#materialists press

[a7estrellas]

POV: FaceTime with PEDRO PASCAL

[wiitchesterr]

ʜɪꜱ ᴛʏᴘᴇ, ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴏɴᴛ

harry castillo x book editor!fem!reader

imagining fem!reader in her thirties & harry is 45-50 but you can make up whatever you’d like :)

giving harry the rom com romance he deserves

masterlist | 9.4k words | i listened to this playlist while writing 📖 MINOR Materialists spoilers | the pics don’t depict what reader looks like | reader has hair long enough for a bun | I gave reader a last name & y/n is NOT used | used this "—" in a human way not an ai way | harry in a henley (yes that’s a real warning), multiple rounds of sex, oral (both receiving), aftercare:)

You came to Iceland alone, not because you were running from anything, but because you finally could.

The freelance contracts were stable. The email backlog was manageable. Your rent was paid through next month. It had been a year since you last went looking for someone who wasn’t looking for you. A nice milestone if you will. 

So you booked a flight. Reykjavík, Iceland. Last-minute, no itinerary and no agenda. Just a carry-on, a reading list, and the jacket you’d meant to return twice.

The first few days were all adjustments. The light of day that never really left, the water tasted like minerals, and the quiet that slowly creeps in and rests inside you. No sirens and no upstairs neighbor dropping weights at 2am. Just you, your doc martens, your thermos, and enough space in your brain to hear yourself think again.

You hiked trails with names you couldn’t pronounce, you bathed in sulfuric water that stung your skin in the best way, you had lamb stew in a restaurant carved into the side of a hill, and when the server brought you a second slice of rye bread with butter so soft it melted before it hit your tongue, you almost cried. You didn’t. But you almost did.

You reread Giovanni’s Room in a crater. Hunger Games on a black sand beach. And Persuasion in the lobby of your hotel, sipping coffee that tastes like smoke and people watching like you’re being paid to do so.

You didn’t speak to anyone really. You wanted that.

You missed New York in the way a body misses caffeine, shaky and fond but knowing you’re better off without it, at least for a little while.

And now, it’s your last morning.

You get to the airport early. Not for the reasons most people do. You weren’t stressed at all. You just enjoy the stillness that happens between gate calls, when everyone’s pretending they’re not judging and one-upping each other. You like airport coffee, even when it’s terrible. Especially when it’s terrible.

You find a café with wide windows and a view of the grey sky swallowing the tarmac. There’s a table near the corner. Two seats. You take one and drop your bag in the other, claiming space you don’t need but don’t feel guilty about.

You order a black coffee and pull out a paperback from your coat pocket, something used and marked up, with a name that isn’t yours on the inside cover.

You’re half a page in when a man asks,

“You think this book is any good?”

You don’t look up right away. You clock the voice first: American and crisp. Manhattan maybe, old money, maybe, or the kind of boarding school vowels that only break when they’re drunk or heartbroken.

Then you glance over.

He’s tall, dark-haired and looks like he shaved two days ago but hasn’t cared since. There’s a jacket slung over one arm and a bruise-like tiredness around his eyes that doesn’t make him ugly. It just makes him real.

You nod toward his hands before you speak.

“Depends. Are you reading it or just holding it like an accessory?”

He blinks. A pause. Then the ghost of a smirk.

“Reading it.”

You glance down at the cover he’s holding, you recognize it immediately.

“Funny. I edited that one.”

His eyes lift, sharp with interest now. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” You sip your coffee. “Didn’t expect to see it outside Park Slope or a first date.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Which one do you think this is?”

You raise an eyebrow, but don’t answer yet.

You let the silence hang, sip your coffee, and let him look at you.

Not stare exactly. More like observing, as if he’s trying to pin you down and failing, and finding that a little thrilling.

“So you’re from New York?” he asks.

You glance at him over your cup. “What gave it away?”

“I can hear a little accent,” he says, smiling. “And you mentioned Park Slope. Not just anyone knows that.”

You chuckle under your breath. “True. Most tourists don’t go there.”

You pause just long enough to make him wonder if you’ll return the question. Then:

“What part are you from?”

He shifts, leans forward slightly like he’s letting you in on something personal but not too precious.

“Tribeca.”

Your eyes widen, just barely. A flicker. Most people wouldn’t notice. He does.

You school your expression, take another sip of coffee, and say,

“Hm. Then I’ll have to keep you extra close.”

He smirks. He doesn’t blink.

“I’m okay with you being really close.”

You tilt your head at him. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe,” he says easily. “Is that okay?”

You don’t answer right away. You look down at your book, the one he interrupted. Your thumb slides against the pages. You pretend to read a line, but your eyes aren’t moving. Then you close it.

“Sure,” you say. “It’s okay.”

You both settle back into your seats like you’ve earned something. Not exactly comfort. But permission.

He lifts the book he was reading again and says,

“So, you do this full-time?”

“Yeah. I used to work in-house. Left a while ago. Too many men in Patagonia vests who think they’re publishing gods.” You shrug. “Now I freelance.”

“Sounds like the right move.”

You nod once. “You?”

He hesitates. You can see him weighing what to say, how to say it. There’s something performative about rich men when they don’t want to seem like rich men.

“Private equity.”

You let out a dry breath. “Ah. So you’re the one who keeps buying up independent bookstores and turning them into juice bars.”

That gets a real laugh from him. “Guilty by association, maybe.”

“What kind of stuff?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Used to be startups. Tech, mostly. Now it’s... portfolios, scaling, strategy. The kind of things people pretend to care about on LinkedIn.”

You smile. “Sexy.”

“It’s not. But I’m good at it.”

There’s no brag in his tone. Just a quiet resignation. A man who knows his lane but isn’t in love with it.

“So,” you ask, folding your hands around the cup, “what brought you here? Iceland, I mean.”

He exhales, eyes tracking the window for a second.

“I was supposed to come here with someone. Lucy. We broke up about a week before the flight.”

You nod slowly. “Oh.”

“Yeah. She booked everything. I figured, might as well go. I already paid for the room.”

You hum in understanding. “Did you stay in it alone?”

“Yeah. Her perfume lingered on some of my clothes for the first couple nights.”

That hits something in your chest soft, familiar. You don’t ask more.

He shifts again. “What about you?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I wasn’t dumped, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, I mean—what brought you out here?”

You lean back in your chair, watching steam curl off what’s left of your coffee.

