can’t get the harp to sound like it should—”
“Let’s go.”
“No.”
They ended up at the hospital anyway.
It was a quiet ride. She didn’t say a word. Just sat with her wrist in her lap, like a child sent to the nurse’s office. Her shoulders curled inward. He kept glancing at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes.
At the hospital, the verdict was clinical: a ganglion cyst. Harmless, mostly. Common in musicians. Sometimes painful, yes—but not dangerous. The doctor explained the options with the kind of voice that didn’t leave much room for comfort. They could drain it, but it might return. They could operate, but that meant downtime—weeks, maybe. A brace would relieve the pressure, but she wouldn’t be able to play. And then there were medications. Slower, but manageable.
She listened to each option like she wasn’t really there. She chose whatever got her back to the studio fastest without any more pain, which was draining it.
It wasn’t a hard procedure. The needle wasn’t even big, and she didn’t look like she was scared of it. But when it came time for it to be drained, she asked Harry to hold her and he could feel her other hand tightening on his shirt. It must’ve hurt.
When she finally laid back on the hospital bed, exhaustion took her almost instantly. She didn’t argue anymore. She just closed her eyes and folded into sleep like it had been waiting for her all week.
Harry stayed by her side, asking the doctor quiet questions in the hallway about recovery time and some other stuff they should know.
“She’s pushing herself too hard,” the doctor said. “That is a symptom from working her wrist too hard. What she needs is proper rest. If she keeps this up, she’s going to get sick with other symptoms worse than just a ganglion. She could get really sick.”
Like he didn’t already know that. Like he wasn’t already worrying everyday. He wanted to tell the doctor that he knew but the girl is too stubborn and stupidly drowning in her work. Instead, Harry just nodded. Noted it all. Took the pamphlets. When he came back into the room, she was still out cold.
They let her sleep until the nurse finished checking her vitals. The doctor woke her gently. She blinked up at Harry, a little disoriented. He didn’t say a word, just took her coat and helped her get up.
The ride back to his apartment was silent. Catherine had crossed her arms like a teenager, staring out the window with tight lips and a jaw that had locked into place twenty minutes ago. He didn’t speak. He knew her enough now to know it wouldn’t help. Not yet.
When the driver pulled up to the penthouse, she didn’t wait for the door to be opened. She was out of the car before him, stomping ahead like she meant to put distance between them. Her shoes echoed in the marble hallway. By the time he caught up, she’d already dropped her coat on the arm of the couch and was sitting with her legs curled up, arms crossed again, sulking with intent.
He closed the door behind them quietly.
“I can’t believe you didn’t take me back to the studio,” she said, not looking at him. Her voice clipped and fast. “I told you I could finish it in one day. Maybe even tonight.”
He didn’t respond immediately. She wasn’t really asking him. She just needed to release the tension building in her bones.
“The deadline’s a week away,” he said finally. “You have time.”
“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “I want them to be impressed. I want them to hear it and think—wow, she did it fast and she did it well. I was so close, Harry. You have no idea. I just needed the harp to fall right and I would’ve been done.”
She rubbed her wrist without thinking. The soft bandage made it look more fragile than it probably was. He couldn’t look at it too long.
“I should’ve just hit it with a book,” she mumbled.
That annoyed him. He stopped in front of her. Took a breath.
“That’s irresponsible,” he said firmly. Harder than he ever spoke to her before. “You hear me, Catherine? You don’t do that again. Never— Never do that again.”
She rolled her eyes. “I did it once before.”
“And you’re lucky I wasn’t there,” he said, still pressing, still loud. “Because I would’ve dragged you to the hospital that time too.”
She sighed, deep and dismissive. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” he said, walking past her to the kitchen, already reaching for water, maybe something to put in front of her. “I’m being a responsible adult.”
She didn’t argue after that. Just sat there, silent again, sinking slowly into the realization that her body—like time, like deadlines—was something she couldn’t control completely. And Harry, in his stubborn, quiet way, wasn’t angry. He was worried. That was worse somehow.
He walked to the kitchen and reheated the food he’d picked up earlier that afternoon, still in its paper bag from the studio run—untouched, because the hospital detour had gotten in the way. The microwave hummed quietly as he leaned against the counter, watching the numbers count down like they meant something.
He’d probably been too sharp with her. Too forceful. But at least she was here now. Safe, if grumpy. And if she hated him for it—fine. She could hate him while getting one full night of rest. That was the bargain he was willing to take.
