Ok but. Harry Castillo? THE Harry Castillo? The one whos got a nutrionist and dietician and physical trainer, to make sure he keeps the strictest physical health possible to perform his best? And all of it adds more stress to his mind.
So when you start gifting him little treats, just a little kind gesture to make his day, he doesnt record those on his intake tracking sheet. It starts with adding a little bowl of choclates to your desk, holding one out for him as he passes by on his way to his office. Always with a warm smile. Its the best first thing in his morning: a little bit of sweetness to unravel like a tiny treasure and kick off his day. He hums and savors the taste in his mouth. It had been years since he had something unfiltered like this: everything he eats is stripped of sugar and processed gooeyness. It excites him to enjoy this one little secret.
But then, youre offering him one every time he leaves for a lunch, comes back from a meeting, shaking hands out in the lobby. You always seem to be perfectly in stock too: when one disappears, another is replenished within the hour. It heats your cheeks every time he gives you a kind smile when snatching one off your desk.
You started taking on his lunch orders too. Of course, everything was perfectly curated by his personal chef. He hadn't order takeout in a long time. So while he eats his bland meal, you also bring him a little extra bite: a burger or plate of fries. Perhaps a milkshake when a deal closes or a few cookies and slices of cake when he's there past 5.
You always leave it on his desk. He' usually busy on a call, but when he swivels to see you standing there clearing room on the table for his tray of goodies, his face lights up, licking his lips as he mumbles an excited "ah huh" into the receiver. You watch as he rushes to end the call before diving in. Whereas before, he'd take nibbles while entirely focused on work, now he slams his laptop shut and dedicates his entire attention to his treats. He lets out happy groans and hums with each bite. Wipes the cream or crumbs from his eager lips and sucks his fingers clean. Always after cleaning the whole plate, he'd sit back and sigh, smiling gently to himself.
You're clearing out the tray when he heaves himself up and trying to change for a new meeting. Harry lets out a grunt, undoing his belt and latching it to the widest hole possible. He frowns in the mirror, staring back as he shifts.
"You look wonderful, Mr Castillo," you tell him softly. He grins and nods, ignoring the new weight settling in stomach and thighs.
His doctor had questioned how his weight had increased so quickly. Harry assures him its temporary stress but hes keeping up with his routines. He doesnt bother to hide the fact that the food has made him less stress than ever before. In fact, his mood had improved tenfold. He was indulging and enjoying food again, and it made him more motivated to keep going.
He was embarassed to ask you to schedule him a tailor appointment for new suits. His clothes feeling tighter must all be in his head. A couple extra treats here and there surely wouldn't have made a noticeable difference on the outside? No, it was just bloating from having foods he'd repressed for decades.
He stops telling himself that when he finds himself cupping your ass in your pencil skirt, seated across his spread lap as you dip another choclate covered strawberry into his mouth. This had become a weekly to nightly occurance. Late hours resulted in late hour munchies. He felt bad keeping you after hours but you insisted if you could parttake, you wouldnt mind all. He thought that meant getting a bite to eat along with his orders, not... this.
He finishes chewing and swallows, humming as you rub his large belly. You had helped unbutton his shirt and pants to help let his gut fall out more natutally. There was no reason to be strung up in uncomfortable clothes when no one was here, you told him. A few glasses of wine didnt hurt either. It felt nice to have the heat of your body against his chest and thigh. He pet your smooth legs curled up against his knee. Your body felt fantastic, especially your thighs. When drunk he had fewer pretense to worry of how it might look, having your boss run his palm up your thigh, above your skirt line. It felt nice for both of you.
You held a cup of chocolate, dipping various snacks layed out on the table, and feeding him one by one. You leaned against his chest and kissed his cheek and neck, listening to his struggled breath trying to keep his arousal at bay. The food piling in his stomach only added pressure to his already hard cock.
You could sense his discomfort. He whined slightly when you sat up. His disappointment is replaces by raised, excited eyes as you unclasp your blouse, revealing your push up bra that accentuated your breasts and cleavage. "Thats better," you hum. "Now you."
He nods as you take over to pulling his hardened length out. It sprung free, slapping the curve of his stomach. "My my, Mr Castillo. I knew those rumors were true."
He blushes. Yanking you back to his lap, you begin to jerk him off with one hand, proceeding to feed him again with the other. Harry is enamoured, his eyes lidded and lust filled, panting as you encourage another bite. You had made a mess of chocolate over his dress shirt, not that he minded one bit. His member throbbed violently in your hand. Your craddled his head to your chest, pumping his length faster. He dipped his finger in the chocolately mess and pressed it to your lips. Your moan sang with praize as you sucked his finger off, enough to make him cum with a yelp all over your hand.
Harry proceeded to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the office. You were rarely at your desk those hours, instead grinding on his belly beneath you atop his lounger, or getting fucked against the closet wall, or sucking his cock and licking the sticky mess left all over his chest and stomach under his desk. He fired his irrate physician and dieticians. He'd never felt more alive and healthier than he has with your invaluable assistance.
♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger! Original Female Character
♫⋆｡♪ WC: 11k
♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, Creampie, Comeplay, Rough sex, Size Kink, Nipple play, Dominant Harry Castillo, Marathon sex, Overstimulation, Squirting, Doggystyle, Missionary, Freeuse (kind of), Breeding, Yearning, Slow burn, Pining, Soulmates, Domestic Harry Castillo, Billionaire Harry, Harry learning how to fall in love the human way, Emotional vulnerability.
♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Harry is going to propose but something unexpected happened that changed the plan.
Harry had never had more sex in his life. He was nearly fifty, for God’s sake. This shouldn’t have been easy. It shouldn’t have felt like this—constant, insatiable, ridiculous. He should’ve been tired. Drained. But he wasn’t. Not even close.
Anyone else might’ve chalked it up to his girlfriend being in her twenties. But it wasn’t that. The funny part—the part that made him both smug and slightly concerned—was that it was because of him. His own desire. His own body, refusing to slow down, like it had been saving all of its hunger for this exact phase of his life. For her.
He hadn’t even realized he had such a high libido. Not really. Not until they were in Seville.
The first few days were tame, if anything. They landed in the afternoon and checked into a villa nestled in the outskirts of the old city, surrounded by olive trees and bougainvillea. Catherine gasped when she saw the kitchen. She liked kitchens. There were big windows that let the sun in during the early morning, turning everything gold and warm, and a wide stone balcony that overlooked a field of lemon trees. Their first breakfast was made quietly. Catherine sliced fruit. He made coffee.
They did tourist things—at least half the time. Walked through the Alcázar and got lost in gardens where the walls hummed with heat. She brought her camera and took photos of tile patterns and fountains. She also bought a recipe book on how to cook local food and made amazing breakfast everyday. He didn’t even pretend not to watch her the whole time. They went to the flamenco museum, ate too much jamón ibérico, drank local wine that made her tipsy by late afternoon. She wore linen dresses and barely did her hair. And still—especially still—he couldn’t stop looking at her. She loved it there, he could tell. She kept saying things like, “We should come back in the winter,” and “Imagine composing in a place like this.”
They went out to eat nearly every night, and Harry insisted on ordering too much food—mostly because Catherine had lost weight over the last couple of months, thanks to endless rehearsals and late-night composing for the upcoming concert. One evening turned into a whole event, a parade of street vendors stopping Catherine to compliment her hair, her dress, her eyes. Most of them were obviously trying to charm tourists out of their money—but unfortunately for Harry, they’d found the perfect mark. Catherine was too kind to just leave them without buying a couple of things. She started using her own money when Harry said no more. He argued she didn’t even want the things they were selling, but she didn’t care. She happily bought them. They went home that night with arms full of trinkets: woven fans, tiny painted tiles, a hand-carved guitar charm.
After that, he started forcing her to leave her purse behind when they went out. She protested, of course, so they compromised—she could bring cash, but only enough for flamenco dancers and musicians. And even though it got annoying, stopping every time someone picked up a guitar or tapped a rhythm on a wine crate, Harry had to admit… they were good. Some of them better than good. Catherine didn’t just give out of politeness. She gave because she recognized talent. She gave because she saw herself in them.
One day, they did nothing. A full day off their itinerary. Catherine had insisted. “I don’t want every day to feel scheduled,” she said, curling under the sheets with sleep still in her voice. He’d agreed easily.
The villa had a private pool tucked behind hedges. No neighbors in sight. Catherine swam that day—really swam, not just dipping her feet or wading in. She looked happy. Like a child at first, splashing water at him when he refused to join. But something shifted. At one point she climbed out of the pool, water sliding down her back, her hair slicked, her cheeks pink from the sun—and something about the way she moved, unbothered, gleaming with heat and skin, made Harry pause. His jaw clenched. He had no idea why she suddenly looked so… seductive. Well, technically, he knew she was, but at least he could keep it in his pants most of the time. All he knew was that he was doomed.
But still—that wasn’t the moment it turned. Not quite. He still had a bit of self-control left.
It happened later that same evening. She’d changed into one of those silk nightdresses that never tried to be seductive but always ended up that way anyway—light-colored, soft, sleeveless, something probably picked for comfort. But it clung to her in places that made him stupid. She was brushing her hair at the edge of the bed, bare feet tucked under her. And when she looked up at him through the mirror, cheeks flushed from the heat, she looked undeniably pretty.
Harry was careful not to let it show. He was used to being good at that. Checking her out without getting caught. He leaned against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed, trying to think about anything else.
That was when she said, “Have you ever lied to me, Harry?”
He blinked.
“No, I don’t think so, baby.” He thought for a second, then added with a grin, “Maybe I did when I said that paella wasn’t salty. It was. But you looked so proud, I couldn’t crush you.”
He chuckled at the memory, but Catherine didn’t join in. She was quiet. Something was brewing.
“Have you ever lied about…” she trailed off, then took a breath. “About how you feel about me?”
That sobered him.
“What?” He pushed off the doorframe, walked closer. “Why would you think that?”
She didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, she ran her fingers along the edge of the hairbrush. “You say you want me all the time. But sometimes… I don’t know. I don’t always believe you.”
Harry stayed quiet. He knew that tone. Knew when she wanted to explain herself, so he waited.
“I’m a confident girl, you know?” she continued, quieter now. “I don’t mind asking. But I think… I think I initiate sex more than you do. I mean, I can tell when you want it, obviously. But you rarely start things. Sometimes I wonder if you’re just humoring me. Like I’m… too young, or too forward, and you’re being nice.”
He almost laughed. “Not all the time.”
“Most of the time. You initiated once or twice.”
Harry finally let out a low chuckle and stepped closer, brushing her hair off her shoulder. “You know why that is?”
“Why?”
“Because if it were up to me,” he said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, “we’d be doing it morning, night, and every hour between. You should be grateful I’ve got self-control. We need to eat. And socialize. And function in public. We need to not get evicted from hotels.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I’m being serious too.” He pulled her into a hug from behind, pressing his chin gently to her shoulder. “I want you all the time.”
She didn’t say anything at first. Just turned and let her body mold against his, soft and unguarded. The scent of her hair, the feel of her skin, the way she leaned into him without hesitation—it knocked something loose in him. Made everything feel more dangerous. More tender.
“I would have said yes all the time,” she said then, barely audible.
That was when the vacation changed.
He had decided then—maybe this was it. The moment to stop holding back. With Catherine, he always paced himself. Not just in the act, but in the way he allowed himself to want. If not in how rough, then in how many times. Not because she asked him to, but because she once told him, shyly and without shame, that she’d never had a one-night stand. Never had meaningless sex. And somehow that stayed with him longer than he meant it to. It made him careful, made him deliberate. Not out of fear, but respect. A reverence, almost.
And every time he touched her, he did it like he was on borrowed time. Maybe one day, he thought. Maybe one day she’d want him the way he wanted her—without measure, without patience. With the same kind of desperation that sat in his bones when she looked at him like that. And if not, then maybe time would do the telling. Maybe time would show her what he already knew: that he needed her more than breath, and probably always would. And maybe then she’ll let him have his way.
This was that day.
He looked down at her pink lips—pouting now—and from this angle he could look down and see the valley of her breasts.
Then he dipped his head to kiss her. Slow at first, then gradually rougher. He felt everything, savoring her taste. Her tongue danced with his in equal want, which only stroked his desire.
He was already hard when she moved closer, pressing her body against him. Her soft curves molding to the hard planes of his body. This was it.
“Last chance, Catherine,” he said warningly. His voice sounded different, too much husk, too much unadulterated lust.