“I promised myself I’d take one solo trip a year. This was the first time I actually followed through with it. No laptop, no phone calls, just me and a stack of books I’ve read already.” 

He smiles.

“And no heartbreaks?”

You smirk faintly. “I mean… not recent. Nothing fresh. But yeah. There was someone. Awhile back. He never really showed up for me. Not in the ways that matter.”

“That’s brutal.”

“Not really.” You shrug. “I learned a lot about myself.”

“Like what?”

You look at him then, hold his gaze just a second longer than you should.

“I’m not giving my time to guys who only want me when it’s convenient.”

That knocks the smirk right off his face. But not in a bad way. More like he’s been seen. It hits him somewhere behind the chest, in that place where the echo of Lucy still lives.

“Noted,” he says quietly.

The conversation drifts.

Not in that small-talk, filler way but back and forth. You both tread water comfortably.

You talk about how Reykjavík air tastes like snow and metal. He tells you he ordered something called fermented shark at a bar near the harbor and immediately regretted it.

You talk about the subway and the best place in Queens to get a late-night pastry.

“Do you miss it?” he asks, eyes flicking up as if he could see the city from here.

“Sometimes,” you say. “But I don’t want to miss it all the time. I wanted to miss myself first.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“That’s a good answer.”

You glance at the clock. The boarding call is coming. You can feel it. The shift in the café’s atmosphere. People are rising and putting jackets on. The brief return of gravity.

You both stand.

“Flying coach?” he asks, not in a judgmental way. Just… cataloging.

“Always,” you say with a shrug. “I’m not that classy yet.”

“I am,” he says, smirking. “First class.”

You grin. “Figures.”

At the gate, he hesitates before walking into the priority lane.

“I could have them upgrade you,” he offers. “There’s room.”

You shake your head, a little amused, a little flattered. “Nah. Coach builds character.”

He grins, but there's something underneath it, something quieter. “At least let me send a car. I’ve got one waiting at JFK. It’d be easy.”

You meet his eyes, soften your tone just a little.

“I appreciate it. But I like the way the city feels when I come back in a taxi. Grime on the window, everything ugly and alive again. I like that moment.”

He watches you for a long breath. He doesn’t press.

Instead, you pull a card from your wallet, just a simple one. Name. Email. Phone number. A line that says freelance editor in cursive and nothing else. You hand it to him like it’s a folded note in school. Casually.

“In case you want a better book next time,” you say.

He takes it, carefully. Like it might smudge if he touches it wrong.

“I’ll read in the margins,” he says. “Swear it.”

You nod once. “Safe flight, Harry.”

“You too,” he replies, and then tucks the card into the inside pocket of his blazer—pressed flat, precise, like he’s not letting it out of his sight.

You board a few minutes later. You're in a middle seat in the back half of the plane, next to someone who keeps snoring through takeoff. But it doesn’t matter.

Because for the first time in a long time, you’re not dreading what’s waiting for you back home.

A Week Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

The sun is already dipping behind the skyline by the time you close your laptop. It’s been a long day. Quiet, manageable edits for a debut memoir that won’t get half the press it deserves. You liked the voice, though. Witty. Tired in the way only New Yorkers romanticize about the rot and decay around them. 

You stretch your arms above your head, spine popping as you glance out of your apartment window. A kid is biking the wrong way down the block and someone is burning incense out on their fire escape again. It smells like patchouli and sage.

You finish your tea, let your eyes drift to your phone.

Three texts from a client, one from your cousin, and a missed call from an unknown number.

Weird.

You barely finish blinking before it rings again. It's the same number.

You hesitate, thumb hovering, then swipe to answer.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause. Then a voice you absolutely recognize says:

“Hi. I- It’s Harry. Castillo. From uh well Iceland. The airport café.”

You don’t answer right away. Just smile into the silence like he can see it.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” he echoes, softer. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. I didn’t… I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

You scoff lightly. “Please. You don’t seem like the kind of guy people forget.”

He laughs, and it sounds a little boyish. 

“I’ve been meaning to call. The whole week’s been insane. I flew straight into a mess at work, deals falling through, someone quitting without notice, my inbox looks like an emergency room. But I’ve been thinking about you. I swear I have.”

You lean back in your chair, let the words settle in.

“I figured you were busy,” you say, trying not to sound too concerned about it. “You’re important. Tribeca-important.”

He groans. “God. Please don’t say that.”

You laugh. “Fine. I won’t.”

“But seriously,” he says, “I’ve been… wanting to talk to you again. In, like, a non-airport setting.”

You raise an eyebrow, voice teasing. “Are you asking me out, Harry Castillo?”

He hesitates, and you can almost hear the way he runs his hand through his hair. You picture him in a glass-walled office, tie undone, coat slung over a chair, pacing.

“Yes,” he says finally. “I mean. If that’s okay. I’d really like to see you again. Maybe somewhere that doesn’t involve security lines or boarding passes.”

You let the silence hang just long enough to make him squirm.

Then

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” He sounds almost surprised.

“Yeah. Just don’t try to send a car for me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll cab it to Queens.”

“Damn right you will.”

Two Days Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

The night air is warm and heavy with city sounds, muffled music from an open window, someone dragging a trash can across concrete, a group of friends laughing on the sidewalk with half-finished drinks in hand.

You’re early, but just barely. The restaurant you picked is familiar. You've come here with friends, exes, and even alone with a book. It has no Instagram presence and still uses paper menus. That’s the charm. It’s a test.

You're in a soft black slip dress that falls just below your knees, layered with a light denim jacket and scuffed up white sneakers. The kind of outfit that says, I'm effortless, even though you tried on three different jackets before settling. Hair down, your favorite small silver hoops, a touch of mascara and lip tint. You didn’t overthink it. Not really. Just enough.

He rounds the corner like he’s been here a hundred times before, though you know he hasn’t. There’s that same easy walk, confident but never cocky, and he spots you before you see him.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. “Right on time.”

He’s dressed in dark denim jeans and a charcoal grey sweater that fits just right. No watch tonight. No flash. Just a quiet show of expense. A beige coat is folded over one arm. His hair’s a little neater than it was in Iceland, but not too neat. He looks rested and sharp. But you still remember the version of him leaning back in that plastic airport chair, talking like the world had finally gone quiet for once.

“This place is great,” he says, glancing up at the worn awning and exposed brick. “Very you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t even know me.”

