series summary: Are you hard to love, or have you not found the right person? After you meet Harry Castillo at your sister's wedding, he shows you what it means to be in love. He shows you how to be loved.
series warnings: fluff, slow burn, mutual pining, reader somewhat plays hard to get, Harry is filthy rich and spoils you, Harry speaks Spanish (translations will be there), SMUT 18+ MDNI (each chapter will have their own warnings), reader suffers from anxiety and depression, angst, more warnings with each chapters.
Pedrotober - Day Twenty One: 'Falling Inn Love' a Christmas Harry Fic
pairing: harry castillo x f!reader
word count: 5.5k (this is the first half of the first chapter)
story summary: After being left at the altar, you decide to take your would-be honeymoon alone—an escape to Scotland for Christmas and a much-needed reset. But when a snowstorm and a booking error leave you sharing a suite with Harry Castillo—a wealthy, handsome businessman also seeking solitude after a recent break-up—your quiet getaway turns into something unexpected. Between crackling fires, shared meals, the Christmas spirit, and soft laughter, two strangers learn that sometimes love finds you when everything else falls apart.
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a/n: as a reminder, requests are open and will be done after pedrotober 🖤
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When you were standing in the TSA line at the airport, you weren’t expecting to be alone—much less for Christmas.
This was supposed to be your honeymoon. You’d had it booked for nearly a year, every detail planned down to the cozy stone cottage and the candlelit dinners overlooking the cliffs. Scotland had always been the dream, ever since you were little, so when the dates aligned so you’d spend Christmas there, you were ecstatic. It felt like something out of a fairytale.
Until it wasn’t.
Until the morning you were about to walk down the aisle and your brother appeared at the doors—pale and hesitant, to tell you that Sam was gone. That he wasn’t coming. That he’d “needed time.”
Now, a week later, you were here—passport clutched in one hand, boarding pass in the other, your suitcase already swallowed by the conveyor belt. Hell, you’d been awake since three in the morning, convincing yourself this was the right choice. That this trip wasn’t running away; it was a reset. A way to start again.
But as the line inched forward and the smell of burnt coffee drifted from a nearby Starbucks kiosk, the doubts started whispering again.
You’re alone. This is pathetic. You’re spending Christmas in a foreign country by yourself. Are you really that cheap you couldn’t just regift the tickets? What would Sam think of you going on this trip?
You were seconds from believing them when a gentle touch on your arm pulled you back.
“Where are you off to, dear?”
You blinked, meeting the kind eyes of an older woman beside you, her wool scarf wrapped snugly around her neck.
“Scotland,” you said, managing a polite smile as you showed her your boarding pass.
“Oh, how lovely!” she beamed. “That’ll be so beautiful during Christmas—misty mornings, little pubs, all that green. You’ll fall in love with it.”
You glanced down at her boarding pass, seeing she was going to some warm sunny island, and let out a small laugh. “You’re going somewhere much sunnier—lucky you.”
She gave a dismissive wave. “Christmas isn’t meant for sand and sun. I’ll take a chill in the air and a fire any day.”
“Touche,” you said softly.
The line shuffled forward. She tucked a strand of gray hair behind her ear and asked, “So, are you meeting family there?”
You hesitated before answering, “No. It’ll be just me.”
She smiled knowingly. “Some of the best trips I’ve ever had were the ones I took alone.”
You tilted your head. “Really?”
“Oh yes.” Her eyes went distant for a moment, her voice warm with memory. “When you travel alone, you meet yourself again. You listen more. You notice more.”
You stepped closer to the checkpoint, her words somehow sinking deeper than she could have known. “Any advice?”
She reached out and squeezed your hand gently. “Let yourself be surprised. The best parts of any journey are the ones you don’t plan.”
The agent called her forward then, and she gave you one last smile before disappearing into the crowd.
You stood there for a moment longer, her words looping through your mind like a quiet mantra.
Let yourself be surprised.
By the time your plane took off, you’d already been awake for twelve hours, and it showed.
The flight was packed—every seat filled, every overhead bin crammed, the air thick with recycled exhaustion. It was a typical holiday flight—straight out of the movies and TV shows you’d watched. Including the lovely detail of somewhere near the back, a baby began crying before the wheels even left the runway, and another joined in by the time you reached cruising altitude.
You told yourself it was fine, that you could handle crying babies and cramped legs if it meant escaping everything waiting for you back home.
But then came the snoring.
The man in the aisle seat beside you had tilted his head back before takeoff and immediately begun what could only be described as a death rattle through his sinuses. If you were being honest, you were concerned, but on the other hand, you were also amazed he was still alive with sleep apnea as bad as his.
However, it got to a point where you couldn’t take it anymore and you’d tried everything—music, podcasts, the volume all the way up—but nothing could drown it out.
And then there was him—the passenger directly behind you. The serial seat-kicker from the depths of what you could assume was your own personal hell.
At first, you tried to ignore it, assuming it was an accident, that maybe he just needed to stretch his legs. But an hour passed. Then two. Every few minutes, another sharp jab to your lower back. The kind that made your jaw clench and you grip the arms of the seat until your knuckles turned white.
Finally, after a kick that sent your blood pressure through the roof, you twisted around in your seat, offering what you hoped was a polite but firm smile. “Excuse me, sorry—but, could you please stop kicking my seat?”
The man barely looked up from his phone. “If you didn’t want someone behind you, you should’ve booked first class, princess.”
You blinked, stunned. “I—what?”
He shrugged. “That’s how planes work. Seats move. Get over it.”
It took everything in you not to fire back. You simply turned around, inhaled deeply, and muttered under your breath, “Sure. Merry Christmas to you, too.”
The next hour crawled by in a haze of turbulence and bad in-flight food smells. You tried to close your eyes, but your brain kept replaying every awful moment from the past week: the white roses at the altar, the guests whispering and looking at you in your dress as you stood there asking what you felt was a million questions, your mother’s trembling hands, your brother’s voice regretfully saying, “He’s gone.”
When your chest started to tighten and you felt like you couldn’t breathe, you unbuckled your seatbelt and quickly slipped into the tiny airplane bathroom. The mirror was cruel under the fluorescent light, as it highlighted every tear streak and sleepless night you’d been given since what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life. You gripped the sink, stared yourself down, and whispered, “Okay. Enough. This is a reset, remember? We’re not running away—we’re reclaiming it.”
You exhaled, nodded, then said it again with more conviction, “Think of it—just a week. A whole week in that inn with no one to tell us what to do, no pitiful calls from family, no sad looks. We can read all the books we packed, cook whatever we want, fuck—we can drink wine in pajamas at two in the afternoon if we feel like it.”
A small laugh escaped you—half tired, half defiant, “Just… we need to get there. Then we can fall apart later.”
You splashed some cold water on your face, fixed your hair, and went back to your seat. The baby was still crying, the man was still snoring, and the seat-kicker had upgraded to “restless leg percussion,” but somehow, you felt steadier.
When the plane finally began its descent, you pressed your forehead against the window, watching the first threads of snow streak past. The world below was white and endless, the fields and villages dusted like powdered sugar. It almost made your chest ache—something about how quiet it looked down there, how peaceful.
The landing was rough. You gripped the armrest, feeling every bump as the plane skidded onto the icy runway. The captain’s voice crackled overhead, cheerful in a way that made you want to cry and laugh at the same time: “Welcome to Edinburgh, folks. Temperature’s sitting just below freezing, and we’ve got a bit of a snowstorm rolling in—so bundle up out there. Merry Christmas and have a Happy New Year, and thanks for flying with us.”
You looked out the window and saw the storm. ‘We’ve got a bit of a snowstorm rolling in’ was an understatement.
By the time you made it through customs and collected your luggage, fat snowflakes were falling hard and fast, spinning under the glow of the airport lights. You tugged your scarf tighter around your neck and stepped outside, the cold wind hitting your face like a shock.
A taxi idled near the curb, its wipers squeaking rhythmically as the driver waved you over. You slid into the backseat, shivering, your breath fogging the window as the door shut behind you.
“Where to?” the driver asked, his Scottish accent lilting warmly through the frost.
You told him the address of the inn that was just outside the city. He gave a low whistle. “Long drive in this weather, but we’ll get you there, love.”
You smiled faintly, exhaustion threading through your voice. “As long as it’s away from here, I’ll take it.”
The car pulled away from the curb, tires hissing on the slick road. Outside, the snow thickened—whole sheets of white swallowing the city lights until all that was left were the blurred outlines of trees and headlights cutting through the storm.
For the first time since you’d left home, you let yourself lean back, eyes fluttering shut. You didn’t know what waited for you at the end of that drive—but something deep inside you whispered that maybe, just maybe, the woman at the airport had been right.
Let yourself be surprised.
Harry’s POV
Harry Castillo wasn’t used to flying alone. Or quietly, for that matter.
Normally, there’d be his assistant fussing over schedules, a client sending last-minute documents, or his boss having him attend a board meeting remotely.
This flight was different. No meetings. No chatter. No one by his side.
Just him, a glass of whiskey he hadn’t touched, and the steady hum of engines slicing through gray December clouds.
He’d told everyone back home this trip was business—a final meeting with an international client in Edinburgh to close out the year—but the truth was, the meeting was only going to last two days at the most. He could fly back home in time for Christmas. Should be, probably. Instead, after his meeting would end in two days' time, he would ask his pilot to stay grounded in Ireland for the rest of the week. He’d tell him he wants to “clear his head.”
It would be easier than admitting what he really wanted—which was to disappear for a while.
He leaned back in his seat, watching the world blur by outside the window. Lucy’s words still echoed sometimes—I’m not in love with you… And you’re not in love with me.
After the breakup, he’d brushed it off with a wry smile and a sarcastic comment whenever someone asked. But she’d been right about one thing: love had to be on the table. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized it wasn’t between the two of them and he it hadn’t for anyone else he’d been with. Not even close.
He called Adore’s match-making service and hired them after a few weeks of letting his wounds heal. He’d been interviewed and filled out all the paperwork, did the whole gruesome process just to be let down—again.
The first date had been with a woman named Vanessa. She was beautiful, poised, but absolutely fascinated by one thing: his bank account. Every other sentence had started with, “So what kind of car do you drive?” or “Is your penthouse the one in that article by Esquire?” By dessert, he’d felt his head go numb with how the night had gone.
The second had been worse. He couldn’t even remember her name now—just that she’d shown up forty minutes late, she was three cocktails in before appetizers, and had loudly called their waiter “handsome” at least five times before the main course came out. By the time she spilled red wine on his sleeve, he’d realized the universe was mocking him.
The third? Catastrophic. A woman so stunning it almost distracted from the way she snapped her fingers at the hostess and told the server to “smile more.” She made some comments about people in the service field being beneath ‘them’, and instantly turned his mouth sour. He spent most of the night apologizing on her behalf and tipping double out of sheer mortification.
After that, he’d canceled the rest of the dates and told the main office he was “taking a sabbatical from romance.” In reality, he’d just stopped trying.
He swirled the melting ice in his glass, the amber liquid catching the muted cabin light. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be with anyone. Maybe some people are just meant to be alone.
As hollow as that made him—there was a strange peace in that thought. No expectations. No disappointments. Just silence and space.
The jet began to descend, cutting through low, heavy clouds until the landscape came into view—rolling fields fading into the gray-green coastline of western Scotland. The storm looked worse than forecasted. Sheets of snow swept across the tarmac as the pilot’s voice came through the intercom, calm and clipped. “We’ll be on the ground shortly, sir. Visibility’s low, but we’re clear for landing.”
Harry fastened his seatbelt and let out a slow breath. He hadn’t seen snow like this in years—not since childhood winters in upstate New York, before his life had become a blur of meetings and mergers and first-class lounges. The sight stirred something he hadn’t felt in a long time—nostalgia, maybe. Or the memory of what peace used to feel like.
The jet touched down with a soft jolt. Outside, the storm thickened, snowflakes swirling under the floodlights like confetti. For once, he didn’t rush. He stayed seated until the engines wound down, until the silence settled deep.
When he finally stepped out into the cold, the air bit his skin, sharp and clean. He closed his eyes and inhaled. It felt like starting over.
His driver—an older man named Declan—met him near the hangar, holding a sign with his name even though he was the only passenger.
“Bit of a drive ahead, Mr. Castillo,” Declan said cheerfully, taking his luggage. “The roads are slick, but I’ll get you there safe and sound.”
Harry nodded and smiled. “Appreciate it…?” He ended it on a question, like he was hinting at knowing his name.
Declan smiled, closing the trunk of the car, holding out his hand, “Name’s Declan, sir.”
Harry took his hand and shook it firmly yet friendly, “Harry. Please just call me Harry.”
Declan gave a tight nod and pulled his hand back to then open the car door, “Well then, Harry. Let’s get you somewhere warm, eh?”
Harry chuckled and ducked his head as he got in, “You read my mind. A nice fireplace will hit just the spot.”
Declan peeked in, “Aye, that and a nice cup of tea.” Then he closed the door, leaving Harry feeling just a little bit lighter by the warm welcome.
As they pulled away from the small private airfield, the snow came down harder, coating everything in white. The headlights cut through the storm, catching glimpses of stone walls, bare trees, and the occasional flicker of a cottage window in the distance.
He leaned back against the leather seat, phone tucked away, world on mute. The storm outside blurred the horizon into a haze of gray and gold.
Maybe this was what he’d needed all along—a little distance. A place where no one knew his name, where he wasn’t Harry Castillo the private equity millionaire, or Lucy’s almost-fiancé, or the man who couldn’t seem to find the right person. Just a man in a snowstorm, heading toward a quiet inn in the middle of a snowstorm.
He smiled faintly to himself, watching snow gather on the windshield.
“Let’s see if Scotland can work its magic,” he murmured.
Declan chuckled from the front seat. “Aye, it usually does.”
By the time the car turned onto the narrow country road, the world had gone white. The wind pressed against the windows, snow falling in thick ribbons that blurred the headlights into a hazy glow. The GPS had lost signal miles back, but the hand-painted sign that appeared through the storm—Lodge on the Loch—was enough to make Harry exhale in relief.
“Here we are,” Declan said, easing the car to a careful stop in front of a stone building that looked like it had been plucked straight from a postcard. Golden light spilled from the windows, the glow made softer by the falling snow. Smoke rose from one of the chimneys, and a wreath hung crookedly on the front door.
Harry smiled despite himself. “It looks perfect.”
Declan grinned. “Best place in the county, they say. Old Mr. and Mrs. MacGregor run it—been doin’ so for forty-odd years. If anyone can make a man feel at home, it’s them.”
Inside, the inn smelled like cinnamon, peat smoke, and something freshly baked. The lobby was small, with mismatched furniture that looked comfortably worn, a stone fireplace flickering in the corner, and a Christmas tree twinkling beside the large staircase.
An older man emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Evenin’, sir. You must be Mr. Castillo.”
Harry extended a hand, smiling. “That’s me. You must be Mr. MacGregor.”
“Ah, Graham,” the man said, shaking his hand firmly. “And this here—” he nodded toward the back, where a small woman bustled out carrying a plate of shortbread—“is my better half, Margaret.”
She beamed, setting the plate down on the counter. “You’ll take a biscuit before you go up, won’t you? They’re still warm.”
Harry couldn’t help but laugh softly. “How could I say no?”
Patrick handed him a brass room key—an actual key, not a card—and said, “Suite Three, top floor. Firewood’s been brought in already, and the heater’s on. Should be cozy enough for you.” He looked at his luggage that Declan had brought in and set near his feet, “Long trip, was it?”
“Longer than planned,” Harry admitted. “But I think this is exactly what I needed.”
Margaret’s eyes softened, as if she heard something he didn’t say aloud. “Well, that’s what the holidays are for, dear. Rest and a wee bit of quiet.”
“Quiet sounds perfect,” he said sincerely.
Graham led him up the staircase, the old wood creaking pleasantly underfoot. “Wi-Fi’s temperamental in this weather,” he warned, “but there’s a stack of books by the hearth and a record player that still works when the power’s in a mood. Breakfast’s at eight, dinner always at six, and we’ll keep the fire lit downstairs if you fancy some company.”
Harry smiled as they reached the door. “I appreciate it, truly.”
Patrick patted the key into his palm. “Enjoy your stay, lad. Let us know if you need anything...”
When the door closed behind him, the silence felt immediate and deep.
The suite was beautiful in a simple, timeworn way—wood-beamed ceiling, stone fireplace, a sofa draped with plaid blankets, and windows that looked out over the snow-coated cliffs. A small Christmas garland hung over the mantel, the faint scent of pine mingling with smoke.
Harry set his bag down, unbuttoned his coat, and exhaled. For the first time in months, maybe years, there was no phone buzzing, no assistant waiting, no schedule dictating his next move.
As he settled in, the wind outside blew strongly, the storm brewing more and more with each minute. There was a soft crackle of the fire that he’d built himself, coaxing the flames to life until the room glowed with a low, steady warmth.
He poured himself a glass of red wine from the bottle left on the counter—complimentary, with a handwritten note:
Welcome to the Loch. Merry Christmas.
“Well, thank you, Margaret,” he murmured with a small smile, settling near the hearth. He loosened his collar, turned on the old record player, and let the first slow notes of a jazz record fill the air.
It wasn’t silence exactly, but it was something close to peace.
He sat there for a while, glass in hand, staring into the flames. The firelight painted everything gold, softening the edges of his thoughts. He tried not to think about Lucy—about the ring that had sat in his desk drawer for months, and then the conversations they’d had in the middle of his kitchen. The look in her eyes when she realized it wasn’t working, that it needed to end. The look when she realized she didn’t want to be with him.
He ran a hand through his hair, leaned back, and sighed.
“I’ll be fine,” he muttered to the empty room. “Two days and then a week off the grid. How bad could it be?”
The snow kept falling. The record skipped once, then carried on. He finished his wine and poured another, thinking that maybe—if the storm kept up—he’d light the candles and read one of those books Graham had mentioned sitting in a bookcase next to the fireplace. He could almost picture it: a few days of quiet comfort, long walks, perhaps sleeping in a bit—getting some real rest.
Maybe, just maybe, he’d finally stop feeling like he was waiting for something that wasn’t coming back.
He’d just turned toward his suitcase in the bedroom, folding a few shirts into the wardrobe, when the sound of the front door opening carried faintly down the hallway. He froze, glass halfway to his lips.
Then came the unmistakable creak of boots on the entryway floorboards—and a woman’s voice, low but clear, muttering to herself as if she thought she was alone.
“Alright, Y/N,” you said under your breath, tone exasperated but gentle. “You did it. You made it. You didn’t cry in front of the sweet old taxi driver. You are officially on your honeymoon… alone.” Your voice faded mid-sentence.
Harry heard the silence stretch.
Then he heard the front door click shut. Then came a soft intake of breath—sharp, like you were startled.
He stepped out of the bedroom doorway, just far enough to glance down the short hall that opened toward the sitting room.
You were standing near the door, still bundled in several layers—your coat long and puffy, a knitted scarf wound around your neck several times, and a gray beanie perched on your head, the pom-pom dusted with melting snow. Your cheeks and nose were flushed a soft pink from the cold, your hair escaping in wild strands around your face. You looked like you’d walked straight out of a snow globe.
And you were frozen in place, staring at the coat and boots he’d left neatly by the entryway.
Your gaze darted from them to the fire crackling in the hearth, then to the music floating from the old record player. Your brows drew together in confusion.
“What the—this can’t be right,” you whispered to yourself, trying to rationalize the possibility of walking into someone else's room. “It’s a key. There’s one per room. It can’t be the wrong suite.”
Harry couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You looked like chaos and charm wrapped up in wool. He cleared his throat softly, not wanting to startle you but it didn’t work.
You yelped, spinning around so fast your scarf whipped the side of your face. Your hands flew up in front of you defensively, like you were about to fend off a burglar.
“Whoa—hey,” Harry said quickly, both palms raised in surrender, a laugh caught in his voice. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. You must’ve—uh—wrong room, maybe?”
Your eyes blinked wide as you lowered your hands slightly. “Wrong room? No, I—” You looked around again, bewildered. “This is Suite Three, isn’t it?”
He hesitated, then frowned lightly. “It is.” He crossed to the small table near the fire where his key lay, holding it up between two fingers. The little brass tag glinted in the firelight. “Suite Three.”
You came over and stared at it, then at the identical number etched into the key dangling from your hand.
“Oh, no,” you muttered.
“Oh, yes,” Harry said dryly, though his voice was amused more than anything. “Seems we’ve both been given the same room.”
For a beat, you just stood there—two strangers in a Christmas storm, firelight flickering between you, the record quietly crackling in the background.
You sighed, half embarrassed, half exasperated. “Well… one of us must’ve gotten the wrong key.”
He nodded toward the door and offered a small smile. “We can go sort it out together.”
You let out a small chuckle, “Yeah, before you accuse me of breaking and entering.”
That earned him the faintest smile. “Nah, I think that’s just trespassing. After all, you have a key...”
You smiled, “Fair point.”
The MacGregors were already in the lobby, sitting by the fire with cups of tea, when the two of you reappeared. Graham looked up, surprised. “Ah, back so soon, Mr. Castillo. Everything alright?”
Harry gave a polite smile. “Mostly. Just a small mix-up.” He gestured toward you. “Seems we both have keys for Suite Three.”
Graham blinked, then looked to Margaret, who let out a small gasp. “Oh, heavens—don’t tell me…” She hurried behind the counter, fumbling for the old reservation ledger. “The system’s been temperamental with the weather. I told Graham that the program would eat us alive one day.”