But she just stood on her tiptoes and kissed him again, and that sealed the deal.
Overwhelmed by the sheer, visceral need to claim her, to mark her as his own, Harry brought his lips down to cover hers in a searing kiss. It was a kiss of pure possession, of scorching, all-consuming desire. He slanted his mouth over hers, his tongue delving past her parted lips to stroke along the warm, wet cavern of her mouth. He kissed her as if he were starving for her taste, as if he could never get enough of the sweet ambrosia of her lips and tongue.
One hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss, while the other hand slid down the slender curve of her back to pull her hips flush against his. Harry ground his hardening length against her, letting her feel exactly what she did to him, how hard he was.
He pulled on her nightgown. The delicate fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling around her feet in a shimmering puddle. His eyes drank in the sight of her, clad now in only a lacy bra and panties that left little to the imagination. And as much as he loved those underwear, he took those off too. Harry was already shirtless so he simply pulled his boxers. Their clothing now scattered on the floor.
His hands mapped the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, before coming to rest on the tempting swell of her ass. He squeezed the firm globes, kneading the supple flesh as he ground his hardening cock against her stomach.
"Fuck, Catherine," he rasped, his voice strained with desire.
He walked her backwards towards the bed, his lips never leaving her skin. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, the tops of her breasts as he lowered her onto the plush mattress. Harry crawled over her, settling his hips between her spread thighs as he loomed above her, his dark eyes blazing with hunger.
His hands slid up her ribs, over the swell of her breasts, his heated gaze landed on her rosy nipples. Harry was always more of a breast person, and god help him, does Catherine have the most beautiful breasts. Unable to resist the allure of it any longer, Harry leaned down and captured one straining nipple between his lips. He rolled the sensitive bud around his tongue, savoring its texture and the way it pebbled even further under his ministrations. A deep, approving groan rumbled in Harry's chest as he suckled harder, his fingers coming up to pluck at its twin, tweaking and tugging at the other aching nipple.
All the while, Harry's hips undulated against her, the thick ridge of his erection sliding along her inner thigh as he ground against her with increasing urgency.
Then one of his hands went down to her most sensitive area. He pressed one finger, right at the center, then slicked back and forth.
“Harry, please,” she said desperately. He stroked again, right at the spot that made her clench. The smell of her arousal was so familiar, so lovely, it made his cock twitch.
He pushed one finger, then two, making her gasp every time. He dipped them slowly, in and out ever so slightly.
He pulled back to get a glimpse of her cunt, and what a sight it was. He smiled down and guided his cock closer. It touched her wetness, just enough without penetrating. Then, he rubbed himself against her, slowly, sliding his cock up and down her pussy lips, dragging his length, drenching it with her arousal. He tilted his hip to hump. She let out a small moan every time it touched her clit.
He watched his precum come out of him. One drop, and another, then another. With each pass, Harry coated her folds with his essence, mixing his with her own arousal until her thighs were slick with the combination of their desires. He held the base of his cock tightly, as if holding back.
If he was going to be rough, then they should be wet enough for more than one round. Thankfully, Catherine was fucking drenched.
“Good girl, so wet for me,” he breathed out.
It looked for a moment that he was too big. His cock looked… angrier than normal. It throbbed against Catherine's slick folds, engorged and flushed a deep, angry red. Veins pulsed along its impressive length as it jerked with a mind of its own, seeming to strain towards her welcoming heat.
Then he leaned in and slowly entered her. He could feel her stretching around him, her walls clenching and fluttering as they struggled to accept his impressive girth. The sensation was exquisite, and Harry let out a guttural groan as inch after inch of his thick shaft disappeared into her welcoming body.
Fuck, he always forgot how tight she was.
He had known, ever since he first had sex with Catherine, that she was the tightest he had ever had. Oh, and every time he buried himself, sheathed himself in that tight cunt, he was reminded of it. It hugged him like second skin. It’s not because she was young—although she was—but because she was just so snug. Partially, it was also her reaction. Whenever he talked dirty, she tightened some more, and it felt like his cock was being massaged by a velvet wall. It was simply heavenly.
Harry didn’t think he could possibly get more aroused than he already was, but he could. Blood was rushing through his veins and ringing his ear, pushing him to just let loose, just be rough.
Then slowly, he whispered to her ear, “You’ll regret wanting this, sweetheart.”
“No, I won’t,” she said in a whisper.
He sincerely doubted that statement. He thrusted slightly hard at her answer, watching her eyelashes flutter. Oh, she was so sensitive already. He collapsed on top of her, catching himself with his forearms. The new angle made Catherine gasp, her back arching off the bed as she clung to Harry's broad shoulders. He could feel her nails digging into his skin, her body trembling with a mix of pleasure and a hint of pain.
His breath came up in pants, occasional grunts came out of his lips, low and scary.
“Oh, Harry,” she moaned, then bit her lip.
Catherine had always been vocal during sex. She was louder when he talked dirty, when he moaned and groaned, and especially when was rough. And oh, how beautiful her voice was. How… erotic.
When he bottomed out, she writhed and moved her hips. Harry had to hold her down. His blood sang at the sensation. She was so warm, pliant, and so fucking soft.
And instantly, he got lost in the pleasure of it all. He started to rut into her, deeper, deeper. Every thrusts made a sound, skin against skin, beautiful moaning in his ear.
She was always beautiful, with her honey blonde hair and pink lips and gorgeous breasts. There were freckles on her skin now, more visible than ever. But it’s a different kind of beauty when she was spread out beneath him, taking him like a fantasy, squeezing around his cock, hot and tight.
Her eyes were hazy and glazed, her mouth open as it let another moan, another whimper. It made him rougher, louder.
"Fuck, Catherine," Harry grunted, his voice a harsh, guttural rumble as he surged forward, sinking his thick shaft deeper into her welcoming body. "You’re so tight, sweetheart. Like it was made for me, like it's pulling me in, wanting me to fill you up fucking thoroughly."
He hooked her leg over his shoulder, the new angle allowing him to drive even deeper, the head of his cock kissing her cervix with every forceful thrust. Harry's other hand slid down to grip her ass, squeezing the firm globe as he pulled her harder against him, meeting his increasingly rough and urgent thrusts.
Panting harshly, Harry lowered his mouth to her neck, sucking and nipping at the tender skin. He wanted to mark her, to leave his claim on her flesh for all to see. At the same time, he growled filthy praise in her ear, his deep, resonant voice sending shivers down her spine.
"Take me, Catherine. Take me deeper. Fuck, yes just like that, squeeze me. Good girl. I'm going to fill you up. You want that, don't you sweetheart? Want my seed flooding you?"
Catherine was closer to her release. "Yes, yes, I want you to cum in me. Please, Harry."
Harry could feel Catherine's body tensing, her walls starting to quiver and clench around his pistoning shaft. The way she begged, pleading with him to fill her up, pushed Harry closer to the edge. He doubled his efforts, slamming into her with a newfound fervor.
"Yes, squeeze me just like that. Good girl, so fucking tight. Fuck, I'm so close, I'm gonna..."
Harry's hips jerked erratically as his climax hit him like a freight train. His cock throbbed hard and pulsed as he spilled his hot seed deep inside Catherine's spasming sex. Jet after jet of his thick, potent cum painted her walls, flooding her womb as he roared with pleasure.
At the same time, Catherine cried out, her own release crashing over her as she felt Harry's seed marking her from within. Her body shook and trembled, back arching off the bed as ecstasy consumed her.
The clenching of her walls milked him for all his worth. He grinded a few more times, kissing her neck, to ride out the orgasm, spurting more into her soft pliant body.
And still, his hand didn’t stop. It roamed her body, rubbing at her skin, her breasts. He leaned back slightly to look at the mess they made. As he withdrew, pearly drops of his seed leaked out, mingling with Catherine's slick arousal and dripping down her inner thighs. The sight of their combined releases leaking from her freshly fucked hole sent a primal thrill through Harry.
She flinched slightly at the sudden sensitivity of her well-satisfied flesh. Harry's hand drifted down to cup her mound, fingers brushing against the dewy petals of her sex. Then, he brought the finger over to her mouth, and she sucked.
Harry watched, utterly enraptured, as Catherine welcomed his fingers. The sight of her pink lips wrapping around his digit, her little tongue lapping at his cum, sent a fresh surge of desire coursing through him. He could feel his spent cock twitching, already beginning to stir with renewed interest.
Unable to resist the temptation any longer, Harry leaned in and captured Catherine's lips again. His mouth slanted over hers hungrily, tasting the salty, slightly bitter essence of their lovemaking. He groaned, his free hand coming up to tangle in her hair, anchoring her to him.
“Turn around, Catherine,” he said. “Present yourself to me.”
And she did. He watched intently as Catherine rolled over, her hair tumbling in disarray across the pillow as she assumed the position he demanded. The sight of her pert, heart-shaped ass pointed towards him, just begging to be grabbed and squeezed, made Harry's newly hardened cock throb with need. It was comical how quick he could renew his appetite.
“That's it, good girl,” he praised, his voice a low, approving rumble. “So pretty. So good like this, letting me use you, hm? Letting me have my pleasure.”
Harry's hand drifted down to grip his aching shaft, stroking it languidly as he drank in the erotic sight before him. He could feel it hardening rapidly, growing thicker and longer under his touch.
In one swift, powerful motion, Harry grabbed Catherine's hips and thrust back into her dripping pussy, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke. He set a hard, fast pace from the start, slamming into Catherine's ass as he gripped her hips tight enough to leave red marks in the shape of his fingers. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room as Harry fucked into her with wild abandon, chasing his own pleasure as much as her own.
It was easier for her to adjust the second time, mainly because she was lubed out with their combined essence. His cum squelched as he thrusted back and forth, making it easier for him to go deeper and deeper into her tight heat. His balls slapped against her clit with every powerful thrust, the little bud swollen and sensitive from their previous lovemaking. He could feel the way her walls fluttered and clenched around him, gripping his pistoning shaft like a velvet vise. The sensation only spurred Harry on, making him fuck into her harder, faster, determined to make her scream.
“I’m sensitive, Harry,” she said. “You’re so rough.”
“Shh, I know, Catherine. I know, sweetheart,” Harry coaxed, his hand drifting down to circle her swollen clit with a feather-light touch. He pounded again, not slowing down. “But you want more don’t you?”
She moaned a quiet confirmation and that was all he needed.
Harry's mouth found her neck, his teeth and lips and tongue worshipping the slender column of her throat as he fucked into her with wild abandon.
“That's my good girl, so tight for me. So fucking tight. Can barely fit it in," Harry panted against her skin, his voice ragged with arousal. Harry's thrusts grew more erratic as he chased his own release, spurred on by the knowledge that he was bringing Catherine closer to the edge of ecstasy with every pump of his hips.
He gathered some of her hair and pulled, guiding her back into him with each thrust.
“Ah, Harry! Ah, something’s—” she screamed and writhed and finally, a gush of her juices drenched his cock. He didn’t know she could do that.
It should have made him stop, but it only encouraged him.
He gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises as he slammed into her, the force of his thrusts making her entire body jerk and bounce on the bed. The obscene sound of her release squelching around his plundering cock filled the room, mixing with the lewd slapping of skin on skin and Harry's own ragged panting. Then, with a roar of triumph and raw, masculine satisfaction, Harry hilted himself inside Catherine's spasming cunt, his cock pulsing as he began to come undone.
"Fuck, Catherine!" Harry bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls as his hot, thick seed erupted from his cock. Harry's hips jerked and spasmed as he emptied himself again, jet after jet of his cum painting Catherine's clutching walls.
Harry's chest heaved with ragged breaths as the final waves of his intense climax washed over him. He collapsed against Catherine's back, his sweat-slicked skin sticking to hers as he fought to catch his breath. His softening cock remained nestled inside her, plugging her up.
He peppered her back with kisses, then moved to her neck to do the same. She moved slightly closer when she felt his rough mustache against her skin, which made him want to kiss her thoroughly, yet again. And so he did.
They did it again twice that night, and they slept in each other’s arms with him still inside her. The next day he woke up wanting, again, and she kept her word. She let him.
They rarely went out after that. Only sometimes, for the much needed meal in between. They barely did any sight seeing, their itinerary forgotten. The rest of the time in Seville they used for fucking. And oh, how he fucked her thoroughly. By the pool, in the kitchen, in the shower, everywhere. And every time he thought he was sated, he looked at her again and decided one more. Then it became another, and another.