He smirks. “No. But I’m trying.”

You’re seated at a table near the front window, the kind of table made for long talks and longer looks. There’s no tablecloth, just a flickering plastic candle in a chipped glass holder.

The server brought you wine, he asked what you liked, and when you said white but not too sweet, he remembered.

“So,” he says after the first sip, leaning forward, “how many manuscripts have you torn to shreds since we spoke?”

You grin. “Two. But gently. I only tear with care.”

“That sounds like it should be on a t-shirt.”

“I’ll make merch.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “God, I missed this.”

You look at him. “You say that like we’ve known each other longer than the airport and a phone call.”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t take long to know when someone’s different.”

You feel the words settle under your ribs. Warm. Unrushed. He doesn’t follow it with a compliment. Doesn’t pivot to flirting right away. He just lets it sit there, honest, unornamented.

Later, between bites of pasta and bread dipped in olive oil, you ask him what his week was really like. He tells you about a last-minute investor call that nearly tanked a merger, and you try not to fall asleep. He teases you about zoning out, and you tease him right back for trying to impress you with balance sheets.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you say with a smirk.

“Oh?” he leans back, hand cradling his wine glass. “You think I’m hot?”

You deadpan. “I think you’re decent looking. In dim lighting.”

He grins, eyes twinkling. “I’ll take it.”

By the time you leave, your cheeks hurt from smiling. The walk back to your apartment is short, only a few blocks, and he doesn’t ask to come up. You don’t offer. Not this time.

But when you stop outside your building, he lingers.

“This was…” he says, hands in his coat pockets. “God, this was exactly what I needed.”

You smile softly. “Me too.”

He hesitates, then, “can I see you again?”

You reach for the door. “Sure,” you say over your shoulder. “I’ll pick a place with better chairs.”

He grins. “Deal.”

Before you step inside, you turn and add, “and I’m still not letting you send a car.”

“Even if I ask really nicely?”

You arch a brow. “Especially if you ask nicely.”

He watches you go like he wants to follow, but doesn’t. And that’s what makes it better.

You step out of the café where you just finished catching up with one of your longtime authors, a smart, sweet nonfiction guy who’s somehow always three years late with a manuscript. It’s warm out, not hot, and you’ve decided to walk the long way back just for the hell of it. Phone in hand, sunglasses on. You’re halfway through typing a text when your phone starts ringing.

Unknown Number.

Except you know who it is by now. You really need to put his name in your phone. 

You answer with a smirk already in your voice. “You again.”

“Guilty,” Harry says. His voice is all low charm, like a secret he’s letting you in on. “I’m on lunch. Want to join me?”

You snort. “I’m a little far from Tribeca, and I walked, so—”

“Where are you?” he asks, cutting you off gently.

You tell him. There's a pause on the other end.

“Okay… don’t get mad at me, but I sent a car.”

You stop walking.

“…You didn’t.”

“I did.”

You’re about to launch into a scolding monologue when a sleek black vehicle rolls to a stop in front of you. Windows tinted. Polished to perfection.

You press a hand to your face and burst out laughing. “You are insufferable.”

“Get in the car,” he says, grinning audibly. “You can reprimand me over oysters.”

The place he’s picked is one of those restaurants. Small, tucked behind a street of gallery spaces, with a menu that changes every week and never bothers to explain itself. The table’s already set when you arrive. He stands to greet you, jacket off, sleeves rolled up just enough to show a watch that probably costs more than your rent.

“You look very summery,” he says, holding your chair out.

You sit. “You look like you paid someone to make you look like you’re not a billionaire..”

He grins. “I did. Her name is my assistant.”

The restaurant is cool and quiet inside, with sunlight spilling across the marble bar. The server brings you fresh bread, olive oil with shaved fennel, and menus printed on textured paper.

You let Harry order, he insists, so you end up sharing:

Burrata with charred peaches, basil oil, and crushed pistachios Hand-cut pasta in a lemony brown butter sauce with crispy sage A chilled rosé that tastes like it was bottled by gods with good taste in music

You’re halfway through your second bite when he says:

“Okay. Important question. Childhood crush.”

You blink. “That’s your big lunch question?”

“It reveals a lot about someone.”

You pause, then say, “Captain America.”

He stares. “The super hero?”

You nod. “When I was younger it was the crappy cartoon version. This new guy though, Chris Evans? I love his accent and the presence he gives as Captain America. It’s called taste.”

He laughs, nearly choking. “Okay. Wow. I was not prepared for that.”

You raise a brow. “Yours better be good.”

“Liv Tyler. Armageddon. I was convinced she was waiting for me, specifically.”

You tilt your head. “That’s very classy of you.”

“I was an emotionally repressed child with a lot of money and no real outlet.”

He says it lightly, but you don’t miss the faint weight under his voice.

You lean back in your chair, taking a sip of wine. “So what were your parents like?”

“Oh,” he says, “we’re going there.”

“Briefly,” you say, “and only because I told you about my super serum kink.”

He laughs again, a warm one, and then shrugs.

"My mom’s a powerhouse, super passionate about social issues, but always with reasons behind it. My dad was more business-minded. Tougher. We haven’t talked since my brother’s wedding. Things were complicated between us, but I think, in the end, we kind of understood each other."

You nod, letting the moment rest.

“What about you?” he asks.

“My parents are still in New York now in Long Island,” you say. “Still together. They always hoped I’d go corporate. Something stable. I said ‘no thanks’ and started making barely enough to live off books.”

“And now you make slightly more than barely enough?”

You smile. “Something like that.”

By the end of the meal, your plates are cleared, you’re still smiling, and Harry is sitting just a little closer than he was when you started. Not touching. Not pushing. Just near. Warm. Present.

“Thank you,” you say as you stand.

“For the car?”

“For lunch and the laughs..”

“Anytime,” he says, eyes not leaving yours. “But next time, I’m picking you up on foot. Like a man of the people.”

You’ve just turned off the lamp.

The apartment is quiet. You can hear someone’s music faintly through the wall, and a car alarm hiccuping somewhere blocks away before slowly stopping. You’re in bed, finally. Bare-faced, sleep shirt on, book half-open next to you. Your phone is face down on the nightstand.

You don’t expect it to ring.

But it does, just as you’re sliding deeper into sleep. A soft vibration, and a light across your cheek.