Harry exchanged an amused glance with you. You shrugged, lips twitching like you were trying not to laugh.
Margaret turned the book around after a moment, groaning. “I’m afraid it’s true. We double-booked it.” She looked between the two of you apologetically. “And…” She sighed, “It seems that every other room’s been filled for weeks. Holidays, you see.”
You shifted awkwardly, tugging your scarf looser. “That’s alright. He was here first. Can you help me find another room somewhere nearby?” You leaned against the counter, looking at the two of them, hopeful.
Graham’s brow creased as he glanced toward the window, where snow now whipped sideways against the glass. “Ah, I’m afraid that’ll be near impossible tonight, lass. Roads are closing already. Not safe to drive, and I’d wager every inn from here to Glasgow’s booked solid for Christmas.”
You sighed and nodded, visibly deflating. “Right. Of course they are.” You pressed a small smile. “That’s fine, I’ll—uh—I’m sure I can figure something out.”
Before either of the MacGregors could respond, you thanked them quickly and stepped away toward the corner of the lobby, phone already in hand. Harry watched as you paced by the big fireplace, scrolling through your screen, tapping numbers into your phone.
He stayed by the counter, his hand resting on the polished wood, gaze flicking toward you every few seconds. The MacGregors whispered apologies and promised to “try and make it right by morning,” but Harry only half heard them.
He caught pieces of your conversation—your voice was soft but desperate.
After a few moments, he realized you were calling other inns, each rejection followed by a polite, “That’s okay, thank you. Merry Christmas,” before moving to the next number. Then you read out a figure that made his eyebrows lift—hundreds of euros per night.
There was no way you could afford that, not after the way your voice cracked faintly when you said, “That’s… that’s fine, thank you anyway.”
He crossed the room quietly, stopping a few feet away. Your back was to him, your shoulders tense, your phone still to your ear as another call went to voicemail.
When you finally hung up, you let out a long breath and whispered to yourself, “Great. This is just what I needed...”
Harry spoke softly, his voice low but certain. “I can’t let you leave in this storm.”
You startled again, turning toward him. He held up his hands gently—not to quiet you, but to assure you he meant it kindly. “I mean it,” he added, his tone steady but warm. “It’s dangerous out there. Roads are iced like they said, and now the wind’s picking up. You won’t make it five miles.”
Your eyes met his. They weren’t hesitant or uncertain—and for a moment, the storm outside seemed to vanish entirely. The fire behind you glowed against the curve of your scarf, the pink in your cheeks deepening as you tried to decide if he was serious.
The thing was, he was serious—entirely.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The wind howled against the old windows, rattling the panes as snow swept in thick, blinding sheets outside. The fire crackled behind you, throwing shadows that danced across the walls.
You folded your arms, trying to steady yourself. “I’ll be fine,” you said softly, though you didn’t sound convinced. “I can probably find somewhere if I keep calling around. I don’t want to impose… especially for your holiday plans.”
Harry shook his head. “You’re not imposing. Not in the slightest.” His voice carried that same even, calm—low, steady, confident. “Look, the MacGregors said everything’s booked for the holidays, and driving now would be dangerous. Just…just stay. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”
You hesitated. “I don’t know, I—”
“Please,” he said, tone gentler now. “Just until the storm clears. Then I’ll find somewhere else.”
You blinked, startled. “You’ll leave?”
He gave a small shrug, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Sure. I travel enough. I’ll make do somewhere else once it’s safe. For now, we should stay warm and you should stay safe.”
The kindness in his eyes disarmed you more than the offer itself. He didn’t look like a man doing a good deed—he looked like someone who genuinely meant it.
Still, your voice came out small. “I really would hate to inconvenience you.”
Harry smiled faintly. “You wouldn’t. In fact, I insist.” Then, with an almost playful sincerity, he added, “I’ll take the couch and the rest—we’ll make it work.”
That made you laugh—quiet, uncertain, but real. The sound of it eased the air between you, a small, bright thing in the midst of the storm.
You studied him for a moment—the broad-shouldered man standing a few feet away in a white button-down, collar unbuttoned, and rolled sleeves, his hair still mussed from the flight, eyes dark but kind.
The woman from the airport echoed in your mind, “The best parts of any journey are the ones you don’t plan.”
Then, with a breath, you extended your hand.
“Well,” you said softly, your voice catching just slightly. “If we’re going to be roommates, I suppose I should introduce myself properly. Y/N…”
He took a step closer, surprised but amused, and reached out. His palm was warm against your cold fingers. “Harry Castillo.”
You smiled up at him, a touch of teasing in your tone. “Nice to meet you, Harry.”
Just Harry.
Something in his chest shifted at that. Most people hesitated when they said just his first name, or they’d say Mr. Castillo like it was more of a reflex. But you said it easily, like it meant nothing special. Or maybe like it did.
He found himself holding your hand a beat longer than necessary before clearing his throat and letting go. “Here... let me carry your bag back up for you.”
You opened your mouth to protest, then thought better of it. “If you insist.”
“I do,” he said simply, and the way he said it left no room for argument.
You handed over your suitcase, still damp from the snow, and he lifted it effortlessly. “How long were you driving in that?” he asked as the two of you started toward the stairs.
“Taxi driver said it would be two hours, was more like three,” you said, rubbing your gloved hands together. “Visibility was awful. I thought the wipers were going to give up halfway through the drive.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, guess we should consider ourselves lucky. Most people would’ve turned back.”
You smiled faintly as you climbed the narrow staircase beside him, the banister smooth beneath your fingers. “I have a feeling the Scots are a stubborn people with the ones I’ve met so far.”
He hummed and chuckled, “They are for sure a determined breed from my experience…”
You chuckled, and when you reached the landing, Graham was coming down the opposite hall, a candle lantern in one hand. “You two sorted, then?” he asked kindly.
Harry nodded. “We’ll manage. She’s staying in the suite for now.”
Graham smiled, pleased. “Good man. Margaret’s leaving a kettle warming by the fire in case you fancy some tea.”
“Thank you,” Harry said.
When Graham disappeared down the stairs, you turned toward him, still holding your scarf in both hands like a nervous habit. “You really don’t have to give up the room, you know.”
He tilted his head. “You’d rather I send you out into a blizzard?”
You sighed, lips curving reluctantly. “You’re just as stubborn as they are, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been told that before.” His grin widened just enough to be self-aware. “But I promise, I’m a decent host.” He looked down at his feet for a moment before glancing over at you, “I’ll move my clothes out of the wardrobe and we’ll get all settled in.”
You stared at him, snow still melting in your hair, cheeks warm from the firelight filtering down the hall. “We’ll make it work,” you echoed quietly.
chapter summary : Family dinner with your side of the family brings up future intentions and wounds from the past.
chapter warnings: fluff, established relationship, Harry speaks Spanish (translations will be there), soft!harry, flirting, emotionally abusive parent, mentions of drinking, if I missed anything, lmk!!
word count: 10.5k
a/n: just a reminder! chapters will be every other sunday alternating ride or die !!
your feedback is very important to me, and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments, and likes. I hope you like this story. 🤍
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Dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune
Masterlist
Harry’s POV - Earlier that evening
Harry adjusted the cuff of his shirt for the fourth time, though it didn’t need it. The fabric was already smooth, pressed sharp against his wrist, the gold ring on his finger glinting in the bedroom’s soft light.
He should’ve felt ready—his clothes were neat, hair in place, shoes polished to a quiet shine. But instead, his nerves prickled beneath the surface like static with what was about to happen. Despite the cool and calm demeanor he’d given you about tonight, his mind was racing, he was nervous—and he never gets nervous.
Meeting your parents wasn’t new. Not really. He’d known them in passing long before he finally met you. A handful of charity dinners, a fundraiser or two, a garden party at Ben and Lila’s that you couldn’t make it to. He knew your mother to be kind but quite harsh to you and Lila when it came to her expectations. Your father, however, adored the ground you both walked on—he was kind, good-hearted, loyal, and an overall typical family man.
Until the wedding, they had only smiled at him, made some small talk as one of Ben’s friends—an amiable guest, charming enough, but distant from their family, never expecting that he’d be their oldest daughter’s boyfriend.
But all of that was before you. Before the wedding. Before the slow unraveling of nights and mornings that made his chest feel so full that now he almost couldn’t breathe without you around.
And tonight—tonight was different. Because now, he wasn’t just some distant name they’d hear in passing or on Lila’s guest lists. He was the man who loved their daughter—the man who wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
He exhaled through his nose, muttering to himself in the mirror, "Come on, pull yourself together."
He could hear you humming to yourself in the bathroom several feet away, also nervous about tonight.
He started to pace the room, restless energy starting to pull him toward the closet.
For the last few days, he'd been debating whether he should bring something specific to discuss with your parents.
Quietly, he stepped inside and crouched down, pulling out the battered shoebox from its hidden corner.
The lid creaked open, and there it was—the jumble of pieces he couldn’t let go of throughout his life.
The childhood stuffed rabbit, from his grandmother—worn soft with years of being held tight in small fists, the stitched ear hanging by a thread, the fabric nearly threadbare. His grandfather’s pocket knife, dulled but steady in his palm. His father’s old watch, the leather cracked but still ticking faintly when wound. A photo of his mom and dad when they first met—an example of a great love story for him.
And then, nestled beside it, was the small boutonniere from Ben and Lila's wedding. A lily, pressed and fragile, wrapped in the ivory pocket square all of Ben’s groomsmen wore. He remembered the wedding as if it were yesterday—the warm air thick with champagne and laughter. The moment you brushed past him when you ran toward the florist. It nearly knocked the breath out of him.
He’d kept a piece of that night, carefully tucked away, a gentle reminder of the night his life changed for the better.
Beside it lay his sleek black mask from the masquerade. His chest tightened as he picked it up, remembering the way you’d looked under lights, how it was the night he realized that it wasn’t just him who had deep feelings. It was that night, you had changed him—quietly and completely.
And then under all that, there was the ring box, sitting there like the quiet weight of the future.
Harry hesitated, his fingers hovering to take it before he flipped it open.
The heirloom sparkled back at him—an oval diamond set in a cathedral band designed to last lifetimes. A family piece, worth more money than he wanted to put words to. But none of that mattered compared to what it meant to him. His mother had once told him it was the kind of ring you gave when you weren’t just promising love, but a life. Stability. Home. A family.
And God, he wanted that all with you.
He thought back to the Maldives—the way you’d looked at him when you asked him to meet your family officially. How your voice had trembled, hopeful but nervous, like you didn’t quite believe someone would say yes so easily. He thought to that night on the beach when you both said I love you for the first time—how he can't imagine how marrying you will feel when just hearing 'I love you' for the first time felt that euphoric. He thought about the night on the balcony, your whispered I love you’s drifting into the night air. And he thought about this morning. How your fingers combed his curls back as your sleepy voice whispered about a home together, eventually, planning your futures with each other—how much love you had for one another.
To think about his future—his future with you? It had been the clearest he’d ever felt about anything in his life.
He thought for a split second again about bringing the ring tonight. To have it in his pocket as a quiet anchor. He wanted to hold it in his palm when he sat across from your parents as he told them, without hesitation, that his intentions weren’t casual. To show them that he wasn’t just passing through your life—he was here to stay.
But then doubt crept in.
'Is that too much, too soon? Is asking for your hand this soon sending the wrong message?'
It had been just over two months since the wedding, barely two weeks since the Maldives. Would your parents see it as a romantic commitment—or reckless arrogance?
He could almost hear your mother’s sharp, assessing tone, your father’s skeptical silence.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw and stared at the box for a moment more—the weight of the choice pressing harder.
Cuando lo sabes, lo sabes was always something his father would tell him as he grew into a man and questioned if someone was right for him.
"When you know, you know." He murmured.
And he knew. He'd known since walking down the aisle with you, since that dance by the fountain.
He wanted them to understand that he was sure about you, about this. He wanted them to understand how serious he was. That he wasn’t wasting time—hell, if anything, he was trying to make up for lost time.
He wanted them to know that he already knew he wanted to marry you.
So much so that he already knows when he wants to ask. But the second he thought about his plans, he reeled himself back. He didn’t want to scare them. Or worse, make a fool of himself.
Harry let out a low breath and shut the box, slipping it beneath the boutonniere, the mask, the little fragments of himself.
‘Not tonight. Not yet.’
Tonight was about showing them who he was with you—steady, committed, serious. That would be enough.
“Baby?” Your voice carried from the bathroom, light and familiar.
He startled, fumbling the shoebox lid back on. You stepped into the closet doorway just as he was crouched in the closet, heart racing as he scrambled to cover the box.
“What do you think?” you asked, smoothing your hands down the outfit you’d spent all afternoon debating wearing. There was a shy lilt to your tone, like you cared more about his opinion than you cared about your own.
Harry blinked, feeling caught in the act. “Perfect,” he said, too quickly. His voice sounded wrong even to his own ears, flat and distracted.
Your brows knit, and you tilted your head, confused by the short response. “Perfect? That’s all you’ve got for me, handsome?” You stepped closer, suspicion sharpening as you saw how flustered he looked in the corner of the closet. “What are you doing down there?”
He glanced at the floor, slipped his ring off his finger quickly, then lifted his hand, flashing the gold band and green stone he wore daily between his fingers. “Dropped my ring.” Then he slid it back onto his finger as casually as he could manage. “Was lookin' for it.”
Your expression softened immediately, the suspicion fading into relief. “Oh.”
“Now,” he said, pushing smoothly to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers, “What did you ask me? Say it again for me, my vida.”
You tilted your head the other way, amused. “I asked what you thought of my outfit… is it too much?” You held your hands out to show your sweater, moving your hips a little, feeling shy about asking.
Harry stepped close, letting his gaze travel over you properly this time, lingering with the loving desire in his eyes that you deserved. His lips curved. “I think you’re going to make it very hard for me to concentrate on anything but you tonight.”
You instantly melted and ran your hands up his chest to land around his neck, "You don't look too shabby yourself, handsome."
He pinched your chin gently between his fingers before leaning in and kissing your lips gently and slowly, lingering against them before saying, “Cada día te quiero más."
That earned him the smile he’d been craving—and with that, the nerves in his chest loosened just a little.
He was still carrying the weight of the box in his mind, the ring he couldn’t wait to see on your finger. But as you laced your fingers with his and led him out to leave, Harry knew one thing for certain:
He didn’t need the ring in his pocket tonight to show how serious he was about you tonight. He just needed you by his side—and the rest can speak for itself.
Back to the present
The door opened after only a few seconds, and there was your mom—perfectly put together as always. Her hair smoothed into place, those famous pearls she always wore at her throat, and the faint scent of her signature perfume wafted into the cool air.
“Well, look who’s finally here,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We were beginning to think you’d forgotten or worse… gotten lost.”
“Only by ten minutes,” you said carefully, optimistically. “Traffic getting out of the city was unexpectedly busy.”
Harry beat your mom to the follow-up, his voice easy and warm. “I’d like to say we're fashionably on time,” he said, holding out the bouquet. “For you—lilies. I remembered you said at the wedding how they are your favorite.”
The faintest blush touched her cheeks as she accepted them. “Oh… well, thank you, Harry. They’re lovely.” She looked at you and gave you an impressed look before looking back to Harry, “That was very sweet of you.”
“And,” Harry added, producing the sleek bottle of aged whiskey, “something for Mr. Winters.” He smiled, “I’ve heard he has excellent taste.”
“Harry, please—call me Walter,” your dad said as he appeared in the doorway, reaching out and shaking Harry’s hand firmly. The tone was cordial, polite—but you caught the faint difference from the relaxed banter they’d shared at the wedding.
“Walter, it’s good to see you again, sir,” Harry replied, matching his grip with steady confidence. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight.”
Your dad’s mouth curved just a little as he joked. “We will see if you still say that after dessert.”
You rolled your eyes, but Harry chuckled—the sound easy and genuine. “I’m counting on it, sir.”
Your mom cleared her throat and moved aside, “Well, come in, you two. Come out of the cold.”
You both stepped in, Harry’s hand on the small of your back, offering you to step in first.
Once the front door closed behind you, your mom’s gaze skimmed over you in that quick, assessing way she’d done for years, “I see you didn’t wear the cardigan I sent you. It would’ve looked so nice with that skirt you're wearing.”
Your stomach tightened at her critical jab—especially after stressing all day about what to wear—but Harry, without missing a beat, smiled as he helped you slip out of your coat. “I think she looks perfect,” he said simply, like it was a fact beyond dispute. “If I'm being honest, Mrs. Winters, you’ve clearly passed your good taste on to her, don’t you think?”
Your mom’s brows lifted slightly, and for once, she didn’t have a comeback—just a faint, surprised smile and agreeable hum.
He looked back at you and winked, then back at your mom, “Well, it smells delicious in here! Is there anything I can help with?”
Your mom gently touched his arm, going back into her ‘hostess’ role, “Oh, you’re too kind, Harry. No, I am just finishing up. Come in, let me grab you a drink. Bourbon neat, right?” She started to pull him toward the dining room as she walked.
Harry moved his hand to lace with yours and pull you alongside him. “You remembered?”
“Of course! You ever wonder where Y/N gets her memory and attention to detail from?” she gloated.
You muttered under your breath so she couldn’t hear, “Oh, I don't know… perhaps years of living with a perfectionist? Years of childhood trauma?”
Harry heard you and glanced sideways at you with a subtle smirk, squeezing your hand gently.
As your mom breezed ahead of you both towards the living room, he leaned in, dropping his voice low so only you could hear, “If this is how she acts when I bring flowers and whiskey, imagine how she’ll be when I bring you back with a ring on your finger...”
You choked on a laugh, trying to mask it with a cough as your mom’s head snapped back, thinking you were laughing at her.
Your eyes widened at him. “Harry…”
He shrugged innocently, lips twitching into a grin. “Just bein’ honest…”
You shook your head, but the corner of your mouth curved despite yourself. The anxious knot in your stomach loosened a little more—just enough to make the room feel less suffocating.
Your cheeks blushed, and you leaned your head against his shoulder for a moment, taking in that someone, for once, was on your side when coming back home.
Your mom nudged your dad, who was distracted by a football game on the TV, “Honey, can you turn that off, get Harry’s drink, and for Y/N, a water, right?” She suggested.
You nodded and smiled politely, “Sure, mom…” not speaking up with what you’d actually like since you knew she’d give you shit for wanting a drink in front of Harry.
Harry noticed your shift and cleared his throat gently, his arm moving to loop casually around your waist. “Actually,” he said, glancing down at you, then back at your mom with an easy smile, “she mentioned on the way here that you guys had that red that was served at Lila’s wedding. The Pinot? She’d love a glass of that. Right, querida?”
Your head snapped slightly toward him, surprised. Not just that he remembered—but that he said it. That he said it here, in this house, to her, where your wants were usually dismissed before they even found breath.
You stuttered for a moment, then looked back at your mom, “Yeah, but only if you have it, Mom.”
Your mom blinked, her smile faltering just a fraction. “Well, yes, we still have a bottle of that in the cellar. I guess I’ll go get it.”
“Perfect! Thanks, Mrs. Winters,” Harry said warmly, giving your side a soft squeeze.
Your father gave a small smile of approval to himself from the liquor cabinet as he poured Harry’s glass.
Your mom disappeared toward the kitchen, and the second she did, Harry leaned closer to murmur in your ear, “Just say the word, and I’ll leave with you in less than five minutes.” He kissed your temple. “But, just for the record, I’d stay through a thousand awkward dinners if it means making you feel seen, my love.”
You blinked fast, and your throat tightened, so you leaned up and softly kissed his lips to stop you from crying before murmuring, “I’ll start to caw like a bird if we get to that point…” you joked, then gently wiped the red lipstick from his lips with your thumb.
He chuckled and winked, but then leaned back in close and whispered, “No bat signal here, Batman?”
You bit your bottom lip and giggled, “Shh, you’re going to blow my cover!”
He pecked your lips and then your cheek, “Mmm, we can’t have that now, can we?”
You were about to say something when Lila’s voice carried down the staircase behind you. “There you two are!” She said from the top of the stairs, beaming, with Ben right behind her. However, before they could get down the stairs, your family’s dog, Grizzly, was barreling down to greet you.
You gasped and crouched down, “Grizz! Come here, baby boy!”
The big black Newfoundland German Shepherd mix came up to you, tail wagging, and barked excitedly as he leaned up against you for affection.
You giggled as he almost knocked you backwards. “Easy, buddy. Yes, I missed you too!” You scratched behind his ears and under his chin, then looked up at Harry as he stood beside you, watching, “This is the famous Grizzly I've told you about, baby.”
He slowly crouched beside you and smiled, offering his hand for the giant ball of fur to sniff, “Is this the same Grizzly with all the opinions?” He teased.
You chuckled and nodded, standing slowly as you watched them interact.
Grizzly turned towards Harry and sniffed his hand, his ears back cautiously, his movements slow as he assessed the new member of the household.
Harry’s voice changed, something goofier, something you’d not heard before, “Well, aren’t you a handsome boy… yes, you are.”
Grizzly looked up at Harry’s face and tilted his head at the voice before he sniffed him more aggressively, then started licking his cheek when Harry gently started scratching him exactly where you’d just been.
Harry chuckled and looked up at you, “I’m taking this as he has a good opinion of me?”
You shrugged, then winked, “For now.”