Then she was there, padding into the kitchen like someone coming down from a fever. Her posture softer, head low. Like she was ready to surrender but didn’t want to say it out loud.
“I’m so tired,” she murmured.
“I know.”
He stepped in first. Arms around her before she could collapse into herself. He didn’t realize until then how much she needed that hug—how much she had been holding in with caffeine and sheer willpower.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re not being dramatic,” she said into his chest. Her voice cracked just enough to make his throat tighten. “And I missed you. Missed my friends. I’m never taking a screen deal again.”
He smiled, his chin above her head, resting against her hair. “You might change your mind later. You liked the first half, didn’t you? Before the notes came in. You just overthink the rest. That’s what happens when you care too much. It’s harder when you’re making things for other people.”
She nodded against him.
“It’s not like an album,” he went on, quietly. “When the only person you need to impress is yourself. They’ll have notes. Opinions. And you’ll listen, because that’s who you are. You care. That’s not a bad thing.”
There was a pause, and then he said: “Should’ve done an indie film first. They’d be so grateful you could send them an out-of-tune violin and they’d say it’s ‘experimental.’”
She laughed. Her body shook against his. When he looked down, her eyes were wet.
“You just have to learn to balance your life,” he murmured.
“I should,” she whispered. “I get lost in it sometimes. In wanting to do good.”
“I know you do.”
“I was working hard to make it perfect, but the urgency in which I did it, it’s because I didn’t want to miss out. I tried to make friends with orchestra people, but they’d rather see me as a composer than a friend. I sensed it. And my friends, well they’re artists in their own time, with their own schedules, with time to date and party. I’ve spent so many years missing out. Missing everything, getting left out. I’d be the one asking what the joke was, and they’d say, ‘You had to be there.’ And I wasn’t. I was practicing.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“I don’t want to miss out. On them, on you. But I keep needing to disappear to make great music. So I try to finish as quickly as possible, no matter how messy it gets, how unhealthy it is. As long as it means there’s no more inside jokes I couldn’t get, or a memory I missed.”
“We’ll make our own inside jokes,” he said. “Besides, nothing’s happening to me. Ever. And if something were to happen, you’d be the first person I’d tell.”
She looked up, smiling faintly through the mess of emotion. “I just want it done quickly so I can go home and not miss out on anything ever again.”
“I want you home too,” he said. “With proper rest. But you have time. What’s one more day?”
And that was that.
She fell asleep early that evening, he changed her into her pajamas while she was barely conscious. She collapsed into bed and slept like she hadn’t in weeks—deep and dreamless. When morning came, she didn’t stir even when he moved around the apartment. He let her be.
He left a note by her nightstand before work, told her to eat something and that he will be checking. That she could ask Mr Williams to take her back to the studio when she’s ready.
And then he was gone, leaving the door softly shut behind him. The penthouse felt warmer with her there, even in sleep. Even in silence.
⊹
True to her words, Catherine finished the piece the day she said she would. The BBC accepted her revised renditions almost immediately, sending a short note of approval that made her breath hitch and shoulders finally relax. She was proud. That much was obvious. And Harry could tell, because she showed up at his office door with wine and flushed cheeks— unannounced, of course.
He didn’t know she was coming. He should’ve. Emma had been acting strange for the past hour, typing with too much energy and dodging questions with suspicious precision. When he pressed, she deflected with unusual efficiency. Only later did he realize Catherine had called to ask for the address, and Emma—predictably loyal—had played accomplice.
“I come bearing gifts!” Catherine announced, pushing open the glass door to his office, her grin already brighter than the last few weeks. “Well, you’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you? If this were my office, I’d work every day.”
He laughed, unable to stop smiling. Still in disbelief that she was actually there, like a bolt of light into a room that didn’t know it was dim. “No you wouldn’t.”
She leaned over and kissed him like she’d always belonged in his life.
“I was going to pick you up,” he said.
“I know. I wanted to see you earlier. See where you actually spend your time.” She spun slowly in the middle of the room, eyeing the bookshelves, the windows, the skyline behind them.
“That’s nice,” he said, his eyes trailing her movement. “You want to go out?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “I want to treat you to something.”
Of course she did. He knew he wouldn’t let her, but he let her think she might. That was enough.
“They gave me a bonus,” she added like a secret, and her joy was so unfiltered it made him warm in a way expensive scotch never could. “So tell me, what’s your favorite food? Anything. Your pick.”