They spent most of their time in the villa. It was such a shame too, the weather was awfully nice. But thankfully, neither of them regretted it.
⊹
Harry and Catherine only had a few days left in Seville before they were due to fly to London. That leg of the trip was supposed to be part two of their vacation, but the first few days were strictly business — at least for her. There was the performance, the rehearsals, the inevitable chaos of coordinating an orchestra even as seamless as hers. Technically, they didn’t need the extra practice. The musicians were seasoned, the arrangement flawless. But Catherine was Catherine. Precision wasn’t optional. Especially when playing for donors and trustees and a room full of powerful people who didn’t clap unless something moved them.
He didn’t mind. He liked watching her work. And frankly, he needed the breather from too much sex. It became too ridiculous. If he were superstitious, he’d say there was something in the Seville air, or maybe the water. At this rate, he was convinced he'd suffer cardiac arrest before their vacation was over.
Catherine said it was because they finally had uninterrupted time. No performances, no rehearsals, no looming calendar appointments — just the two of them in a villa with wine, a pool, and no real schedule. But Harry knew it wasn’t just that. It was her. It was always her. Something about her made his restraint fall to pieces.
And lately, it was beginning to feel like… well, like a honeymoon.
Which reminded him. He still hadn’t proposed.
He didn’t know when exactly, or how, but he knew it had to happen soon. And like everything else important in his life, Harry didn’t want to wing it. He needed a plan. Maybe even professional help. If there was a consultant for proposals, he would’ve written the check already, but that probably takes time. That was his way, after all — throw money at the problem, dress it in something tasteful, call it solved.
But most of all, he wanted to speak with Sam. He’d texted her a few days ago to ask when she’d be in New York, but the reply came late — she was in California again, performing for a venue. Typical. Of course she was busy. Then Harry’s mind started calculating. If he couldn’t get Sam’s advice in time, maybe he’d just fly to her while Catherine was busy preparing for the performance. Quick in, quick out. He could also talk to Edward—Catherine’s dad— while he was there. It was more asking for advice than asking for permission, really. Harry needed all the advice he could get. Especially when his brother claimed he was too busy for a phone call and too lazy to open emails, that dickhead. So yes, any advice would do.
It was ideal to propose in London, but it meant letting Catherine go ahead first, and following a few days later. It had to look like business.
Meanwhile, Catherine had been sneaking around the villa lately. She was never very good at being covert — not with him — and he figured it out the day before they left Seville. He’d woken up to breakfast in bed, eggs the way he liked them, toast a little burnt just how he preferred. His favorite of hers, made with the quiet care of someone who really knew him.
He blinked, half asleep. “What’s all this?”
It wasn’t until she kissed his forehead and said, “Happy birthday,” that he remembered what day it was.
He blinked up at her, disoriented. “Really?”
“Yes.” She perched on the bed beside him and handed him a small box, no ribbon, just a clean fold and a neat sticker seal. “I figured you forgot. That’s why I made food.”
Inside the box were two things: a compact, portable espresso machine — sleek, matte black — and a metal business card. High-end, etched with minimal but striking typography.
“So it doesn’t rip,” she said simply, referring to his business card he gave her seven years ago when they first met, the one that ripped because she fell into a puddle. He laughed and kissed her.
That morning, he could’ve asked for anything, really — a walk, a swim, a fancy dinner — but the truth was all he wanted was her. And although he told himself he would reign it in for the last few days, he decided his birthday was a good enough reason to break that promise. Quiet, uninterrupted hours. She asked what he wanted to do, and he told her: a lazy day inside. Which, as they both knew, was a thinly veiled code for sex. One last slow day before the London trip, she’d said.
But then Harry remembered what he was supposed to tell her — that he wouldn’t be on the flight with her. He waited until they were stretched out on the terrace couch, under the pale shadow of the afternoon, sated after a few rounds of sex, coffee mugs now half-empty, her head on his thigh.
“I need to go back for a couple days,” he said casually, caressing her hair. “Something’s come up. Work-related.”
She looked at him, her expression blank for a second. Then she smiled, polite and quick. “Oh. Okay.”
“It’s just a meeting. Shouldn’t take long.”
“No problem,” she said. “The first few days in London’s just rehearsal anyway. You’d be bored in the hotel without me.”
He frowned a little. “I’ll be quick. You won’t even have time to miss me.”
“I always have time to miss you,” she said, soft as a breath.
He didn’t say anything to that. Just reached down and kissed her.
They went to the airport together the next day. He caught her looking out the window more than once, watching the narrow streets and sunlit facades pass by like she was memorizing them. At one point, almost to herself, she murmured, “I’ll miss this.”
He glanced over. “Firstly,” he said, “we can come back. Secondly, we’ve still got London. And thirdly—if what you’re going to miss is the sex, I’ll be ready all the time.”
That got her to laugh.
Catherine’s flight was first. His wasn’t for another few hours. They stood together by her gate until the final call came, and when she kissed him goodbye, she lingered for a beat longer than she needed to, her fingers curled lightly against the back of his neck. He watched her disappear into the boarding tunnel, the small carry-on bumping against her leg, and stayed there until the last passenger was gone. Only then did he turn away, already pulling out his phone to check the messages from Sam.
⊹
When Sam found out he really had flown across the country just to see her, she’d looked guilty enough to offer to meet him at his hotel restaurant for his convenience. He didn’t argue. In truth, he wanted her to feel a little guilty. He’d been trying to pin her down for months, and at this point it felt like he was some desperate investor finally getting a meeting with a consultant.
At least she was on time. She walked in exactly on the dot for lunch, saxophone case in hand, her hair slightly mussed in a way that suggested she’d either rushed from somewhere or hadn’t slept much. Her oversized jacket looked like it had been borrowed from a man twice her size, and she had the faint shadows of someone who could use either a strong coffee or a long nap—maybe both.
“Were you waiting long?” she asked, sliding into the chair opposite him without ceremony.
Harry shook his head and let her settle.
At first glance, Catherine and Sam couldn’t have been more different—Catherine precise, elegant, and impossibly neat; Sam a little chaotic, a singer and a jazz musician with a mismatched wardrobe and a vocabulary full of idioms that would never leave Catherine’s mouth. But he understood why they were friends. They were both a listener and a talker, appreciated any kind of art without condescension, and—above all—loyalty. He will never forget the time she’d driven hours from God knows where, cancelling a gig without hesitation the moment she heard Catherine was in the hospital. He appreciated that.
She ordered a lot of food, which he suspected had something to do with him paying. He didn’t mind.
“So what’s the rush?” she asked, leaning back as the server walked away. “Let me guess—your anniversary’s coming up and you want ideas. Or maybe there’s trouble—did you break up?”
“We didn’t break up.”
“Okay, so she’s acting weird? Stubborn? What’s the sitch? Why couldn’t this be an e-mail?”
He had forgotten how talkative Sam could be. He waited her out, letting the silence fall once she’d run out of steam.
“It’s not an anniversary idea,” he said. “I’m thinking of proposing.”
That made her pause.
“Shit,” she said slowly. “That quick?”
“I’m aware it’s quick. That’s why I need advice.”
Sam was quiet for a second before letting out a short laugh. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would’ve cancelled my gigs.”
“I can’t stand in the way of ambition,” he said, “but this is an emergency. I was never good at waiting and lately it feels like I can’t.”
“You can’t?” she asked.
“No,” he said simply. “I don’t think I can. I feel like I could blurt the question out if I wait any longer. And I’m not impulsive—this is me being calculated. I’ve run the numbers in my head: how much time we’ve been together, how we’ve handled every change in circumstance, how easily we’ve adapted to living together. If something like the accident happened again, and I hadn’t done this yet, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. I can’t afford to lose time, not when I’ve already lost enough of it before I met her. And in all honesty—” He exhaled, almost like it pained him to admit it out loud. “—I just want to be married to her.”
Sam tilted her head, studying him. “It’s interesting, listening to you talk about Catherine. You sound younger than you are.”
“What do you think?” he asked. “Would she say yes?”
“Catherine was always a long term relationship type of girl,” Sam said. “Dating culture was foreign to her. I told her once what men usually expected, and she snorted. She’d said, ‘Why would I date someone I can’t see myself marrying?’”
“She really said that?”
“Yeah. She’s a beautiful girl who only had one boyfriend before you. What do you think? I saw a boy once, years ago, singing under her dorm window. She rejected him, even though the whole building was watching. Let him down easy, too. And you know why she said no? Because he didn’t know her. Never asked her a single real question about herself, and yet he asked her to be his girlfriend, for a date to a seafood place she didn’t like. She has standards. Makes sense, though—she was raised in a perfect family. Secure, independent. Though her kindness isn’t inherited, I give her that. I’m sure you know how uptight the Ainsworths can be. Sometimes even mean. But they love each other fiercely, and that’s why she’s so self-confident in love. Never needed men’s approval, they already liked her for her face. She cares more about friendship than attention.”
A waiter appeared then, setting a cup of coffee in front of Sam and pouring without interrupting. She wrapped her hands around it, leaning back in her chair.
“She knows what she’s doing. If she says yes, it’ll be because she’s absolutely sure.”
“So you don’t even know if she’d say yes?” Harry asked.
“This isn’t some market forecast, you finance guys think everything is,” Sam shot back. “This is real life. A yes means a lifetime of commitment. What I do know is that she loves you.”
“So I have a good chance?”
“Sure you do.”
The food arrived then, steaming and fragrant, plates filling the space between them. Harry didn’t touch his fork right away. He just sat there, staring at nothing in particular, mind already running every possible scenario, every version of her answer. His face stayed perfectly still, but inside he was still weighing the odds like it was the most important deal of his life—because it was.
“I just turned forty-nine. She’s twenty-nine. I feel like… like I should be giving her more time. I don’t want to take anything from her. She’s still got so much ahead of her, and I—”
“Jesus, Castillo, she’s not fucking twelve. I have a friend who married at nineteen. Twenty-nine is fine,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t think you know how hard it is to get Catherine to date someone. Brandon spent like a year asking her out.”
Sam told the story too, about Brandon and his habit of chasing after good girls like they were challenges to be conquered, about the ridiculous songs he’d written for Catherine and sung as if grand gestures could make up for the fact that he didn’t really know her. Harry hated listening, hated having to picture her younger and tangled in the attention of someone so thoroughly undeserving, but he didn’t interrupt. He let Sam talk, even when every word only made him want to roll his eyes.
Apparently Brandon had gone around telling their friends how difficult Catherine was when they broke up, how impossible to please she was. Harry scoffed under his breath at that, because it couldn’t have been further from the truth. Difficult? Catherine, who made his mornings feel lighter just by sitting across the table with her coffee, who softened every edge in his life without even realizing it? Catherine, who laughed at his worst jokes, who carried herself with enough patience and grace to put anyone at ease? She was the easiest person in the world to love. It was almost comical that Brandon thought otherwise. Perhaps that was the problem—men like Brandon mistook ease for indifference, effort for proof of affection. They wanted to bleed for love, to fight uphill battles, so they could feel noble for enduring them. Harry had believed that once, back when he thought relationships were about compromise stacked on compromise, about silences so heavy you carried them like debts.
With Catherine there was none of that. With Catherine, everything was strangely simple.
Sam pulled him from his thoughts and asked: “How long did you know each other before she started dating you?”
“A few weeks?”
“Yeah. Thought so. You know why? Because you didn’t expect anything from her. You were just there, steady, ready to support her. She’s an ambitious, confident woman. And you and her…” Sam gave him a look. “You have that weird connection. You have the same intuition. Sometimes she’ll say something to you and you’ll just get it. Stuff that’s taken me a long time to pick up on, you read in seconds. That’s rare.”
For some reason, those words comforted him. He decided then—it was settled. London. No more circling the thought, no more hesitations. He would propose there, after her concert, when the world already felt sharpened by her music. Sam, ever loyal, agreed to help without a second’s pause. She cancelled her next gig as if it meant nothing. “My best friend is getting proposed to,” she’d said, and that was the end of the discussion. “That’s worth showing up for.”
Harry offered to cover everything—flights, hotel, even the loss of whatever she would’ve earned from those nights on stage. That part was easy. Money was the one resource he never had to worry about. The harder part—the unbearable part—was the waiting. He wasn’t accustomed to anticipation. Deals were made, numbers exchanged, signatures collected, all of it efficient and fast. But this was different. This was a question he’d been carrying for weeks, and now every hour between him and the asking felt like sandpaper against his nerves.