Harry Castillo.

You blink at the name; it's still strange to see it there, tucked between texts from spam and a random DoorDash update. 

You hesitate, then answer.

“Hello?”

His voice is low, rough around the edges.

“Hey. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

You roll onto your side, tucking the blanket under your chin. “Not really. I was pretending to sleep but mostly just realizing how cold my feet are right now.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. You can hear a drawer opening. Something soft shuffling.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Mmm. Financial guilt?”

“God. That’s terrifyingly accurate.”

You smile into the dark. “So what happened?”

"Work went off the rails after lunch, endless calls, two people threatening to quit, and I somehow offended a potential partner by describing his margins as ‘borderline invisible.’”

You snort. “That does sound like you.”

“Thanks.”

There’s a pause while he moves again—maybe into another room. His voice shifts slightly as if he’s brushing his teeth or pulling off a shirt.

“I didn’t want to be alone in my head tonight. That okay?”

You close your eyes. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

You hear the sound of a faucet. A clink of glass on marble.

“What are you doing?” you ask softly.

“Night routine. Trying to forget about my job. You?”

You glance around the room.

“Lying here. Wearing a shirt that says ‘I love books more than people.’ Left sock halfway off.”

“Hot.”

You grin. “I tried.”

“I wish I could see you.”

You freeze for half a second and recover quickly. 

“I look like a raccoon that's reading Murakami.”

“I think that’s exactly my type.”

You talk.

Not about anything important, not really. Just… things.

Favorite words. “I like ‘luminous,’” you say. “I like ‘ruin,’” he replies. You talk about what you’d re-name each dog breed, about how weird it is to feel exhausted and overstimulated at the same time and about how sometimes the city feels like it’s chewing on you, but in a good way.

He tells you he’s in bed now. That he’s staring up at the ceiling. That there’s a crack in the plaster shaped like an ampersand (&). 

“Maybe it’s a sign,” he says.

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. Something to come or that I should become a book editor too.”

An hour passes.

Then another.

Your voice gets lower. You laugh less but not because he’s not funny. Just because you’re sinking into something heavier. Softer.

There’s a pause where neither of you speak. You think he’s fallen asleep, but then he murmurs,

“This feels intimate.”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“I don’t mean that in a bad way. Just… It’s been awhile.”

You exhale slowly. “Same.”

You roll onto your back, phone resting against your ear. Staring at your own ceiling. No cracks shaped like ampersands, just a water stain and the faint shadow of an old dream.

“Feels dangerously domestic,” you murmur.

He huffs a soft laugh. “God forbid.”

“I mean, we’ve passed ‘what’s your favorite pasta shape.’”

“I’ll try not to get too earnest, then.”

“Too late.”

He’s quiet. Then, “you’re not hanging up, though.”

“Neither are you.”

Eventually, your voices start trailing off. He gets quieter. You feel the words before they form:

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Don’t forget me by morning.”

You don’t answer. Just smile into the dark and let the silence stretch between you like a thread that won’t break.

The late-night phone call is still swimming around in your head when you wake up.

You slept better than you expected, despite your brain playing his voice on repeat like a lullaby.

You have an interview this morning. One of your more polished authors. Midlist, legacy type. He wears cufflinks and uses the word “zeitgeist” unironically.

So, in a rare move, you reach for your version of a professional editor outfit, something you haven’t done in years.

Chestnut colored low-waisted trousers that fit like they were made for you. Crisp cream blouse, just slightly undone at the collar. A slim leather belt. A dark red lip that says I will criticize your work out loud, and you’ll enjoy it. Hair pinned back in a clean low bun, a few soft pieces left out. Kitten heels and your favorite silver hoops.

You look like the version of yourself that used to walk into publishing houses and command rooms full of men who thought they were smarter than you.

You haven’t worked in an office in years, but this version still lives somewhere in you. And today? She came to play.

As you’re passing through your building’s small, scuffed lobby, coffee in hand, tote bag over your shoulder. Then the building manager flags you down.

“Hey, uh… someone left this for you.”

He gestures to a sleek black envelope with your name printed in elegant script, leaning against a tall white box on the mail desk.

You frown, glancing at it. You’re not expecting anything. Not from a client. Not from anyone.

You open the box.

Inside: flowers.

But not just any flowers. Something rare. Something lush, strange, and stunning. Delicate cream and rust-colored juliet garden roses, pale orchids folded like paper secrets, and spidery accents of chocolate cosmos the kind that smell faintly like vanilla and firewood.

You blink.

You've never seen a bouquet like this.

Tucked between the stems is a small card, handwritten in blocky, careful print.

You reminded me of summer yesterday. So I thought I would bring summer to you. – H

You’re still staring when your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Harry Castillo calling.

You answer. “Okay, you’re actually a menace.”

“So you got them.”

His voice is warm, smug, but just a little uncertain beneath it. Like he’s waiting to see if he went too far.

“You didn’t think they were too much?”

You glance back at the bouquet, still cradled in your arms.

“Harry, I didn’t even know flowers like this existed.”

“That’s why I picked them. They reminded me of you. Unusual,  gorgeous and slightly intimidating in the best way.”

You snort, flustered and weirdly breathless. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“That’s not the goal. I just… wanted you to know last night meant something.”

Your fingers tighten on the phone.

“Me too.”

You're halfway out the door again when you stop, pivot on your heel, and mutter, “Shit.”

“Everything okay?” Harry’s voice comes through your phone, still tucked between your ear and shoulder.

“The flowers,” you say, rushing back inside.

You head straight for the kitchen, set your bag down, and rummage through the cabinet above the fridge. Your “vase” selection consists of a chipped pitcher, a pasta jar, and something you once used to make sangria. You choose the pitcher, it’s wide enough, and besides, the cream glaze makes the florals pop.

You set the bouquet down gently on the island, like you’re afraid it’ll bruise.

“Are you arranging them?” he asks, his voice low and amused. You can picture him: still in bed, hair a little messy, coffee half-drunk on his nightstand.

“Of course I’m arranging them. These are insane. I should charge for admission.”

“Send me a picture.”

You pluck a dead leaf from a petal and sigh. “You really know how to mess with someone’s head, you know that?”

“Just yours. And only in the nicest way.”

You don’t say anything to that. Just bite your lip and step back, checking the vase’s angle from across the kitchen. It’s perfect. They’re perfect. It’s all too much, and yet… not enough.

