Summary: Born and raised on the Upper East Side — mother’s an actress, stepfather runs an empire that’s suddenly “under review,” and your brother’s the reason you have gray hair. You married perfection in your 20s Years after your picture-perfect marriage went up in smoke, you left New York to “heal.” Now you’re back, in your 30s — and saw your ex-husband on the cover of TIME. Wow.
He got richer, your family’s going down, and somehow, you ended up working for him. Cried? Yes. Bad idea? Definitely.
What could possibly go wrong?
Warnings: 🔞 (EXPLICIT CONTENT, Smut, MDNI) rom-com, fluffy, angst, comedy, lying, grumpy Harry Castillo (because reader broke his heart), Reader is kinda selfish, little bitchy and bratty, wealth, divorce, exes to lovers, modern au, rich people problems, upper east side drama, divorced but not over it, office tension, slow burn romance, revenge, manhattan aesthetic, luxury angst, sharp dialogue, hurt, workplace power imbalance, boss!Harry Castillo, expensive gifts, drinks, money, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, hate sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some ? Each chapter will include its own warnings.
authors note: Welcome to my new Harry Castillo fanfic, I'm sooo excited! hope you all like it! This fic is not connected to the movie at all — completely original AU vibes. So don’t worry, there are zero movie spoilers, and definitely no leg-surgery plotline here!!! OC Characters (Ron=Harry's assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Lara=Scarlet's assistant, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister)
Bonus:
The playlist: that inspires me while writing.
My chaos playlist: Used exclusively for dumb decisions, sibling fights, embarrassing situations, awkward moments.
ao3 link
angel's masterlist
Lessons:
Lesson 1: Never Call Your Ex When You’re in Trouble
Lesson 2: Don’t Underestimate an Ex With a Plan
Lesson 3: Don’t Poke a Queen in Heels
Lesson 4: Don’t Show Up at Your Ex’s House Unannounced
Lesson 5: You Can’t Hurt Your Ex Without Bleeding Too
Lesson 6: Never Share a Room With Your Ex
story timeline (contains spoilers if you haven’t read up to Lesson 6)
Lesson 7: Denial Is Not a Strategy, Darling
Lesson 8: Never Enter a Battle You Can’t Win
Lesson 9: Ears Lie. Hearts Don't
Lesson 10: Pain is Shared, Not Borne Alone
Lesson 11: Love Answers Only to Itself
Lesson 12: Careful. Life Doesn’t Spare What You Love
Lesson 13: Love Doesn't Belong on the Balance Sheet
Queen moodboard
Lesson 14: Nothing Worth Having Is Simple
Lesson 15: Never Mistake Restraint for Weakness
Lesson 16: Never Gamble What You Can’t Survive Losing
|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||
ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader
ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k
ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.
ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!
ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla
dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!
an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…
You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.
You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.
Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.
But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.
You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called.
Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.
Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city.
And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.
Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.
He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.
Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.
Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.
You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.
You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop.
You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse.
You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.
It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either.
He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.
It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.
Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else.
As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.
You should feel like an accessory.
Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around.
You can’t tell which is worse.
Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.
You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams.
There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.
You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.
You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation.
The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out.
It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.
You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.
Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”
You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”
“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”
“I work here.”
“Funny, so do I.”
“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”
He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.
He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”
Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.
You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”
You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”
“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”
“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”
Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”
You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”
That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”
You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”
You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.
The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?
“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”
“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”
He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”
You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.
You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”
His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”
You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”
Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.
You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”
Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”
He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.
Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”
You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.
This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.
Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:
Remind Harry to eat something before 3.
Book flights for Hong Kong.
Don’t fall in love with your boss.
That last one’s underlined. Twice.
The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.
You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.
The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.
You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.
You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.
Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.
You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.
“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete.
You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.
Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.
You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”
He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”
You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”
Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”
You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”
He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”
Who possibly could?
You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”
“I’m not even fifty.”
“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”
Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”
You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.
Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company.
You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.
“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.
He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”
“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”
“Watch it.”
“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”
Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist.
But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.
He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”
You blink. “Okay?”
“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”
It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.
Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.
You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”
“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”
You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”
“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.
He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font.
You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.
When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”
You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”
Harry doesn't answer right away.
He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.
“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.
The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.
“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”
“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”
You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.
Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”
He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.
You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“Come with me.”
It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm.
Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”
He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”
You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”
Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.
Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.
It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be.
Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly.
You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.
Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”
He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”
“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”
“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”
Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”
“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”
Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”
You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”
He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”
“Harry.”
“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”
You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”
Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.
You glance over your shoulder.
He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.
“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.
Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.