Before he and Sam left for London, they stopped in Los Altos Hills to see Catherine’s father. Edward’s only advice was to do it when it felt right. Don’t overthink it. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of that—he had built his life on planning and overthinking—but he kept the words anyway.
The ring never left his pocket after that.
⊹
On the flight to London, the plan began to take shape in earnest. He and Sam bent over notes, her handwriting a mess of arrows and exclamation marks, his far more precise, neat even in turbulence. There were orchestras for hire—though the best ones required advance booking. Locations were trickier. Whatever he chose, it had to be done discreetly, before she realized he was even in the city. Sam’s part was simpler: show up unannounced, distract Catherine, keep her occupied with dinners and rehearsals and the kind of easy banter that had always come naturally between them.
They even rehearsed excuses in case Catherine grew suspicious. Sam suggested ridiculous ones, Harry rejected them all, and still, he wrote down a few because Catherine had a way of seeing through him that no one else ever had. The thought of her discovering his plans too soon filled him with a strange mixture of dread and longing—he wanted her to be surprised, and Harry is a perfectionist, through and through.
His assistant, James, helped them all the way from New York. His result had been thorough, preparing a small list of addresses across London and arranging for two separate drivers so their movements would never overlap. It was, in many ways, like preparing for a deal that couldn’t be allowed to leak—except this time, the stakes were infinitely higher. Higher than any business deals he had ever made.
England met him with a slate-gray sky and that damp chill that seemed to live in the air year-round. They wasted no time. Harry texted Catherine that his flight was delayed and started to go around London looking at venues. By afternoon he had already crossed three of the five locations off his list, each one failing in some subtle but important way. Too small, too public, too cold in its atmosphere. He wanted warmth. He wanted her to walk in and feel seen, not staged.
He found it near the Royal Albert Hall—a restaurant tucked into a quiet corner, only a short walk from the place where she would conduct. The menu was elegant without being ostentatious. The private room upstairs held the kind of intimacy he was looking for, walls warm-toned and lined with books, a space that could be theirs without interruption. Musicians could be arranged, discreetly, for a price.
It was exactly what he needed.
He booked it on the spot, the decision landing in his chest like a weight finally set down. And yet, even as the reservation was confirmed, he felt no relief. Only anticipation, sharper now, because the question no longer lived in some vague future. It was waiting for him, solid and immovable, just days ahead.
Sam called as he stepped outside. He answered and began to tell her. “I booked the fourth choice, for the day after the concert. They can provide musicians too—”
“Harry, stop for a second, please,” she said, her voice clipped.
He froze. “What?”
“You need to come right now.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” He was already moving, signaling the driver before she even answered.
Silence. A silence that was worse than words. “Sam?”
“Just come,” she said finally. “She’s locked herself in there. It doesn’t sound good. Fuck the plan.”
The drive felt longer than it was, every red light a personal insult. It reminded him—too much—of the night he got the call about her accident. Different circumstances, same gnawing dread in his chest. He told himself that if it were as bad as the accident, Sam would’ve sounded more panicked. She wasn’t frantic, just urgent. Still, he could feel something was wrong, that subtle weight in the air that made him restless in his own skin.
By the time he reached the Ritz he was sweating through his shirt despite the cold weather. He barely registered the people he passed—lobby staff, guests, a blur of movement, slow elevators, long hallways—until Sam opened the suite door. She didn’t waste time, just led him straight to the bathroom before excusing herself to buy supplies. He didn’t really hear her. He didn’t need details; his mind was fixed on Catherine.
God, how many times had his heart dropped like this since they’d started dating? Too many. She had taken years off his life by making him worry. He needed to talk to her about being safer—especially when he wasn’t there.
“Catherine?” he called, knocking gently against the door. “It’s me. Open the door, sweetheart.”
He barged in anyway. He hadn’t expected her to be sitting on the floor.
“Hey, hey—what’s this? Why are you down here?” He dropped to his knees beside her, catching the edge of the toilet out of the corner of his eye. “Are you sick?”
“Yes. I smelled some mutton and just…” she trailed off. Her voice was too soft for his liking, like it had lost its usual brightness. Still, she managed a small smile. “Sam’s here in London.”
“Yes, I know. I brought her here.” His answer came quick, sharper than he intended, but he didn’t care. He was still scanning her face, searching for fever, paleness—anything.
“I thought you weren’t due until tomorrow,” she said. “I thought you said the flight was delayed. That’s funny. I was just wishing for this a second ago. I was really hoping you were here and then—pop!—here you are. And you brought my best friend. It’s like you know exactly what I need.”
She was pale, hair a little damp at the temples, the kind of small detail that told him she’d been unwell for hours before anyone called him. He wanted to press her for how long, but didn’t have the heart. He could tell she didn’t want to talk about it, at least not yet. Her knees were drawn up, one arm resting limply on them, and all he could think about was getting her off the cold tile.
He pressed his palm lightly to her forehead, searching for fever, but she only felt warm in the way she always did. He reached for a glass, filled it from the sink, and crouched in front of her until she finally took it, her fingers barely curling around the rim. He held it steady while she drank, though she only managed a few sips before pushing it back into his hand. He set it aside, restless. What he wanted to do was to pick her up, to demand she tell him what was wrong. But Catherine, who normally spoke to fill silences before they had a chance to settle, stayed quiet.
That unsettled him more than anything else. Usually she would tell him everything, even things he didn’t ask—stories about rehearsals, small complaints about the people she had to deal with, fragments of music she wanted him to hear. Even when she was sick she tried, as if talking might convince both of them that she was fine. But now she said nothing, and the absence of her voice pressed on him like a weight.
He didn’t know how long it was before Sam knocked on the door. Harry opened it before Catherine even made the smallest effort to get up. Sam handed him a slender box, still in its plastic bag, and slipped away without a word. He looked down at it and understood immediately.
A pregnancy test.
For a moment, his brain didn’t move. It was like reading a sentence in a foreign language you’d studied just enough to understand, but not enough to process instantly. The meaning was clear—painfully, suddenly clear—but his thoughts lagged behind as if his mind was reluctant to catch up. All at once, numbers and timelines started colliding in his head.
He gave it to Catherine.
“Turn around, please, Harry.”
He did.
He wanted to point out there wasn’t an inch of her he hadn’t seen before, but he forced himself to turn away. In truth, he only agreed because he needed to find some shred of decorum himself—because right now, Harry was close to collapsing. His pulse was erratic, his throat tight.
Fuck, maybe he really should get his heart checked out. This was, without exaggeration, the most nervous he’d ever been in his life.
When she finished, he scooped her up without asking, setting her carefully on the counter by the sink so they were eye to eye. The pregnancy test sat beside them, ignored for the moment. He smoothed his hands over her cheeks, thumbs brushing the warmth of her skin.
“You haven’t been sleeping,” he murmured.
“I haven't felt well ever since I got here. I swear I thought it was a curse. Like every time I took a job for this royal family, I got sick.” She let out a small, breathless laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
She took his hand and pressed it to her chest. He felt it then—the quick, frantic beat. She was nervous too.
“We’ll be fine,” he said softly. “Whatever the outcome. Hm?”
She didn’t answer. Her gaze had drifted to the watch on his wrist, following the steady tick of the seconds until the three minutes were up.
Neither of them spoke for the entire wait. The silence was heavy, not awkward but dense with every thought they weren’t saying out loud. Harry didn’t dare try to cheer her up—partly because nothing he could say would take the edge off, and partly because he was seconds away from shitting his own pants. His palms were damp, his jaw tense, and every tick of his watch felt like it was drilling into his skull. He hated the suspense. Hated waiting.
“I can’t look,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Can you check?”
He did. Two lines. Faint, but there.
There were a few moments in a man’s life that shifted everything. Harry had already lived through some of them. Meeting Catherine was one—like a hand pulling him out of the fog he’d been walking in for years. Almost losing her had been another, the kind of jolt that rearranged every priority overnight. This was one of those moments too. He knew—instinctively, absolutely—that nothing about his life would be the same after today. This one, like all the ones with Catherine, was permanent. This one was the kind you built the rest of your life around.
He tried to read her expression when he told her, but it was impossible—closed off in that way she sometimes was when she was sorting through too many thoughts at once. At least she didn’t look sad. That alone loosened something tight in his chest.
“Do you want to keep it?” she finally asked, her voice low.
He smiled then, almost without thinking, and the answer came to him as naturally as breathing. “I appreciate you asking, my love, but that’s your question to answer.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he said, firm but gentle. “It’s yours to answer. I know you, Catherine—you’d bend yourself into knots trying to please people, and I won’t give you my opinion until you’re sure. Having a kid is hard work, and you’re young. Whatever you decide, that’s the law. I mean it.”
She was quiet for a long moment, eyes lowered like she was working something out in her head. Then, softly, “I think… I think I want to keep it.” She looked at him as if bracing for an impact, but before he could answer she went on.
“I’m not supposed to tell you this story, but I need you to understand,” she said. “Remember when I got sad on my birthday?”
Harry nodded and waited.
Then Catherine told him about Charlotte. How, a few months ago, she’d called in the middle of a weekday, her voice trembling so badly that Catherine could hardly make out the words. She hadn’t explained at first, just begged Catherine to come. And Catherine, frantic, took the cab without even changing out of her rehearsal clothes.
She found Charlotte curled on the couch, pale, incoherent, a blanket wrapped around her knees and blood staining through it. She had a miscarriage. Charlotte had refused to call anyone, refused to go to the hospital. She kept saying it was her fault, that she hadn’t been careful, that if she just waited it out it would pass. Catherine had sat with her, coaxing, pleading, finally managing to get her into the car. She’d driven without licence with one hand gripping Charlotte’s trembling fingers, the other clenched so tightly around the steering wheel that her knuckles ached for days afterward. At the hospital she’d been the one to sign Charlotte in, to insist the nurses hurry.
Catherine said it took hours before Charlotte allowed her to call Peter. Hours where Charlotte carried the weight of it alone, keeping the truth from her own husband because admitting it to him would have made it real. Catherine had sat on that hard plastic chair beside the bed, listening to Charlotte whisper apologies to no one in particular, and it was only then—when Peter finally arrived, when he finally broke too—that Catherine realized how much they had wanted it.
Harry listened carefully. He wasn’t naturally perceptive with people outside of Catherine—half the time he missed subtleties even when they were staring him in the face—but God, his own brother? Peter was almost nine years younger, still at that stage in life where Harry sometimes thought of him as unshakable, untouched by the cruelties that wore others down. He tried to picture it, tried to imagine Peter pacing a hospital hallway, tried to imagine his sister-in-law curled up in the way Catherine described, but his mind resisted the image. To have his partner go through—God, he couldn’t even imagine it. The thought alone made his chest tight, his throat constrict. Guilt crept in before he could stop it. He had been too far away, too wrapped up in his own life, his own business, to notice how badly Peter must have been struggling. He should’ve known something was wrong when the couple hadn’t called, left any messages after their honeymoon, or accepted any invitations.
“All the while,” Catherine continued, “I wondered why she called me first—not her other friends, not family. And I realized, after seeing her cry, that she didn’t want anyone else to know how deeply she grieved. Not even Peter, at first. I left shortly after Peter came, but not before I saw both of them cry. And they were so sad, Harry. They wanted it that much. I thought about them a lot since then.”
She paused again, drawing in a slow breath.
“I… I wanted to be a mother someday. I don’t know when, and maybe it shouldn’t matter when, not when the chance is here. Because watching them—seeing how something you’ve wanted so much can disappear so quickly—made me think about what I’d do, if it were me. And I think…” Her voice softened, almost breaking. “I think I would regret it if I didn’t try now.”
She looked at him then, fully, as if this was the moment where his answer mattered more than anything. Finally, she asked, “Are you angry?”
“How could I be angry?” he said quickly, and the question wasn’t rhetorical—it was heavy with sincerity, almost baffled at the thought.
“You don’t like kids,” she said, the words small but pointed, as though she’d been holding them back.
“Who says I don’t?” He tilted his head, searching her face. “I like kids—hell, I dance with them every chance I get, if they’re willing. Which is rare, since they’re usually the ones who don’t like me.”
Her brows knit, as if that answer wasn’t enough. “But you told me before… when you had sex, you always—” She hesitated, searching for the right phrasing. “You always wore a condom. Even when they were on the pill. You never came inside. You’ve always been careful. You told me yourself.”
“Careful doesn’t mean I don’t want it. It means I understand the weight of it.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Was I careful with you?”
She blinked. “Not really.”
“Not at all,” he said, voice low but certain. “Even from the start. From the first time, I didn’t really care, did I?”