He blinked. A strange question. An ordinary one. And yet, no one had asked him that before. Not any of his previous girlfriends. Not anyone. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.
“I don’t think I have one.”
“Sure you do.”
He thought. “Bagel?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll get you one tomorrow. But right now we’re celebrating. And you can’t possibly expect me to toast with carbs and cream cheese.”
He laughed, grabbing his coat, reaching for his wallet and phone in one movement. She was already halfway to the door, talking about possible options. He didn’t care where they went. It was the sound of her voice he was listening to.
Downstairs, as they exited the elevator, the doorman— more doorboy by the looks of it— smiled at Catherine with surprising familiarity. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Ainsworth.”
Harry squinted. “How’d you already know the doorman?”
“My heels fell off my feet when I was running in, and he helped me.”
“And you introduced yourself?”
“He asked who I was here for. I told him I was visiting my very important boyfriend.”
He looked at her. She was completely serious.
They settled on steak. Something grounding and simple, because Harry just wanted her to eat something filling and proper. The wine was good, the conversation better. She told him about the BBC meeting, how she finally felt a strange type of peace. Then, in between bites of potato gratin, she mentioned wanting to throw a small gathering. A celebration, with her friends, maybe some musicians. She said she’d need his help setting it up.
Harry mentioned he had a gala to attend tomorrow, some industry networking thing. She should come with him, he said. She’d be happy to, she said.
By the time the check came, Harry had already slipped his card to the waiter. She made a fuss about it for exactly ten seconds before yawning mid-protest. They were barely in the car when her head fell against his shoulder and stayed there.
By the time they arrived at the penthouse, she was fully asleep.
He didn’t wake her. Just carried her upstairs. Still in disbelief, still grateful. The wine, untouched in its bag, sat quietly beside her coat.
He placed it on the table and turned off the lights. And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t thinking about harps or deadlines.
Just sleep.
And maybe—if he was lucky—him.
⊹
His work gala came a day before her celebration party.
Catherine was the first girlfriend he actually invited in a while. His exes rarely came, and if they did, they never bothered to pay attention to the conversations. After noticing that they might like to stay home, he stopped inviting them. They wouldn't be interested, he knew. He had never minded if his girlfriends were uninterested in his life, he’s convinced few actually did. He had seen relationships differently back then. But now he had the need to show his life to Catherine. And more, he wanted Catherine to go. So he asked her.
Catherine had been excited to go, more than he expected. Maybe it was because he told her that most of his friends were in the industry—men with cufflinks and practiced grins who only saw each other during events like this.
The afternoon of, a few hours before they had to leave, he stepped out of the shower with a towel around his waist and steam still clinging to his skin. There it was, laid out across the bed like a gift—an unfamiliar suit. Sharp lines. Seamless work. Stitching so fine it was invisible. It was expensive. Probably more expensive than the ones he already owned, and those were nothing to scoff at.
He didn’t ask. He just stood there for a moment, towel dripping, a little stunned. Then smiled.
She must’ve taken one of his suits when he wasn’t paying attention, had copied the custom sizing and improved. She knew his measurements better than he did. He felt it in his gut again—that fluttery, maddening thing she kept making him feel. The one that settled somewhere behind his ribs and just… lingered.
He put the suit on. Of course it fits perfectly. Of course it did.
He found her in the walk-in closet, standing in front of the mirror in the middle of getting dressed. Her reflection caught him and she smiled, real and soft. Then she turned around, not fully zipped up.
“You look so handsome. I must say, I’m pretty darn good at this gift giving thing, huh? Turn around,” she said, biting back a grin, eyes flicking over the suit.
He laughed. It should’ve been the other way around, really. But he did as told, like a good man. Then after a second, he stepped closer and told her to turn instead. She obeyed.
His fingers zipped her up in silence, steady, deliberate. She smelled like flowers and that expensive hair oil she refused to admit was expensive. She hummed under her breath. He wondered, in the space between their bodies, how this became their life. How something this delicate could feel so certain.
The gala was held in a hotel ballroom dressed up to look like something finer. Marble floors, gold trim on the ceiling. A sweeping chandelier that no one really looked up at. It was for something or other—an annual event to recognize client milestones and corporate achievements, mostly a chance for industry types to see who was still around. There was always one or two names missing from the list. The gala was, if anything, a gentle reminder that the game never stopped.
This year felt different. He felt it before they even entered. Before they gave their names at the door and got a nod of recognition, before they were handed drinks. The room looked at him longer. Or maybe, most likely, they were looking at her.