You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”
And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.
You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.
You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.
Just a little.
The package arrived that same night.
A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.
There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.
Well, that and a note taped to the front.
Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.
“Make them think I built you myself - H.”
You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.
The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.
And there it was.
Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.
You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.
Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.
You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.
A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.
And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.
You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.
You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.
Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.
You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.
Hairy
Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.
You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.
You know this is deranged behavior, right?
You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.
They vanished, then reappeared.
Hairy
I’m aware.
But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.
See you at 8.
You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating.
You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.
God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.
Friday comes both too fast and too slow.
You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.
You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.
You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together.
Maybe it’s better this way.
Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch.
Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.
You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.
Hairy
Found the tie, crisis averted.
Just need you now. Be there in 15.
You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.
The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening.
It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.
You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.
Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.
The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.
You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.
You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.
But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.
The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.
With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.
The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.
Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.
He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him.
You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.
The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.
For a moment, he just stares.
You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones.
The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.
You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”
Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”
Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.
He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.
“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”
Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.
“We might as well.”
The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.
You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with the nights most respected attendant.
Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.
You also play your role perfectly.
You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them.
The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.
“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.
“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.
“Isn’t that bad for business?”
Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”
You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.
There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.
Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.
But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.
“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.
You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”
He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”
At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.
It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.
Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters.
It’s just for you.
The awards are handed out shortly after.
Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.
You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.
You clap until your palms sting.
When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.
You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.
The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.
It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.
You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.
“You never smoke,” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a moment ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.
You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream of grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”
Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”
He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.
You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”
His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”
There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.
You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”
“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”
You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”
He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”
That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.
There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.
“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.
“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”
It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.
The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.
Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”
You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”
“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”
You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”
He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”
You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.
You give him your hand.
You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”
“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”
You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.
But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.
He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.
The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.
Harry draws you in close.
Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.
You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.
The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.
He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.
“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.
“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”
Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”
You nod. “It is.”
The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.
You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.
“Harry…”
He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”
It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.
You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”
It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.
He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart.
Can he feel yours?
“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”
Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.
“I…”
And then he kisses you.
And then you can’t speak at all.
It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming.
His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.
Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.
It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.
Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”
You kiss him again before he can finish.
His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.
Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke
The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.
You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.
When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.
Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.
He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.
He swallows hard. “We should leave.”
Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”
The ride back to the office is a blur.
You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.
The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.
His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.
He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.
“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.
Two words. That’s all he says.
Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.
“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”
“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him
Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”
You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.
“Are you wet for me?”
You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”
He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”
“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”
Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”
His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”
You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.
His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”
“You,” you whisper. “You did.”
“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.
Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.
“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.
“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”
Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation.
Still…
You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.
“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.
“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.
He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.
Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.
It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is.
But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender.
You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.
Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.
Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.
You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist.
The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.
You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.
“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”
Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.
He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs.
His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”
His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.
He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent.
“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”
“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”
He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.
He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.
“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”
His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.
Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”
“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”
You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.
You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.
“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”
You do.
You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.
Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.
“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”
“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”
And you do.
Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.
Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.
“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”
Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”
You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.
“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”
Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”
The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.
“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”
He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”
You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”
“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”
He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.
You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.
Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.
It’s all too much. Too much and not enough.
It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.
“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”
“Harry—fuck—Harry!”
“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”
“Yes—yes—oh my god—”
“Say it.”
“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”
He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”
You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.
“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”
“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”
That’s all he needs.
He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.
New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light.
The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.
Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.
The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace.
“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”
It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.
“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”
Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”
You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”
Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”
Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”
Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”
You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead.
Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.
You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.
MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.
anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!
or just being pedro’s secret controversially young gf . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
a chance raffle win leads to unexpected texts, slow-burning chemistry, and stolen moments with pedro pascal. she’s younger, balancing school and real life. he’s careful, charming, and maybe a little too into her for his own good. what starts off light turns tender, and one cozy night might just change everything.
masterlist | 9k words | all fiction, pedro is 45-50 and fem!reader is 23 (I don't rlly gaf if you're annoyed with age-gaps if you don't like it fucking scroll), flirting, YEARNING (you’ll never stop me), kissing, celebrity things like that paparazzi, fingering, oral f!recieving, pussy job, unprotected piv sexxx
You hadn’t even meant to enter.
Your best friend, Kelsey, had texted you in the middle of a script revision meltdown with a link and three question marks.
“A Pedro Pascal charity meet & greet raffle. $25 to enter. Winner gets a private lunch.”
It was for some children’s literacy nonprofit, and you’d clicked it half-delirious, half-joking, adding one entry just to say you did.