Harry bit his lip at your playfulness and grinned, turning his attention back to Grizzly, "Yeah, you have a good taste in boyfriends, don't you, Grizzly? Yes, you do!"
Lila came down the stairs, opening her arms for you, “The prodigal daughter and my favorite of Ben’s friends have arrived!” She hugged you, kissing your cheeks.
“Hey now, you like all my friends, sweetheart,” Ben chuckled, coming down behind her.
Harry stood as Grizzly ran off towards the kitchen and smiled at Ben and Lila—his hand coming to rest on the small of your back.
“Yeah, but I like Harry the most—he got me that expensive cookware set I wanted as a wedding gift!” She teased, as she kissed Harry’s cheek and hugged him, squeezing his arms when she pulled back to look at him.
“Good to see you, Harry.”
He leaned in and kissed her cheek, smiling softly, “Likewise, Lila.”
Ben grinned, and after Lila moved aside, he stepped in to give Harry a firm handshake, pulling him into a hug, clapping him on the back. “You better not be trying to steal my title as favorite son-in-law, Castillo!”
“No promises,” Harry grinned. “I came bearing gifts and charm.”
“Good,” Ben muttered under his breath, “you’re gonna need both with the missus,” then gave Harry a look that suggested to be on his A-game.
Your dad returned with the scotch in a nice crystal glass for Harry, and your mom followed close by with your wine. “So—how was the trip?” your dad asked, leaning casually against the back of the couch nearby. “I hear you had a bit of an adventure.”
Harry’s voice slipped easily into the center of the moment—not dominating, but guiding it just enough to take the pressure off you. “It was incredible,” he said, glancing toward you, softening immediately. “Beautiful weather, great company, a little bit of work here and there, but a lot of fun… and,” he added with a grin, “if I’m speaking for the both of us—it went by a little too fast. Could have used another two weeks, right, mi vida?”
You looked at him and shrugged, smiling softly, “Mmm, I could argue more like three weeks was needed.”
That drew a laugh from Ben and even a chuckle from your dad and mom.
Harry chuckled and began telling everyone about how much his family loved you, how they keep asking about you, and can’t wait for more time to get to know you.
You looked to Lila, who was already glancing towards you, and smiled warmly. She raised her glass a tad and gave a supportive wink.
Dinner started well enough. Your dad, always warmer and easier, reached for his glass and asked conversationally, “So Harry, remind me, you still in that big exec suite on Main with Ben?”
“Stonebridge Capital,” Harry nodded with a polite smile, swallowing his food. “Yes, sir. Still going strong. We just closed a growth equity deal with a mid-market logistics firm. They’re a family-owned, generational business. Solid fundamentals, they just needed capital and strategic guidance to scale.”
Your dad raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed, covering his mouth as he took a bite. “You structured it as a control deal or minority stake?”
“Majority,” Harry said easily. “Carved out 72% post-money. Their management’s staying on. Ben can tell ya, we’re big on founding continuity where it makes sense. We’re reworking their cap table now and already drafting an operational roadmap for Q3.”
Ben nodded along and smiled from across the table.
Your dad gave a slow, approving hum. “Not an easy sector to optimize. There’s a lot of margin pressure, yeah?”
“Exactly,” Harry agreed. “But they’ve got vertical integration potential, especially if we build out last-mile. We’ve brought in a few strategic operators to advise, and my team’s working on a bolt-on acquisition to expand the geographic reach.”
Your dad smirked and set down his fork, leaning in, interested. “Sounds like you’re teeing it up for a five-year exit.”
Harry chuckled, getting excited to talk about this with him, leaning in as well. “Give or take. We’re not rushing it, but we’ve already had soft interest from a couple of strategics. Could flip it to a sponsor-to-sponsor if the EBITDA scales the way we expect it to.”
“Impressive,” your dad said, glancing at you, explaining so you could understand, as this level of shop talk usually went over your head, “Those aren’t easy to negotiate, Bug. Especially if he's juggling internal politics and founder dynamics...”
You nodded and smiled, lifting your fork to take a bite, “There’s a reason he’s in the executive suite. He’s good at what he does.” You smiled towards Harry and gently nudged him with your elbow.
“Honestly, carino,” Harry said after you took your bite, and he reached over to gently bring your hand into his, “it was something you say quite often, that has helped me in these situations—about how most people just want to feel seen. It helped reframe the pitch to them. Made all the difference in the room.”
He turned your hand and brushed a kiss across your knuckles. Your heart skipped, your stomach fluttered—and even your dad’s face softened at the gesture.
“That’s what I love about her,” he continued easily, looking at your family. “She sees people. She makes you feel like you matter. Like you’re not invisible.”
Your heart swelled with how gentle he made it sound. Like loving you was the easiest thing in the world.
“That’s my Bug. She's always been someone to make people feel seen and important.” Your dad said proudly.
Harry looked at your dad, then back to you. “I’ve always been curious… how did the nickname Bug come about?”
Your dad’s smile curved slowly, a glint of memory softening his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, glass cradled loosely in one hand.
“Well,” he began, voice dipping into that fond, far-off tone you’d heard only when he talked about the old days. “When she was little—two, maybe three—she had this ritual. Every night, when I came in to tuck her in, she’d wrap herself up so tight in her blanket you could barely see her nose peekin' out.”
You felt your cheeks warm immediately. “Dad…”
But he grinned and kept going, undeterred. “And every single night, like clockwork, she’d look up at me with those big eyes and say”—he pitched his voice higher in a little-girl impression—“‘Daddy, I’m as snug as a bug in a rug.’”
Harry laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm.
“First time she said it, I about keeled over,” your dad continued, his own laughter threading through the words. “And then she kept saying it. Every night, without fail. That was her thing. So eventually, I’d walk in and instead of asking, ‘Ready for bed?’ I’d just say, ‘Where’s my Bug?’ And she’d pop her little head out of that blanket, grinning ear to ear.”
You hid your face in your hands with a small groan, though you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.
“Before we all knew it, it just stuck,” your dad finished warmly, looking straight at Harry now. “Bug. That’s what she’s always been to me. Small but mighty. The kind of kid who could curl herself into a ball and still light up the whole damn room.”
Harry’s mouth curved slowly, like the story had just stitched itself into his bones. He let out a soft laugh. “That’s adorable. Thank you for sharing that with me.” His thumb swept across your knuckles again as he looked at you, eyes lingering like he was memorizing you all over.
Before you could say anything, Lila piped up from across the table, grinning over her glass of wine. “You know, that’s not the only version of the story, Harry...”
You shot her a warning look. “Lila…”
She ignored you entirely, eyes dancing with mischief as she leaned her chin into her palm. “When we were kids, and she’d do something to make me mad? I used to tell her the real reason she was called Bug was because she was being a stink bug.”
Harry barked out a laugh, the sound warm and unrestrained. “A stink bug?”
Lila nodded solemnly, though her grin gave her away. “Oh yeah. I’d look her dead in the eye and go, ‘Dad and Mom lied to you! The reason that they call you Bug is because you stink! You’re a big old nasty stink bug.’” She paused for dramatic effect, then added lightly, “Honestly, still open for interpretation—she still gets stinky.”
You groaned and buried your face in your hands again, muttering, “You are insufferable.”
Harry’s laughter only grew, his arm brushing yours as he leaned in slightly. “I’m loving this dynamic, baby,” he said, eyes still gleaming with amusement as he glanced at your sister. “I think I’m starting to get the full picture.”
Your dad shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “Don’t listen to her. She’s just jealous I never called her anything that cute.”
Lila smirked. “Jealous? Please. I’ll have you know, ‘stink bug’ was premium material for me at age five to get under her skin.”
“Premium my ass,” you shot back, but even as you said it, you were laughing too.
“Y/N! Language!” your mom gasped, which only made you and Lila laugh more.
Harry looked between the two of you, his hand slipping over yours again under the table. His smile softened as the laughter ebbed and the conversation switched to your mom sharing how, for your first Halloween, you were also ironically, a ladybug—promising to show Harry photos later.
Dinner continued with more conversation about your travels to the Maldives, the upcoming winter weather and holiday season, and the latest updates on Ben and Lila’s home renovations.
Harry, as always, moved easily within it—polite, charming, asking your dad about his work at the firm, making Lila laugh with a small story about how Ben almost forgot their rings during their wedding. Only find them miraculously in his shoe when he put it on minutes before needing to walk down the aisle.
It was all going perfectly as you all just sat with your drinks after finishing eating.
But the moment your mom set her glass down with a delicate clearing of her throat, you knew the evening had just tilted.
“So, Harry,” she said, her eyes sharp though her smile stayed polite. “I imagine your parents must have… concerns about all this. About Y/N...” She flicked her hand in your direction, like you were just a footnote.
Your glass of wine stilled midair as you went to take a sip, and your heart sank. “Mom…”
“What I mean to say,” she continued, smooth as ever, “is that your world, your lifestyle… It’s not exactly the same as the one she was raised in. Families tend to care about those sorts of things. I would think your parents might worry about the… differences. I mean, we certainly do.”
Heat climbed your neck, and your stomach twisted, and you felt your heart pounding all the way in your ears. You swear you felt tears edge your eyeline.
Of all the things she could’ve said, she had gone straight for the wound that you just had started to mend. The one you already battled in your own head time and time again—that people might see you as less, as out of place, as someone who didn’t belong at Harry’s side.
“Mom, please,” you said softly, voice tight. You set your glass down and glanced at Harry, mortified.
But Harry’s reaction was instant. Calm, steady, unflinching. His hand moved back to take yours, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“With all due respect,” he said, voice warm but firm, “my parents don’t worry about things like that. And neither do I.” He met your mom’s gaze evenly. “What matters to them is the same thing that matters to me: who she is, and how she makes me better every single day. Nothing else. In fact, they haven’t stopped talking about her since our trip—so much so that she’s already part of our holiday plans.”
Your mom blinked, clearly not expecting such a direct answer.
Harry’s tone softened but didn’t waver, “If I’d ever brought home someone who cared about money, or status, or appearances more than they cared about kindness and heart, that would’ve been their concern. But with her? There’s not a single doubt. Not for me, and certainly not for them.”
The room stilled—so much that you could hear a pin drop.
Your dad watched your mother carefully, even Lila bit her lip, glancing at her—as if trying to gauge whether your mom would push back.
Then Lila, sensing the tension, piped up too brightly. “So, Harry, I keep meaning to ask you about that villa you two stayed at in the Maldives—it looked incredible. Ben and I might take a trip there next summer. Tell me, did you have a private chef or was it all resort dining?”
You didn’t hear her. Not really. Everything was muffled and moving in slow motion as you stared at the bread basket sitting in the middle of the table.
Because in that moment, it all pressed in at once—the walls of this house, every framed picture of perfection that had always hung like a silent judgment, every polished inch of the banister and lemon-polished surface that never left room for flaws. How her words growing up always echoed in your head, but now they screamed louder than Lila’s voice as she attempted damage control.
‘We certainly do.’
That knot you thought you’d finally loosened these past weeks tightened right back up in your chest. Embarrassment burned hot beneath your skin. Shame. And something else too—that old, familiar suffocation, the kind you thought you’d outgrown until you were sitting here—staring at the bread basket—that loss of air came roaring back.
Your mom had moved on to listening to Lila talk, but Harry’s hand held yours, running his thumb over your knuckles, trying to calm that storm he knew was crashing in your mind.
He always knew. The shift in your posture, the slight tremor in your fingers when you set your glass down. He knew.
“I—” Your voice cracked as you cut Lila off, and you pushed back your chair all of a sudden, standing and putting your napkin on the table. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Harry’s head snapped toward you instantly, his expression softening at the sight of your face.
You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his cheek, whispering just for him: “I just need a minute.”
His hand brushed your wrist under the table, squeezing gently in silent support, but he didn’t stop you—he knew you needed space.
You slipped quietly from the dining room, leaving behind the clink of glassware and the faint, unreadable expression on your mother’s face.
Harry’s POV
The silence that followed after you left the table was heavy enough to press against Harry’s chest. He stayed still, his glass resting idle near his now-empty plate, the faint clink of your mom setting down her wineglass the only sound in the room.
He could still hear your footsteps retreating down the hall towards the back of the house. He could feel the shift in your energy before you’d even excused yourself—that quiet collapse inward, the way your shoulders had dropped like the air had been sucked out of you. He knew what it meant. He’d seen it a couple of times at the wedding, around your mom, especially—in the way you braced yourself whenever her words cut just sharp enough to sting.
This time, he wasn’t going to let it sit.
Harry lifted his gaze, calm and steady, letting the silence breathe one more moment before he broke it. “I’d like to say something, if I may.” His voice wasn’t sharp, wasn’t loud—but it carried. The kind of voice people leaned into, because it gave no room to ignore.
Your mom blinked, not expecting him to speak up, and her smile tightened faintly. “Of course.”
He set his napkin down beside his plate, folding it carefully, buying just enough time to organize his thoughts. “I know I’m a guest here. And I know tonight was meant to be about family, about first impressions. But what was just said…” His eyes flicked briefly to your empty chair before returning to your mother, then your father, before landing back on her. “That wasn’t fair to her.”
Your dad’s brow lifted slightly, not expecting Harry to be so blunt, but he stayed quiet.
Lila shifted beside Ben, biting back what looked like an approving smile.
Harry leaned forward, resting his forearms lightly on the table. “If you’re worried about her not being from the same background as me—or about what my parents might think—let me put it simply: they’re not concerned. And neither am I. Because when I look at her, I don’t see a tax bracket. I don’t see 'trust funds' as a box to check off on my ‘future wife’ checklist. I don’t see private jets and luxury clothing as a necessary part of loving a person. I look for someone kind, compassionate, smart, brave, generous, and beautiful inside and out. And with your daughter, she has all of that and more. With her, I see a person who makes me want to be better every single day.”
Your mom opened her mouth to interject, but Harry kept going—not forcefully, just steadily, like he wasn’t going to let the point slip away.
“Before we came tonight, I almost brought something with me to discuss with you all...” He looked at your parents, calculating their body language before he continued.
He looked at Lila for a brief second, and she gave him a small nod of support.
He exhaled softly, looking back at your parents, “A ring.” The words hung in the air, heavy, intentional. He didn’t rush them. “Not because I was planning to propose tonight.” He let out a nervous, somewhat shaky chuckle before continuing, “But because I thought maybe it would mean something. That it would show you that my intentions with her are serious. That I’m not here for a season or until it gets too difficult. To show you that my end game—if she’ll have me—is a marriage. A life. A family with her.”
The silence deepened. He could feel all pairs of eyes on him, weighing his words. He kept his voice calm, even as his chest tightened with the truth of it.
“But I didn’t bring it because I worried it might feel like too much too soon, that you’d think me to be arrogant, reckless, maybe even concerning. But—it’s there. It’s there for her and her only. Waiting. Because my future doesn’t make sense without her in it. And I hope that matters more to you than if me or my family cares where she grew up or what number is on her bank statement.”
He tilted his head a little, calculating his next words, “I wouldn’t love her if I didn’t see value. I see value in ways that matter. I love her because I respect her. I trust her. She’s someone who knows more than me. She challenges me to be a better man… one to deserve her time and energy.”
He laced his hands together in front of him, “I’m not with her for her material assets. Although I have enough of those for the both of us."
There was a brief pause before he continued, "I’m with her because she’s more valuable to me than anything or anyone will ever know—so much so that I can’t put it into words.”
Your mom’s lips pressed together, her gaze sharper now—but not in the cutting way from before. In a searching way. Like she was actually listening, absorbing it all.
Harry let out a slow breath, then leaned back just slightly, softening his tone even more than it was. “And if you’re wondering why her, why I’d make those kinds of promises so soon? It’s because of who she is when no one’s looking."
He smiled to himself, "I’ve seen her dive into a pool without a second thought to pull my niece from danger. I’ve watched her soothe my sister’s protective nerves with a kindness most people don’t come close to. She can make a kitchen feel like home just by sitting on the counter—laughing when I spill icing sugar on her. She remembers the little things that most people forget or don't care to remember—like the way I take my coffee or the way I tap my pen when I’m stuck in thought.”
He looked down at his thumbs as they were twirling together as he spoke, “She’s the only person who can make me forget the rest of the world exists with a single look.”
Your dad smiled and let out a small hum of approval and agreement.
He smiled faintly, his eyes softening even more as he looked back up at your family. “That’s why. Because she’s extraordinary. And because she makes me feel like I could be, too.”
The table stayed quiet, but this time the silence wasn’t tense. It was full—like the words were settling in.
Finally, Ben gave a short nod, his voice low. “Hard to argue with that.”
Harry glanced at him briefly, grateful, then let his gaze return to your parents. “I know you love her. That’s obvious. But she doesn’t deserve to second-guess herself every time she walks into this house if that’s how you’ll continue thinking of our relationship.”
Your mother looked at her glass, guilt starting to seep in now.
Harry caught her eyes and offered a soft, warm smile, “So I’ll say this: you don’t have to worry about her being enough for me. She already is. More than enough."
His eyes got slightly watery, "If I'm being honest? I'm concerned I'm not enough for her."
He looked down for a moment, gathering himself before looking back up, "But I will spend the rest of my life striving to be. And my hope is that one day, you’ll see her the way I do. Because if you did…” His voice softened into something almost reverent. “You’d never let another doubt about her worth touch her again.”
Your dad cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. His expression wasn’t unfriendly—if anything, it looked like he was proud of Harry for standing up for you. He saw that his little girl wasn’t with someone who saw her as something small—instead, Harry saw you as his whole world.
Lila reached and squeezed Harry’s wrist on the table, a small sign of support.
Your mom sat straighter, her mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t disapproval either. She looked unsettled, yes, but she wasn’t bristling.
That was enough for now.
Harry’s chest tightened again as his eyes flicked back to your chair, empty and waiting. He pushed back from the table slowly, the scrape of his chair loud in the quiet room. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said gently, glancing at your parents. “I should go check on her.”
Your father gave the faintest nod, and your mother offered a small smile. Ben muttered something about giving you both a minute to the rest of the table.
But Harry was already on his feet, already moving—following the only person who mattered more than winning this room.
Reader’s POV
The brisk air bit at your cheeks as you pushed through the back door and slipped quietly across the yard. The evening had fallen into that particular hush you always associated with autumn—one where the wind seemed to move more softly, carrying the smell of damp leaves and woodsmoke.
And there it was. The tree that had offered you comfort in past times, like this one.
The bench your father built years ago curved around the thick roots, its wood worn smooth from summers spent hiding out here with paperbacks and iced tea.
You curled onto it now, tucking your knees to your chest against the chill, trying to make yourself small but also stay warm.
The house still buzzed faintly behind you—the faint sound of the music your mom had on in the kitchen, the muffled sound of voices—but out here, it was just the tree, the leaves, and the steady drum of your heartbeat trying to slow.
Your chest still ached from the words that had sent you running.
We certainly do.
It didn’t matter that Harry had defended you, or that your father’s eyes had softened in quiet pride. In that moment, all you’d felt was small. The same small you’d been at sixteen, sitting right here after one of your mom’s critiques on your prom dress, trying to stare hard enough at the bark until the tears stopped burning.
You weren’t sure how long you sat there before footsteps crunched over the leaves. You didn’t look up—you already knew the rhythm of his stride.
“Have the leaves whispered to you yet, my love?”
His voice was low, warm, and deliberately gentle. A small crack of light through the heaviness pressing down on you.
A small, sad chuckle left your throat. “Yeah,” you muttered, eyes still fixed on the ground. “Whispering kinder things than my own mother, seems like.”
The bench shifted as Harry sat down beside you. Without a word, he pulled you into his arms, tucking you against his chest, his coat falling around your shoulders like another layer of warmth. His chin rested in your hair, his hand slow on your back, waiting until you wanted to speak.
For a while, you didn’t. You just listened to the faint rustle of leaves above and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.
“This bench has seen some things,” you finally murmured with a wry grin, nudging him with your knee. “Mostly me trying to read dramatic fantasy novels, but still…”
Harry leaned back beside you, his smile tugging softly at the edges as he teased, “Ah, so this is where the emotionally repressed escapism began. Makes sense...”
You gasped, feigning offense. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know this bench is sacred. Not to be disrespected by a man who cried at the ending of Pride and Prejudice.”
He clutched his chest dramatically. “You said you wouldn’t say anything! Plus—Mr. Darcy and that confession?” He tilted toward you, quoting in the most exaggerated British accent he could manage, “You have bewitched me, body and soul. And I love… I love… I love you.”
You tried to smother your laugh against his shoulder but failed, the giggle escaping anyway. He chuckled too, kissing the crown of your head before leaning back, both of you watching the leaves stir above in the wind as the sun continued to go down.
“I used to come out here after fights with my mom,” you admitted quietly after a moment. “She’d pick at me, and I’d pretend I had something important to do out here. Sometimes I really would be reading. Sometimes I’d just… sit and stare at the bark until it all stopped spinning.”
Harry didn’t speak. He just looped his arm tighter around you, grounding you.
“There was this one night, though,” you continued, smiling faintly. “I was maybe fourteen? I was so done with it all—her nagging, the lectures. I decided I was gonna run away. Snuck out the back, made it over the flower beds… but my pants got caught on the old fence post, and I ended up dangling like a kite caught in a tree.”
Harry snorted. “You did not?”
“Oh, I did,” you laughed. “My dad had to come outside and untangle me after Grizzly started barking so loud it woke the neighbors. Didn’t even get mad. Just said, ‘Next time, maybe go ‘round to the gate if you’re going to run away. You know, make it out of the yard before I catch you.’”