“No,” she whispered. “You didn’t.”
There was a pause, where they looked at each other's eyes. He saw the tenderness, the vulnerability of her gaze. The worry, too. He couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t worried. Hell, Harry had never been a father, but there was something calming about having one with Catherine. And he would be lying if he said he never imagined it—never wanted it. Because he did. Secretly. So he told her what he knew:
“We’ll be fine,” he said. “We’re a great team, you and I.”
Something in her broke then—he could see it in the way her eyes welled up, in the way she tried to hold her expression steady but failed. The tears spilled quickly, almost angrily, as though she hadn’t planned to cry but couldn’t stop it. Harry’s hands were on her before he even thought about it, brushing the tears from her cheeks, kissing them away like it would undo the reasons they’d fallen in the first place.
“But we’re not married yet,” she said, her voice catching. “And I need to conduct in a few days in front of thousands of people who actually know music. And I had beer the first day I got here. Oh, I was so stupid. I’ve never been this careless during traveling. It’s really on me.”
Her words came faster now, like a confession she couldn’t stop. “I thought it was just air-sickness during the flight over here, but it was strange because I’ve never been like that. And I missed my period, and I thought—oh, maybe my cycle’s acting up. But I realized I still took the pill at the same time every day, even when I was traveling, even though I should have adjusted it to the time zone…”
Harry wasn’t listening to all of it. He caught pieces—flight, schedule, time difference, her first time using the pill—but none of that mattered. He was distracted.
His mind, his heartbeat, had stalled on her first sentence.
We’re not married yet. Yet. She’d said it like it was a problem. Like not being married to him was a gap in her life, something missing.
And finally, he understood what Edward had meant when he’d said, do it when it feels right. Don’t overthink it. Because this—this exact moment, in a hotel room with her voice shaking and his own heart somewhere in his throat—this was when it felt right.
For the first time in his life, Harry decided to wing it. No planning, no orchestration, no perfect setting. He slid his hands under her arms and eased her down from the counter, steadying her on her feet. She kept talking—about the time difference, about being irresponsible, about the cursed job—but he was only half-hearing her now. He took her hand and began leading her, slow enough not to jar her, his mind already turning over what he was about to do.
Thankfully, the suite was empty when they stepped out of the bathroom, save for the quiet hum of the city bleeding faintly through the windows. Catherine’s record player sat in its corner, a neat stack of vinyls beside it—her own albums among them. Harry crossed the room without a word, flipping through until he found the one she had performed the first time he saw her at Carnegie.
The needle dropped, and the first bars filled the room with a warmth that didn’t belong to the cold London night. Catherine stopped talking. Whatever she’d been saying about flights and time zones dissolved into the music. She stepped closer, her arms winding around him, and he held her without thinking. They began to sway, slow and unpracticed, more an embrace that happened to move than a dance.
He breathed her in—her perfume softened by the hotel’s crisp air, the faintest trace of something citrus tangled with her shampoo. It reminded him of all the nights he’d held her after performances, when she still carried the music in her body.
“I love you, Catherine,” he said quietly, the words settling between them.
She looked up at him, ready to answer, but he eased her hands away. His chest tightened as he dropped to one knee—not from nerves alone, but from the sharp, almost physical ache of realizing he was about to change both their lives.
“I think there are a thousand different ways I could have done this,” he began, his voice low, steady despite the storm in his chest. “I’ve spent hours running around London—looking for musicians, a perfect place, rehearsing speeches I thought I’d give. But I realized tonight that none of that matters. It doesn’t matter where I am when I ask you, because anywhere with you is perfect. And it doesn’t matter if I have the perfect words, as long as you understand me, as long as this eases your heart in some way. What matters is that I wanted to ask you this question because it’s been sitting in my chest since the day I realized you weren’t just someone I loved—you were the person I could not imagine living without. And if this life is going to be as unpredictable as it’s been with you, I want to go through every single unexpected turn with you as my wife. So—” He swallowed hard, the words catching like they might never make it out. “—will you marry me, Catherine?”
The silence that followed felt like the longest of his life. He could hear the faint crackle of the record under her music, the rush of air from the vent overhead, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. She didn’t answer right away—just looked at him, eyes bright yet watery, like she was turning something over in her mind.
When she spoke, it was barely louder than the music.
“Yes, please,” she said.
He didn’t remember much about what came after, only that it blurred together in fragments—her laugh breaking between tears, his own voice asking over and over if she was sure, as if he needed to hear it again just to believe it. He remembered the warmth of her hands on his face, the way she kissed him like they had all the time in the world, the dizzy press of her forehead against his. There were a thousand kisses, and still not enough.
Later that night, when they were curled together on the bed, with the muffled sounds of London traffic seeping faintly through the heavy curtains, the topic of her pregnancy returned as naturally as breathing. It wasn’t Catherine who brought it up this time—it was Harry. He couldn’t keep it inside, not when it sat so loudly in his chest.
He told her, plainly, unashamedly, that he was happy. Undeniably, unbelievably happy. That he wanted this—her, them, the possibility of a family. He said he had always wanted it, even if he’d never admitted it out loud, even if he had spent years brushing off his mother’s pointed remarks about marriage and children with easy cynicism. He confessed that deep down, under all his well-rehearsed indifference, he had always longed for it. But he also knew—better than most—that having a family was no small matter. It was responsibility, commitment, the kind of weight you didn’t shrug off when it got inconvenient. That was why he had been so careful before. Why he had been meticulous, cautious, almost obsessive about avoiding entanglements that could tie him to someone he didn’t love.
But with Catherine, he realized he had never truly cared for that carefulness. From the very beginning, it hadn’t mattered, because something in him had recognized her instantly. Recognized that she was the only one he wanted, the only one who could make that long-held want into something alive and bearable. He told himself, unashamedly, that after Catherine, he didn’t know if he could love anyone else—not in the way that mattered, not in the way that would make building a family possible.
And that was the truth of it. He had always wanted a family, but he had always wanted it to be born of love, not duty, not obligation, not chance. And now, with her in his arms and the future shifting before them, he could not have imagined it any other way.
♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger!Original Female Character
♫⋆｡♪ WC: 9.4k
♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, P in V Sex, 2 Rounds, Size kink, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Cum as Lube, Creampie 2x, Doggystyle, Missionary, Fingering, Cunnilingus, Age Difference, Catherine being submissive, Harry losing control, first fight, hospital visit, FLUFF, Slow Burn, Yearning, Mutual Pining, Soulmates, Romcom Vibes, Domestic Harry Castillo, Billionaire Harry, Harry learning how to fall in love the human way, Emotional vulnerability
♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Dating life of Harry the billionaire and Catherine the composer.
Months passed the way good months sometimes do—quietly, quickly, tucked beneath the folds of routine. Not without its challenges, but gentler, more bearable when the days were stitched with shared meals and familiar faces. Harry worked. Catherine spends her days helping the studio. Sometimes, they occupied different orbits entirely, but they found their way back to each other more often than not. His reason was mostly because she needed to help him eat the groceries she bought before it went bad.
He had started sending for her. Not every day, but enough to call it a pattern. His driver would pull up outside her building like clockwork, and she’d emerge—always with something in hand, a coffee or a tote bag or a violin, talking on the phone, laughing. She never asked for the car, and when he offered to get her her own driver, she declined immediately.
“Mr. Williams is fine,” she had said, slipping into the seat and adjusting her coat. “He’s kind. And besides, he’s saving up for something. He could use the extra hour. I think his wife’s expecting again.”
Harry had blinked. “How do you know that?”
“I ask.”
And she did. She asked people things. How their day was. How they slept. If their mother was still in the hospital. She remembered names and faces and allergies. Mr. Williams—a scary looking man with a small scar on his lips—once told Harry that driving her around was therapeutic. “Talks my ears off,” he’d said fondly. “She reminds me of my youngest niece. One that thinks too hard about the world.”
Harry had laughed at that. “You’ll get a bonus.”
He said he would have done it without the bonus anyway.
It was astonishing, how quickly people opened up if you just knew where to look. Williams needed the extra cash, yes—three kids and another on the way. But more than that, he needed someone like Catherine in the car with him, asking questions that made the day pass easier. Something that Harry knew nothing about.
Catherine had that effect. A kind of soft interference in people’s patterns. She didn’t always mean to fix things, but sometimes she did. Harry saw it on a random Thursday near Times Square, when she stopped walking to listen to a busker with a bent trumpet and a torn glove. Some teenagers were heckling, loud and careless. She gave the musician a fifty and an address—her studio—and told him to come record something, no charge.
“You can’t run a studio giving free services to everyone,” Harry had said later, not unkindly.
“I know,” she said, tying her hair back. “But he’s talented. Think of it as an investment.”
And then he understood. Funny how she could speak his language so easily. She made the world a little more tolerable. For people like him and Mr. Williams. For Emma, too.
The night Catherine played a private concert for Emma’s anniversary—Harry wasn’t there, but he heard all about it the next day. Emma came into work glowing. She showed him videos, grainy but still lovely, of Catherine in a small personal fancy dining room that they rented, playing an impromptu rendition of a song Emma’s husband used to sing when they were first dating.
“She played it after hearing it once,” Emma had said, eyes a little misty. “And she made us laugh, too. I think she’s magic.”
Harry had nodded slowly, then asked her to send him the pictures—just the ones of Catherine. He said it was for some press kit. It wasn’t.
Catherine still spent nights at his place, though not every night. And most nights ended the same way—him watching her fall asleep mid-sentence, her hair splayed across his pillows, her breath soft and even. She’d kiss him, and they’d kiss some more, and sometimes her hand would slip under his shirt and stay there, and his heart would race, his body would follow. But eventually she’d fall asleep against him, warm and tangled, and he’d lie there, wanting her in ways he didn’t even have words for.
He had taken more cold showers in the last month than he had in the last decade. But he didn’t complain. He wouldn’t have changed it for anything.
Because something in the way she reached for him without thinking, curled toward him in her sleep like he was a constant, made it all worth it. Because this—this was a rhythm he could live with.
And even in his frustrated quiet, he knew what it meant. He was falling in love with her.
Not in the impulsive, blindfolded way of his younger years. Or the way he usually gets attached to someone, with his head and his needs. But slowly. Precisely. Differently than his past experiences when the urgency of getting old got to him. It was a slow process, especially for someone his age, but he didn’t really care. He did it happily. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like there had never been any other outcome.
The first two months were nearly over before either of them noticed. Not because the days went fast, but because they were full. Appointments. Rehearsals. Meetings.
Catherine’s documentary deal was set to begin—her first screen project. She’d turned down films before, but this one felt right. A quiet, poetic piece from the BBC, part of a larger series about the universe. She’d read the project aloud to him once, on the couch, bare-legged and wrapped in his sweater, and he remembered thinking that only she could make gravitational waves sound romantic.
They decided to have a night out before the chaos began. A dinner. A real one.
He took her to Emma’s husband’s restaurant. It was fancier than the usual places he took his girlfriends. There were multiple utensils, arranged according to a specific etiquette that most of his regular girlfriends wouldn’t know, even the upper middle class. It was the kind of fine-dining place that required serious reservations, or at least knowing someone important—which, of course, Harry did. But he hadn’t ever bothered to go before. Not with anyone.
She noticed.
“Why haven’t you been here before?” she asked, between sips of wine. “I know it’s hard to get a table, but a couple weeks' wait isn't the end of the world. You could’ve asked Emma ages ago, or one of your colleagues. I’m sure you have business with important people.”
He folded his napkin with unnecessary care. “I guess I just didn’t like the hassle of putting my name on waiting lists.”
She tilted her head. “You don’t like romantic dinners?”
“I do, but not the hard ones.” He paused. “Not ones that required waiting.”
Her eyebrow rose. “What about your previous girlfriend?”
He took a sip of water before answering. A beat too slow. That slippery territory again. Still embarrassing.
“I guess I haven’t really bothered before,” he said finally. Or wanted to, he thought. “A multi-course meal isn’t just for anyone.”
He didn’t tell her that he used to take women to the same three places on rotation—quiet but forgettable to him. He liked women who thought a couple hundred was expensive. It made him feel like he exceeded expectations by just avoiding food truck meals. Conversations kept surface-level. Nothing that stuck. Nothing that lingered. He wanted the romance just enough to get by, to make them stay. He’d take them to a somewhat fancy place and they’re already looking at him like he’s amazing, like part of his charm is his money. He didn’t mind. Love had felt like something abstract and theatrical then.
