BETWEEN WORK AND US
masterlist
Harry Castillo x f!reader
summary: Late in his office, Harry Castillo faces the weight of work - but your presence grounds him, offering comfort, quiet intimacy and a rare chance to simply breathe.
wc: 2.2k
Harry Castillo’s office is never truly dark.
Even after most of the building has gone quiet, after assistants have logged off, elevators have slowed, and the hum of conversation has faded into memory- there is always light here. Soft, deliberate light. Lamps instead of fluorescents. Warmth instead of glare.
Tonight is no different.
The city stretches endlessly beyond the windows, glass and steel and movement, alive in a way that feels distant rather than inviting. Cars crawl along illuminated streets far below, headlights like veins of white and red threading through the dark.
Harry sits at his desk, shoulders squared, posture rigid from habit more than comfort.
His jacket hangs abandoned over the back of a chair. His tie is loosened just enough to be improper by his own standards and the top button of his shirt has been undone for hours now. The faint lines between his brows - those that only appear when he’s deep in thought - have settled in and refused to leave.
He scrolls through another document.
Numbers. Projections. Forecasts. Language that sounds confident and decisive but feels heavy with consequence.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
That’s when he hears the soft rustle of paper.
You’re sitting on the edge of his desk, legs crossed casually, flipping through a thick folder with the kind of determined concentration reserved for things you absolutely do not understand.
Your brow furrows.
You tilt the page closer to your face.
Harry doesn’t look up yet, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
“What,” you ask carefully, “does EBITDA mean?”
He pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Do you want the real answer or the answer that won’t make you regret asking?”
You squint at the page. “There’s a difference?”
“There always is.”
You sigh dramatically and flop the folder shut. “I hate this. Respectfully.”
That earns a quiet chuckle.
Harry finally looks up at you, dark eyes softening the second they land on your face. It’s subtle - something most people would miss - but you’ve learned how quickly his edges dull when you’re around.
“You don’t have to pretend to care,” he says.
“I’m not pretending,” you reply. “I’m just… aggressively confused.”
“You’re doing great.”
“I’m really not.”
He smiles anyway.
The office clock ticks softly on the wall. It’s late - later than either of you intended - but neither of you has said anything about leaving.
You swing your foot slightly, heel brushing the side of his desk. “So,” you say, “how much longer do you think this will take?”
Harry glances at his screen, then at the stack of documents still waiting to be reviewed.
“…Define ‘this.’”
You groan and lean back on your hands. “I knew that was a trap.”
“You could go home,” he offers, not unkindly. “I’ll probably be here a while.”
You look at him for a moment, expression unreadable.
Then, simply: “I don’t want to.”
Something in his chest shifts.
He nods once, like he’s accepted a fact rather than won a choice. “Okay.”
He turns back to his laptop, but his focus fractures more easily now. He’s aware of you in a way that’s impossible to ignore - the warmth of your presence, the faint scent of your perfume mixing with coffee and paper and late nights.
You pick the folder back up, determined, flipping to another page.
“This one has charts,” you announce. “That feels promising.”
“Does it?”
“No,” you admit. “But I like the colors.”
Harry laughs under his breath, quiet and fond.
He doesn’t realize how tense he is until the ache in his shoulders sharpens with every minute that passes. He rubs at the base of his neck absently, jaw tightening as he rereads a paragraph for the third time.
You notice.
You always do.
There’s a certain stillness that settles into Harry when he’s overwhelmed.
He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t snap. He doesn’t raise his voice.
He goes quiet instead.
Efficient. Focused. Closed in on himself like a locked room with too many thoughts echoing inside.
You slide off the desk without a sound.
Harry doesn’t notice at first. He’s too busy frowning at his screen, mentally rearranging priorities that refuse to cooperate.
Then he feels warmth.
Hands - yours - settling gently on his shoulders.
He startles, just barely, breath hitching before he exhales.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“It’s just me,” you say softly.
Your thumbs press into the tense muscle just below his neck, careful but sure. He stiffens for half a second out of reflex, then slowly - almost reluctantly- lets go.
His head tips forward slightly.
“Oh,” he breathes.
You smile to yourself.
“You’ve been like a statue for hours,” you say. “I’m worried you’ll crack.”
“I’m fine,” he lies automatically.
You don’t argue. You just keep going.
Your hands move with purpose now, kneading tension out of muscle and stress and long days he refuses to complain about. Harry’s shoulders drop inch by inch, his breath evening out as the tight coil inside him loosens.
The office feels quieter. Smaller.
He leans back into the chair just enough to give you better access, eyes fluttering shut.
“You didn’t have to stay,” he says after a moment. His voice is lower now. Less guarded.
“I wanted to,” you reply.
There’s no drama in it. No expectation.
Just truth.
Harry swallows.
“I don’t know how you put up with this,” he admits. “With me disappearing into work like this.”
Your hands pause briefly, then resume, gentler now. “You don’t disappear,” you say. “You just carry too much.”
That lands deeper than you intend.
His jaw tightens - not in frustration, but something closer to emotion. He lets out a slow breath.
“Some days,” he says quietly, “it feels like if I stop for even a second, everything will fall apart.”
You lean closer, your voice near his ear. “But it doesn’t. And even if it did… you wouldn’t be alone.”
Harry opens his eyes.
For a moment, he doesn’t speak.
Then he turns his head just enough to look at you, really look at you. The city lights frame you softly and for once, there’s nothing sharp in his gaze.
“Today,” he says, “was brutal.”
You nod. “I figured.”
“This,” he continues, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “was the worst part of it.”