He tilted his head back in a laugh, eyes crinkling. “God, that sounds like something my dad would’ve said. Except when I tried to sneak out, it was to go kiss this girl behind the tennis courts in tenth grade—but it was so dark, I walked directly into a parked car’s side mirror. Gave myself a black eye.”
You broke into another laugh, nudging his side. “Wait—you what?!”
He nodded solemnly. “Walked face-first into my dad’s Rolls-Royce. I think I told my parents that Simon and I wrestled a little too roughly. I don’t think they believed me.”
You laughed until your sides ached, the heaviness in your chest easing a little more. For a moment, you let yourself lean into that—into him—until the laughter softened into quiet again.
“I hated how small I felt back there,” you admitted finally, your voice low. “It doesn’t matter how old I get, she still makes me feel like I’m still fourteen and never quite enough.”
Harry’s arms tightened around you. “Hey.” He angled down until his forehead touched yours. “Look at me.”
You did, blinking back the sting in your eyes.
“They know exactly where I stand,” he said softly, steady as stone. “That I’m not here for a season. That I’m not going anywhere. They needed to hear it, and I needed to say it.”
Your throat worked, emotion rising too fast to swallow. “You did?”
“I did.” His thumb brushed your cheekbone. “I told them they don’t have to worry about you being enough for me. You already are. More than enough. And I’ll keep saying it—here, there, anywhere—even until you believe it, most importantly, when you’re in that house.”
The tears slipped before you could stop them, warm against the chill of the night air. You buried your face into his chest, letting him hold you while the ache in your chest eased completely.
“Thank you,” you whispered, muffled against his shirt.
“Always, mi amor,” he murmured into your hair. “Always.”
The two of you sat like that for a long while—his coat wrapped around you, the tree’s roots steady beneath your feet, the leaves above whispering in the night. For the first time all evening, you felt like you could breathe.
The quiet between you and Harry had just begun to settle into something warm and safe when the back door creaked open again and Grizzly’s bark echoed out into the yard as he ran down the steps towards you both. You both sat up and turned, and there was your dad, framed in the porch light, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. His breath fogged faintly in the chill.
He gave you a small smile as he walked towards you both. “Lila’s asking for you,” he said. “She could use a hand finishing dessert.”
You hesitated, glancing toward Harry, reluctant to untangle yourself from the cocoon of his coat and arms. “Oh—okay. We’ll come in.”
But then your dad’s eyes flicked to Harry, his tone still even but carrying a weight you didn’t miss. “Actually, Bug—do you mind if I steal Harry for a moment?”
Your heart skipped. You straightened slowly, looking between them. “Why? Is everything—”
“Nothing to worry about,” your dad said gently, his expression unreadable but calm. “Just a man-to-man chat. Won’t keep him long. I promise.”
You turned immediately to Harry, searching his face for any sign of unease. But he just gave you that steady, quiet smile—the one he always saved for when you needed grounding. His hand squeezed yours gently, letting you know it was going to be ok.
“I’ll be right behind you, mi amor,” he murmured, leaning in so only you could hear. “Promise.”
Reluctantly, you nodded and then leaned in to kiss him softly, lingering for just a beat before pulling back. You stood and turned to your dad, stretching up to press a kiss to his cheek, too. “Don’t be too hard on him, okay?” you lightly teased, your voice was softer than you meant it to be.
Your dad’s mouth curved faintly. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”
Still, your stomach fluttered uneasily as you gave Harry one last look and slipped back toward the house, the warm kitchen light spilling out as you pushed the back door open and called Grizzly to follow you back inside.
The moment it clicked shut behind you, the yard fell quiet again. Just the rustle of leaves, the faint hum of the city in the distance, and the weight of two men now alone beneath the old oak tree.
Harry’s POV
Harry straightened subtly as your father stepped closer, though he kept his posture relaxed—shoulders easy, hands resting on his knees where he sat on the bench.
Your dad studied him for a long moment, the kind of look that was neither hostile nor overly friendly, but measured. He also didn’t sit right away—which Harry assumed might have been an intimidation tactic—especially after what had happened before he came out.
Instead, he stood a few paces off, his eyes tracing the familiar outline of the yard like a man walking through memories. His gaze caught on the far corner where the old fence stood, half hidden by overgrown ivy now. He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
“She’ll kill me for telling you this,” he began, voice wry, “but when she was about fourteen, she and her mom got into a scuffle. Stubborn as a mule, she decided she was gonna run away. Two in the morning, middle of October, sneaks out through the back flowerbeds… only to get herself caught on that fence post right there.” He pointed before putting his hand back in his pocket. “Her dress tore clean through. I came out to find her dangling like laundry on the line after Grizzly woke half the neighborhood.”
Walter laughed again at the memory, and Harry felt his mouth twitch, a chuckle rising to meet it. He kept his eyes wide, his grin quiet, playing his part.
“Did she now?” Harry said lightly.
Your dad nodded, still smiling. “Had to cut her free myself. Told her next time she tried it, she ought to use the gate, you know, not get caught, like a proper fugitive.”
Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from admitting he already knew the story. As it sat between them like a small secret, a silent trust that he wouldn’t betray.
The laughter ebbed, and Walter finally lowered himself onto the bench beside him. The quiet stretched a few beats, the rustle of leaves overhead the only sound. Then your dad’s expression softened, and he exhaled slowly.
“Listen… I need to apologize for her mother’s behavior tonight.” His voice was lower now, heavier with honesty. “I don’t know why she does it. She’s always been so damn hard on her. Lila, too, but… mostly her. And it’s not like she ever made it hard for us—never gave us trouble, never needed the extra reminders. She just… got the brunt of it from Liz.”
Harry shifted, his jaw tightening at the echo of your mother’s words at the table. He kept his tone even, respectful, but firm. “I appreciate you saying that. But as long as I’m around, I can’t let that continue. I hope you can understand.”
Walter’s mouth curved into a small smile, his eyes glinting faintly in the low light. Then, to Harry’s surprise, he chuckled. “Good. Been waiting for a man to come into her life who doesn’t jump on the bandwagon with her mom.”
He put his hand on Harry’s shoulder and gently shook him, “You proved everything I needed to know tonight when you stood up for her the way you did.”
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the ease of the compliment.
Your dad leaned back against the bench, putting his hand back in his pocket, amusement tugging at his features. “Truth be told, I don’t think her mother will be saying much again anytime soon. She hates being told off.” He then let a chuckle bubble up, “You managed in five minutes to do what I’ve been trying to do for the last thirty years.”
Harry couldn’t help but laugh at that, the sound easing some of the tension in his shoulders. “Suppose I should take that as an honor?”
“You should,” Walter said, still grinning.
The humor softened again into a quiet hum, and then your dad turned more directly toward Harry. His expression shifted, not unkind, but sharper—searching. “Tell me something, son. Do you honestly have a ring? Do you truthfully intend to propose soon?”
Harry stilled for a beat. His instinct was to hedge, but there was no use in pretending—not here, not with the man who’d raised her. So he nodded.
“I do,” he said steadily. “It’s an heirloom. I’ve had it tucked away for a while now. I plan to ask her within the next couple of months. But before I do, I’ll come to you properly. I’ll ask for your blessing.”
What he didn’t expect was your dad’s response.
“Don’t bother askin’, son,” he said easily, with a faint smile. “You’ve got my blessing—whether you ask tomorrow or in two years.”
Harry turned to him, startled. “You mean that?”
Walter nodded without hesitation. “I’ve known you in passing for a while now, Harry. And I know Ben—he loves you like a brother. If his opinion and Lila’s are any fair measure of your character… and if my daughter loves you enough to bring you home?” He paused, his voice steady but full. “Then you’re more than worthy of her hand.”
The words landed heavier than Harry expected. His throat tightened, gratitude rising like a weight he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying until it eased.
Walter extended his hand. “So don’t wait around worrying about my permission. You’ve got it. What matters is the way you love her.”
Harry swallowed hard, then reached out, gripping his hand firmly. “Thank you, sir,” he said, voice quiet but raw with sincerity. “That means more than I can say.”
Your dad gave his hand a steady squeeze before letting go, “Well, I don’t know about you, but it’s colder than a witch's tit out here. How about we head in for some of Lila’s pie, hmm?”
Harry chuckled at the saying, then smiled softly and nodded, standing and walking with your dad back inside.
As they walked, your dad told him another embarrassing story about your childhood—which had their laughs echoing throughout the backyard.
Reader’s POV
The warmth of the kitchen wrapped around you the moment you stepped inside, a stark contrast to the cool air outside.
Lila was already at the counter, sleeves rolled up, smoothing a glossy layer of cream cheese frosting over the cinnamon roll cheesecake she’d baked. The smell of cinnamon, sugar, and vanilla filled the room, sweet enough to make your shoulders drop a little as you reached for an apron on the back of the pantry door.
“There you are,” Lila said, glancing up with a small smile. “Thought Dad may have kidnapped you, too.”
You tied the apron at your waist and slipped up beside her. “He wanted a word with Harry. I’ve been told I’m supposed to be your helper.”
“Yes, help is needed indeed,” She slid the bowl toward you with a spoon. “Drizzle the glaze over the top—nice and slow. Make it all pretty like your pastry chef does to that coffee cake at your hotel.”
You smirked, obliging. The two of you worked in easy rhythm for a few moments, the clatter of spoons and the faint hiss of the kettle filling the silence, until Lila bumped your hip with hers.
“So…” she drawled, her voice dipped in curiosity. “Harry...”
You looked up, trying to play dumb. “What about him?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Don’t play innocent with me. I think Mom and Dad—and literally everyone else—got the memo tonight. That man? He’s serious about you!”
A warmth spread in your chest, even as your face flushed. “Mhmm, I was told he… said things after I walked out.”
“Oh, he didn’t just say things,” Lila said, smirking as she grabbed some plates from the cupboard. “He stood up to Mom’s… you know… Mom-ing… practically gave a TED Talk about how you’re the love of his life. God, I swear, if Dad hadn’t been there, I would’ve stood up and applauded.”
Your laugh broke out before you could stop it, soft but tinged with disbelief. “He did not give a TED Talk, Lila...”
“He did!” she insisted. “Power stance and everything! Even did the whole business ‘let’s make a deal’ hands thing people like him and Ben do!” She mimicked how he laced his hands in front of him, giggling.
You chuckled and hummed to yourself, happy to know he made quite the impression.
She softened as she continued, “But seriously, he was amazing. He made it very clear to everyone in that room that he’s here to stay and how much he loves you. Like Ben has work to do in terms of professing his love for me on that level.”
You bit your lip, drizzling the last of the glaze over the cheesecake. “What about Mom? What was she thinking after…?”
Lila gave you a look. “Wouldn’t you rather hear that from her directly?”
You frowned, confused, until you caught movement by the doorway. Your mom stood there, half-hidden, her hands twisting in the hem of her cardigan.
“Sorry,” she said quietly. “I was… listening a little.”
Lila and you exchanged a glance, neither of you saying anything until your sister sighed and gestured to a chair at the island. “Well, come on, then, if you’re just going to eavesdrop! Join the gossip circle since you’re the main subject of it now.”
Your mom gave a sheepish smile and stepped into the kitchen. “I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry, Bug.” Her voice was softer than you’d expected, almost fragile. “I know I’ve been hard on you. Too hard. It isn’t because you deserve it. It’s because I… I just worry.”
You blinked, your hands stilling on the counter as you listened.
“I’ve seen you hurt so many times,” she continued, her eyes wet but steady. “Every time, it’s like I feel it with you. And seeing you with him—so happy, so alive and in love—I just… the thought of watching that happiness break would be unbearable.”
The lump in your throat rose fast, surprising you. Before you could respond, Lila cut in, her tone firm but not unkind. “But you can’t assume Harry’s going to hurt her just because everyone else has, Mom. That isn’t fair. Not to him. And definitely not to her, right?”
Your mom nodded quickly. “You’re right. You’re both right.” She turned her attention back to you. “So with that, I need to ask you something.” Her voice shook a little. “Are you happy? Does he make you as happy as you look?”
Tears stung your eyes, but they weren’t heavy or sharp this time—they were warm. Real. You let out a shaky laugh and pressed your palms to your cheeks, feeling the heat of them.
“Happy doesn’t even cover it, Mom…” you admitted. “I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this full. He’s… he’s everything. He makes me feel safe, and seen, and loved in a way I didn’t think I could ever be.”
Your voice cracked, and suddenly your mom was across the kitchen, pulling you into her arms. The familiar smell of her perfume wrapped around you as you buried your face into her shoulder, the tears spilling hot and fast.
“I just want the best for you,” she whispered into your hair. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
She rubbed your back soothingly, “And I’m sorry I’ve been so harsh. I’ll try to do better. I want to know him more. I want you both to come around more. And if I keep pushing and criticizing—I’ll drive you both away. And I’d regret that more than anything.”
You pulled back enough to meet her eyes, your smile watery but real. “Thank you.”
Lila sniffed loudly, pretending to focus on her cheesecake slices while you and your mom shared another squeeze.
Then, as if the mood had gotten too heavy for her own liking, your mom brightened suddenly. “I’m going to go get the baby books!” she said, her eyes lighting up. “I want to show him pictures of you when you were little.”
“Books? As in more than one? Mom, please—” you groaned, half-laughing, half-dying inside.
But before you could protest further, the back door opened. The cool draft swept in, followed by your dad and Harry stepping through, still talking quietly between themselves.
Harry glanced up just in time to hear the tail end of your mom’s declaration.
“Did someone say baby books?” he grinned, his eyes immediately finding yours.
The room erupted—Lila snorted, your dad chuckled, and your mom beamed. You, however, dropped your face into your hands with a groan, already plotting revenge.
Harry’s grin lingered as he crossed the kitchen, the faint smell of cinnamon and sugar hitting him before anything else. He came up behind you without hesitation, sliding his arms snugly around your waist and pulling you back against him.
You startled slightly but melted almost instantly, putting a hand on his for a moment, his warmth familiar and steady. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, murmuring against your skin. “What smells so delicious in here?”
“Cinnamon roll cheesecake that Lila baked,” you said, lifting the spoon you’d been using to drizzle the glaze. “Want a taste?”
He leaned down obediently, lips parting as you offered him a sample from the spoon. His eyes lit with delight as he hummed, savoring the sweetness.
Then, before you could pull back, he turned your chin gently and caught your lips in a quick, soft kiss. The kitchen faded for a second, his breath warm against yours as he lingered close enough that his words brushed your lips.
“Mmm,” he murmured, voice low and meant only for you. “Almost as sweet as you.”
Your entire face went scarlet.
Behind you, Lila groaned loudly, tossing a dishtowel onto the counter. “Oh, God. I heard that! Get a room, you two!”
You broke into an embarrassed laugh, swatting lightly at Harry’s chest, while he just chuckled, unbothered, and stole another quick kiss to your lips then to your temple.
The kitchen filled with warmth and laughter, the heaviness of the evening softened by sugar, apologies, and the steady presence of the man you loved with every part of yourself holding you close.
Before you could fully recover, your mom reappeared in the doorway, arms stacked high with three massive scrapbooks. She beamed, her eyes twinkling. “Who wants to see baby pictures?”
You groaned seeing how thick they were. “Mom, no—”
But Harry only laughed, pressing one more kiss to your cheek before whispering in your ear, “You’ll forgive me, right?” Then, straightening, he raised his hand like a volunteer in class and walked right over to her as she set them down on the table.
“Is this it?” he asked eagerly, eyes bright.
Your dad, who had just stepped further into the kitchen, chuckled and clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Son, that’s just the start. There’s about three bins worth upstairs.”
Harry’s grin widened as he looked back at you.
You couldn’t help but smile at him.
This was all you wanted, someone to be this in love with every part of you, and here he was, right in the middle of your childhood kitchen, eagerly wanting to see your baby pictures.
And just like that, the night dissolved into laughter, warmth, and the promise of a new kind of family.
Pedrotober - Day Twenty: Heartlines Update - Harry Castillo
pairing: harry castillo x f!reader
word count: 5.6k
warnings: established relationship, fluff, semi-public acts, no smut but we get heated, soft!harry, Spanish translations.
main pedrotober masterlist
to read this full story: heartlines masterlist
a/n: as a reminder, requests are open and will be done after pedrotober 🖤
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After your engagement, you and Harry pretty much stayed wrapped in a little bubble of bliss for days.
The snowstorm that swept through the city gave you the perfect excuse to stay home and postpone every Christmas plan you’d promised to attend. In truth, you both couldn’t have been happier about it. You filled the quiet with slow mornings in bed, hours tangled together on the couch, shared baths that turned into long conversations about wedding planning, and evenings on the balcony wrapped in one enormous blanket together as you sipped on coffee or hot cocoa—watching the city shimmer under snow.
The world outside could wait—forever could start right here.
It was the kind of quiet that made time stretch.
You learned the small rhythms of being engaged—how his thumb absentmindedly brushed over your ring whenever your hands met, how you caught yourself saying “fiancé” just because you could, and how his smile always followed when you did.
But tonight was the exception—it demanded your attention out of the house as it was New Year’s Eve.
And for some reason, Harry had been adamant about going out. He kept tossing around phrases like “we need to ring in the new year together” and “it’s a Castillo tradition to go out”—which, as far as you knew, was a bold-faced lie. Still, you didn’t argue. After nearly a week snowed in, maybe a night out would do you both good.
He already had the plan set: dinner, champagne, a surprise venue. All he asked was that you wear the black cocktail dress he’d given you for Christmas—one that clung to your curves like it had been stitched just for you.
When you finally stepped out of the bedroom, fastening your earrings, your words caught somewhere between your throat and the living room.
“Baby, do I need to bring a—”
You stopped and couldn’t help but stare—because there he was.
Harry stood by the entryway mirror adjusting his cufflinks, dressed head-to-toe in black tie. A crisp white shirt, perfectly tailored jacket, shoes polished to a mirror shine. The soft lamplight brushed over the sharp lines of his shoulders, the easy precision in the way he straightened his cuffs—suddenly, it hit you like a wave.
You hadn’t seen him like this since the night you met.
And God, did it do things to you.
The kind of butterflies that felt like they’d been waiting for this exact moment, fluttering awake all at once. For a second you just stood there, watching him—well more like staring at him—the air thick with quiet awe.
He looked up, catching you mid-stare, his mouth curving into a grin that was half amusement, half something darker. “Do you need a what, my love?”
You bit your bottom lip, warmth blooming under your skin. “God, did you look this good when we met?”
His eyebrows lifted as if the compliment had caught him off guard. He smoothed his hands down the front of his jacket, feigning composure. “I do believe I remember you staring at me a few times… some swooning was done.”
A soft laugh escaped you as you closed the distance between you, reaching up to fix the slight tilt of his bowtie. “Was it that obvious?”
“Painfully,” he murmured.
You tilted your chin up to meet his gaze, eyes half-lidded, your fingers lingering a little longer than necessary against the silk. His hands found your waist, settling there; the heat of his palms felt like they were burning through the fabric of your dress.
“I do believe I did my own fair share of swooning and flirting,” he said, voice dropping low as his thumbs began tracing slow circles against your hips. “We’ll call it even.”
You smiled, soft but knowing. “Even, huh?”
He leaned down, his lips brushing just below your ear, giving you a small, soft kiss there. “Almost.”
A shiver chased down your spine. Between the scent of his cologne curling through the air—warm amber and something distinctly him, and the lingering smell of pine from the tree, it had your head buzzing. You felt his breath against your neck when he whispered, “You have no idea how hard it is not to ruin this dress before we even leave.”
Your laugh came out breathless, your arms moving to wrap around his neck. “Then maybe we shouldn’t.”
“Mm, how tempting you make that...” He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again, and the look there made your heart skip.
“Well then, if we must…” You reached for your bracelets on the entryway table—the two he’d gifted you after the Maldives and the new one from Christmas—and before you could fasten them, he took them gently from your hands. “Allow me.”
You watched as he slid each one onto your wrist, his fingers brushing your pulse, his touch slow and deliberate. He clasped the second one with care, then turned your wrist slightly, bringing it up to his lips and kissing the inside of it before looking up at you.
“They look perfect,” he murmured, voice low enough that it nearly vibrated through your skin.
You barely found your breath before he was holding your coat open for you, his hand warm against your bare shoulder as he helped you slip it on. But instead of stepping back when you would settle it into place, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your shoulder—then another, higher this time, just inside the curve of your neck where you smelled the sweetest.
It was a small, habitual gesture, something he’d done a hundred times before. But this time you froze, warmth pooling more than it had between your legs and all over your body.
Your breath hitched audibly, and his lips stilled, his nose brushing your skin, inhaling your scent in slowly. You could feel the moment he realized what he’d done—the way his breath deepened, his hand tightening slightly at your hip.
“Harry…” you whispered, already turning in his hold.
He didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway—no, he couldn’t. The restraint was gone the moment he took a deep breath in and smelled you. You were like a drug, and it was an immediate reaction as the moment he could, he leaned in and he kissed you.
It started soft, gentle even—like he meant to pull back before it went too far. But then you sighed against his mouth, and you arched against him in his hold, and he lost it. His hand slid up your spine, the other gripping your waist, and he pulled you closer until the world narrowed to heat and heartbeats.
Your coat quickly slipped from your shoulders, forgotten, as his lips moved against yours—slow, hungry, deliberate. You clutched at his jacket, half wanting to steady yourself, half wanting to pull him closer.