“Besides,” he added, “this is to make up for our first date.”
Catherine smiled. “I love that burrito truck. It’s seen me at my worst.”
He chuckled.
Back at the penthouse, it was late but neither of them were tired. They talked for a while—feet on the coffee table, glasses still half-full—until the conversation drifted to early years. He told her about the time he’d somehow earned a B in high school art by charming his way through a final presentation. Claimed his poorly drawn still life was a commentary on irony in postmodernism. The teacher had blinked at him, probably too tired to argue.
“I had no idea what I was talking about,” he said. “Still don’t.”
She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine. He liked making her laugh. Probably more than he should.
And then, maybe out of some buried insecurity, he asked if she would get bored of him. If it was strange to date someone who couldn’t tell a C major from a D minor. Someone who, despite his power and polish, couldn’t really understand what it meant to be moved by your own creation.
“You think I pick people based on whether they can do art?” she asked, grinning, her voice soft in the quiet.
He didn’t answer. Not directly.
The pageant conversation happened by accident. A thread pulled too lightly, and suddenly it unraveled. One moment they were teasing each other over bad yearbook photos, and the next they were watching old videos of Catherine—aged somewhere between seven and ten—answering questions on a televised stage, her voice small but oddly composed. A pink sash, a tiara, a winning smile that looked practiced.
Harry hadn’t expected to find it so endearing. The clip was buried deep online, grainy and compressed, dug up through some obscure archive website with buffering issues. Catherine was red-faced the entire time, fingers clutching the edge of the couch cushion as if it might help her disappear. She kept insisting it was awful. She claimed her voice was too squeaky, her dress ridiculous, her walk stiff. But what Harry saw was a child who already knew how to charm a room. Articulate, even then. Witty in a way that didn’t feel coached.
“You won,” he said, softly. “Don’t know why you have to be so embarrassed.”
She rolled her eyes and reached forward to close the tab before the video could finish. He didn’t fight her on it—but he bookmarked the link. He’d watch the rest later, when she wasn’t looking.
Later that night, they were brushing their teeth together when her sister called, a picture of a woman who looked a little bit like Catherine but with darker hair glowed on the screen. Jane. The name flashed on the screen just as Catherine was finishing rinsing. She answered it without hesitation, putting it on speaker like Harry was already in the fold—just another pair of ears in the room, welcome to whatever family mess came through the line.
Jane’s voice was sharp, slightly amused. “Heard you accepted a movie deal.”
“It’s a documentary,” Catherine said, mid-spit.
“Same thing.”
“It’s not a movie,” she corrected. “It’s for the BBC. They’re interviewing Ashoke Sen.”
A pause. Then a scoff. “Like I know who that is.”
Harry tried not to laugh.
“I’m with Harry,” Catherine said, grabbing a towel to dry her face. “Say hello, Harry.”
“Hello.”
“The boyfriend, huh?” Jane said, too smoothly. “Heard a lot about you, Harry.”
They talked about some other stuff too, mostly about family. Harry trailed to his bedroom, half listening.
“Anyways, Jane, It’s late here and I’m having a sore throat. Plus tomorrow is my first day doing the soundtrack, so this is my last chance to get a really good rest.”
When she closed the phone, Harry already went rifling through his medicine cabinet, returned with a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
“For your throat,” he said simply, holding it out to her like it was nothing. “You have to drink it again tomorrow. Next time you feel sick, even just a little, you tell someone. Alright?”
She paused. Looked at him for a beat longer than expected.
Then nodded, quiet, and took the pill. He watched her slowly, making sure she really did drink it. He then took the glass and went out again to refill it, to put it on her bedside table— at least the one he assigned to her.
She stood in the bathroom doorway, sleeves of her shirt rolled up to her elbows. Her hair was half-damp, soft at the ends. She looked at him the way she always did—like she was trying to memorize him.
Harry waited, silent, the way he often did with her. Some words had to arrive on their own.
“I like you, Harry,” she said.
He smiled, slow. “Well, I should hope so.”
But something lingered behind her voice. A shadow of guilt, maybe, or melancholy. She’d said earlier how emotional she was about tomorrow—how work would consume her, how her schedule would change. That she hated missing things. Her friends, her studio. Him. There was something about knowing what was coming that made her softer tonight. Like she needed to hold onto something.
She stepped toward him and kissed him. Lightly, at first. A cautious hello, a silent sorry. Then she kissed him again. Deeper. Longer. The kind of kiss that said she’d been thinking about this all day. Her mouth tasted like peppermint. Her hands touched his jaw, the side of his neck, slow and certain.
He kissed her back and found her pulse with his mouth, just under her ear. She inhaled, shallow.
“Thank you for being so patient with me,” she whispered.
He laughed under his breath. “Hasn’t been easy.”
Her laugh pressed against his skin. Then she kissed him again, slower this time. Hungrier. Her hands curled into the back of his neck, her breath a pattern he already recognized. Familiar and new. He groaned before he could stop himself.
“You’re trying to torture me,” he murmured.
She smiled, full and amused. Jumped a little into his arms, light as she always felt in moments like this. He caught her easily, carried her a few steps toward the bed. Their routine.
He laid her down to his bed.
“I want you, Harry,” she said.
His heartbeat stopped. He stared for a moment, eyes refused to blink, dark with desire, looking down at her on the bed. His frame caged her in.
“I want you—”
“Don’t say that,” he told her quietly. “Not unless you really mean it.”
She looked at him. No blink. No hesitation.
“But I do,” she said. “I think about you all the time. I’m going to miss having you around.”
“You're not going anywhere,” said Harry, giving her cheeks kisses. “I’m going to visit your studio everyday. Check if you’re still alive or not.”
“Everyday? That’s an awful lot of time, isn’t it? You’re not busy?”
“Everyday.”
He kissed her again—soft, and long, and grateful. She was starting to kiss desperately, clinging to him harder than she had ever done before.
“Please, Harry,” said Catherine, her eyes dark with lust.
He looked the same way, but he’d argued his feelings were more intense. It was long bottled up and stored away, waiting for her to start the fire. “You don’t need to beg, sweetheart. My beautiful Catherine.”
His hands trailed her body, braver than he ever was before. He touched breasts, slowly at first, then rougher when she approved with her moans.
“I wanted you so much. Would’ve waited a lifetime,” he said. He took his shirt off slowly, then hers. She was eager, raising her arms then wrapping it around him again.
“I’m sorry it took so long. I wanted you too,” she said, bringing him for a kiss again.
He groaned. “Don’t say sorry.”
She moaned, and the sound woke something so guttural inside him that he stopped.
She kissed him still, then asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m going too fast,” he said, his breathing heavy, inhaling more of her smell that somehow travelled down to his crotch, making his length hard, wanting to be inside her.
He was desperate. Oh so desperate. How long had he wanted this? So long, so long he wanted to touch her, to be inside her. To hear her moan as she writhed under him. The thought was too strong, traveling through his body like electricity.
“I’m not a virgin, Harry,” she whispered.
“It's not that,” he said hurriedly.
“I’m on the pill. Just started last—”
He groaned, stopping her words.
“No, it's just… I don’t think I can hold back, sweetheart.” He winced at the surge of feeling. How pathetic he sounded.
“You don't have to.”
It took a few seconds for the words to settle. Then Harry took off the rest of their clothes, and his hand moved rougher, faster. Took off her bra in a hurry, her panties with the same urgency. He touched her there, felt the wetness and groaned again.
“So wet, Catherine,” he said, his voice unfamiliar. Lower.
He touched her clit, his fingers moving in slow circles.
Harry loved touching her, making her sigh. It made him look at her in a different light, like she was older than she is. And when he touched her, he felt intoxicated. His fingers caressed her velvety insides, hot and wet. She was, simply, the most beautiful woman in the world. He’s not exaggerating. Her curves, entirely woman. Soft, lovely.
His lips trailed down her collarbone, then lower to her breasts. He took one nipple in his mouth, sucking gently before biting down softly. She gasped quietly as he moved lower still, kissing her stomach and hips before settling between her thighs.
Harry buried his face between her legs, his tongue licking up her slit before finding her clit. He sucked hard, making her arch off the bed. He was hungry for her taste and sounds. Her moans always urged him on. His tongue worked her with skilled precision, each lick and suck more intense than the last. His hands gripped her thighs firmly, keeping her pinned down as he ravaged her.
“Fuck, Catherine”, he muttered against her. “Tastes so good.”
She moaned, a low sound that made him harder, had him searching for more friction. He groaned against her clit, the sound vibrating through her sensitive flesh. He knew he was pushing the limits of his own control, but he couldn't stop. He needed more of her sounds. More of her taste. His mind repeating the name Catherine like a prayer.
He slid two fingers inside her, curling them upwards to hit that spot deep inside.
Catherine let out a sound. The sound of her nearly screaming his name, but somehow lost in thought, like she felt too much pleasure she forgot. It nearly made him lose it. His fingers went faster, and faster.
He growled low in his throat. A sound of pure primal need.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered against her thighs as he moved back up her body quickly. “You’re killing me, Catherine.”
His cock pressed against her entrance.
“I want you too,” he said, desperately. “So much.”
Without waiting another second, for fear of his growing insanity, he pressed the head of his cock against her soaked entrance and pushed inward. Harry's mind went blank, his pulse inconsistent. It was, simply, the tightest, warmest cunt he ever felt. It made him forget all the others. He was sure nothing came close. He wondered how he went so long without it.
He took his time, savoring the feel of her tight heat enveloping him inch by tortuous inch. Once he was fully sheathed, he paused, his breath coming hard and fast against her neck.
Then in an effort to not pounce her immediately, he bit her neck, sucking, making a mark. He couldn’t even focus on her breath, didn’t even notice when her hands trailed around his back, urging him to move. He stayed there for a minute, holding himself back despite her moans. He couldn’t be too rough, even if he wanted to. Maybe someday, when they were both desperate for each other. But not now when he was sure his needs excelled hers. When it nearly clouded his control.
Harry began to move, his hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm that made her back arch off the bed.
He filled her up slowly, inch by inch, watching as she took him perfectly. He was overwhelmed by how good it felt. How tight, how it squeezed his cock almost painfully. It was a hard fit, but it didn’t matter. He liked the feeling. Revelled in it. It was hot, wet, and perfect. Frankly, he wanted to stay buried in her forever.
She was caressing him, as if urging him to go on. Her soft hands went from his shoulders to his arms.
“Fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart,” he finally said.
With a sound of pure desire, he began to move gradually faster. His hips slammed into her with brutal force, each thrust designed to take her to the edge and beyond. He fucked her harder, his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her vision blur.
She begged, repeating the word “please” but never got to the end of the sentence. There was something about her voice, the way she said it that made Harry hungrier. She was so polite, so soft in her request. And although he told her not to beg, he loved it. Loved the way she said his name like a prayer, as if her desire is close to anything he ever felt for her.
His thrusts became punishing, almost violent. He watched as her breasts bounced with each snap of his hips.
He knew he wasn’t being gentle anymore. He couldn’t. His body took control, claiming her hard and deep like he always wanted to.
Her moans filled the room, pushing him further.
His large hands found her breasts, squeezed it roughly, thumbs rubbing her hard nipples. He leaned down to capture a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as he continued hammering into her. His balls slapped against her ass with each thrust. He was grasping the last bit of control he had left, fucking her like a wild animal.
He switched between her breasts, lavishing them with equal attention. His teeth grazed against one sensitive nipple, making her gasp.
“Such beautiful breasts, sweetheart,” he growled, pinching one nipple between his fingers while he continued to suck the other. His hips still hammering.
“Fuck, you’re so tight. I can’t control myself, I’m sorry.” He went back to her mouth, kissing her again.
Her erotic face looked up at him, her brows furrowed, her voice softer, “It’s fine. I want you to.”
Those words were his undoing. He groaned so hard, his deep voice finally out from its restraints. Somehow, he thrusts faster. If his bed wasn’t expensive, it would’ve made a sound, would’ve moved with them and banged the walls. Internally, he cursed himself for not being able to stay quiet, focus on her body. Catherine, though, seemed to enjoy it. She didn’t mind that he went harder. Even better, she moaned right into his ears. The sound became louder when he groaned too. It was like a song, harmonizing, except it was erotic, filled with need.
His balls tightened, warning of his impending release. He squeezed her breasts roughly, sucked on her neck, marking her with hickeys.