Two weeks later, you got the email.
You thought it was a scam. Then your phone rang—an actual event coordinator from the organization, confirming details, verifying your ID, telling you a car service would be provided, that Pedro’s team had already cleared the date.
You stared at your phone long after the call ended. You were twenty-three, in college for a degree in screenwriting, juggling a bookstore job and unpaid pitch work. Pedro Pascal had been your comfort actor since your late teens—long before the mainstream hype. You’d watched his indie films, not just the blockbusters. You knew lines of dialogue he probably didn’t even remember.
Now you were going to sit across from him. At lunch. For an hour.
You didn't even have anything to wear that didn't look like it came off a Goodwill clearance rack.
The restaurant was tucked away in Laurel Canyon, low lighting, all exposed brick and polished glass.
You checked your reflection four times in the car window. A blouse that didn't cling too tight. Mascara you applied with shaking hands. You told yourself he probably did dozens of these. He wouldn’t even remember your name.
When you arrived at the restaurant the host said, “Right this way,” and there he was.
Pedro Pascal. In a dark blue button-up, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Beard trimmed. Brown eyes soft.
He stood when you walked up.
“Hey, you must be the donor,” he said warmly. “Thanks for donating.”
You managed a smile. “Thanks for being the prize.”
He laughed. A real one.
You thought it would be awkward. Stilted. But he was funny, sharp, easy to talk to. You ended up rambling about how much his performance in The Bubble meant to you—how you watched it on your laptop in your dark bedroom during a bad depressive episode, how it got you through that awful year.
He looked surprised. Touched.
“I forget anyone actually saw that movie,” he said with a lopsided smile.
“I watched it five times. At least.”
He blinked. “Wait, are you messing with me?”
“Nope.” You grinned. “I even wrote a paper on it for a class on satire. You play a man who's aware he’s a fraud but keeps smiling through it—like, that’s the whole metaphor.”
Pedro blinked again—then gave you a slow, stunned laugh, mouth slightly open.
You weren’t flirting. You were just being honest. And maybe that’s what caught him off guard.
He walked you out after. His hand hovered at the small of your back but never touched.
“Seriously,” he said, “this was the best version of one of these I’ve ever done. I usually feel like a trained monkey. This felt like…” he paused. “A real conversation.”
You tried to play it cool. “That’s the goal. I’m supposed to be a screenwriter, right?”
He smiled, wider this time. “If you ever finish something, I’d love to read it.”
You stared at him, then snorted. “That sounded like a line.”
You were standing on the curb with him now, your rideshare still a few minutes out.
Pedro leaned against the building’s side wall, sunglasses back on, arms folded. The California sun caught the edges of his hair, bringing out the warm gray in his curls. You tried not to stare.
You were failing.
“Do you ever get tired of people telling you they’ve been obsessed with you since they were sixteen?” you asked, mostly teasing.
He laughed under his breath. “Depends on how they say it.”
You glanced up at him. “And how did I say it?”
His mouth curled. “Like someone who isn’t obsessed anymore. Just curious.”
That made you blush, which only made it worse. “Right. I’m too grown for fangirling.”
He tilted his head a little. “How grown are we talking?”
You gave him a look. “Grown enough to know that question is a trap.”
He grinned. “Smart.”
The pause that followed wasn’t awkward—it was warm, almost private. Like something unsaid had passed between you, and he was waiting to see if you’d name it.
You didn’t. You weren’t that bold. But you did say, “So, are you always this charming at these things? Or did I just catch you on a good hair day?”
He chuckled, then looked at you fully, one eyebrow raised. “Can I be honest?”
“Please.”
“I thought this would be fifteen minutes of smiling, nodding, and trying to avoid weird questions about The Mandalorian. I didn’t expect to actually…” He stopped, glanced away for a second, then back at you. “...like someone.”
Your stomach fluttered. “Someone?”
“You,” he said plainly.
Oh.
You blinked. “I—um. Okay. That’s… wow.”
Pedro rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry. That might’ve been too much.”
“No—no, it’s okay,” you said quickly, too quickly. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”
He smiled again, softer now. “That’s fair.”
Then, casually—almost like it was nothing—he said, “Would it be weird if I asked for your number?”
You stared at him. “Wait—seriously?”
He shrugged, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re comfortable. If not, that’s okay. I just—” he hesitated, then said, “I think I’d like to talk to you again. Not in front of cameras. Or PR people.”
You swallowed. He was looking at you like he meant it. Like he wasn’t in a rush, like he could wait forever.
“…Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll give it to you.”
Pedro handed you his phone. No hesitation.