“God…” he breathed between kisses, his mouth trailing down to your jaw, “You make it so damn hard to leave the house.”
Your laugh came out as a shiver. “Then don’t.”
He groaned softly, his self-control slipping another inch as he walked you backward until you bumped against the kitchen counter. In one motion, he hoisted you up onto it, stepping between your legs. You gasped softly, your hands already tangled in his hair as he kissed you again—deeper this time, one hand teasing the hem of your dress.
For a few minutes, there was nothing but heat and wanting and the slick sound of your breaths mingling. His jacket started to come undone—his bowtie hanging loose, your dress sliding further up your thigh.
And then, with a small hum as a warning, Harry broke the kiss, chest rising and falling hard.
He pressed his forehead to yours, laughing under his breath, trying to steady himself. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You blinked, still dazed, your fingers going in between his button-up and gently tugging, teasing. “We can always be late. It’s just dinner, baby…”
He shook his head, chuckling as he brushed his thumb along your cheek. “Oh, on any other night…” He kissed you once more, softer this time, lingering at the corner of your mouth. “God, on any other night, I’d ruin that dress right here, and we’d never make it past this counter.”
You smiled, lips brushing his. “And tonight?”
He exhaled, the smile that followed full of something secret and aching. “Tonight’s different, mi vida.”
You frowned playfully, tilting your head. “Different how?”
He stepped back, straightening his dress shirt before putting his jacket back on, trying—and failing miserably to shake the flush from his cheeks. “You’ll see.”
You pouted, hopping down from the counter and smoothing your dress, trying not to laugh at how flustered he was. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mysterious.”
“Lucky’s one word for it,” he murmured, still fighting the grin as he picked up your coat and handed it to you again.
And as you both finally headed for the door, the heat still humming between you like static, Harry’s heart was pounding for an entirely different reason.
Because if he could just keep himself together a little longer, by midnight, you’d know everything—the party, the rooftop view, the surprise that awaits you with all your friends and family.
The car pulled up outside a hotel in Manhattan, just as the first snowflakes began to drift again, soft against the golden glow spilling from the tall windows. You leaned closer to the window, eyes widening at the sight of the entrance—valet lights glittering, guests in gowns and tuxedos filtering inside.
“Just dinner, huh?” you murmured, side-eyeing Harry with a suspicious grin.
He only smiled, far too calm. “Mhm. Just dinner.”
You raised a brow but didn’t press further as Ted opened the car door. Harry stepped out first, offering his hand like he had done every time you got out, always so steady and sure. The only difference tonight was the ring on your finger that caught the light as he helped you out, and you couldn’t resist the little thrill that still ran through you every time you saw it there.
Inside, the lobby was all marble and candlelight, soft music echoing faintly from somewhere upstairs. Harry’s hand stayed on the small of your back as you walked toward the host stand.
“Reservation for Castillo,” he said smoothly.
The host smiled and nodded. “Of course, Mr. Castillo. Right this way.”
You followed, your heels clicking softly against the polished floor as they led you both upstairs and then down a long hallway lined with twinkling lights and garlands. But the farther you walked, the less it felt like a dinner reservation.
You frowned slightly, glancing up at him. “Harry… are we sure we’re not… I don’t know, crashing a gala?”
He chuckled, keeping his gaze ahead, his thumb brushing along your waist. “Just trust me, mi amor.”
The hallway opened up to a pair of grand double doors. You could hear faint music behind them—laughter too, muffled but familiar somehow. The host stopped there and gave Harry a knowing nod before stepping away.
“Baby,” you whispered, the suspicion in your tone mixing with amusement. “What is this?”
He turned toward you then, his eyes soft and warm in the dim light. For a moment, he didn’t answer—just reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, letting his fingers trail down to your jaw. Then he smiled as he leaned in and kissed you.
It was slow and intentional—deep enough that for a second, you forgot the question entirely. The kind of kiss that made your chest tighten and your knees threaten to give out.
When he finally pulled back, his lips curved into that infuriating, heart-melting smile that told you this was more than ‘just dinner’, “Open the door.”
You blinked, breathless, half-laughing. “Harry, what—”
“Go on,” he urged, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’ll see.”
Still half-suspicious, half-enchanted, you reached for the handle and pushed.
The doors swung open and every sound—every laugh, every gasp, every cheer—hit you all at once.
“SURPRISE!”
The room exploded with applause, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. A glittering ballroom stretched before you—filled with soft golden lights, white roses and candles lining the tables, a chandelier sparkling overhead like frozen fireworks.
As you started to gather what it was, you looked around, and everywhere you looked—faces you loved.
Your parents. Lila and Ben. Harry’s entire family—his parents, Simon and Liv, Anne and Spencer, and all their kids—all waving and cheering. His coworkers (he could tolerate), your friends, even the barista from the cafe you went on your first coffee date on and continued to go to afterwards, the gentleman from Harry’s favorite lunch spot who knew you by name—all of them smiling behind a champagne glass. It was every piece of your world gathered together.
You froze, your jaw slack. “Oh my God…”
Harry laughed, slipping his arm around your waist, his voice warm against your ear. “Surprise, my love.”
You turned to him, still stunned. “You didn’t—Harry, you—this is….what you were—” Words were completely lost the more you tried to make sense of all this.
He only grinned wider, looking more boyish than you’d seen him in days. “I might’ve had a little help...”
Your mom was the first to reach you, her arms wrapping tight around you. “Oh, sweetheart, congratulations!” she gushed, pulling back to look at the ring. “Let me see it up close—oh, Harry, well done! It’s perfect!”
Harry’s mother, Lucia, followed right behind, smiling through happy tears as she saw the ring on your hand. “Mira eso,” (Look at that) she breathed, clasping your hands with hers as she looked at you, tears in her eyes. “So beautiful, mi hermosa. You two were meant to be.”
It was a blur of hugs and laughter after that. His father clapped Harry on the shoulder with proud eyes. Lila teasing as she came up to you, “Finally! About time you made an honest woman out of her.” She teased as she hugged Harry. Someone else shouted, “How did you do it, Harry? Tell us everything!”
You looked at Harry helplessly as more questions came, laughing through the overwhelming tide of voices. He chuckled softly, squeezing your hand, grounding you.
“Well, I actually didn’t propose tonight.”
There were a few gasps, and the room seemed to quiet down. “She actually said yes on the corner of 5th,” he told the nearest crowd with that easy charm. “I seemed to get a little spontaneous and couldn’t wait any longer.” He smiled at the memory of how you looked as you spun in the middle of that street—that memory was permanently etched into his being. “It was on Christmas Eve. Heavy snow falling—it was perfect chaos.”
You hid your face in his shoulder, embarrassed but grinning. “You forgot the part where we got honked at by the one angry taxi driver who seemed to be the only one driving that night…”
That got a round of laughter, and then more questions started being asked. You both looked a bit overwhelmed, needing a break.
Harry’s dad realized and raised his glass, tapping a spoon lightly against it until the sound drew everyone’s attention. “Alright, alright—before we all smother these two, I think a toast is in order, si?”
The chatter softened, glasses lifted, and he stepped forward, his presence commanding yet warm. He smiled at both of you—his son, his soon-to-be daughter-in-law—and his voice carried easily through the hush.
“When a man finds someone who not only loves him but brings out the best in him, that’s something rare.” He looked to Harry, “Harry, mijo, I’ve watched you grow into someone who works hard, who gives his whole heart—and for the last several months and again, tonight, it’s clear you’ve given that heart to the right person.”
He turned to you then, his eyes kind. “And to you, querida, thank you for loving my son the way you do. You’ve brought light to our family. You’ve reminded us all that love isn’t about perfection—it’s about partnership. Laughter. Patience. And showing up, every single day for each other.”
He lifted his glass higher. “To Harry and Y/N, the soon-to-be Castillos. May your marriage be filled with the same laughter, courage, and devotion we see in you now—and may you never stop choosing each other. No te deseo nada menos que felicidad y amor eterno.” (I wish you nothing less than happiness and eternal love.)
A chorus of “Salud!” filled the room as glasses clinked and champagne sparkled.
You turned toward Harry, eyes stinging, your heart too full. “Your dad’s going to make me cry...”
Harry chuckled softly, brushing his thumb beneath your eye. “He aims to derive raw emotion. He’ll be proud.”
You chuckled and leaned into his touch.
The crowd began to cheer again—music swelling softly, people turning back to their tables—but Harry didn’t move. He was still watching you, that same look from earlier in his eyes: adoration, pride, utter certainty. He stepped closer and then leaned down and kissed you like the world wasn’t watching—right there, in front of everyone.
It wasn’t rushed or shy. Instead, it was steady, certain, full of everything that made your chest ache. The kind of kiss that made the room erupt into applause all over again.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his voice low enough that only you could hear it. “There will never be any shame, any doubt in a room this full when you’re next to me.” He brushed your hair back gently, “I’m proud you’re mine.”
You smiled through your tears, fingers tracing along his jaw. “I’ve always been yours.”
He kissed you once more, and then, as the music swelled again—people flooding the dance floor, Lila dragging Simon into an impromptu spin, your mother laughing with Lucia—Harry pulled back and kept you close, swaying with you under the soft light.
For a while, the ballroom became a tide that kept rediscovering you both.
You and Harry were passed gently from hand to hand—embraces, cheek kisses, clinking glasses. Each was filled with conversation familiar and affectionate, each face a thread in the tapestry of your life you were about to start together. You stood with his mother and your mother while they cooed over the ring and shared a proud, misty laugh about “their babies were all grown up.” Harry and Rafael disappeared into a tangle of uncles and business friends who made it a joke of teasing him for being spontaneous and romantic with his efforts—all in loving and teasing taste, of course. Lila pulled you to a table full of cousins and friends to get “the unedited version” of the proposal, scene by scene—while Ben tried (and failed) not to grin like an older brother.
It didn’t matter who had you—your palm still somehow found his, your shoulders still leaned together when someone was gracious enough not to separate you from each other.
When separated, you would feel him before you saw him—a warm palm on your back as he passed behind you, a thumb brushing your knuckles when you traded champagne flutes as an excuse to rejoin, his breath by your ear when he slipped past to steal a kiss against your temple.
Whenever you drifted too far apart, the air between you was taut like a magnetic thread. Somehow, without a word, one of you would excuse yourselves, weaving through sequins and laughter until you found the other…and then, invariably, someone else would catch you, delighted, and the tide would pull you back again.
“You’re officially a fiancée!” Clarkson crowed, finding Harry near the bar and clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to jostle the champagne. “Congratulations. She’s way out of your league, my friend.” He joked.
“I consider myself very lucky, sir,” Harry said proudly, smiling.
Across the room, Anne tugged you into a hug that smelled like perfume and her citrus hand lotion you knew she used. “When your kids are old enough to stand still for photos,” she whispered, half conspiratorial, half teasing, “we’re recreating that kiss under a chandelier. I’m making it one of your family traditions.”
You laughed, cheeks warm. “Deal.”
Every so often, you caught Harry looking at you the way he had outside the ballroom doors—like midnight could come and go and he’d still be fixed here, shaken loose by the fact that you existed and you were completely and undoubtedly his.
And God, you felt it back. Especially seeing him in that black tie again had sparked something that hadn’t faded; each time your eyes met across the room, it was like a secret kiss you both couldn’t put your mouth to yet.
“Drink?” Simon offered, appearing at your elbow with two flutes. “For the lady of the hour.”
You thanked him, took a sip, and leaned just a fraction to the side to glimpse Harry where he stood with Ben. As if he’d felt the tug, his head turned at once. You lifted your glass half an inch. He smiled, that small and private one he had only for you, before he lifted his own.
“Hopeless,” Simon muttered, amused. “Both of you.”
“Who, us?” you said, innocent.
Simon just snorted and handed you a napkin with a wedge of lime on it. “It’s adorable, just so you know…” then melted back into the crowd as Liv found his gaze and gave him a look like she needed him.
The band swung from a jazz standard into a slow, glowing ballad. A wave of couples drifted toward the dance floor. Harry found you at the edge at the same moment you stepped forward to go find him, both of you laughing softly at the collision of timing.
“Dance?” he asked, holding out his hand as if he hadn’t already asked you to marry him in the middle of a city street.
“Always,” you said, letting him draw you in.
You fit together the way you always did: his palm sure at your back, your hand settling into his, your cheek finding the right spot near his shoulder. He swayed you through the gold-washed light, murmuring a greeting to whoever passed, but the words you had for each other were quieter, meant for the inches of air between your lips.
“You look…” He searched for it, failed, then brushed a kiss against your hair instead. “Incredible, mi vida.”
“You’re biased,” you whispered, and looked up at him, and the sight of him—you could have sworn your lungs forgot how to work. This tux on him never failed to undo you; tonight it felt almost unfair.
“Completely.” He smiled against your temple. “But unrepentantly.”
The song sighed to a close, and a bright number jumped in its place, laughter blooming anew as friends spun and cousins cut in. For the next half-hour, you were pulled and twirled and hugged and toasted, your cheeks aching with smiling. You and Harry kept finding new ways to touch as you were separated and refound—a palm to a shoulder as you crossed, a brush of fingers. At one point in the night, he’d tug your hand and spin you once in the hallway between the ballroom and the terrace before he’d steal another kiss from you. Then just as fast as you reconnected, Lila or Lucia would catch you to introduce you to someone new, and the tide would surge again.
It was filled with so much warmth and it was lovely being loved that much—but it was also increasingly unbearable.
Because every glass raised in your honor reminded you of the ring, and the ring reminded you of the kiss in the snow, and the kiss in the snow reminded you of the way Harry had carried you down the hall last week—voice husky, hands careful, mouth sure—making you ache for him.
Now that same ache started when you saw him in that black tie earlier and it had only deepened, fed by stolen glances and a hundred almost-touches.
You found him alone near the end of the bar, finally, for a sliver of a minute. He’d slipped his bowtie loose, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, and it did something to your between your legs that you refused to name out loud.
“Hi,” you said, too softly for anyone else to hear.
He turned so quickly it made you smile. “Hi.”
“I think we’ve been very polite...” You stepped closer, tilting your head.
“Too polite,” he said—no hesitation, no tease—eyes burning steady into yours.
“And very social.”
“Regrettably social.”
A laugh threatened to escape you. “I vote we should fix that.”
His gaze dipped to your mouth. When he looked back up, the answer was already there in his eyes. “Yes.”
You slid your hand into his. He didn’t have to ask where you were going; your fingers interlaced, and your bodies found the seam in the crowd. You moved like a secret through the ballroom’s soft frenzy, nodding apologies when someone called your names, promising “one minute” with apologetic smiles.
The corridor outside the ballroom was quiet—the music dimming to a hum. Harry’s palm warmed the small of your back as you turned down a short hallway marked Private Restroom.
You stopped at a discreet door and glanced up at him. “This could be incriminating,” you whispered.
“It could be,” he murmured—then he tested the handle. The latch gave.
Inside was a hush of marble and pale light, an ornate mirror, a vanity spread with hand towels folded like shells. A small window framed the falling snow four stories up, the city’s glow honey-soft beyond it. When you stepped in, Harry eased the lock with a soft click.
“I think we have about 3 minutes before someone asks where we’ve gone,” you said, already breathless in anticipation.
“Then we shouldn’t waste them,” he said, and pulled you to him.
The kiss started slow then became more heated and deep. His mouth was warm, sure, tasting faintly of champagne and something wholly him; your hands went straight to his lapels, then to his collar, then up into his hair because there was no part of him you didn’t want to touch at once. He groaned against your lips and that sound alone made you weak in your knees.
You broke only long enough to gasp, “You—are—so—fucking—sexy—in a tux,” each word punctuated by his mouth finding another place on yours.
“Am I?” he murmured, mouth ghosting to your jaw, the angle of your neck. His breath went rough at the pulse beneath your skin. “You should see yourself.” His hands skimmed the line of your waist, gentle yet firm. “Ravishing.”
Heat unspooled low and insistent. You backed him to the vanity, then turned, then found yourself pinned in the best way against the cool door, his palms braced either side of your head, then cupped your cheeks, his body slotted to yours. Your laughter dissolved into a breathy sound you didn’t recognize as your own when he kissed you again—deeper, the kind of kiss meant to make a memory out of a moment.
“If we don’t go back soon,” you managed between breaths, “my mother will send a search party.”
He huffed a laugh against your throat, kissing your pulse point. “We’ll claim a navigational error.”
“Mm. Very plausible. In a bathroom.” You threaded your fingers through his hair, letting out a soft breathless moan when you felt his hand dip under your dresses hem.
“Private bathroom,” he corrected, a smile in his voice, as his lips grazed the place at your collar that made your breath catch. “For emergencies.”
“And this counts?” Your hands slipped around his shoulders, smoothed down his chest, gathering his jacket, the undone line of his shirt, the heat beneath. You felt him shiver when your fingers skimmed the open V at his throat.
“Absolutely,” he said, and then his mouth was on yours again, stealing any clever reply you thought you had. You kissed him back like you’d been waiting to all night, because you had— you’d been craving him. Your lips moved gentle at first, then not, pouring all the ache and gratitude and want into it until your head went light. He pressed closer, and you let him, one of his legs between yours, stepping as close as he could.
He lifted his head only a fraction, eyes dark and tender at once, gazing at your lips, slightly out of breath. “Tell me to stop, and we'll go back.”
You shook your head too fast. “Not yet,” you breathed.
He nodded once—like a message was received—and leaned back in, kissed you slower, deeper, his hand finding the small of your back, anchoring you to him.
You felt his smile break against your mouth when you tugged him closer with a soft, impatient noise you couldn’t swallow down.
The mirror caught you in a slant of light—his jacket halfway off his shoulders, your hair a little wild, your hands greedy in his lapels—and for a guilty second you loved what you saw: two people drunk on each other and barely remembering to breathe.
“I love you,” you said—breathless and softly against his lips.
His forehead fell to yours when he pulled back. “I love you.” He pressed a kiss once to your lips, lingering for a moment then cupped your cheek, “God, I love you.”
For a few breathless heartbeats, it was just the hush of the room and your breathing and the soft rustle of fabric when his hands skimmed your waist again.
A faint burst of laughter echoed from far down the hall; the band switched to something bright and familiar. You both went still for a second, your eyes flicking to the door as if it might vanish. Harry exhaled a rueful sound, head tipping back, “I just need five more minutes.”
You giggled and kissed his chin then his throat, watching him tilt his head back towards you.
“This is dangerous,” he said softly, an edge of a grin returning. “Kissing you in black tie is a tactical error I’ve now learned.”
“Fatal,” you agreed, earning the pleased noise you’d been angling for. You smoothed his collar where your hands had rumpled it, then his hair, even though you liked it a little unruly like this. “We should go before we miss our own party.”
“We should,” he echoed, not moving, his eyes steady on you.
You didn’t either.
Instead, for another twenty seconds that felt like ten and also endless, you both leaned back in kissed each other again—slow, savoring, the kind of kiss that steadied more than it unraveled. When you finally parted, both of you breathing harder than the situation strictly warranted, he skimmed his thumb over your lower lip like he couldn’t quite help himself.
“Later,” he promised, low and certain. “When it’s just us.”
You nodded, already warm at the thought of the quiet waiting for you at home, after midnight, after the last toast, after the last hug.
He lifted your hand and kissed the ring—quick, private, like a seal—and then helped you fix yourself tidy yourself up before he unlocked the door, peeking into the corridor. It was empty for the moment: your chance was now or never.
He stepped out first and reached back for you, and your fingers found his without looking.
Back in the ballroom, the swell of voices wrapped around you again, familiar and affectionate. Lila caught you with a knowing smirk and dragged you both toward a cluster of cousins chanting for a photo of the two of you. Clarkson demanded “the official retelling” for his wife that had arrived—one more time. Lucia and your mom beamed at you from the edge of the dance floor like they were collecting mental snapshots to save for stormy days.
The clock ticked closer to midnight and the crowd began to gather, watching the clock at the front of the ballroom start to count down.
A waiter pressed a fresh flute champagne into your hand. Harry stood behind you, his arms wrapped around you, his thumb stroking your hand he held, absent-mindedly.
The bandleader lifted his mic; the chandelier scattered light like a shaken snow globe as the lights dimmed. Around you, people began to count:
Ten.
Harry’s hand found your waist.
Nine.
You turned around and faced him, feeling the smile start even before you met his eyes.
Eight.
He leaned in, close enough for your noses to brush, your world narrowing the way it always did.
Seven.
“I love you,” he said, just for you.
Six.
“I love you,” you echoed back.
Five.
His smile grew and he moved his hand up to your cheek.
Four. Three. Two—
One.
The room erupted: cheers, confetti, laughter, the fizz of fireworks somewhere beyond the windows.
Harry kissed you then—sure and sweet, no rush, like the year could wait its turn. You kissed him back with everything you hadn’t said in the private bathroom and the hallway before, and everything you had, everything that made the next twelve months feel like a door you were thrilled to open.
“Happy New Year,” he murmured as he pulled back, your foreheads touching.
“Happy New Year,” you breathed, dazed and grinning.
After a few moments, you brushed a bit of confetti from his shoulder and smiled. “So next year—husband and wife. You ready for that?”
Harry smirked. “Ready? I’ve been ready since I brought you those tulips at work.”
You laughed softly, nudging his chest. “That was like our second date…”
“Exactly,” he said, kissing your forehead. “I knew then I wanted to wake up next to you every day for the rest of my life.”
You looked up at him, the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with champagne rising in your chest.