“I have to go,” you say eventually. “Client time.”

“Kill it.”

“I always do.”

“I’ll call you later?”

You hesitate just a second before saying, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

You hang up, grab your bag, and try not to look back at the flowers. You fail.

You're still somehow early.

Either your client is late, or you’ve inherited your father’s compulsive punctuality. You’re sitting in the second-floor lounge of a midtown publishing house, a place that smells like over-air-conditioned paper and expensive hand soap. A wall of glass gives you a view of the city. Cranes in the distance, clouds bruising the sky, and the taxis below like yellow fish in a steel aquarium.

You’ve got your phone out, pretending to scroll through notes.

But really?

You’re thinking about Harry.

You’re thinking about the sound of his voice last night, the slight rasp like he was stretched too thin but letting himself unravel just for you. You’re thinking about the way he said “they reminded me of you” and how you didn’t flinch at it, how you wanted to believe it.

“Ms. Elliot?”

You look up.

Your client is here. Finally.

The interview starts slow, he talks a lot. He’s proud of his book. You nod, you smile, you ask the right questions. You’re good at this. Still, some part of your brain keeps echoing Harry’s laugh, the flowers on your counter, the heat in your face when he said I wish I could see you.

But you redirect. You’re a pro.

You circle back to theme, structure, tone.

“Do you think your work is more political or personal?”

“Both,” the author says, “but I’d argue that good writing always is.”

That gets a real smile from you. The kind you’d usually savor.

But even now, even now, you wish you could tell Harry about that line. You wish he could see you in this moment, sharp and engaged and glowing with capability.

You finish the interview on schedule, exchange a handshake and a thank-you, and step out onto the street again, wind in your hair, sun hitting your skin like a reward.

Your phone buzzes.

Harry Castillo:

Tell me how it went. And tell me what you’re doing tonight.

You type back slowly, thumbs and cheeks suddenly warm.

You:

Went well. Crushed it. And tonight… why? Are you planning something?

Three dots. Then:

Harry Castillo:

Maybe. You ever had mediocre ramen on your rooftop?

Your heart kicks once.

And suddenly, the rest of your day has a direction.

You wait a beat before replying to Harry’s text.

You don’t want to look eager, even though you’ve already mentally rearranged your whole evening at the idea of him. You reread his message and smirk.

Then you type back:

You:

I’ve got ramen in the back of my pantry and a rooftop of my own. But I’m warning you, it’s Queens, not Kyoto.

He replies a minute later.

Harry Castillo:

I’ll risk it. What time?

You glance at the sun dragging its way toward the horizon.

you:

Seven. Bring your own chopsticks.

He shows up right on time.

Not that you were waiting at the window or anything.

You buzz him in and open your apartment door barefoot, your hair is still in a messy knot. The air smells like toasted sesame and garlic, and you cheated and added an egg along with a handful of scallions to the instant ramen to make it look slightly more presentable.

“Hey,” Harry says when you open the door. “Wow. You really went all out.”

He’s in loose black jeans and a slate-colored henley, sleeves pushed up. He doesn’t look like he works for Wall-Street tonight and more like the boy-next-door who happens to have a portfolio. His hair’s a little damp like he showered before coming over, and you hate that you notice. You really hate it.

You step aside, letting him in. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

He glances around your apartment, books stacked in messy piles, a print of a Matisse sketch by the record player, a candle that smells like amber, old paper and vanilla.

“Feels very you.” He lifts a brow. “It’s warm and a little intimidating.”

You grin. “Again, just like me.”

You move toward the kitchen to grab the bowls, one slightly chipped, one a gift from an ex fling you barely remember and gesture with your elbow.

“Rooftop’s this way. Don’t get lost.”

He follows without question. You lead him out your front door, up the narrow stairwell that always smells like warm brick and weed. You push open the old metal door with your elbow and your hip, and just like that, you’re above the city.

It’s not glamorous. The rooftop has a warped picnic table, a few plastic chairs stolen from someone’s backyard, and an ancient milk crate you use as a step stool when the neighbors don’t return theirs. But the view?

The view makes up for everything.

Queens spread wide below you, glittering and unpretentious. In the distance, the Manhattan skyline cuts sharp against the violet sky, scattered windows still glowing like someone left the light on just for you.

Harry exhales behind you.

“God. This is…” he trails off.

You set the bowls down on the blanket you laid out earlier and glance over your shoulder. “Still willing to risk it?”

“Absolutely.”

He sits beside you, knees bent, arms draped over them in a way that makes him look accidentally posed. You pass him a bowl, then settle cross-legged beside him, your foot barely brushing his.

You both eat for a few minutes in a comfortable quiet. It’s easy. It’s not nothing.

He slurps a noodle and winces. “Okay, that’s criminally good. What did you do?”

You shrug. “Doctoring ramen is a sacred art. I could teach you, but I’d have to ask for your soul.”

“Your soul already owns most of mine, so... What’s one more piece?”

You snort. “You’re really laying it on tonight.”

“Only ‘cause I mean it,” he says while shrugging.

You side-eye him, spoon pausing near your mouth. “You always seem to mean it. That’s what makes you dangerous.”

He grins, but doesn’t argue.

The wind picks up just a little, and you hug your knees for warmth. A second later, without comment, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders like it’s nothing.

You let it happen. Don’t say a word.

“So,” he says after a beat. “Still not a date?”

You smirk. “No.”

“Right. Got it.”

A pause.

“If it was, though, I’d be blowing it. I didn’t even bring wine.”

You lean back on your hands, glancing sideways. “You showed up, you’re eating my ramen, and you sent me flowers. That’s enough.”

“And you’re wearing my jacket.”

You look down at it like you just noticed.

“I guess I am.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s just thick. Heavy with everything you’re not saying. Your arms brush. His knee shifts a little closer.

You clear your throat. “So. When’s your next big deal or billion-dollar merger or whatever?”

He chuckles. “I actually pushed everything back for the rest of the night. This is it.”

You blink. “This?”

“You.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything. You just sit there with the city stretched out around you, a bowl of ramen cooling in your lap, and Harry beside you, warm, still, and impossibly present.

You shift slightly, feeling the weight of his words settle in the air between you. The city noises below, the distant hum of cars, the occasional bark of a dog, fade into the background, like they belong to another world. Up here, it’s just the two of you.