You still your hands. “Was?”
“Past tense,” he confirms.
He reaches up, covering one of your hands with his own. His thumb brushes over your knuckles in a slow, absent stroke.
“You’re the best part of my day,” he says. “Every day.”
Your chest tightens.
You lean down, resting your forehead briefly against the side of his head. “You’re allowed to rest, you know.”
“Only if you’re here,” he murmurs.
You laugh softly, and the sound seems to ease something in him that no amount of spreadsheets ever could.
You return to your spot on the desk, but Harry doesn’t let you go far. His hand lingers at your waist, grounding, familiar.
He doesn’t open his laptop again right away.
Instead, he watches you flip through the folder again, pretending very hard to be invested.
“Are you actually reading that?” he asks.
“Absolutely not.”
“Good,” he says. “I was worried.”
You grin and close the folder, setting it aside. “Do you ever think about… not doing this forever?”
Harry leans back in his chair, considering. “Sometimes.”
“And?”
“And then I think about what it allows me to protect. Build. Provide.”
You nod slowly. “You don’t have to be everything all the time.”
He studies your face, the earnestness there. “I know.”
It’s quiet again.
Comfortable.
Harry finally reaches for you, pulling you gently off the desk and into his lap. You go willingly, settling sideways, your legs draped across his.
He rests his forehead against yours.
“I don’t say this enough,” he murmurs, “but I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
You smile softly. “You’d survive.”
“Maybe,” he concedes. “But I wouldn’t be this happy.”
You press a kiss to his temple, then his cheek.
Outside, the city keeps glowing.
Inside, Harry Castillo allows himself - just for tonight - to stop carrying the weight alone.
Harry doesn’t rush it.
He never does with you.
When you settle more fully into his lap, the chair creaking softly beneath the shift in weight, his hands come to rest at your waist like they’ve always belonged there. Not possessive. Not hurried. Just steady, grounding.
You can feel the warmth of him through your clothes, the solid reassurance of his chest against your side. His thumb traces a slow, absent arc along your hip, as if he’s reminding himself you’re real.
“Comfortable?” he murmurs.
You hum softly, curling a little closer. “Very.”
He exhales, something like relief loosening in his shoulders, and rests his forehead against your temple. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The quiet isn’t awkward - it’s full. Heavy in the best way.
Harry’s nose brushes your hair when he breathes in.
“You smell good,” he says quietly.
You smile. “That’s the stress leaving your body.”
He lets out a soft laugh, the sound low in his chest. “If that’s true, you should be on payroll.”
“Benefits included?” you tease.
“Unlimited,” he replies without missing a beat.
You turn toward him then, slow and deliberate, one hand coming up to rest against his jaw. There’s a faint shadow of stubble there - evidence of the long day he hasn’t quite shaken yet. Your thumb brushes along it gently.
Harry stills.
His eyes soften, dark and intent, flicking briefly to your lips before meeting your gaze again. He doesn’t lean in right away. He waits - always waits - for you.
It makes your chest ache in that familiar, fond way.
You close the distance instead, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s light at first, almost tentative, but Harry responds immediately, turning his head just enough to meet you properly.
The kiss is slow.
Unhurried. Warm.
His hand slides up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades, pulling you a fraction closer as if he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he doesn’t anchor it.
When you pull back, barely an inch, he follows instinctively, brushing another soft kiss against your lips.
“Hey,” he murmurs, smiling faintly against your mouth.
“Hey,” you echo.
You kiss him again, lingering this time. Harry sighs into it, the sound gentle and content, like he’s finally exhaling after holding his breath all day.
You don’t stop there.
You kiss his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth again - small, affectionate kisses that make his grip tighten just slightly, not in urgency, but in appreciation. In gratitude.
Harry presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed. “You’re going to ruin me,” he says softly.
You smile. “You seem okay with that.”
“I am,” he admits. “More than okay.”
He shifts then, carefully, turning the chair just enough so you can settle more comfortably against him. You tuck yourself into his chest, your head fitting perfectly beneath his chin like it’s always known where to go.
His arms wrap around you fully now, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles into your back, the other resting warm and secure at your side.
You can feel his heartbeat.
Steady. Calm. Yours syncs with it before you even realize it’s happening.
The city outside hums on, unaware, uncaring—but here, in this pocket of quiet, time feels suspended.
Harry presses a kiss to the top of your head.
Then another.
And another.
Each one unspoken, each one saying something different. Thank you. Stay. I’m here.
You nuzzle closer, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re really tired,” you murmur.
“I am,” he agrees.
“Do you want to go home?”
He hesitates - not because he doesn’t want to, but because the word home has started to mean something different lately.
He tilts his head, brushing his lips against your hair again. “Only if you come with me.”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you lift your head, meeting his gaze, and kiss him - soft, sure, and full of promise.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you say quietly.
That does something to him.
Harry’s arms tighten around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face briefly against your shoulder, breathing you in like you’re oxygen.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, “how much I needed you tonight.”
You stroke your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, feeling him relax beneath your touch. “I know.”
He laughs softly. “You always do.”
You stay like that for a long while - cuddled together in his chair, trading soft kisses and quiet touches, nothing demanded, nothing rushed. Just presence. Just closeness.
Eventually, Harry presses one last lingering kiss to your lips, then rests his forehead against yours again.
“Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“For staying,” he replies simply. “For reminding me that there’s more than this.”
You smile, heart full. “There’s always more. Especially with you.”
He kisses you again - slow, tender, full of everything he doesn’t always know how to say.
And for the first time all day, Harry Castillo feels truly at ease.