You typed it in, heart pounding a little harder than it should’ve. Saved ___(from lunch) and handed it back.
He glanced down at it, then nodded. “I’ll text you. So you have mine.”
“Cool.” You tried to act normal. “Cool, cool, cool.”
Pedro smirked. “You’re very cool, yeah.”
Your rideshare pulled up just then. Saved by the bell. He opened the car door for you, gentlemanly as ever.
Before you got in, he said, voice low:
“I’m really glad it was you.”
You didn’t even know what to say to that. So you smiled, and got in the car, and tried not to immediately check your phone.
But when it buzzed two minutes later, your breath caught.
Unknown Number:
Glad I made it through lunch without embarrassing myself.
– Pedro
You didn’t text back right away.
Mostly because you didn’t want to seem eager. But also because you were still staring at your phone like it had just whispered your name out loud.
You waited ten minutes.
Then typed:
You:
I think we both made it out with our dignity intact.
But that’s a pending review once I replay the whole thing in my head at 2am.
The dots appeared instantly.
Pedro:
Damn, you’re already funnier over text. I’m scared.
Should I be worried about my performance?
You smiled, flopping back on your bed.
You:
You were decent. You only said “like” twelve times in that one story about Oscar Isaac.
Pedro:
You counted??
You:
I’m a writer. I observe.
Pedro:
Dangerous.
Pedro:
Remind me never to lie to you.
He kept texting over the next few days. Nothing crazy. Nothing that could get him in trouble.
But his messages were always right there—close enough to be curious. Casual enough to deny.
Sometimes it was jokes about his press schedule. Sometimes questions about your scripts. One night, it was a photo of an old movie on his TV.
Pedro:
I think this director peaked with this one.
Tell me I’m wrong.
[screenshot from Days of Heaven]
You:
You want discourse at midnight?
Pedro:
I want you to talk to me at midnight.
You stared at that one for too long.
Typed. Erased. Typed again.
You:
That sounds dangerously flirty for a man with a whole IMDb page.
Pedro:
That sounds dangerously flirty for a girl who called me “decent.”
Pedro:
…But I’m not taking it back.
By the end of the week, he was sending you voice memos.
Low, rough-voiced ones. Mostly teasing. Sometimes just quiet thoughts he didn’t want to type.
“You know, I reread your screenplay sample. You weren’t kidding when you said it was dark. That final scene? Fuck me. Also, I think I’m obsessed with the way your dialogue sounds.”
Another night:
“Couldn’t sleep. Thought about texting you something sexy but decided on this instead: Do you think people fall for potential, or do they fall for the version of themselves they think the other person sees?”
That one stayed in your phone for days.
You didn’t answer it. Not directly.
But your next message said:
You:
If you’re ever back in L.A. and bored, I know a dive bar that makes the best nachos in the city.
We could talk about your IMDb shame pile.
Pedro:
You tryna seduce me with nachos?
You:
Maybe.
Pedro:
Tell me when.
And don’t wear that blouse again.
Or do…
Four Weeks Later
The texts don’t come every day anymore.
He warned you. Said work was picking up again—press junkets, travel, long days on set. You said it was fine. You meant it. You’d gone in expecting one hour of his time, not a month of flirty messages and midnight voice memos.
But still, you missed it. The tiny buzz of your phone. His name lighting up your screen.
You missed the way he made you feel like he actually saw you—like you weren’t just some girl who lucked into a celebrity lunch but someone with ideas, talent, nerve.
The last message had been five days ago:
Pedro:
Sitting in a hotel bar in Berlin. Bartender looks like he’s judging my wine choice.
You responded. He didn’t reply.
You told yourself he got busy. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.
Still, you reread the thread more than once.
He kept opening your chat. Typing. Erasing.
He didn’t know why you stuck in his head. Why you’d gotten under his skin like a song he couldn’t stop humming. You were so much younger, so new, but you had a sharpness he envied. You made him want to say shit he hadn’t thought to say to anyone in years.
And you hadn’t even done anything, really.
You were just... honest. No agenda. No sucking up. You looked him in the eye like he wasn’t on a billboard but sitting across from you at a tiny table, halfway real.
And now you were quiet.
Maybe you’d gotten bored. Moved on. Maybe it was better that way.
But when his plane landed in L.A., jet-lagged and strung out, the first thing he wanted—before coffee, before sleep—was to see if you were still around.
You’re watching a terrible dating show in your apartment, sipping flat wine, wearing the same hoodie three days in a row when your phone buzzes.
Pedro:
Back in town.
That nacho place still open?