You meet his eyes, searching for a sign. Instead, he offers a small, almost shy smile. It’s the kind of smile that says, I’m trying, but I don’t want to rush this.

You fold your arms loosely around your knees, pretending to study the skyline but secretly memorizing the curve of his jaw, the way his brown eyes catch the last light.

“You’re full of surprises, Harry Castillo,” you say, voice low.

He leans back on his hands, gaze drifting over the rooftops. “I could say the same about you.”

A comfortable silence stretches. Neither of you wants to break it, but neither wants to disappear either.

“I like this,” he finally says. “No pretenses. No pressure.”

You nod, your heart beating a little faster than it should. “Yeah. Me too.”

He glances at his watch. “I should probably get going soon. I have an early day tomorrow.”

You rise, brushing crumbs from your jeans. “Me too.”

He stands as well, hesitating for a moment as if weighing something unspoken.

“Can I walk you down?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate. It feels like the right thing to do, even if you’re not sure why.

“Sure,” you say.

The metal stairs creak under your steps as you descend together, closer now than before. In the hallway, he stops just outside your door, fingers lightly touching the frame.

“Tonight was… nice,” he says, voice soft.

You smile, heart fluttering. “It really was.”

He looks at you for a long moment, then adds, “I’m glad I came.”

“Me too,” you whisper.

He finally steps back, the distance between you settling like a promise.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“Night, Harry.”

You close the door, leaning against it with a smile that lingers long after he’s gone.

You wake up slowly, blinking into the late morning light that slips past the curtains. There’s a moment, maybe two, where the dream still lingers.

It was him.

Of course it was.

Not a sexy dream, not exactly. Just one of those oddly tender ones. His hand brushing your lower back in a crowd. His laugh echoing in your apartment like it belonged there. You two reading in silence, feet tangled, breathing in sync. Comfortable. Easy.

You turn onto your side, eyes half-lidded, trying to hold onto it.

It’s been a long time since a man’s made it into your dreams without breaking something first.

Harry was dreaming too. Only he’s not really sleeping anymore, just lying still in bed, sheets tangled around his waist, laptop abandoned on the far corner. He’s staring at the ceiling and thinking about you.

Not the rooftop or the ramen, specifically, but the way you looked at him. The way you didn’t push or pull. Just let him be.

He’s thinking about how different that is from what he had with Lucy.

Lucy had been... fine. Beautiful. Sharp. But every conversation felt like a contract, every touch like a negotiation. He used to think that was normal.

But then there was you, barefoot, sarcastic, eating cheap noodles on a Queens rooftop, and suddenly, everything felt different.

He exhales hard, runs a hand through his hair, and reaches for his phone before he can stop himself.

Your phone buzzes.

Harry 💼:

Question.

Do you like beautiful old bookstores that smell like ink and with secrets?

You sit up, already grinning.

You:

I’m not a monster. Why?

Harry 💼:

Because there’s one in SoHo I used to walk past and think, “one day I’ll have a reason to go in there.”

And I think you might be my reason.

You stare at the message, heart thudding in your chest.

This man.

You type back:

You:

Okay. I’m intrigued. Time?

Harry 💼:

1 p.m. I’ll meet you there. Casual as hell, I promise.

The bookstore is tucked between two designer boutiques, a tall narrow building with sun-bleached windows and a brass bell that jingles when the door opens.

You get there early. Not on purpose, just… eager, despite yourself. You keep it casual, black t-shirt tucked into jeans, boots, your tote slung over your shoulder. You wander through the first floor while you wait. It smells like old paper, cedar, something faintly floral.

You’re halfway through flipping through a dog-eared collection of letters between two 20th-century poets when you hear the bell above the door.

You don’t even need to turn.

“I was hoping you’d beat me here,” he says behind you.

You look over your shoulder. He’s in dark jeans, a white tee under a navy jacket, sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Effortless. But it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s been thinking about this all morning, that sends something skittering beneath your ribs.

You smirk. “You remembered this place just for me?”

“Technically, I remembered it for myself. But it only became important once you existed in my life.”

You raise a brow. “Careful. You’re gonna make me blush in public.”

“That’s the goal.”

You spend the next hour wandering.

You pull a collection of translated poetry off the shelf. He skims the back cover of a book on finance and laughs. You sit together on a creaky leather couch on the mezzanine, flipping through coffee table books and making snide commentary about overly abstract art.

But something in the air has shifted.

It’s quieter now. Closer.

You catch him watching you a few times, when you tuck your hair behind your ear, when you underline a line of prose with your finger, and when you laugh with your whole mouth open.

He doesn’t hide the way he looks at you.

And you don’t hide the way it shakes you.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says, a book open in his lap, eyes still on you.

You glance over. “That sounds like a compliment and a threat.”

“It’s just the truth. You make everything feel a little different now. Better.”

You look away quickly. Pulse thumping in your ears. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might start believing you.”

“Good. You should.”

You close your book, suddenly unable to focus. “Lets check out.”

At the register, you both buy something. He picks a first edition he insists on getting for you despite your protest and when he hands the clerk his card, you catch him glancing sideways at you. Like he wants to say something. Like he’s trying to hold it in.

Outside the bookstore, sunlight spills over the sidewalk in soft white-gold. The street buzzes faintly with city noise, horns, bike bells, someone on a Bluetooth call arguing in Italian.

You both linger near the corner, the edge of something unspoken tightening around your ankles like ribbon.

“You hungry?” he asks, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, leaning a little closer.

You nod. “Starving.”

“Let me call a car. There’s a spot I’ve been meaning to try. It’s close.”

You open your mouth, already halfway to saying no, I’ll walk—but then you pause. He’s looking at you like he’s not just suggesting lunch. Like he’s asking you to let him care for you in his quiet, expensive way.

And for once, you let him.

“Okay,” you say. “But just this once.”

“Deal.”

The car is sleek, dark, and unreasonably quiet inside. He opens the door for you without saying anything, just a glance that makes your pulse jump. You slide in, legs crossed, arms folded loosely across your stomach like you’re trying not to look like you care.

A few minutes into the ride, his phone buzzes.

“Shit,” he mutters, glancing at the screen. “Do you mind?”

You shake your head. “Go ahead.”

He taps to accept. “Yeah, this is Harry.”

And then he’s off, voice low and measured, all clipped sentences and layered confidence. You sit beside him, pretending to look out the window.