The music swelled around you, and you pressed closer, whispering, “Then here’s to the rest of it.”
He smiled against your lips. “The rest of everything.”
chapter summary : The holiday season brings new traditions together and with family, holiday cheer (and maybe a little bit of magic), and the promise of a bright and loving future together.
chapter warnings: fluff, established relationship, Harry speaks Spanish (translations will be there), soft!harry, flirting, SMUT (18+ MDNI), tooth-rotting love, mentions of drinking, if I missed anything, lmk!!
word count: 13.1k
a/n: thank you so much for all the love you've given this series. this is the last chapter - however, i do see us revisiting these two in the future - so do not fret !! thank you again for all the love and support - enjoy 🤍
your feedback is very important to me, and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments, and likes. I hope you like this story. 🤍
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Dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune
Masterlist
December 18th
The Castillo townhouse was impossible to miss. On a block of dignified brownstones, theirs was the one that looked like it had swallowed Christmas whole and decided to outshine the rest of Manhattan while it was at it.
Golden lights cascaded down from the rooftop to the stoop, the windows glowed with candles and poinsettias—a twelve-foot fir tree was visible from the street, glittering in red and gold.
You couldn’t help but laugh as Harry ushered you inside, his hand warm at your back. “This is… insane! I’ve never seen a tree that big! Is it real or—”
“Oh, it’s real, has been every year,” Harry said simply, but his grin betrayed his pride.
Inside, the air was thick with warmth and the smell of roasted pork, cinnamon, and cloves. The foyer alone looked like a department store display—garlands draped over the bannisters, twinkling lights adding a warm ambiance, stockings lined up in perfect order on the staircase (embroidered with names, no less), nativities, family photos, ceramic figures, vintage snowglobes scattered on tables and shelves, gifts already spilling out from beneath the enormous tree that touched the high ceiling of the living room.
“¡Mira quién llegó!” (Look who’s here) Lucia excitedly called out as she swept in from the kitchen, her dark hair pinned elegantly back, a holiday apron tied over her dress. She kissed your cheeks warmly before pulling you into a hug. “Mi amor, Merry Christmas. Come, come—there’s so much food, y veo que mi niño no te ha estado alimentando lo suficiente, ¡estás demasiado delgada!” (and I can see my boy hasn't been feeding you enough, you're too thin!)
“Mamá,” Harry groaned good-naturedly, though his eyes sparkled as he watched you being pulled into the chaos of a Christmas with the Castillo family.
It was chaos, but it was nothing short of joyful.
Simon and Liv’s kids, Lindee and Savannah, came barreling down the stairs, shrieking with excitement as they leapt into Harry’s arms. Little Harry toddled after them, clutching a new stuffed bear in one hand, going down the stairs one at a time, barely able to hold onto the rail with how short he was. Anne appeared next from the living room, balancing Esmerelda on her hip while Spencer trailed behind with Anthony on his back, giggling.
You both were being passed from one greeting to the next, everyone speaking over one another in a melodic mix of Spanish and English.
Eventually, you got to Rafael, who gave you a warm hug that smelled faintly of cigars and his cologne—when he turned to Harry, he clasped his eldest’s shoulder with pride before hugging him.
“She fits right in,” Rafael said, not bothering to lower his voice. “¡Date prisa y ponle un anillo en el dedo!” (Hurry up and put a ring on her finger!)
Harry only smiled, squeezing your hand as you looked at him for a translation.
He kissed your cheek, “He said you fit right in and he’s happy you’re here.”
Lucia ticked her tongue and waved a dishcloth between the two of you before looping your arm with hers, “Come with me, hermosa. I have much to show you!” before she dragged you to the kitchen—Harry following close behind.
The kitchen felt like another world entirely, humming with energy and alive with holiday warmth. Steam rose from pots on the stove, the warm spice of cinnamon and cloves blending with the rich aroma of slow-roasting pernil. Rafael had declared that only “those with patience” could help roll hallacas properly, and you’d been ushered into the kitchen to test yours.
“Ven, mi amor,” Elena said, sliding a stack of glossy banana leaves toward you. “You will help us. It’s good luck when someone new learns at Christmas, si?”
“I should warn you,” you said nervously, tying the borrowed apron tighter around your waist, “I’m not known for my burrito wrapping skills if this is anything like that...” You said as you watched Liv wrap hers up similarly to one.
“Even better,” Anne teased, though her tone was surprisingly gentle, not her usual sharp-edged banter. She sat across from you, deftly smoothing a leaf and spooning filling into the center. “That means we get to laugh at you.”
You chuckled, relieved to find humor in her voice. “I’ll try to give you material.”
Harry leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching like he had all the time in the world. You caught his smirk and wrinkled your nose at him. “You’ve got patience, handsome… get in here!”
“Mmm, no, not in this family,” Harry said, smiling, pushing off the frame. He slipped up behind you instead, hand landing on your waist, voice warm at your ear. “Besides, I like watching you like this.” He kissed your cheek, then your shoulder, as he watched over your shoulder as you attempted your first fold, trying to copy Liv’s movements.
Lucia flicked him with a kitchen towel on the waist playfully. “Out. ¡Los rompes cada vez que lo intentas con tus grandes manos!” (You break these each time you try with your big hands!)
Harry raised his hands in mock surrender, “Ay! Mama! Watch where you’re putin’ that! ¿Quieres más nietos, verdad?” (You want more grandkids, right?) he said as his grin lingered on you before he finally left.
You chuckled and watched him disappear out of the kitchen, only to find that Anne had moved over to stand beside you, showing you the steps patiently: spread the masa, add the meat, fold the leaf. When you botched the first attempt and the filling leaked out the side, she giggled with you.
“Así no, cariño,” Lucia said, shaking her head with a smile, stepping in to stand by you on the other side. “Here. Fold like this—see?” She demonstrated with quick, practiced hands. “Now you say it. Doblar.” (Fold)
“Do… blar?” you repeated carefully.
“Muy bien,” she said brightly, pinching your cheek affectionately. “Now tuck. Meter.”
“Meter.” You repeated without a hitch.
The next attempt went smoother. You managed to fold and tie the hallaca without it bursting apart. When you held it up, triumphant, Lucia clapped her hands together. “¡Perfecto! See? You are a natural.”
Your cheeks warmed. “Well, I had good teachers.”
“You have patience,” Lucia corrected, placing a hand over yours. Her eyes softened. “You’re practically a Castillo.” She shrugged confidently, smiling as she went to fold another, “We’re naturals at this.”
You smiled, your heart swelling at that as you looked back down at your hands to try at another one.
Later, while trays of hallacas steamed, you found yourself at the stove helping Liv stir a pot of natilla. She handed you the spoon with a grin. “The goal is to keep stirring or it will burn. And mamá will never forgive us if it burns.”
As you stirred, Lucia taught you words for the ingredients after you expressed an interest in learning the language—canela for cinnamon, leche for milk, azúcar for sugar. You repeated them back, tongue stumbling a little at first, until even Anne cracked a smile at your genuine efforts to be a part of her brother’s world.
“You’re learning fast,” Liv said, bumping your hip playfully. “Better than Spencer, anyway.” She said a little louder so he could hear.
From the table, Spencer groaned as he was folding napkins in a fancy fold. “Hey. I know at least ten words.”
“Yeah,” Anne said dryly. “All of them swear words.”
Laughter rippled through the kitchen, and you couldn’t stop smiling. Somewhere deep down, a knot you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying—the fear of not belonging in his world—it continued to loosen now that you were around them all again.
Harry reappeared in the doorway just then, leaning casually against the frame, and for a moment, he didn’t say a word. His gaze swept over you in one of his mother’s aprons, cheeks flushed from the stove, Spanish phrases spilling awkwardly but earnestly from your mouth. The look in his eyes always made your chest warm. He looked as if he’d just realized something he couldn’t quite say aloud.
When you caught him staring, you lifted your brows, smiling brightly. “What?”
His smile curved slow and soft. “Nothing. Just enjoying the view, mi vida.”
Later, the table groaned under platters of pernil, tamales, arroz con pollo, sweet plantains, and Lucia’s famous flan. Wine flowed, stories overlapped, and the kids darted in and out between courses, sneaking cookies when they thought no one was looking.
At one point, Rafael tapped his glass, quieting the table. “A toast,” he said in his rich voice, looking around at his family. “To Christmas. To love. And to the ones we hold close.” His gaze lingered on you before it shifted back to Harry. “Bienvenidos, querida. You are part of us now.”
The words hit deeper than you expected, and you blinked quickly, your throat tight. Harry’s hand found yours under the table and squeezed gently, leaning over to kiss your temple.
Later, after dessert and far too many glasses of wine, Simon cornered you with a mischievous grin as you all sat in the living room. “So,” he said, “what are some of your Christmas traditions, Y/N?”
You blinked. “Mine?”
“Sí,” Lucia chimed in, carrying another tray of turrón to the coffee table. “Cuéntanos.” (Tell us.)
You thought for a moment, a little flustered with all eyes on you. “Well… nothing this extravagant. We usually did hot chocolate, sometimes caroling…” Then you lit up, remembering one specific detail, “And then every Christmas morning, we had cinnamon rolls while opening presents. That was our little tradition that we’ve done, I think… well, ever since I can honestly remember...”
“Cinnamon rolls?” Lindee perked up from her coloring book, looking at Simon. “Can we do that too, Dad?”
Simon laughed, glancing at you. “Look at that, now you’ve started a revolution.”
You blushed, but the warm laughter around the room soothed you. Harry leaned close, murmuring just for you: “You fit in so perfectly here, my love.” Then kissed your cheek, leaving you smiling into his shoulder as you leaned your head on it, sinking deeper into the cushions.
After a few gifts were opened and some of the kids were finally tucked upstairs—the adults settled by the fire with brandy. Simon effortlessly and sneakily tugged Harry toward their father’s study.
Harry raised a brow, confused. “¿Qué pasa?”
Simon closed the door behind them, his grin sly. “Don’t play dumb. Tell me everything! You’ve got everything ready for the big question, right?”
Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “You and your need to know all the details. You know you’re worse than your wife about gossiping?”
Simon arched a brow, switching back to English, ignoring Harry’s jab. “So? Do you?”
Harry let the grin spread slow and certain. “Yeah. Everything’s ready. I’ve got the reservation booked, made sure Sophia cleared her schedule for her, had the ring cleaned last week… It’s all set. Just waiting for the moment, you know?”
Simon whistled low, leaning against the desk. “Dios mío. You’re really going to do it.”
Harry’s eyes softened, his voice low. “She’s it, Si. She’s been it from the start.”
Simon studied him for a long moment, then nodded, his teasing gone, replaced with quiet sincerity. “Good. You deserve it. And she deserves you.” He smirked again, though. “Just don’t turn it into a Shakespeare soliloquy, yeah? Keep it short n’ sweet… oh, and add some tears! They can’t say no to tears!”
Harry rolled his eyes, but his grin was unshakable.
When they quietly returned to the living room, you were curled up on the rug, Lindee asleep against your side while Savannah played with your hair. The firelight painted your face golden, and you glanced up just then, catching him watching. Your smile softened into something private, and Harry knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that Simon was right.
He couldn’t wait much longer.
Christmas Eve
The bedroom glowed golden from lamplight, the faint sounds of the city carrying through the windows. You stood at the mirror, fastening the last clasp of your earrings, when the bedroom door creaked open.
Harry’s voice carried, lazy and amused. “Are you almost ready, my love? We’ll be—”
He stopped dead in the doorway.
Your reflection caught his eyes before you even turned.
The floor-length, deep green dress shimmered under the light, hugging your frame before spilling in a sweep of satin. You smoothed a nervous hand over your hip, suddenly shy under the weight of his gaze.
“Well?” you asked, tilting your head. “Do I look—”
Harry crossed the room in three strides, cutting you off with his hands on your waist. His mouth brushed yours once in a soft but hungry kiss, like he couldn’t quite believe you were his.
“My god,” he muttered against your lips, voice low and reverent. “You look ravishing...”
You laughed, shoving lightly at his chest as he leaned back in for your lips. “Harry, stop—we’ll be late.”
“Worth it.” He leaned back just far enough to admire you again, his thumb brushing your cheek. His grin was boyish, eyes shining. “You’re the most beautiful woman in New York tonight. Everyone else might as well go home.”
You blushed and leaned up to kiss his cheek, “Give me two more minutes…” then you turned back around to the mirror to finish up on the final touches as he sat on the edge of the bed. You could see in the reflection him watching you adoringly and with so much love in his eyes—you couldn’t help the smile you tried to hide.
The ballroom was a jewel box of light and sound. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, wreaths and garlands gleamed in gold and silver—an enormous tree dominated the corner of the room, dripping with glass ornaments. Waiters weaved through the crowd with champagne flutes, while a jazz band played festive standards near the stage.
Harry’s hand stayed firmly at your back as he led you in, pride radiating off him in waves. Colleagues stopped to greet him immediately—partners, associates, clients—and every time he introduced you, he did it with a glow in his eyes, like he couldn’t wait for them to know who you were if they didn’t from the last party.
“This is her,” he said more than once, warmth in his tone. “My girl.”
Peter found you not long after, weaving through the crowd with a delighted gasp and squeal. “You made it!” He hugged you tight, then pulled back to grin at Harry. “She looks better than you, boss. Just saying.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but you could see the smug pride under the act.
For the first hour of your evening, you floated between conversations—partners asking about your work, associates gushing about how they work with Harry, Peter slipping you quips under his breath that made you laugh into your champagne if he didn’t like the person. To your surprise, you didn’t feel out of place at all like last time. The people here were warm, curious, and when you glanced at Harry, you saw it: the quiet satisfaction of a man who had spent years in this glittering, competitive world but finally had someone by his side who made it worthwhile.
Harry tugged you close more than once, lips brushing your temple as he whispered something only for you. “Doing all right, mi amor?” “Need a drink?” “You let me know if any of this is too much.” “You’re stealing the room. I’m the luckiest man.”
You teased him for being dramatic for that last one—but your heart swelled anyway.
Later in the night, you’d just laughed at something Harry whispered in your ear as you two watched an associate of his attempt to ask another to dance when the familiar chill crept in—an unfortunate, unfamiliar voice.
“Well, well, Castillo,” Alex Dorsey drawled, cutting through the hum of music and chatter like a knife. “Didn’t realize you were still in the habit of… accessorizing your arm.”
Your stomach turned at that arrogant twat you thought you’d gotten rid of for good the last time your paths crossed.
Harry’s hand at your waist stiffened instantly, his entire frame going taut beside you.
Alex’s smirk widened, eyes running over you with a slow, arrogant scan. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—she’s stunning. But come on. A girl like this, really? With you?” He took a sip of his drink and then looked around before leaning in a little closer like he was trying to be secretive, “Or is this more of a… paid arrangement?” He swirled his drink, smug before leaning back and shrugging as he went to sip his drink. “Would explain a lot.”
The words curdled the warmth in your chest, and you froze at the assumption—but Harry was already moving before you could realize.
“Watch your mouth, tu pedazo de mierda.” (You piece of shit) he said, low, dangerous. Not the polished Castillo charm he wielded so easily—no, this was something darker. Older. His jaw flexed, shoulders rigid, eyes sharp with fury. “Say something like that about her again and I swear to God I will—”
“Harry,” you said quickly, your hand pressing hard to his chest. You felt the iron tension in his body, like he was one breath away from tearing Dorsey apart right there in the ballroom.
He didn’t look at you—his gaze was locked on Alex, lethal, unblinking.
You rose on your toes, forcing his eyes down to yours. “Hey, look at me. He’s not worth it.”
For a beat, you thought he might ignore you. Then, finally, his gaze broke, drifting to yours.
“Breathe,” you whispered, stroking the edge of his tie under your thumb and then rubbing your hand on his chest. “You don’t need to prove anything.”
His chest rose and fell, hard and uneven, but his hand came up to cup your cheek, grounding himself in you. His thumb brushed across your skin like he needed to anchor himself.
Satisfied he wasn’t about to explode, you turned your attention back to Alex, standing in front of Harry. Your voice was calm, almost sweet, but razor-edged.
“You know, Dursley,” you said, tilting your head.
“It’s Dorsey.” He corrected, smirking.
“It’s a shame that you think I care enough to remember.”
His smirk faltered, but you picked yours up, taking a step towards him, “You might want to be careful with those kinds of assumptions. Because if you keep talking about me like that, in that context, people might start to wonder…” You let the pause hang, looking over to his date waiting for him across the floor, then smiled coldly as you looked back at him. “…if it’s projection.”
Alex blinked, not expecting you to be the one to push back.
“After all,” you continued, taking Harry’s champagne flute and sipping casually, “I’m here with Harry. Happily. In love, might I add. But you?” You let your gaze sweep him up and down in open disdain. “You have a different woman on your arm this time. Whereas Harry still has the same on his…” You shrugged, “That doesn’t look like confidence. Looks more like desperation to me...”
His smirk disappeared completely, and he cleared his throat, looking down at his drink almost shamefully.
“Now,” you added lightly, handing the glass back to Harry as if nothing happened, “why don’t you run along before you embarrass yourself further?”
He looked up at you and his jaw tightened.
You gasped dramatically, “Oh, goodness, pardon me. Where is my holiday spirit, Dudsley? We hope you have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year...” You gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes before reaching behind and taking Harry’s hand to wrap around your waist, reaching up to kiss his cheek, “Right, sweetheart?”
Harry exhaled and gave a tight nod towards him, tightening his hold on you, “Of course, my love.” Then kissed your temple.
For once, Alex didn’t have a comeback. His jaw tightened more, eyes flickering between you and Harry, before he muttered something under his breath and stalked off into the crowd.
Harry’s gaze followed him, fury still simmering, but you turned in his arms and tugged his face back to yours gently.
“Hey,” you murmured. “You okay?”
His jaw worked, but then he kissed your forehead, lingering there. “You shouldn’t have to defend yourself from that filth. I should of—”
“I know,” you cut him off softly, brushing his lapel. “But I don’t mind putting him in his place. Besides—” You glanced at him, lips quirking. “I think I just saved your career. You were about two seconds from making this a Christmas Eve to remember...”
That got the faintest laugh out of him, though his eyes were still dark with anger. He pulled you closer, his hand splayed at your back.
“No one gets to talk about you like that,” he said fiercely, low so only you could hear. “Not in my world. Not anywhere.”
You smiled faintly, resting your head against his chest. “Good thing I don’t need anyone else’s respect here. Just yours.”
Harry exhaled, long and slow, pressing another kiss into your hair as the music swelled again around you.
After a few more greetings for colleagues and friends, Harry was still tense under your touch, his hand splayed protectively across your back like he needed to anchor you there, to remind himself you were safe. His jaw was set, his eyes scanning the crowd as though Alex Dorsey might reappear at any moment to stir the pot again.
You gave him a beat to breathe, then tilted your head up at him. “Baby?” you said softly, tugging at his lapel until his eyes dropped to yours. “Enough glaring for the night. Come dance with me...”
His brows flicked up, caught off guard. Normally, it was him dragging you out onto a floor like this, using charm and persistence to coax you into his rhythm.
But tonight, it was you who reached for his hand first, threading your fingers with his and pulling him toward the glow of the ballroom floor.
“Mi vida,” he murmured, resisting just slightly, that crease still between his brows. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you cut in firmly. “Come on. Before you combust and Peter has to draft a press release about your ‘work party incident’ and you get put on the naughty list…”
That earned you the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, the first crack in the storm-cloud expression.
You tugged again, more insistent this time, and finally he let out a resigned exhale and let you lead him between the couples swaying to the slow sweep of the band.
You slid closer to him, your arms looped around his neck, and swayed with the music until his eyes finally dropped to yours. “This is better,” you murmured.
His brow furrowed, though softer now. “Better?”
“Mmhm,” you said, brushing your nose lightly against his jaw. “See? This is much nicer than plotting someone’s murder in front of Clarkson.”
That earned a low laugh, reluctant but real, rumbling through his chest. “He deserved it,” Harry muttered, though his hands smoothed over your back now, fingers flexing like he couldn’t quite stop touching you.
“Probably,” you agreed easily, letting your cheek rest against his chest. “But I’d rather you stayed employed. Makes the whole ‘building a life together’ thing a little easier, y’know?”
His breath caught at that—small, but noticeable. You felt his head dip, his lips press into your hair. “You’ve gotten entirely too good at grounding me,” he whispered.
You tipped your head back just enough to meet his eyes, your lips curving. “You make it easy.”
For a few beats, you just swayed together, the music wrapping around you. Then, with a faint grin tugging at your lips, you looked up and leaned in closer. “Crazy, isn’t it?”
Harry’s brow arched. “What is?”
“That we’re back here. On a dance floor.” You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “Do you remember the first time? At Ben and Lila’s wedding?”
He chuckled, the sound loosening more of the tightness in his shoulders. “How could I forget? Didn’t you call me a stalker?”
“You assumed I did, remember?” you corrected immediately. “Plus, you technically were. Lookin’ at pictures at me at Lila’s house…” You teased.
He laughed again, softer this time, his forehead brushing yours. “You were hard not to look at. I’ve been captivated by you and your beauty for a while now.”
“Careful now…” You tipped your chin at him, smiling as you leaned up closer to his lips. “Flattery’ll get you a one-way ticket to my heart if you keep talkin’ like that, Castillo.”
That earned you a look—warm, intent, the kind that made your stomach flip. “Good.” His hand slid up your spine, pulling you flush against him. “That’s exactly where I want to be,” he murmured, before kissing you slowly and deliberately, right there in the middle of the floor.