Catherine wore a dark navy gown with a clean neckline and a fabric that glinted when she moved. Nothing loud. Just elegant. A single curl behind her ear. A slight flush on her cheeks—not nerves, just her usual color. She held his arm the way she always did, casual, natural. As if they’d been walking into rooms like this together forever.
The first twenty minutes passed in a blur of names and champagne. Harry shook hands while Catherine smiled and remembered every name. She charmed the bartender within minutes, said something complimentary about the way the napkins were folded. She complimented the color of a passing woman’s shoes. She leaned down to speak to a server holding a tray of miniature pastries and asked about some type of pastry he never bothered to know the name of.
Harry watched from a few feet away, sipping his drink. She made people feel like people. He was used to faces glossing over after the second glass, names forgotten, wives clinging to arms like accessories.
“Who’s this young lady?” one of his colleagues asked.
“Catherine, nice to meet you,” she said, offering her hand.
“Nice to meet you too, Catherine. I’m glad Harry finally found a girl who looks happy to be here.”
“I’m happy to come,” she said with a small laugh. “The chouquettes were so good I asked for the recipe.”
“My wife would love you. She runs a bakery.”
“Really? Is she here?”
“Somewhere. I’ll introduce you.”
And he did. Catherine was whisked away to meet her, and Harry let her go without protest. She was like that. A tide. Moving from one person to the next, leaving everyone warmer than before.
He found her again ten minutes later, deep in conversation with his friend’s wife about sustainable packaging in pastry boxes. And although Harry was huddled with his friends— or colleagues— his eyes trailed to her.
One of his single colleagues, predictably, was two glasses of whiskey in and smirking. He talked to Catherine only briefly a few moments ago, yet she managed to make an impression on him.
“Where’d you find her?” he asked, leaning in.
“Cold Spring,” Harry said.
“Does she have a friend?” Another one of his colleagues asked. One that already has a partner.
“You’re not gonna have luck with that, she befriended the whole of New York already. She already introduced herself to the caterers. Give her a few more hours and she’d memorized all the names in this room.”
They laughed. Someone refilled their drinks. Somewhere between the toasts and the polite speeches, Catherine returned to his side and whispered something about how good the wine was and how she loved that the pianist played actual classical pieces instead of mainstream songs with repetitive melodies. She clinked glasses with someone’s wife, told someone else they had a nice laugh which made them turn scarlet and laugh harder than anyone was supposed to on these occasions, and remembered the name of a woman Harry hadn’t seen in ten years.
He hadn’t thought about it before, but it struck him then— how perfectly she fit with his crowd even with her unusual approach. Not like someone pretending. Just like someone who didn’t need the world to change for her. She shaped herself around it and still managed to remain exactly who she was, and somehow, she belonged. He didn’t know how she did that. But he knew this: they’d remember her long after the next course. Long after the speeches. And if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. He would.
denizens of tumblr who watched materialists i need to settle a debate with my best friend
does pedro pascal think love is a childish stupid thing, he feels stupid for wanting it, and that is why he feels love is difficult, or does he feel stupid for not understanding it because he finds love so difficult
summary: when your friends bet you and Harry Castillo – the man you definitely don’t have feelings for (allegedly)– that you can’t spend the christmas days together without getting finally together, you’re determined to prove them wrong. He is determined to win too. Even though everyone can see the way you two flirt, hover and stare at each other like it’s a habit neither of you can break.
two idiots who pretend it’s just a bet, friends who are 100% entertained, pining (obviously), denying and ignoring obvious feelings like it’s an Olympic sport, flirt obviously, overthinking and overanalysing every glance and touch
PART I: the bet
PART II: soft denial
PART III: milk, cocoa, silence
PART IV: near misses
PART V: close enough
PART VI: unsaid
PART VII: the end of the bet
PART VIII: epilogue
tag list: @suzysface @umadirectioner @setforholme @kakiki3 @loveday1219 @joelmillerpascal
summary: You and Harry Castillo were childhood friends — until life got in the way. Years later, he’s a billionaire with a reputation to fix, and you’re the only one he trusts to play the role of his girlfriend. What starts as fake quickly feels too familiar. The glances linger, the lines blur and neither of you are pretending anymore.
harry castillo x f!reader
fake dating, mutual pinning but they pretend they don’t care, childhood friends to kinda strangers to lovers(?), shared history, just “for appearance” my ass, reader is a lawyer, no y/n, mutual pinning when they were younger but they were too oblivious