But you’re not really listening to the call.

You’re watching him.

The way his jaw flexes ever so slightly when he listens. The little lines that appear at the corners of his mouth when something doesn’t go the way he wants. The way he gestures with two fingers, like he’s conducting the air. The way he leans forward when he says something decisive.

You shouldn’t find this hot.

You definitely do.

And when he says “I’ll review the deck by seven, but loop me in on the legal first” like he’s wrapping a bow around someone else’s fire drill, you feel it low in your stomach. That quiet ache of watching a man who’s not just smart but capable.

He ends the call with a quick “I’ve gotta go,” drops his phone in his lap, and glances over.

“Sorry. Work.”

You raise an eyebrow, carefully neutral. “That was... extremely corporate of you.”

“Don’t lie, you were into it.”

You snort. “I plead the fifth.”

He takes you to a small corner place with wide windows and zero branding. One of those ungoogleable restaurants that only exists by word of mouth. Inside, the vibe is stripped-down: pale wood tables, worn-in leather seats, white wine chilling in ceramic buckets, and a chalkboard menu that changes weekly.

It’s nothing like ramen on a rooftop late at night.

It’s quieter. Slower. Cozier.

The hostess knows Harry by name. “It’s been a while,” she says with a wink.

“Trying to change that,” he replies, glancing at you.

You’re seated in a back corner by the window. The table’s small. You could stretch your foot out and touch his ankle. You don’t. But you think about it.

“They do this roasted fish with pickled something-or-other,” he says, handing you the menu. “It sounds weird. It isn’t.”

You scan it. “I trust you. Mostly.”

“I’ll take that.”

You both order. He gets the fish. You get something with farro and beets and citrus vinaigrette. He orders two glasses of wine before you can stop him.

“Wine? At lunch?” you ask, lifting a brow.

“What else are you supposed to do on a fake date in the middle of a workday?”

You grin. “So it’s a date now?”

“I didn’t say a real date.”

“Right. Casual. Just two friends getting tipsy on a Tuesday.”

“Exactly. Two friends who almost held hands in a bookstore.”

You kick him under the table.

He kicks you back, gentler.

The wine comes. The food follows. And somewhere between laughing over a bite of his fish and him dabbing a drip of vinaigrette off the corner of your lip with his thumb like it means nothing, you realize you’re in trouble.

You like him. Too much.

And he’s looking at you like maybe, just maybe, he does too.

The table is quieter now.

Your plates have been cleared, wine glasses half-full, the sun shifting low through the window and casting shadows across the tabletop. Outside, the city keeps moving, horns, heels, soft static from a passing bus, but here it’s all muted.

You swirl the stem of your glass between your fingers, lazily.

Harry’s been quiet for a minute. Not uncomfortable. Just... hesitant.

He leans forward, elbows on the edge of the table, eyes steady on yours.

“So—” he starts, and then pauses.

You look up. “So?”

His voice drops. A little rough. 

“There’s a gala Friday night. Work-adjacent. Black tie, too many speeches, probably bad shrimp.”

You nod, amused. “Sounds exciting.”

“Every year my assistant sets me up with some woman I’ve never met to make me look... normal. Taken.”

“You really love living the fantasy, huh?”

“I declined this year.”

You tilt your head. “Oh?”

“Because I was hoping you’d come with me instead.”

You blink. It’s not that you didn’t think this could happen, it’s that hearing him say it like that, so plainly, knocks something loose inside your chest.

He watches you carefully and quietly, like he’s trying not to chase your answer out of your mouth.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he adds. “You really don’t. It’s just... I’d rather go with you than sit next to someone who calls Tribeca ‘Truh-beekah’ all night.”

You press your lips together, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That’s fair.”

“So?” he says, trying to sound casual, but you can tell, you can tell, he’s not.

You lean back in your chair, eyes scanning him like you’re solving a riddle. Because part of you wants to say yes right now. And the other part, the smaller and sharper part wants to savor it. To make him wait just a little.

You lift your wine, take a sip, set it down gently.

“You’ll send a car?” you ask.

“Of course.”

“And you’ll make sure the shrimp’s not actually bad?”

“I’ll pull strings.”

You tap your finger on the rim of your glass once. Twice.

“Okay,” you say finally. Soft. But solid.

“I’ll go with you.”

His shoulders relax like you just gave him oxygen.

“Yeah?” he says, his smile tugging. “Really?”

You nod. “But I swear to God, if I end up next to someone talking about NFTs or their yacht for three hours, I’m leaving with a waiter.”

“Deal,” he laughs. “But only if I get visitation rights.”

You laugh too. It’s easy again. Warm.

Then, after a pause, he adds, more cautious now, but still hopeful:

“One more thing.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Here we go.”

“I want to send you something. A dress.”

You blink. “Harry…”

“No pressure to wear it,” he says quickly. “But I saw one and thought of you. I already have it saved. My assistant owes me a favor. It’s nothing dramatic. Just something elegant and sharp.”

“You’re describing a Bond girl.”

“No,” he says, his gaze soft. “I’m describing you.”

Your stomach flips.

You reach for your wine again, just to do something with your hands. “You know I can dress myself, right?”

“Of course you can. But I also know how it feels to want to look a certain way when you walk into a room like that. And I want you to have exactly that feeling.”

You go quiet. You weren’t expecting that answer. You weren’t expecting how much it would hit.

“Okay,” you say again, quieter this time. “But only if it’s actually my size. And nothing overly sparkly.”

“Promise. No sparkles. Just something you’ll look delicious in.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling so wide it hurts.

Two Days Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

2:14 p.m.

You’re half-editing a paragraph and half-re-reading the same sentence for the third time when your phone buzzes.

Harry 💼:

Hey

Don’t yell at me

I need your measurements

You blink. Pause. Then type back.

You:

…for what exactly?

Harry 💼:

The dress

I told you I wanted to send you one

I mean unless you want me to guess. But then I can’t be held responsible for the fit

You roll your eyes, already smirking.

You:

So what are we talking ballpark sizing? Height? Waist? How scandalous is this thing?

Harry 💼:

Depends Do you consider “strapless” scandalous?

Your mouth drops open. You swallow a smile.

You:

Oh we’re playing like that ? Strapless, huh?

Harry 💼:

I figured if I’m going to show up with the most captivating woman in the room, she shouldn’t have to tug on sleeves

Or think about shoulder seams. Just her confidence

You stare at that one a little too long.