You stare at it.
Then:
You:
It closes at 2am.
So yeah. Still time for questionable choices.
Pedro:
Are we talking about food or me?
You:
Don’t make me say it.
Pedro:
Say it in person.
Then:
Pedro:
Tomorrow night?
Your stomach flips.
It’s been weeks. You thought he forgot. You thought maybe you dreamed the whole thing.
You wait ten seconds.
Then:
You:
Tomorrow night.
The bar is dim and humming when you walk in. Wood-paneled walls, strings of yellow bulbs, and that warm, greasy smell that hits just right after 9 p.m.
You spot him instantly.
Pedro’s in the far booth—back against the wall, baseball cap low, beer bottle sweating in front of him. He’s dressed down: jeans and a hoodie, that you recognize from one of his press photos.
He looks up and sees you. Smiles.
Not the friendly kind. The fuck-I-missed-you kind.
“Hey,” you say as you slide into the booth opposite him.
“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours.
You settle your bag beside you. Try to ignore the way your heart’s fluttering like it’s your first date in high school.
He leans forward slightly. “You look…”
You raise an eyebrow. “Tired?”
He laughs. “No. Just better than I remembered.”
You smirk. “You say that to all the raffle girls?”
Pedro grins and takes a sip of his beer. “You think I’m doing a lot of raffle lunches lately?”
You don’t answer. You just meet his eyes—and hold them a second too long.
The first drink goes fast. So does the second.
Conversation’s easy again—teasing, snappy, laced with innuendos but grounded in that same curiosity he showed the first time.
“You’ve got that look again,” you say at one point.
He tips his head. “What look?”
“Like you’re thinking too much.”
Pedro taps his fingers on the table. “I am.”
“About what?”
“You.”
That shuts you up. For a beat.
“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re officially flirting.”
“Only officially now?”
You glance at him. “Are we pretending we haven’t been doing that for weeks?”
He leans in a little, voice lower. “I haven’t been pretending, cariño.”
That word—cariño—drops right down your spine.
You sip your drink just to buy time.
Half an hour later, the nachos are cold and forgotten.
He’s shifted to your side of the booth. Close enough that his thigh brushes yours when he moves.
You can feel the heat of him—slow and steady, like a stove left on low.
“You’re braver than I thought,” he murmurs, voice near your ear.
You turn your head, pulse thrumming. “Why?”
He’s looking at your mouth when he says, “Because I think you know exactly what this is.”
You swallow.
“You think it’s a game?” you whisper.
“No.” His eyes lift to meet yours again. “I think it’s trouble.”
You let the silence stretch. Then, quietly:
“I think I want it anyway.”
Pedro exhales, almost like relief.
His hand finds your knee under the table, gentle at first—like he’s asking.
You don’t stop him.
Back at your place — 1:07 a.m.
He doesn’t kiss you right away.
He stands just inside your apartment, glancing around like he needs to ground himself. Like he’s cataloging every detail in case it’s the only time he sees it.
“Cute place,” he says.
You shrug. “It’s fine. It has a couch, at least.”
Pedro gives you a look. “So subtle.”
You smirk, toeing off your shoes. “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to sit down without my feet throbbing.”
“Oh, is that what this is?” he says, trailing behind you into the living room. “Because when you leaned over the jukebox earlier, I swear I saw—”
“—Shut up,” you laugh, swatting his arm. “I was picking a song.”
“You were bending the laws of nature, muneca.”
You plop onto the couch and toss a pillow at him.
He catches it easily, eyes dancing.
And then he sits.
Close. Closer than necessary.
Your knees touch.
And for a moment, neither of you say anything.
His hand brushes yours.
Once.
Twice.
Then it stays.
“I keep telling myself not to do this,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.
You tilt your head. “Then don’t.”
Pedro looks at you.
Long. Direct. Hungry.
And then he kisses you.
It starts slow.
His lips soft, searching. No rush. No agenda.
But your hand slides into his hair and his body shifts, just a little, and suddenly—
His other hand is on your thigh, gripping it.
You gasp into his mouth, and it makes him groan. A low, broken sound, like he’s been trying not to make it for weeks.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“You started it,” you whisper, breathless.
His tongue traces your bottom lip. “Don’t remind me.”
He pushes you back into the couch cushions, one knee slipping between yours, just enough weight to make you feel it.
You arch beneath him. Hips rising—seeking.
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
Your hair’s messy, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown.
“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he says, voice low. “You know that?”
You blink up at him, dazed. “You’re not bad either, old man.”
He huffed a laugh—and kissed you harder.