Harry's body was a landscape of hard, coiled muscle beneath her trembling fingers. He could feel her hands. She mapped every ridge and valley, committing it to memory. He did the same, more out of need than to urge her. He explored the soft, yielding expanse of her skin. His hands roamed, possessive and hungry, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He cupped her breasts again, thumbing her nipples into aching peaks, before trailing lower, over the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.
"Fuck, Catherine," he groaned, his voice rough with desire, "You're exquisite. Every inch of you." He settled between her thighs, his hard length pressing against her slick folds, making her gasp. "I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you. Needed you."
She moaned louder.
"You feel incredible," he murmured, nipping at her earlobe and making her shudder. "Like you were made for me. Made to take my cock so perfectly." He began to move again, his thrusts deep and powerful.
Catherine’s fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails leaving red crescents in his skin. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him to go deeper. Harry obliged, pounding into her with a fervor that stole her breath. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin and their mingled moans and cries of pleasure.
Harry felt her tightening around him, her inner muscles clenching, as if close. He redoubled his efforts, determined to bring her to the peak, to hear her scream his name in ecstasy. He was close, so fucking close, and he could tell she was too. He reached between her legs, finding her clit again and rubbing it furiously as he pounded harder and harder.
“Come on my cock, sweetheart. Milk me dry. Squeeze me, just like that,” he said, urging her on.
Catherine let out a sharp cry as she came undone, her body shaking beneath his as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. His name came out in a desperate moan as he felt her pussy clench around his cock.
That squeeze of her release did something to him. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he found his own release. He let out a loud roar, his hot cum shooting into her pussy. He kept coming. His balls were emptying completely inside her.
Harry collapsed on top of her, still buried deep inside. His heavy breathing filled the room as he tried to catch his breath. His softening cock remained inside her, still leaking cum. God, he felt like he was a few decades younger.
“You did so well. Such a good girl,” he whispered against her neck.
“I could still feel you,” she whispered. “Your cum is so warm.”
He felt her warm breath on his neck and her squirming body against him. His soft cock twitches inside her, still sensitive. He presses a kiss to her neck, then her lips, swallowing her heavy breaths. He remained buried inside her, not ready to pull out just yet.
After some time, Catherine squirmed some more.
A deep groan escaped his throat as his cock started to harden again inside her, slowly. Some of his spent leaked from her, making a sound that sounded too erotic. He tried to tune it out, think of anything but how it good it felt to be inside her.
“Stop, Catherine,” he whispered against her lips, but his hips moved involuntarily, thrusting slowly this time. “You’re making me hard again,” his hand gripped her hips, trying to somehow stop it. Not because he didn’t want to, but because she needed the rest.
He looked at where they were joined. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the slight amount of blood on her thighs.
“Fuck, you’re bleeding,” he said apologetically. “You're sure you're not a virgin?”
Catherine, still finding it hard to speak, whispered, “I’m sure.”
He hissed, looking down at the mess they made. His thick length was almost fully inside her. He withdrew slightly, watching his shaft coated with her juices and a little blood. He was supposed to pull all the way out, but instead he pushed in slowly again. It was arousing, watching her pussy clung to him. He watched as some of his cum from a few minutes ago went down to his balls. The sensation made him want to thrust again.
She was so tight. Tighter than any woman he had ever been with.
“I want you again,” he said and winced as he tried his best to halt any motion.
She moaned, her eyes half-lidded. He couldn’t tell if she was tired or if she wanted more too. Then she squirmed again, and that did it for him.
"Fuck, Catherine," he growled softly, "you're so goddamn tight." He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside her and making her gasp. "It's like you were made for me, molded to take my cock, aren’t you sweetheart? To take every fucking inch of me. You can take me, can’t you? You’ll stretch just for me, hm?"
“Yes,” she said, breathlessly. “I can take you, Harry. I’ll be good.”
“Good girl,” he said. “So eager to please.”
Harry leaned down and sealed her lips with his in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth to tangle with hers. He devoured her moans and whimpers, swallowing them greedily as he began to move faster, his hips snapping against hers with increasing urgency. The wet, obscene sounds of their coupling filled the room again, spurring him on as he lost himself in the exquisite feel of Catherine's body beneath him.
"That's it, baby," he panted harshly against her ear, "Come for me. Squeeze my fucking cock with your perfect little cunt. I want to feel you come undone again. It feels good, doesn’t it?"
“It does,” she said hurriedly, nodding. “You’re so big. I’ll stretch for you. It hurts so good, it feels so good. I want you deeper. Please, Harry.”
Harry agreed but too busy with ecstasy to say so, almost laughing with relief when she said it.
He flipped Catherine onto her hands and knees, his large hands gripping her hips tightly as he positioned himself behind her. She felt the head of his cock pressing insistently against her dripping entrance, ready to plunge back inside her welcoming heat. With a swift, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside her, making her cry out in a mix of pleasure and slight pain.
"Fuck, baby," he groaned, pausing to let her adjust to the depth and girth of him stretching her open. "You're so tight like this. I can feel every inch of your little pussy clenching around me. You like it hard, sweetheart?"
“Yes, please, Harry.”
He began to move, his hips rolling in a deep, sensual rhythm as he held her hips steady. The new angle allowed him to reach even deeper inside her, stroking that special spot that made her knees shake. His balls slapped against her clit with each thrust, the lewd sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the room yet again.
One hand reached up to tangle in her hair, gripping it lightly as he pulled her back against his chest. She was smaller than him, yet still fit perfectly. His other hand slid around to her front, finding her swollen clit and rubbing it in tight, quick circles. Harry could feel her getting closer to the edge, her pussy fluttering and clenching around his pistoning cock.
"That's it, my good girl," he growled in her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine, "Come on my cock. Milk me, sweetheart. Good girl. So wet. Soak me. Tighten, just like that. Yes, just like that."
His words were filthy, dirty, and oh so effective. They pushed Catherine over the precipice, her body convulsing and shaking as a massive orgasm ripped through her for the second time that night. She screamed his name, a guttural, primal sound of pure ecstasy as her pussy clenched down on him like a vice. The sensation was too much for Harry, and with a roar, he slammed into her one last time before exploding, his hot seed spurting deep inside her spasming channel.
They collapsed together onto the bed, Harry's weight pressing Catherine into the mattress as they both struggled to catch their breath. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as the aftershocks of their intense coupling subsided. Harry pressed a tender kiss to her shoulder, letting her finally rest.
⊹
Harry had never known anyone to disappear quite so completely into their work. Not the way Catherine did. She didn’t just work at the studio—she lived there. Morning coffee gave way to late-night tea, which bled into caffeine-fueled dawns. She existed on crackers and adrenaline. When her hand began to tremble, she brushed it off—this happens when I forget to eat, she’d said with a smile. He didn’t find it amusing.
So he made a point by bringing her food. Had asked for her manager’s number to keep track of her when she’s not answering.
A bag dropped off at odd hours. A thermos. A warm pastry in the morning. A full dinner in a box, even if it was eaten cold. Sometimes he sent Emma, always with the excuse that he was running late, but never because he forgot. It became a habit. A quiet rhythm. Nourishing her had become the most important part of his day.
Her replies slowed. A text here, a missed call there. Sometimes silence altogether. He could’ve taken it personally, but he didn’t. He knew the pattern. She usually doesn’t answer when she’s with the whole orchestra. When she’s too preoccupied with other people. He knew how she worked, now that he knew her.
So he came to her everyday. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Even if it was just for a few minutes. Even if he stood at the edge of the room while she adjusted microphones or ran through a melody again and again until the sound was right. He always made time, because there was always time, if you looked for it. Although, that hadn’t been the case before her.
During spring, when she was supposed to be done, the word done lost its meaning. The BBC sent back notes—two tracks needed to be redone at some parts— higher or lower or more mellow in the parts they needed it to be. At first, she handled it. Smiled. Shrugged. The usual. But then she stopped sleeping properly. Stopped leaving the studio at all. The notes had burrowed in. Perfection became an obsession. He watched her slow down between takes, sometimes staring at the same page for twenty minutes, searching for something only she could hear.
She didn’t complain, but he saw the shift— in the way she tucked her knees into the studio chair, in the clutter around her, in the quiet frustration that lived in her shoulders. She was usually very neat.
Their first fight came during that period of time. Partially, it came from sleep deprivation and cheap takeout. From too many nights curled up on the studio couch, too many cold coffees reheated twice. It also came from a bump on her wrist that had been growing for a few days, under the skin like a second bone trying to form.
Harry walked in just as Talia, her manager, raised the book.
He didn’t register it at first—just the sound of voices, laughter maybe, and then that strange, high-pitched urgency he recognized as Catherine’s voice. He moved fast. His hand caught Talia’s wrist mid-air. The book stopped inches above Catherine’s arm.
She looked up at him, annoyed. “Stop, Harry. I need it to get fixed fast.”
He didn’t answer her right away. Just looked at the bump. It’s not red, it just looked like her joint got bigger in size. Though he noticed how she winced when she moved it. That was enough proof that she was in pain.
“That’s enough, Catherine,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”
“But I have to finish this song. And it’s hurting. I can’t concentrate—”
“You’ll finish it later.”
“No,” she snapped. “I’m so close. Just one more day. You don’t know how hard it is to get it right. I can’t get the harp to sound like it should—”
“Let’s go.”
“No.”
They ended up at the hospital anyway.
It was a quiet ride. She didn’t say a word. Just sat with her wrist in her lap, like a child sent to the nurse’s office. Her shoulders curled inward. He kept glancing at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes.
At the hospital, the verdict was clinical: a ganglion cyst. Harmless, mostly. Common in musicians. Sometimes painful, yes—but not dangerous. The doctor explained the options with the kind of voice that didn’t leave much room for comfort. They could drain it, but it might return. They could operate, but that meant downtime—weeks, maybe. A brace would relieve the pressure, but she wouldn’t be able to play. And then there were medications. Slower, but manageable.
She listened to each option like she wasn’t really there. She chose whatever got her back to the studio fastest without any more pain, which was draining it.
It wasn’t a hard procedure. The needle wasn’t even big, and she didn’t look like she was scared of it. But when it came time for it to be drained, she asked Harry to hold her and he could feel her other hand tightening on his shirt. It must’ve hurt.
When she finally laid back on the hospital bed, exhaustion took her almost instantly. She didn’t argue anymore. She just closed her eyes and folded into sleep like it had been waiting for her all week.
Harry stayed by her side, asking the doctor quiet questions in the hallway about recovery time and some other stuff they should know.
“She’s pushing herself too hard,” the doctor said. “That is a symptom from working her wrist too hard. What she needs is proper rest. If she keeps this up, she’s going to get sick with other symptoms worse than just a ganglion. She could get really sick.”
Like he didn’t already know that. Like he wasn’t already worrying everyday. He wanted to tell the doctor that he knew but the girl is too stubborn and stupidly drowning in her work. Instead, Harry just nodded. Noted it all. Took the pamphlets. When he came back into the room, she was still out cold.
They let her sleep until the nurse finished checking her vitals. The doctor woke her gently. She blinked up at Harry, a little disoriented. He didn’t say a word, just took her coat and helped her get up.
The ride back to his apartment was silent. Catherine had crossed her arms like a teenager, staring out the window with tight lips and a jaw that had locked into place twenty minutes ago. He didn’t speak. He knew her enough now to know it wouldn’t help. Not yet.
When the driver pulled up to the penthouse, she didn’t wait for the door to be opened. She was out of the car before him, stomping ahead like she meant to put distance between them. Her shoes echoed in the marble hallway. By the time he caught up, she’d already dropped her coat on the arm of the couch and was sitting with her legs curled up, arms crossed again, sulking with intent.
He closed the door behind them quietly.
“I can’t believe you didn’t take me back to the studio,” she said, not looking at him. Her voice clipped and fast. “I told you I could finish it in one day. Maybe even tonight.”
He didn’t respond immediately. She wasn’t really asking him. She just needed to release the tension building in her bones.
“The deadline’s a week away,” he said finally. “You have time.”
“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “I want them to be impressed. I want them to hear it and think—wow, she did it fast and she did it well. I was so close, Harry. You have no idea. I just needed the harp to fall right and I would’ve been done.”
She rubbed her wrist without thinking. The soft bandage made it look more fragile than it probably was. He couldn’t look at it too long.
“I should’ve just hit it with a book,” she mumbled.
That annoyed him. He stopped in front of her. Took a breath.
“That’s irresponsible,” he said firmly. Harder than he ever spoke to her before. “You hear me, Catherine? You don’t do that again. Never— Never do that again.”
She rolled her eyes. “I did it once before.”