You:

You talk like that to all your dates?

Harry 💼:

I don’t have dates Not lately Just you

Your heart makes a very unprofessional move in your chest.

You:

You realize you’re making it very hard for me to concentrate on work right now

Harry 💼:

Good. Send me your numbers

Let me do the rest

You hesitate for all of one second before sending him your measurements. And once you do, he doesn’t respond right away.

Two minutes later:

Harry 💼:

Perfect

Thank you

I’ll have it sent directly to you. No peeking until tomorrow.

You:

You’re not the boss of me

Harry 💼:

Not yet.

You nearly drop your phone.

The Next Morning 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

You don’t expect to see him. You’re halfway to your mailbox, wearing yesterday’s t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts when the door buzzes.

“Package for you,” says the manager behind the desk. “Real fancy.”

You raise an eyebrow just as the glass doors slide open.

Harry Castillo steps through them holding a black garment bag.

You stop walking.

He smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Good morning,” he says. “I had something to drop off.”

“Most billionaires use couriers,” you reply, crossing your arms, trying not to grin. “Is this what they call a personal touch?”

“Something like that.” He eyes your outfit with amusement. “Should I have brought coffee too?”

“I would’ve liked a croissant.”

“Noted.”

He steps closer, handing the garment bag over like it’s a sacred artifact.

“No pressure to wear it,” he says, lowering his voice. “But as I said,I saw it, and I thought of you.”

From the desk, the manager clears his throat loudly, but with restraint.

You glance sideways at him, then back at Harry. “You always this charming?”

Asking as if you don’t already know the answer. 

“Only in Queens.”

You try not to blush. You fail.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he adds, voice dropping half an octave as his eyes flick over your face.

You nod. “Yeah. You will.”

He’s gone two seconds later, out the door like he didn’t just drop a bomb and walk away.

Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

You unzip the garment bag slowly, like it might whisper if you move too fast.

Inside is the dress.

A vintage charcoal grey gown, smooth and liquid in your hands. It’s strapless, with a refined, statuesque shape that skims the length of your body. The fabric catches the light in a quiet, expensive way. Nothing too flashy.

There’s embroidery stitched delicately along the bodice and fine silver-threaded detail that curves like vines framing your collarbones. Elegant. Minimal. Dangerous.

You slip it on with care.

No tugging, no adjusting. It fits perfectly. The way it hugs your waist, the slight flare of the hem, the way the bodice presses close without suffocating it feels like it was made for you. Like he really looked.

You twist to check your reflection in the mirror.

You don’t look like the woman who edits manuscripts on her couch in a hoodie and glasses. You look like the woman who walks into a room and makes people turn. The kind of woman who deserves to be watched.

You pin your hair into a soft, low updo, leaving a few pieces loose at the nape of your neck. Subtle makeup, your favorite brick-red lipstick, a little liner, highlighter so faint it only shows when you turn your head.

Then the finishing touch: your baby blue heels.

They shouldn’t work with the dress. But somehow, they do.

They spark against the grey. A wink of color. 

You glance at the clock. 6:57.

And then—your buzzer goes off.

You check your appearance one last time in the mirror by the door, fingers smoothing the fabric at your hips. The heels are just high enough. The updo stays pinned. You breathe in once, twice, and grab your clutch.

Then you head downstairs.

The moment you step into the lobby, the room hushes. The manager behind the desk nearly drops his clipboard. The elevator chimes shut behind you. But you don’t see any of them.

Because at the far end of the lobby, waiting by the glass doors in a crisp, black tux and a perfectly tied bow tie, is Harry.

He turns when he hears your heels click against the tile.

And for a full, suspended moment, he forgets how to breathe.

His eyes sweep over you from head to toe, slowly, reverent, and utterly still.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

Your smile curves, shy and wicked all at once. “Nice tux.”

“I don’t— Jesus.” He closes the space between you, eyes still wide. “You look... devastatingly beautiful.”

Your hand is already in his before you even realize you reached for him.

“Ready?” he asks, like his voice just came back online.

You nod, fingers tightening slightly around his. “Let’s go.”

The car is sleek and low-lit as usual, the partition already raised for privacy. You sit beside him, knees angled together, clutch held tight in your lap.

But your other hand?

Still tangled with his.

You don’t speak much. Don’t need to.

His thumb traces your knuckle slowly, and you feel it everywhere. The soft city blur outside the window fades beneath the weight of his attention.

“The gala’s at The Frick,” he murmurs, gazing at your profile. “They rent it out once a year for this foundation thing. Mostly donors, trustees, people who pretend to read art journals.”

You smirk. “Sounds awful.”

“It will be. But you’ll be there soooo—”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels too tight, too warm

The car glides to a stop outside the stately mansion-turned-museum on the Upper East Side. Lights wash the limestone facade in a golden glow. A crowd is gathered beneath the archway, camera flashes starting up like clockwork.

You grip your clutch tighter as the door opens.

But then he’s there offering his hand, not just to help you out, but to anchor you.

You take it.

The moment your heels touch the cobblestone, voices ripple.

“Who is that?” “She’s stunning—look at that dress.” “Is that Harry Castillo’s date?” “God, the two of them—”

You don’t hear all of it. But you hear enough.

Still, your eyes only find one pair.

Harry’s.

And the way he looks at you?

Like he likes the attention. Because they see you the way he already does.

part two —>

divider by @kodaswrld other one by me:) 🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @inbred-eater @millersdoll @grayandthyme @saturnyo @littlejoels @millersgirl44 @mybvalentine @mysticalgalaxysalad @wayward-dreamer @starstriker027 @untitledgoat @erinlovesyou @katssecretdiary @strangeangelflapsuitcase @behomewhenthestreetlightscomeon @perfectpoetrybluebird @inept-the-magnificent @throttlepascal @readingiskeepingmegoing @noteriii @needz1nk @foggymoonbanana @belleofthewickedteaparty @axshadows

[musette22]

Josh Horowitz asks Chris Evans about doing Broadway with Sebastian Stan

[nicolethered]

Pedro Pascal FaceTimed for Materialists

[ransomflanagan]

Did you see that recently Pedro Pascal called himself a lazy 50-year-old bougie bitch?

[cupofzo]

Javi’s always around if you just look.

[evansensations]

[rebel-held]

indeed. amen.