You end up straddling him, your hands under his shirt, his teeth grazing your neck. You whisper something shameless into his ear and he freezes, groaning into your shoulder like you just ruined his life.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re dangerous.”
“You like it,” you say, biting back a smile.
“Too much.”
It doesn’t go any further.
Not because he doesn’t want to.
Not because you don’t.
But because there’s something delicious about stopping here. Something about the ache. The tease.
1:41 a.m. your apartment
You don’t get off his lap.
Even after the kissing slows. Even after his hand stills on your thigh and his breath evens out against your collarbone.
You just lean into him, cheek resting against the warm curve of his neck, and say:
“So what’s your comfort movie?”
Pedro chuckles, a low, content sound. His hands stay on you—one lightly tracing your waist, the other cradling your knee.
“You want comfort?” he murmurs. “I watched Paddington 2 three times in a row on a flight once. I cried. Full grown man. Tears.”
You sit up just enough to look at him. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I was.”
You grin, brushing your nose against his. “Mine’s Coraline. I know it’s for kids. Don’t care.”
“Oh, I respect that,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Creepy doll button eyes? That’s some formative trauma.”
You laugh into his shoulder. “Exactly.”
The conversation drifts.
From movies to music, then weird dreams, then the worst job he ever had (you make him promise never to do commercials for adult diapers), and the story of your first kiss (in a movie theater during a Marvel sequel, popcorn still in your braces).
You fall asleep like that for a while.
Wrapped around him. The TV is still on. His hoodie swallowing your frame.
It’s not a sleepover. But it’s the kind of night you only have when the flirting has already cracked open into something more dangerous—something real.
5:07 a.m.
He kisses you again on the sidewalk, slow and tired and a little reluctant.
The Uber’s headlights bounce off the curb.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your hip.
You raise your brows. “You’d behave?”
“No.”
“Then go home.”
Pedro grins, teeth sharp in the early morning haze. “I hate that you’re right.”
“You love that I’m right.”
He kisses your forehead. “Text me when you wake up, cariño.”
Then he climbs into the car and disappears into the fading dark.
Later
You
you looked like a mess when you left
was kind of hot
Pedro
don’t start
i walked into my kitchen like a teenager
head against the fridge door. dramatic sigh.
You
“what is she doing to meee…”
Pedro
don’t mock the broken man
You
it’s cute
I kinda like breaking you
Pedro
yeah
i could tell
you were smiling while you ruined me
You
and you didn’t stop me
Pedro
never would
Pedro
(real talk though… i haven’t kissed someone like that in years)
what are we doing?
You
no idea
but i don’t really want to stop
Pedro
good
i’d be pissed if you did
You
also
i’m watching Paddington 2 tonight
thought you should know
Pedro
you’re trying to make me fall in love with you
You
Trying?
A Few days Later
Pedro
okay serious question
what’s your go-to coffee order
i’m at a café and there are too many words on the menu
You
iced oat latte. extra cinnamon. no reason. just vibes.
why?
Pedro
just wondering what i’ll need to remember when i see you again
it’s been a minute
you free soon?
You
maybe. depends.
is this a brunch date disguised as a “casual hang”?
Pedro
yes.
and i might wear a hat and sunglasses like a criminal
You
hot
I’ll see you Sunday then
Two Weeks Later
Outside a café, 2:12 p.m.
You’re holding iced coffees, your oversized hoodie tucked into the waistband of biker shorts, and Pedro’s walking beside you—cap pulled low, hoodie up, sunglasses on.
You look like…friends.
Which is the goal.
Except his hand keeps brushing yours.
And when you laugh too hard at something he says about a failed audition back in ‘99, he looks at you like he feels it. Like he wants to bottle it.
You don’t even notice the guy on the opposite sidewalk.
Phone angled low.
The shutter click barely audible.
Another car slows down. Just a beat.
Pedro notices first.
His body tenses next to yours.
You follow his gaze. A pair of figures across the street. Hoodies. Big lenses. Moving fast.
Click click click.
You suck in a breath. “Shit.”
He doesn’t grab your hand.
He can’t.
Instead, he leans in like he’s just whispering something dumb.
“Just keep walking,” he mutters. “Act like you’re annoyed with me.”
You glance up at him. “That’s not hard.”
He grins, tight-lipped. “Atta girl.”
You duck into a bookstore.He buys a random novel and keeps the receipt.
You pretend to browse while your stomach spins.
He brushes his hand against your back briefly as you walk toward the back exit.
“Your face was covered,” he says quietly. “You’re fine.”
But he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
You slip your sunglasses on, exhaling.