The kiss drew a few glances from nearby couples, but neither of you cared. You melted into it, your hand threading into his hair as the music swelled around you. When he finally pulled back, his lips curved into a grin, “Thank God for Ben finally askin’ Lila to marry him.”
You giggled, combing through his hair, “Thank God for Lila sayin’ yes!”
You both chuckled at that, the laughter softening into something quieter, steadier. As the sound faded, your foreheads pressed together, his breath mingling with yours in the space between. His voice was low, meant only for you. “I don’t know what I would have done if we hadn’t met that night.”
You leaned up and kissed his lips, cupping his cheek as your lips moved against his a few more times before pulling back and whispering, “We would have found each other, trust me.”
The band swelled, a shift in tempo that had couples spinning around you, but the two of you stayed in your own pocket of stillness. His thumb stroked the base of your spine, his eyes locked to yours like the rest of the room had vanished.
Conversation drifted again, lazy and intimate.
“So,” you said, messing with the hairs at the back of his neck, “this is the first year we’re spending Christmas together.”
Harry hummed in agreement, thumb brushing small circles against your waist. “And New Year’s. You realize you’re stuck with me for both.”
“Mm, I think I can manage.” You smiled up at him, playful but soft. “It feels… big. Like a start to something.”
His gaze darkened in that way you’d learned to recognize—not just desire, but something deeper, steadier. He kissed your temple, lingering there as he thought about his plans within the next couple of days, “It is. It makes me excited for what's to come next.”
Your chest tightened at the certainty in his tone, warmth spilling through you as the music carried you both.
A few more songs later, you glanced up at the clock above the band and blinked at the time. “Harry.”
He hummed, distracted with the way his lips skimmed your hairline. “Mm?”
“It’s nearly 11. We should probably think about leaving before Clarkson comes up with some late-night Christmas work assignment for you.” You joked.
His chuckle was low, the vibration rolling through his chest. “Let him. I’m not ready to let you go yet.”
You chuckled, tugging back just enough to look at him. “You are insatiable, you know that?”
“Mhm, an accurate assessment,” he agreed without shame, moving in to kiss you again, slower this time, like he wanted to make the moment last.
When you finally pulled back, still smiling, a thought sparked mischievously across your face.
“So,” you said casually, tilting your head, “what did you get me for Christmas this year?”
Harry froze, then narrowed his eyes playfully. “Ah. There it is.”
“What?” you asked, feigning innocence.
“That look.” His grin spread, knowing and fond. “The one you get when you’ve been snooping around the tree for days, trying to guess what’s inside the boxes.”
Your cheeks warmed, but you tried to hide it with a shrug. “I just like surprises.”
“You’re terrible with surprises,” Harry corrected, laughing outright now. “You’ve been poking at the paper, weighing the boxes like a detective, mi vida. The maid, Yolonda, told me you even tried shaking one.”
You gasped, mock-offended. “She ratted me out?”
“Of course she did!” He bent to kiss your cheek, then your lips. “And no, I’m not telling you. You’ll just have to wait like everyone else ‘til the morning.”
You groaned dramatically, burying your face in his chest. “I hate waiting.”
Harry’s laughter softened into something gentler as he held you tighter, his lips brushing the top of your head. “I know. But some things are worth it.”
Eventually, Harry guided you off the floor, his hand warm and steady at your back as the band struck up another song. The crowd had thickened near the bar and coat check, laughter carrying over the music as people began to drift out in pairs and clusters toward the exit.
Clarkson spotted you both almost immediately, glass in hand, his ever-imposing frame softened by the flush of spiked eggnog and good old holiday cheer. “Ah, Castillo!” he boomed, clapping Harry on the shoulder before turning to you with a warm smile. “And the lovely lady keeping him in line tonight. You two light up a room, you know that?”
Harry smiled politely, his hand giving your waist the gentlest squeeze. “Thank you, sir. It was a wonderful evening. As always.”
“Couldn’t have done it without the right people workin’ for me. You all make these things possible,” Clarkson replied, raising his glass toward you with a wink. “Hope we’ll see more of you at these events.”
You returned the smile. “Thank you for inviting me. Everything was beautiful.”
“Well said,” Harry murmured, pressing a light kiss to your temple, then nodded at Clarkson, “Well, we are off. You have a Merry Christmas, sir.”
Clarkson gently tapped Harry’s arm and nodded at you both, “You get home safe and have a wonderful rest of your week. Merry Christmas.”
Harry smiled and took your hand before steering you toward the coatroom.
Peter was there, already shrugging into his own jacket and winding a scarf around his neck. His grin spread as soon as he spotted the two of you. “Finally calling it a night, eh? I thought you’d try to out-dance the band. Dance ‘til sunrise.”
Harry laughed, grabbing his coat from the rack. “Tempting.”
Peter shot you a mock-conspiratorial look. “You seem to be the only one who can drag him onto a dance floor, that’s for sure.”
You grinned, and Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he held your coat open for you. You slipped your arms through the sleeves and felt him smooth the collar into place, his hands lingering just long enough to warm your shoulders.
Peter buttoned his jacket, still smiling. “Well, I’m heading out too. Merry Christmas, you two.”
“Merry Christmas, Peter,” you said warmly.
Harry clasped Peter’s shoulder before the younger man disappeared into the night. “Enjoy your time off. I don’t want to hear a word about work until next year.”
Peter barked a laugh over his shoulder. “Hey, same goes for you, boss.”
Harry smirked, then tugged on his scarf as he turned back to you. “Ready? Ted has the car ready for us out front…”
You nodded and looped your arm through his, and together, you pushed through the heavy doors and out into the night.
The air was crisp, your breath clouding in white puffs as you stepped onto the sidewalk. The city stretched before you, dressed in its Christmas best—lights strung across lampposts, garlands wound around balconies, shop windows glowing warm with gold and red. And yet, for once, the streets were hushed. Cars sparse. Foot traffic light. The usual chaos of New York slowed to something that almost felt like peace.
You pulled your coat tighter, eyes roaming over the sparkling quiet. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the city like this,” you whispered. Then you turned toward him, eyes bright despite the cold. “Harry… can we take a walk? Just for a bit?”
His gaze softened instantly, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “For as long as you want, mi amor.”
You nodded and smiled, then looked at Ted, who was still holding the door to the car open, “Could you pick us up in about 30 minutes?”
Ted smiled and closed the door, “Of course, darlin’.” he nodded toward Harry, “Just call me with your location when you’re ready, sir.”
Harry smiled warmly at Ted and nodded before offering his hand for you to take.
You slipped your hand into his, fingers lacing together as the two of you began strolling down the block.
The air was cold enough to steal your breath if you let it—each breath misting white as it rose and dissolved into the quiet night. The streets of New York—usually all horns, footsteps, chatter, and rush—were subdued, softened by the spirit of Christmas Eve.
Lights hung from lampposts, gold and green and red, flickering gently. A shop window across the way glowed with a nativity display. Another boasted mannequins in sequined gowns, silver snowflakes hanging from wires like suspended stars.
Harry glanced sideways at you, his breath fogging in the chill. “So,” he said lightly, “do I get to know what you picked out for everyone? Or is that classified information?”
You grinned, tugging him closer as you slowed in front of a shop window where toy trains circled through a miniature snowy village. “I’ll give you one hint. Savannah’s going to lose her mind when she sees it.”
“Ah, so something pink and sparkly then,” he teased, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Pink, sparkly, and with glitter that will haunt Simon’s carpet until July,” you said smugly. “It’s basically my gift to Liv, too.”
Harry chuckled, squeezing your hand. “You’re evil. I like it.”
You tilted your head up at him, eyes twinkling. “What about you? You always act like you’re so mysterious, but I know you’ve had your presents sorted for weeks.”
He smirked. “Months, actually.”
You gasped in mock outrage. “You’re one of those people?”
“One of those people,” he confirmed proudly, his hand slipping into his coat pocket. “My mom is going to cry when she sees hers.”
Your expression softened. “Something sentimental?”
“Very,” he said simply, the kind of word that carried weight in his voice, warmth in his eyes.
You let yourself imagine it—his mother unwrapping something thoughtful, tears brimming as she looked at her eldest son. It only deepened that ache in your chest, the one that came from seeing him so thoroughly a part of his family.
As you both continued to walk, you both lingered at another window display—this one filled with a tall snowy Christmas tree, presents and toys littered around it—animatronic children acting out the excitement of Christmas morning. The music from inside the shop spilled faintly onto the sidewalk: a holiday tune in a slow, dreamy tempo.
You leaned into him, chin brushing his shoulder. “You realize your nieces and nephews are going to make us play with every single toy tomorrow, right? We’ll be honorary elves for the day.”
He pressed a kiss to your temple, his hand tightening around yours as you both started walking to the next window display. This one had a train set going around a fully lit Christmas tree. Around it were an assortment of toys, dolls, and presents that were wrapped. “Best job in the world. All the fun, and we get to go home when it gets too rowdy.”
You laughed softly, the sound curling in the quiet street. The stillness around you made it feel as though the entire city had been reserved for the two of you, as though the clamor of New York had stepped aside to give you space—like the city had been hushed just for you.
You both stood and watched the train go around the tree a few times, your reflections mirrored in the window. You smiled as you watched the train come back around the track. Harry watched his whole world light up with Christmas joy as the train blew its horn as it passed by.
And then—as though on cue—the first snowflake drifted down.
It landed against your dark coat sleeve, melting instantly. You blinked, then looked up. More started falling, slow and steady, the kind of snow that didn’t rush—it was the kind that wanted to linger.
Your lips parted in wonder. “Harry, look,” you whispered, almost like a secret. “It’s snowing...”
Harry looked at you for a moment, then tilted his head back and let the snow touch his face, melting cold against his skin.
After a moment, it started falling heavily, soft flakes drifting through the golden haze of the streetlights, settling onto your hair.
You let go of his hand and moved a few paces ahead, too excited to sit still.
“Wait, where are you—” he started, but then stopped.
And there you were.
He watched you drift forward into the empty intersection, the hem of your coat swinging lightly with your steps. The snowfall had picked up more, flakes tumbling down in clusters now, catching in your hair, onto your lashes.
You paused in the middle of the street, checking for cars, looking left and right—as if there were any in this sudden pocket of peace—and then lifted your arms. Slowly, you began to spin, the way a child might when no one was watching. You tipped your head back, mouth open in a soft laugh as the snow landed on your face.
He stood frozen on the sidewalk, watching. Watching and realizing, with a clarity that rooted him to the spot, that nothing in his life had ever been this simple. This right.
His chest ached at the sight. He had never seen anything more beautiful. And not just in the broad strokes—not just your flushed cheeks or your smile that could shame the city lights. It was the little things that undid him.
The way you always laughed with your whole body, not just your lips. The way you never shied away from joy, not when you were with him. The way you found magic in the simplest things—snow, lights, the quiet miracle of a street emptied on Christmas Eve.
And God, the amount of love he has for you.
He loves you—emphatically, wholeheartedly, loudly, and with every molecule of his being, he loves you.
He loved how you saw the world—how you made him see it too. He loved that you could tease him mercilessly one moment and anchor him the next. That you’d taken his walls apart brick by brick without ever trying, simply by showing up as yourself.
He loved that you carried your softness even after life had been so unkind to you for so long. That you trusted him with it. That you allowed him into your darkest corners.
And he loved—selfishly and completely—that you were his.
His hand slipped back into his pocket, fingers brushing along the small velvet box.
He’d carried the ring for days now, eager for what he planned just a few days from now—impatiently waiting for the perfect moment he had set up. He’d imagined a candlelit dinner, champagne and wine, the whole orchestrated scene with the perfect words he’d prepared to say…
But here, right now, with you spinning under a streetlamp as snow crowned your hair—he realized the moment was perfect in a way he could never have planned. All the money in the world couldn’t make it this perfect.
You were laughing—that soft, unguarded giggle that always cracked his heart wide open and filled him with a warmth words could never quite describe.
“Harry!” you called, grinning as you kept your head up toward the sky, “Come here!”
His breath stuttered, and his heart thundered. And before he knew it, he was calling your name from where he stood.
“Y/N…”
You stopped mid-spin, blinking at him, breath visible in the cold.
At first, you thought he was teasing—that smile in his eyes, the way he stood apart from the moment—but then you saw it.
The way he was reaching into his pocket. The way his chest rose and fell too fast. The way the snow was settling onto his dark hair as he slowly stepped forward, once off the curb, then a few more into the street to stand before you, then shakily bent down onto one knee.
Your hands flew to your mouth, and you suddenly lost your voice. “Harry—” You whispered.
The light brown box slipped free of his coat, but his fingers shook so badly he nearly fumbled it. He let out a strangled laugh, nerves and emotion colliding. “I—God, I thought I’d be more composed for this. I had a whole speech—” His voice cracked, breaking into a hoarse laugh. “And now I can’t… Jeez, I can’t even think… I can’t—”
Tears were already welling in his eyes, blurring the sight of you as you stood frozen in the snow.
You didn’t hesitate.
In two strides, you were kneeling in front of him, the cold biting your knees through your tights as you lowered yourself to his level. Your gloved hands found his trembling ones, steadying them—steadying him.
“Hey,” you whispered, eyes glistening but calm. “I’m right here.”
His breath hitched. The sight of you kneeling in front of him—meeting him where he was, grounding him the way only you could—undid him further. You always met him where he was. Always.
He laughed again, broken, emotional, and brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “God, I love you.”
You squeezed his hands and smiled as you let out a small chuckle, letting a couple of tears fall down your cheeks. “I love you...”
He drew a ragged breath, blinking furiously to clear his tears. And somehow, steadied by you, the words began to come.
“I had this whole plan,” he admitted, voice thick. “Something elegant, something that would make sense of—of everything you are to me. But standing there, kneeling here I...”
Snow gathered on his lashes, melted by fresh tears. His voice grew stronger, steadier, though still threaded with tremors. He looked at you, and his composure, the Harry Castillo the world knew—it was gone. What was left was just a man in love, undone by it.
“You’ve changed everything, Y/N. Before you… my life was all order. Structure. I thought I had it figured out—work, family, obligations. But it was all lines on a page. Empty. And then you came, and suddenly there was color. Suddenly, there was warmth. Suddenly, I wasn’t just living… I was alive.”
Your tears spilled over, rolling hot down your cheeks in the cold.
Harry cupped your hand in one of his, clinging it to his chest, his heart pounding so hard you could feel it. “You are my peace, my love. My home. The one person who makes sense of all the noise. You’ve given me laughter I didn’t know I needed, softness I didn’t think I deserved. You’ve made me want more than I ever dared to dream of.”
His voice broke again. He leaned his forehead against yours for a moment, closing his eyes as he tried to calm himself before pulling back and looking at you again, “I love you. I love you more than anything I’ve ever known. And I want to spend every snowfall, every Christmas, every ordinary morning with you by my side. I want forever with you.”
Then the box in his hand creaked as he finally pulled it open, the diamond catching a stray glint of street lamplight above. His gaze lifted, glassy and earnest. “So with that being said… Y/N, will you do me the greatest honor and marry me?”
For a heartbeat, you couldn’t speak. Tears streamed freely now, your smile trembling so wide it hurt. Then you nodded—once, twice, fervently, the warmest, most radiant smile breaking through your tears.
Your gloved hand rose, fingers brushing his cheek tenderly. “Yes,” you whispered, voice catching. Then you let out a laugh that turned into a sob, the happiest kind. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you, Harry.”
Harry’s breath left him in a rush—a laugh, a sob, relief, and joy all tangled. His hands shook as he softly slid your glove off your hand, and then he slid the ring onto your finger, where it fit as if it had always been meant to live there.
And then he was kissing you—desperate, joyous, wet with both of your tears.
You both pulled back laughing and smiling, tears falling, breath mingling in the frigid air. He pulled you against him, wrapping you in his arms, burying his face in your neck for a long moment before pulling back and slowly leaning in to kiss your lips again, murmuring against them: “I love you. Mi todo.” (My everything.)
You laughed against his mouth, hands gripping his coat, kissing him back until—
HONK! HONK!
Both of you startled as a lone taxi crept around the corner, horn continuing to blare at the sight of two figures kneeling in the middle of the intersection.
“Hey! Get out of the street, you idiots! I’m tryna drive here!” the cab driver called in the thickest Staten Island accent.
You burst into laughter, covering your face with one hand as Harry groaned and pulled you to your feet. Together you stumbled to the sidewalk, still laughing, still clinging to each other.
And then, just like that, the world disappeared again as the cab driver faded down the street. Back in your bubble.
Harry framed your face with both hands, pressing his forehead to yours, his smile unstoppable. “You said yes.”
You nodded, laughing through your tears. “I did. And you—” You poked his chest lightly. “That wasn’t the speech you had planned?” You teased.
He groaned, dropping his head onto your shoulder in mock agony. “No, not even close. I wrote it all down. On those little cue cards, too!” He lifted his head, his smile shining, “Been rehearsin’ in the shower, at the office, hell even had me up in the middle of the night a few nights ago... and I—” His gaze softened, “I forgot every word the second you looked at me.”
You laughed softly, stroking his hair back. “Good. Because what you said was perfect.”
He hummed in disagreement, eyes shining as he stroked your cheek with his thumb. “It was a mess.”
“It was you,” you countered, smiling through fresh tears. “And it was perfect.”
Harry couldn’t help the way he was looking at you in that moment, so he leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time, reverent. The kind of kiss that sealed promises, that told you what words never could.
Above you, the snow kept falling. Around you, the city glowed in holiday lights. But for both of you, the world had narrowed to this—hands clasped, lips brushing, hearts thundering with the shared certainty of forever together.
Harry was still grinning like a fool when he finally pulled himself together enough to fumble his phone from his pocket. His thumb slipped against the screen twice before he managed to dial Ted.
“Sir?” Ted’s voice came warm and steady on the other end, as always.
Harry cleared his throat, though his voice was still a little shaky, thick with tears and laughter. “Ted, we’re ready. Just a few blocks east of the plaza. Corner of Fifth and 72nd.”
“On my way,” Ted replied easily. “Give me a few minutes.”
Harry hung up, sliding the phone back into his pocket. But when he turned to you, whatever composure he’d tried to gather dissolved instantly.
You were staring at your hand. At the ring. Snow dusted your lashes, your hair, and you looked up at him with a radiant smile that made his chest squeeze so tight it almost hurt.
“Harry…” Your voice was hushed, reverent. You held up your hand as though to prove it wasn’t a dream. “This is real, right? I’m not going to wake up?”
He let out a shaky laugh, cupping your face in both hands before kissing you once, slow and sure. “It’s real,” he murmured against your lips. “You’re mine and I’m yours. For always now.”
You laughed as happy tears fell again, gripping his coat lapels to keep him close. “God, I love you.”
“I love you,” he echoed, kissing you again, harder this time, so lost in the taste of you that he barely noticed the headlights sweeping across the street.
“Sir?” Ted’s voice called gently from the curb, breaking the bubble.
You pulled back with a soft gasp, cheeks flushed, lips pink, both of you laughing as though you’d been caught sneaking kisses behind the bleachers. Harry took your hand, lacing your fingers tightly, and guided you toward the car carefully as the snow was starting to make things slick.
Ted had already stepped out to open the back door. His kind eyes crinkled knowingly as he glanced between you both. “Everythin’ all right, sir? Miss?”
Harry couldn’t help himself—his grin stretched impossibly wider. “Better than all right, Ted.” He squeezed your hand, lifted it, and showed Ted the sparkling ring now gracing your finger.
Ted’s brows lifted, and his smile turned soft, genuine. “Well, congratulations, you two. I’m so happy for you both!” He dipped his head respectfully before ushering you inside.
The second the door shut and the city’s quiet wrapped around you again, Harry leaned across the seat and kissed you like he couldn’t help himself. His hand slid to your cheek, thumb stroking tenderly before tilting your chin up for another.
You laughed breathlessly against his mouth. “Wait—what about Ted?”
“Door’s shut, dividers up,” he murmured, lips brushing yours again. “Besides, I can’t… I can’t stop.”
It was true. The adrenaline of the proposal still thrummed between you both, sparking in every brush of skin. Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging lightly as you kissed him again and again, both of you giggling and sighing into the closeness like teenagers who’d just gotten away with something daring.
The city blurred by outside the tinted windows—twinkling lights, snow-dusted rooftops, the occasional wreath hanging from a streetlamp. But neither of you watched. Neither of you could tear your eyes or your hands away from each other. Your hands were in his hair, tugging at his lapels or waist—his were either on your cheeks, slowly teasing down your body, gripping your bare thigh or hip to tug you closer.
Every few seconds, you’d break apart just long enough to whisper something—“I can’t believe this,” or “You’re really mine,” or “My fiancé”—and every time that word left your lips, Harry groaned softly, kissing you harder, as if the sound of it undid him completely.
By the time Ted slowed in front of Harry’s building, your cheeks were flushed, your lips kiss-swollen, your hearts pounding in tandem.
Harry rested his forehead against yours, chest heaving with quiet laughter. “We should… probably go inside before we...” He looked down at your lips hungrily.
You smirked, eyes glinting as you bit your bottom lip, looking at his. “Yeah, probably.”
And yet neither of you moved right away, clinging to the last few seconds of the drive, to the bubble of warmth before stepping back into the world.
Finally, Harry groaned and straightened, knocking lightly on the glass to let Ted know they were ready. Ted opened the door, discreet as always, though the small curve at his lips suggested he knew exactly what kind of mood filled the car.