“And you’re lucky I wasn’t there,” he said, still pressing, still loud. “Because I would’ve dragged you to the hospital that time too.”
She sighed, deep and dismissive. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” he said, walking past her to the kitchen, already reaching for water, maybe something to put in front of her. “I’m being a responsible adult.”
She didn’t argue after that. Just sat there, silent again, sinking slowly into the realization that her body—like time, like deadlines—was something she couldn’t control completely. And Harry, in his stubborn, quiet way, wasn’t angry. He was worried. That was worse somehow.
He walked to the kitchen and reheated the food he’d picked up earlier that afternoon, still in its paper bag from the studio run—untouched, because the hospital detour had gotten in the way. The microwave hummed quietly as he leaned against the counter, watching the numbers count down like they meant something.
He’d probably been too sharp with her. Too forceful. But at least she was here now. Safe, if grumpy. And if she hated him for it—fine. She could hate him while getting one full night of rest. That was the bargain he was willing to take.
Then she was there, padding into the kitchen like someone coming down from a fever. Her posture softer, head low. Like she was ready to surrender but didn’t want to say it out loud.
“I’m so tired,” she murmured.
“I know.”
He stepped in first. Arms around her before she could collapse into herself. He didn’t realize until then how much she needed that hug—how much she had been holding in with caffeine and sheer willpower.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re not being dramatic,” she said into his chest. Her voice cracked just enough to make his throat tighten. “And I missed you. Missed my friends. I’m never taking a screen deal again.”
He smiled, his chin above her head, resting against her hair. “You might change your mind later. You liked the first half, didn’t you? Before the notes came in. You just overthink the rest. That’s what happens when you care too much. It’s harder when you’re making things for other people.”
She nodded against him.
“It’s not like an album,” he went on, quietly. “When the only person you need to impress is yourself. They’ll have notes. Opinions. And you’ll listen, because that’s who you are. You care. That’s not a bad thing.”
There was a pause, and then he said: “Should’ve done an indie film first. They’d be so grateful you could send them an out-of-tune violin and they’d say it’s ‘experimental.’”
She laughed. Her body shook against his. When he looked down, her eyes were wet.
“You just have to learn to balance your life,” he murmured.
“I should,” she whispered. “I get lost in it sometimes. In wanting to do good.”
“I know you do.”
“I was working hard to make it perfect, but the urgency in which I did it, it’s because I didn’t want to miss out. I tried to make friends with orchestra people, but they’d rather see me as a composer than a friend. I sensed it. And my friends, well they’re artists in their own time, with their own schedules, with time to date and party. I’ve spent so many years missing out. Missing everything, getting left out. I’d be the one asking what the joke was, and they’d say, ‘You had to be there.’ And I wasn’t. I was practicing.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“I don’t want to miss out. On them, on you. But I keep needing to disappear to make great music. So I try to finish as quickly as possible, no matter how messy it gets, how unhealthy it is. As long as it means there’s no more inside jokes I couldn’t get, or a memory I missed.”
“We’ll make our own inside jokes,” he said. “Besides, nothing’s happening to me. Ever. And if something were to happen, you’d be the first person I’d tell.”
She looked up, smiling faintly through the mess of emotion. “I just want it done quickly so I can go home and not miss out on anything ever again.”
“I want you home too,” he said. “With proper rest. But you have time. What’s one more day?”
And that was that.
She fell asleep early that evening, he changed her into her pajamas while she was barely conscious. She collapsed into bed and slept like she hadn’t in weeks—deep and dreamless. When morning came, she didn’t stir even when he moved around the apartment. He let her be.
He left a note by her nightstand before work, told her to eat something and that he will be checking. That she could ask Mr Williams to take her back to the studio when she’s ready.
And then he was gone, leaving the door softly shut behind him. The penthouse felt warmer with her there, even in sleep. Even in silence.
⊹
True to her words, Catherine finished the piece the day she said she would. The BBC accepted her revised renditions almost immediately, sending a short note of approval that made her breath hitch and shoulders finally relax. She was proud. That much was obvious. And Harry could tell, because she showed up at his office door with wine and flushed cheeks— unannounced, of course.
He didn’t know she was coming. He should’ve. Emma had been acting strange for the past hour, typing with too much energy and dodging questions with suspicious precision. When he pressed, she deflected with unusual efficiency. Only later did he realize Catherine had called to ask for the address, and Emma—predictably loyal—had played accomplice.
“I come bearing gifts!” Catherine announced, pushing open the glass door to his office, her grin already brighter than the last few weeks. “Well, you’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you? If this were my office, I’d work every day.”
He laughed, unable to stop smiling. Still in disbelief that she was actually there, like a bolt of light into a room that didn’t know it was dim. “No you wouldn’t.”
She leaned over and kissed him like she’d always belonged in his life.
“I was going to pick you up,” he said.
“I know. I wanted to see you earlier. See where you actually spend your time.” She spun slowly in the middle of the room, eyeing the bookshelves, the windows, the skyline behind them.
“That’s nice,” he said, his eyes trailing her movement. “You want to go out?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “I want to treat you to something.”
Of course she did. He knew he wouldn’t let her, but he let her think she might. That was enough.
“They gave me a bonus,” she added like a secret, and her joy was so unfiltered it made him warm in a way expensive scotch never could. “So tell me, what’s your favorite food? Anything. Your pick.”
He blinked. A strange question. An ordinary one. And yet, no one had asked him that before. Not any of his previous girlfriends. Not anyone. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.
“I don’t think I have one.”
“Sure you do.”
He thought. “Bagel?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll get you one tomorrow. But right now we’re celebrating. And you can’t possibly expect me to toast with carbs and cream cheese.”
He laughed, grabbing his coat, reaching for his wallet and phone in one movement. She was already halfway to the door, talking about possible options. He didn’t care where they went. It was the sound of her voice he was listening to.
Downstairs, as they exited the elevator, the doorman— more doorboy by the looks of it— smiled at Catherine with surprising familiarity. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Ainsworth.”
Harry squinted. “How’d you already know the doorman?”
“My heels fell off my feet when I was running in, and he helped me.”
“And you introduced yourself?”
“He asked who I was here for. I told him I was visiting my very important boyfriend.”
He looked at her. She was completely serious.
They settled on steak. Something grounding and simple, because Harry just wanted her to eat something filling and proper. The wine was good, the conversation better. She told him about the BBC meeting, how she finally felt a strange type of peace. Then, in between bites of potato gratin, she mentioned wanting to throw a small gathering. A celebration, with her friends, maybe some musicians. She said she’d need his help setting it up.
Harry mentioned he had a gala to attend tomorrow, some industry networking thing. She should come with him, he said. She’d be happy to, she said.
By the time the check came, Harry had already slipped his card to the waiter. She made a fuss about it for exactly ten seconds before yawning mid-protest. They were barely in the car when her head fell against his shoulder and stayed there.
By the time they arrived at the penthouse, she was fully asleep.
He didn’t wake her. Just carried her upstairs. Still in disbelief, still grateful. The wine, untouched in its bag, sat quietly beside her coat.
He placed it on the table and turned off the lights. And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t thinking about harps or deadlines.
Just sleep.
And maybe—if he was lucky—him.
⊹
His work gala came a day before her celebration party.
Catherine was the first girlfriend he actually invited in a while. His exes rarely came, and if they did, they never bothered to pay attention to the conversations. After noticing that they might like to stay home, he stopped inviting them. They wouldn't be interested, he knew. He had never minded if his girlfriends were uninterested in his life, he’s convinced few actually did. He had seen relationships differently back then. But now he had the need to show his life to Catherine. And more, he wanted Catherine to go. So he asked her.
Catherine had been excited to go, more than he expected. Maybe it was because he told her that most of his friends were in the industry—men with cufflinks and practiced grins who only saw each other during events like this.
The afternoon of, a few hours before they had to leave, he stepped out of the shower with a towel around his waist and steam still clinging to his skin. There it was, laid out across the bed like a gift—an unfamiliar suit. Sharp lines. Seamless work. Stitching so fine it was invisible. It was expensive. Probably more expensive than the ones he already owned, and those were nothing to scoff at.
He didn’t ask. He just stood there for a moment, towel dripping, a little stunned. Then smiled.
She must’ve taken one of his suits when he wasn’t paying attention, had copied the custom sizing and improved. She knew his measurements better than he did. He felt it in his gut again—that fluttery, maddening thing she kept making him feel. The one that settled somewhere behind his ribs and just… lingered.
He put the suit on. Of course it fits perfectly. Of course it did.
He found her in the walk-in closet, standing in front of the mirror in the middle of getting dressed. Her reflection caught him and she smiled, real and soft. Then she turned around, not fully zipped up.
“You look so handsome. I must say, I’m pretty darn good at this gift giving thing, huh? Turn around,” she said, biting back a grin, eyes flicking over the suit.
He laughed. It should’ve been the other way around, really. But he did as told, like a good man. Then after a second, he stepped closer and told her to turn instead. She obeyed.
His fingers zipped her up in silence, steady, deliberate. She smelled like flowers and that expensive hair oil she refused to admit was expensive. She hummed under her breath. He wondered, in the space between their bodies, how this became their life. How something this delicate could feel so certain.
The gala was held in a hotel ballroom dressed up to look like something finer. Marble floors, gold trim on the ceiling. A sweeping chandelier that no one really looked up at. It was for something or other—an annual event to recognize client milestones and corporate achievements, mostly a chance for industry types to see who was still around. There was always one or two names missing from the list. The gala was, if anything, a gentle reminder that the game never stopped.
This year felt different. He felt it before they even entered. Before they gave their names at the door and got a nod of recognition, before they were handed drinks. The room looked at him longer. Or maybe, most likely, they were looking at her.
Catherine wore a dark navy gown with a clean neckline and a fabric that glinted when she moved. Nothing loud. Just elegant. A single curl behind her ear. A slight flush on her cheeks—not nerves, just her usual color. She held his arm the way she always did, casual, natural. As if they’d been walking into rooms like this together forever.
The first twenty minutes passed in a blur of names and champagne. Harry shook hands while Catherine smiled and remembered every name. She charmed the bartender within minutes, said something complimentary about the way the napkins were folded. She complimented the color of a passing woman’s shoes. She leaned down to speak to a server holding a tray of miniature pastries and asked about some type of pastry he never bothered to know the name of.
Harry watched from a few feet away, sipping his drink. She made people feel like people. He was used to faces glossing over after the second glass, names forgotten, wives clinging to arms like accessories.
“Who’s this young lady?” one of his colleagues asked.
“Catherine, nice to meet you,” she said, offering her hand.
“Nice to meet you too, Catherine. I’m glad Harry finally found a girl who looks happy to be here.”
“I’m happy to come,” she said with a small laugh. “The chouquettes were so good I asked for the recipe.”
“My wife would love you. She runs a bakery.”
“Really? Is she here?”
“Somewhere. I’ll introduce you.”
And he did. Catherine was whisked away to meet her, and Harry let her go without protest. She was like that. A tide. Moving from one person to the next, leaving everyone warmer than before.
He found her again ten minutes later, deep in conversation with his friend’s wife about sustainable packaging in pastry boxes. And although Harry was huddled with his friends— or colleagues— his eyes trailed to her.
One of his single colleagues, predictably, was two glasses of whiskey in and smirking. He talked to Catherine only briefly a few moments ago, yet she managed to make an impression on him.
“Where’d you find her?” he asked, leaning in.
“Cold Spring,” Harry said.
“Does she have a friend?” Another one of his colleagues asked. One that already has a partner.
“You’re not gonna have luck with that, she befriended the whole of New York already. She already introduced herself to the caterers. Give her a few more hours and she’d memorized all the names in this room.”
They laughed. Someone refilled their drinks. Somewhere between the toasts and the polite speeches, Catherine returned to his side and whispered something about how good the wine was and how she loved that the pianist played actual classical pieces instead of mainstream songs with repetitive melodies. She clinked glasses with someone’s wife, told someone else they had a nice laugh which made them turn scarlet and laugh harder than anyone was supposed to on these occasions, and remembered the name of a woman Harry hadn’t seen in ten years.
He hadn’t thought about it before, but it struck him then— how perfectly she fit with his crowd even with her unusual approach. Not like someone pretending. Just like someone who didn’t need the world to change for her. She shaped herself around it and still managed to remain exactly who she was, and somehow, she belonged. He didn’t know how she did that. But he knew this: they’d remember her long after the next course. Long after the speeches. And if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. He would.