“I knew this might happen,” you mutter. “Still sucks.”
Pedro looks at you for a second too long. Then, under his breath:
“If anything ever actually comes out…I’ll handle it.”
You nod.
But it hangs there. Heavy.
You’re still you. Still just 23. Still not used to this world he lives in.
But the part that makes your pulse spike isn’t fear.
It’s the way his voice dipped when he said “I’ll handle it.”
Like he already decided he would.
Like you weren’t just a girl from a raffle anymore.
Pedro
they didn’t get anything
you’re safe
You
you sure?
Pedro
i’ve done this a long time
if they had something good it’d be online already
trust me
You
i do
just didn’t expect it to feel that...real
Pedro
it is real
at least for me
You
i know. me too.
Pedro
next time no public sidewalks
just you
my place
pizza
and zero danger
You
and maybe another dramatic sigh against your fridge?
Pedro
oh i’m already practicing
i’ll be thinking about you all week
You
good
maybe i’ll make you wait again
Pedro
maybe i’ll let you
Few More Days Later
You
i just bombed my stats exam
tell my family i died doing what i hated
Pedro
nooooo
not stats
not you :(
You
i’m so tired
i might actually cry in the campus parking lot like a teen drama character
Pedro
you want company or silence?
or pizza?
or a forehead kiss?
You
omg
You
that last one just made my brain short circuit
is that allowed???
Pedro
it is if you want it to be
offer still stands
come over
i’ll put on something dumb and hold you until your brain restarts
You
you’re dangerous
give me an hour
That night — 8:13 p.m.
Pedro’s apartment.
The kitchen smells like garlic and fresh basil.
Pedro’s in front of the stove in a worn tee and joggers, barefoot, stirring pasta like this is just…normal. Like you always do this. Like he wasn’t in a galaxy far, far away a few months ago while you were still writing essays in the library, humming through AirPods.
“You ever cook for girls like this?” you tease lightly, watching from the counter stool.
Pedro smirks without turning around. “Not girls who make me nervous.”
You blink.
He glances back at you. “Just being honest.”
You open your mouth—then close it again.
Your throat’s warm. So is your chest. Your fingertips tingle against the glass of red wine in your hand.
The rest of the night unfurls gently. Like a held breath being let out.
He makes a simple pasta with veggies. You help slice strawberries for a little balsamic-glazed dessert (“This is so extra,” you laugh, and he just shrugs—“You deserve extra”).
You eat on the couch with the coffee table dragged closer, your knees brushing under the bowls.
Music plays low. Something acoustic and nostalgic.
His hand rests on your leg, casual but firm.
Yours finds his thigh a little later.
You’re sitting sideways in his lap again, back to his chest, your cheek against his jaw.
He smells like citrus body wash and red wine and something inherently him.
His hands haven’t left you all night.
Thumb tracing slow lines into the top of your thigh. Fingertips under your hoodie hem.
He kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw.
You hum softly, turning your face toward his. He doesn’t hesitate.
The kiss starts easy. Then deeper.
And deeper.
You straddle him this time, your knees pressing into the couch cushions, your hands in his hair. His grip tightens around your hips—then softens again, like he’s reminding himself to slow down.
There’s heat. So much heat.
You shift against him, just slightly—and feel him underneath you.
He breathes hard into your mouth, breaking the kiss. “Wait—wait.”
Your foreheads press together.
You blink. “Did I do something—?”
Pedro shakes his head fast. “No, no. God, no. You’re perfect.”
You’re quiet. His thumb brushes your cheek.
“I just…” he swallows, “don’t want this to be fast. I want it to be right.”
You exhale, your nose brushing his. “Okay.”
He looks at you—tender, serious. “You trust me?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “You trust me?”
Pedro leans forward and kisses you again, slower this time. His hands stay on your waist. Yours trail up the back of his neck.
Then he says the most dangerous thing of all:
“Stay tonight.”
You borrow one of his tees and wash your face in his sink with the cleanser he shyly offers you.
The bed’s big and warm. You climb in beside him, and he pulls you close, one arm under your shoulders, the other across your waist.
Neither of you says much.
But when you whisper, “You smell like something familiar,” he smiles into your hair.
And when he murmurs, “I like having you here,” you smile too.
You fall asleep curled up against him. No more nerves. No more pretending this is just for fun.
It’s not the night everything happened.
But it’s the night everything changed.
The Next Morning — 9:12 a.m.
You wake up warm.
Pressed against a solid chest, one of Pedro’s hands heavy over your waist, his breath slow and deep against the back of your neck.