“Thank you, Ted,” Harry said as he stepped out, then immediately turned to offer you his hand, steadying you onto the snowy sidewalk.
Ted tipped his hat lightly. “Congratulations again. And Merry Christmas, both of you.”
“Merry Christmas,” you said warmly, still clutching Harry’s hand but leaning up to kiss his cheek gently.
Ted smiled and had a small blush to his cheeks before he slipped back into the car, pulling smoothly away. And then it was just the two of you again, snow swirling under the glow of the building’s entry lights.
Harry looked down at you, breath misting in the cold, and for a long moment he simply… stared. Like he was memorizing every detail—your flushed cheeks, your sparkling eyes, the way your ring caught the light every time you moved your hand.
“Home?” he murmured, voice rough.
You nodded, lips curving softly. “Home.”
He kissed you once more before guiding you inside—to warmth, to privacy, to the kind of night neither of you would ever forget.
The apartment was quiet as you both stepped inside, the hush of falling snow just outside the windows made it seem almost magical.
You kicked off your heels, the muffled thud against the rug oddly grounding after the glittering chaos of the party. The faint scent of pine from the Christmas tree filled the warm air, lights twinkling softly from the corner of the living room, and the soft light from the rest of the warm decor lit your home.
You turned, laughing under your breath as you tugged at your scarf. “I don’t know about you, but my ears are still frozen,” you murmured, unwrapping it slowly from your neck.
Harry didn’t answer. He stood a few steps behind, watching you with that look you’d started to recognize—the one that made your breath stutter and your pulse leap. Like he’d already memorized every line of you, yet couldn’t stop tracing them all over again.
His coat was still on, scarf loosened but not removed, his hair dusted faintly from the snow that hadn’t melted yet.
And his eyes—God, those beautiful, soft, warm, brown eyes. They weren’t full of the storm of earlier tonight. No anger. No tension. Just something so deep and warm it felt like sinking into soft velvet.
Your glove was halfway off when his voice came low and quiet, “Give me your hand, mi amor.”
You blinked, pulse tripping at the edge in his tone. Not demanding—but heavy with intent. You stepped closer, offering your left hand, and his fingers closed over it, tugging the glove free in one smooth pull. He didn’t let go.
The engagement ring glinted under the soft golden lights as he turned your hand over, his thumb brushing the diamond like he couldn’t believe it was real. Like he needed to feel it under his skin to make sure it wasn’t something the snow or the champagne had conjured up in his head.
“Harry…” you whispered, the word barely forming before his lips touched your knuckles. A worshipful kiss. Then another. Then one over the ring itself, slow and deliberate, his breath ghosting warm against your chilled skin.
You didn’t realize you were trembling until he looked up, still holding your hand against his mouth. His eyes were wet at the corners—maybe from the cold, maybe from everything you’d both just promised.
“Say it again,” he rasped.
You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Say what?”
The corner of his mouth lifted, but his voice stayed husky, frayed. “What you called me earlier.”
You thought for a moment, then the word slid out like silk: “Fiancé.”
A sharp breath broke from him, something like a laugh, but his chest shuddered with it. “Again.”
You smiled wider, teasing now, because you couldn’t help it. “Fiancé.” You said it slower this time, savoring it like something decadent on your tongue.
Harry groaned—actually groaned —and pulled you closer by the waist so fast you stumbled into his chest. His arms banded around you, heat seeping through the wool of his coat as his lips found the curve of your jaw, then the hollow below your ear.
“I’ll never get tired of hearing that,” he murmured against your skin, voice molten, vibrating straight through you.
“Mmm, just wait until I call you my husband,” you teased, voice coming out sinfully.
He tightened his grip on your hips and groaned again, starting to lightly suck on your pulse point, “Mi amor, don’t get me started on how that title makes me feel…”
Your laugh was breathless, tilting your head to let him taste more of you. “You’re going to drive me crazy if you keep doing that.”
“That’s the plan,” he said, pulling back just enough to find your mouth. The kiss was soft at first— a whisper of lips—but then his hands slid from your hips up your spine, and the softness unraveled into something hungrier, deeper.
You curled your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, and the muffled sound he made against your mouth lit you up from the inside. This wasn’t rushed, wasn’t frantic—but it was charged. Like every second since he’d knelt in the snow had been leading here, to this exact moment, where forever didn’t feel abstract. It felt like heat and breath and skin.
When his tongue teased along yours, you melted completely, sighing into him as he walked you backward until your shoulders brushed the wall. One of his hands pressed there beside your head, the other gripping your hip, and the controlled strength of him had your knees threatening to give out.
You barely broke the kiss to whisper, voice shaky but teasing, “Shit, Harry—what happened to champagne in the car?”
His lips ghosted over your jaw, down your throat, setting fire to every nerve ending he touched. “Forgot about the champagne,” he murmured, mouth grazing your collarbone now. “The only thing I want to taste tonight is you.”
Your head dropped back with a soft laugh that turned into a quiet gasp when he bit gently at the base of your neck, soothing it instantly with his tongue.
The scarf slid from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, and then his fingers were at your coat buttons, slow and careful even as his breath turned rough against your skin. Every movement deliberate, like he wanted to savor the ritual of unwrapping you.
When the last button came free, he eased the coat down your arms, kissing every inch of bare skin he revealed until it joined the scarf on the floor.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, and this time there was no tease, no smirk—just raw, aching truth in the way his voice cracked over it. He touched his forehead to yours, his hand cradling your cheek like you were something fragile. “My beautiful fiancé.” The way he said it sounded like a prayer.
Your lips curved as you whispered back, breath trembling, “Say it again.”
He smiled—the soft, boyish one he saved just for you—and kissed you slow enough to steal every ounce of air from your lungs before whispering against your lips, “My fiancé.”
Then went back in for your lips, and his hands roamed your body, unhurried, as though time itself had slowed down just for him to explore every inch of you. One slipped beneath the hem of your dress, fingertips skating along your thigh, the other moving up to cup your jaw again as his lips kissed yours with a tenderness that made you melt.
There was no urgency, no rush, just him sinking deeper into you, tasting, savoring, as if he could hold onto forever with the press of your lips to his.
Your hand moved down to his belt, tugging it out of the loop, hungry for him.
His thumb brushed your cheekbone as he kissed you once more, and then again, breaking only long enough to murmur against your mouth, low and hoarse, “Not here… mi vida. I need you in our bed.”
The words sent a shiver straight through you, and you nodded. Then, with deliberate care, he bent and scooped you up. Your arms flew around his neck, legs around his waist instinctively, a small laugh escaping you as he lifted you effortlessly.
“Harry—”
“Shh,” he murmured, his lips brushing your jawline as he carried you down the hall. “I got you.”
The hallway blurred around you in the soft glow of the twinkling lights of the living room and shadows, your laughter breaking between kisses he dropped on your jaw, your cheek, your nose. He bumped into the wall once, and you both dissolved into giggles, only for him to hush you with another kiss, more insistent this time, like he couldn’t quite decide whether he wanted to laugh or kiss you.
When he reached the bedroom, he nudged the door open with his foot and set you gently on the mattress. For a moment, he just stood there at the edge of the bed, drinking you in. His scarf was still looped around his neck, his coat half-open, his chest rising and falling with more than just breath. His eyes traced the shape of you, stretched out across the sheets, his fiancée, his forever.
Inside, Harry’s chest was tight as he couldn’t stop thinking, ‘How the hell do I deserve this?’
You, on his bed, ring glinting faintly in the spill of golden light from the tree down the hall.
“God, you’re captivating with that ring on your finger,” he whispered again, almost to himself.
Your chest tightened, warmth swelling so fiercely behind your ribs you thought it might burst. “Then come here,” you whispered back, reaching out a hand to take his and pull him toward you.
He stripped off his coat and suit jacket in one fluid motion, letting them fall to the floor, then crawled onto the bed after you, caging you in with his arms on either side. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, before trailing along your jaw and down the column of your throat. With every kiss he laid, his fingers moved with equal devotion—unzipping your dress slowly, reverently, kissing each inch of skin as he revealed it.
By the time the fabric slipped off your shoulders, you were trembling, both from the chill of the air and from the heat of his mouth as he kissed across your collarbone, then down lower, worshipping every single inch.
“Harry…” you whispered, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging lightly to pull him back up to you. His mouth found yours again, deeper this time, until you felt dizzy from the taste of him.
When your hands moved to undo his bowtie, then the buttons of his shirt, and then to push his shirt off his shoulders, he let out a sharp groan, breaking the kiss long enough to yank it off and toss it aside. Your fingers splayed over his bare chest, the muscles shifting beneath your touch, and you could feel his heart pounding just as wildly as yours.
You traced down slowly, your ring catching against his skin, and the way he sucked in a breath at the feel of it nearly undid you both. His eyes darted down to where the diamond grazed over his chest, and his entire body seemed to shudder with the reminder of what it meant.
“That,” he rasped, his hand covering yours, pressing it firmer against him, “drives me insane. My ring. On you. Against me.”
You smiled breathlessly, leaning up to kiss him. “Get used to it, fiancé.”
He groaned again, half laughter, half wrecked sound, and kissed you harder, rolling you gently beneath him as his hands mapped your body. His hips pressed against yours, a slow grind that made your breath hitch. Even with layers still between you, the heat was scorching, the friction nearly undoing you both.
“Harry,” you gasped against his lips, fingers digging into his shoulders.
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His own were dark, pupils blown wide, but behind the hunger was something deeper—love so raw it almost hurt. “I want to go slow,” he whispered, gently pinching your chin to keep your gaze. “I want to feel everything. Every second. Every breath.”
Your throat tightened, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Then take me slow,” you whispered back.
And he did.
Piece by piece, he unwrapped you from your lingerie, every clasp and strap undone with care, each new reveal followed by his lips claiming that part of you.
You helped each other with the rest, your hand reaching for his belt, clumsy laughter between kisses as clothes tumbled away until there was nothing left but skin and heat and the faint glow of the lights of the city from the window.
The first slide of his hips against yours, skin to skin, was enough to make you both gasp, his cock sliding through your folds, almost teasing you both into insanity. Harry buried his face in your neck, groaning like he’d been starving and finally tasted salvation.
“God, you feel like heaven,” he whispered raggedly. “Mi amor… I swear I’ll never stop loving you.”
You arched beneath him, goosebumps scattering across your skin, your back bowing with the intensity of him. And still, you pulled him closer, nails digging into his back, whispering against his lips, “Closer. I need you closer… I need you.”
Neither of you could seem to get close enough. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, grinding together in a slow, desperate rhythm that made you both shudder.
When he finally slid inside you, it was almost too much. You gasped, nails biting into his shoulders, and Harry froze, groaning low, burying his face in your neck again.
“Fuck—” he whispered harshly, trembling with restraint. “You undo me. Every time. Every time, baby.”
Inside, Harry’s mind was chaos, ‘Don’t rush. Don’t lose it. God, she feels so perfect. God, she’s going to be my wife.’
He moved slowly, each thrust deep and deliberate, his lips brushing yours, your jaw, your throat, never straying far from your skin. And with every movement, you whispered love back into him—his name, soft I love yous, breathless confessions that left him shaking and almost losing all restraint he was trying to keep locked up to make this last.
But even that closeness wasn’t enough—halfway through, you pushed gently at his chest, and his eyes widened slightly with confusion until you guided him onto his back. “Let me,” you whispered, your voice trembling but sure. “I want to take care of you.”
Harry’s chest rose and fell sharply, his hands gripping your hips as you straddled him, the ring glinting faintly in the light. His lips parted as though he couldn’t quite believe it was real, now convinced he was dreaming.
When you sank down onto him again, his head fell back with a strangled moan, his hands clutching your thighs like anchors. “Christ,” he gasped. “La voy a perder, mi amor.” (I’m going to lose it, my love)
You rolled your hips slowly, deliberately, taking him—all of him. Your hand landed on his chest to steady yourself as you climbed toward your peak—his heart thudding against your palm.
He grunted, and his eyes rolled back as you rolled your hips a little slower, almost like you were teasing him. “Fuck baby, like that. Just like that.”
You kept that slow roll, biting your lip at the way his cock twitched inside you, moaning when it’d hit that certain soft spongy spot.
He could feel you start to clench around him when he’d hit that spot deep inside. He looked up at you, your head thrown back in pure ecstasy, chest heaving, soft moans leaving your lips, and sat up, unable to stop himself from kissing you—your mouth, your throat, your collarbone, your breasts. His lips traced your ribs, your stomach, frantic and laced with devotion all at once. He couldn’t stop mapping your body with his mouth, murmuring broken words against your skin: “Mine. Always. Forever.”
The rhythm built between you, slow but consuming, until the pressure coiled tight and unbearable. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, and his hands slid up your back, holding you as though he could keep you tethered even as you both unraveled.
“Don’t stop,” you begged, breath shaky as you looked down at him, your eyebrows furrowed in pure pleasure, “Harry, please don’t stop.” you mewled louder, gasping as you felt yourself climb faster.
“I’m right here, baby.” He whispered, grunting as he held onto your hips, moving your hips with his, groaning and moaning as he felt himself nearing his own peak faster than he anticipated. “Fuck—oh god—” He looked up at you, keeping your gaze, “I’m right here.”
The climax hit like a wave crashing over both of you—earth-shattering, breath-stealing, so intense it left you gasping into each other’s mouths. Harry groaned your name, his forehead pressed to your chest, his whole body shuddering as he fell apart with you.
For a moment, neither of you could breathe. Just gasps, moans, tremors as you clung together, riding the aftershocks, trembling in each other’s arms.
When the world finally steadied again, you collapsed against him, your body boneless, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. Harry’s arms wrapped tight around you, his lips pressing over and over into your hair, your temple, your cheek.
Soft laughter bubbled up between your heavy breaths, a giddy sound that made his chest shake with quiet joy.
“I love you,” you whispered, kissing the damp skin of his throat.
Harry tilted your chin up with his thumb and forefinger, kissing your lips tenderly. “Cada día te quiero más.”
You echoed the phrase back to him in a whisper and then shifted slightly in his lap, boneless now. Harry leaned back with you until the pillows cradled you both. Your chest rose and fell against his, your cheek warm against his skin. He traced a lazy path down your spine, content just to feel you there.
“What do you think?” he murmured into your hair. “Big or small wedding?”
Your lips curved against his chest as a soft, sleepy giggle escaped you. “Big,” you mumbled. “Gotta outshine Lila.”
Harry chuckled, his chest rumbling beneath you.
“If you want big, I’ll give you big. Trumpets, fireworks, hell—I’ll rent the moon if I have to.”
You chuckled sleepily, nuzzling into him.
His fingers drew idle shapes over your bare back, but his mind had already run ahead—to you walking toward him in white, to the catch of your smile, to the vows that would break and bind him all at once. He let himself linger there, in that future—in that dream now real enough to reach for.
“If love could be measured in size, querida, I’d build a wedding so big the stars themselves would lean down to watch,” he whispered, his lips brushing your hairline.
He waited for your reply, but when he tilted his head to look, you were already asleep, your face soft, your breath warm against his chest. His smile curved tender and unguarded. He kissed your hair once, then let his eyes fall closed, sleep claiming him with you still in his arms.
The first thing Harry noticed when he woke was the weight of your hand over his chest, your ring catching the soft gold light spilling through the curtains. For a long while, he didn’t move. He just lay there, staring at the diamond, at your fingers curled so trustingly against him, at the way the sun seemed to find you like it couldn’t help itself.
A smile curved across his lips before he even realized it, warm and soft, the kind that had been finding him more and more often since last night. His fiancée.
The word still knocked the breath out of him.
He shifted carefully, pressing a kiss to your fingers, then your wrist, then your bare shoulder, the trail of kisses coaxing you slowly from sleep.
You made a small, sleepy sound, your lashes fluttering open. “Mm…”
“Good morning, mi amor,” Harry murmured, voice thick and gravelly with sleep. He slid an arm around you, tugging you closer until your body curved against his.
You blinked blearily at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Good morning.”
The kiss you gave him was slow, lazy, like honey dripping from the comb. You hummed into it, eyes still half-shut, and Harry chuckled quietly before stealing another, then another, until the line between dream and morning blurred.
“Merry Christmas,” you whispered against his mouth.
He pressed his forehead to yours. “Merry Christmas, fiancé.”
You hummed and shyly buried your face in the pillow next to you. “Mmm, still not over how good that sounds.”
He chuckled, brushing hair gently from your face, leaning in to kiss your shoulder. “Good. Because I plan to remind you every day until we make it husband.”
That earned him a sleepy laugh, and you turned your head to reach back for his lips. He kissed you softly, sweetly, lingering there like he had all the time in the world.
He pulled back slowly and propped himself on one elbow, mischief sparking in his eyes now. “Come on,” he coaxed, tapping your hip. “Up. Presents are waiting.”
You squinted at him like he’d just asked you to run laps in the snow. “Harry, it’s barely morning.”
“Exactly.” He grinned, boyish and almost pleading. “Please? Come out with me.”
Your laugh was warm, indulgent. “You’re worse than a kid, baby.”
But you slid from bed anyway, tugging on the soft pajamas he had draped over the chair for you every morning. He did the same, both of you padding out of the bedroom into the hushed glow of the living room. The tree still twinkled faintly in the corner, stockings sagged with weight, and outside the window, snow drifted lazily down.
“Sit,” Harry urged, guiding you to the couch.
You arched a brow but settled into the cushions as he disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, the oven beeped to life, and you watched as he opened the fridge, pulling out a tray.
When you realized what it was, your breath caught.
Cinnamon rolls.
You sat up straighter, stunned. “You… remembered?”
Harry glanced over, sheepish but proud. “Of course I remembered. You told my family last week. Cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning. Now it’s our tradition.”
Your throat tightened, warmth rising so quickly you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He slid the tray into the oven and crossed back to you, settling beside you on the couch with a soft and warm smile.
You wasted no time climbing into his lap, straddling him and brushing his hair back with your fingers. “What other endearing, tearful surprises do you have up your sleeves today, Castillo?”
He smirked, tilting his head toward yours until his lips brushed yours. “Just the presents under the tree.”
You kissed him, soft and slow a few times, then pulled back just enough to whisper, “I can’t believe you remembered.”
“How could I forget?” His thumb stroked your cheek. “Traditions make families. And now… this one is part of ours.”
The words hit so deeply that you had to press another kiss to his lips before the emotion spilled over.
Then, with a spark in your eye, you slipped off his lap and padded to the tree. “Speaking of tradition…” You reached under the branches and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box. You pressed it into his hands as you settled beside him again.
Harry tore into the paper, brows lifting when he found a tin inside. He opened it, and his breath caught.
Polvorones.
You smiled, watching his reaction. “I asked your mom to show me the recipe. We made them together a few days ago while you and Simon were out doing Christmas shopping with the kids. I thought you might want a piece of your childhood this morning.” You hesitated, suddenly shy. “I know your family tradition is to make them on Christmas and I was thinking maybe next year… we can make them together? With the cinnamon rolls.”
For once, Harry was speechless on Christmas morning. His throat worked as his chest tightened with something almost overwhelming. He set the tin gently on the coffee table before pulling you into his lap again, kissing you with a fervor that spoke louder than words ever could.
When he pulled back, his voice was low, reverent. “Thank you, mi vida. Just—thank you.”
Tears pricked your eyes at his sincere reaction, but before they could fall, he pressed his forehead to yours, chuckling softly. “Any other tearful surprises I should brace myself for?”
You shrugged, smirking. “Some of the gifts under the tree… I can’t guarantee they won’t bring an emotional reaction.”
His laugh was warm, deep, the sound vibrating through you as he kissed your lips once more, “Shall we get started then?”
You nodded and smiled, then the oven dinged, and soon the apartment filled with the sweet, buttery scent of cinnamon rolls, mingling with the pine from the tree. You brewed coffee while Harry plated everything, and the two of you curled on the couch again—mugs warming your hands, the tree glittering, snow continuing to fall outside.
Unwrapping gifts turned into its own rhythm: tearing paper, laughing, leaning into each other with every surprise.
A new scarf from you, which he immediately wrapped around both your necks with a grin to pull you into another fit of kisses. A delicate bracelet from him to pair with the one you already wore, which he fastened around your wrist, kissing the inside of it before pulling you into his side.
Between gifts, you both nibbled on cinnamon rolls and Polvorones, powdered sugar dusting your lips until Harry leaned in and kissed it away, murmuring against your mouth, “Mmm you taste sweet.”
You giggled into the kiss, brushing sugar from his jaw. “We’re making this every year.”
“Every year,” he promised, his eyes warm and unshakable.
By the time the last box was unwrapped, you were surrounded by a nest of crumpled wrapping paper and ribbons, both of you still tucked together on the couch. Harry pulled you against his chest, your head under his chin, his hand absently tracing shapes along your back.
“How does a spring wedding sound?” You asked, kissing his jaw.
Harry smiled and let out a small chuckle, “As in this spring?”
You leaned up and tilted your head, giggling at his reaction, “What? Is that too soon for you?”
Harry tipped his head, amusement softening into something deeper. “Too soon? Never. I’d marry you tomorrow if you’d let me.”
Your laugh caught in your throat, the sincerity in his voice warming you more than the blanket you shared. You kissed him once, slow and lingering, before tucking yourself back against his chest.
“Then spring it is,” you whispered, and he smiled into your hair, already imagining the moment he’d finally get to call you his wife.