It takes you a second to remember where you are.
The smell of his sheets. The weight of his arm. The stretch of your legs tangled with his.
Then it hits you.
Last night. Dinner. That kiss. Him asking you to stay.
You shift slightly, careful not to wake him.
But you feel him stir behind you.
His voice is a slow, rough murmur in your ear. “Morning.”
You twist in his arms to face him. His hair’s messy. His eyes are sleepy, half-lidded. There’s a small smile on his mouth that makes your heart kick like a rabbit.
“Hi,” you whisper.
He leans in and kisses you—soft at first. Barely there.
But then he kisses you again, firmer this time. Longer.
And it doesn’t feel sleepy anymore.
It feels like wanting.
Pedro’s hand moves under your shirt, smoothing up your back, dragging his fingers up your spine. You sigh into his mouth as you press your chest against his, your body already buzzing.
He rolls gently onto his back, bringing you with him so you’re straddling his hips. His hands settle on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow circles just beneath the hem of your borrowed sleep shirt.
“You okay?” he murmurs, looking up at you.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His eyes search yours. “We don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you say, clear and certain. “I really want to.”
That’s all he needs.
He sits up, kisses you again—this time with intent. His hands slip under your shirt fully now, dragging it up over your head and off.
Pedro pauses when he sees you.
Like he’s trying to remember every inch.
“God,” he breathes, hands sliding up your waist to cup your chest. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
You shiver as his thumbs graze your nipples. You shift forward, rolling your hips against his just a little, and feel him hard underneath you.
He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.
“You’re gonna kill me.”
“Good,” you whisper, tugging his shirt off too.
It’s slow. He treats your body like something worth learning.
Mouth on your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue dipping below your breasts.
He lays you back and kisses down your stomach, looking up at you the whole time like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.
You don’t.
You arch for him, tug his hand between your thighs.
Pedro groans when he finds you wet.
“So ready for me,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “Jesus, baby…”
He touches you slowly, gently, working you open with his fingers until you're panting, until you're grabbing at his hair and whispering his name like it's the only word that matters.
Then he comes back up and kisses you again—deep, messy, tongue pushing into your mouth as his fingers stay between your legs, stroking you through every soft sound you make.
“You like that?” he breathes.
You nod, nails digging into his shoulder. “Yeah. God, Pedro—”
He groans, pressing his forehead to yours.
“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
You smile shakily. “I’ll tell you if it’s not enough.”
When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow.
Painfully slow.
Like he wants you to feel every inch of it. Like he wants to feel you—wrapped around him, holding him, trusting him.
You gasp. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple.
“You okay?”
You nod, hand fisting the sheets. “Keep going. Please.”
Pedro groans, deeper this time, and begins to move.
It’s not fast. It’s not rough.
But it’s intense.
Every roll of his hips is deliberate, slow and deep, the kind of rhythm that builds unbearable heat between your legs. He stays close, his chest brushing yours, one hand cradling your head, the other gripping your hip like he needs to anchor himself there.
You moan into his mouth. “Pedro—oh my god—”
“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby. You feel so fucking good.”
You wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to take him deeper. The change makes you gasp—your whole body tightening around him.
He curses, thrusts harder once, then slows again, like he’s fighting to stay in control.
“Not gonna last,” he groans into your neck. “You’re too good—fuck—”
You cling to him, mouth at his ear. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t.
He fucks you through it—slow, patient, like he’s memorizing you.
Until you come with a cry, back arching, legs trembling.
And then he lets go.
Buried deep inside you, his arms locked tight around your body, he shudders with a groan that sounds almost broken.
Pedro lies beside you, one hand still tracing circles over your bare back.
You’re tucked into his side, head on his chest, your body boneless and warm and aching in all the right ways.
He kisses the top of your head.
You murmur, “So…”
“So?” he echoes softly.
“I don’t want to leave.”
He smiles. “Then don’t.”
You lift your head, meeting his gaze.
“Okay.”
10:36 a.m.
The bedroom’s quiet, dim with late morning light.
Pedro’s hand is still on your back, fingers idly tracing slow, lazy shapes like he doesn’t want to break the silence. You’re sprawled across his chest with your leg slung over his hip, still tangled in sheets and sleep and warmth.
You murmur, “My thighs hurt.”
Pedro laughs softly under you. “That’s a good sign, right?”
You pinch his side gently, but you’re smiling. “You’re annoying.”
He kisses your hair. “You’re glowing.”
“I’m sweaty.”
“Same thing.”
You hum, turning your face into his neck. “We should get up.”
“We don’t have to.”
“We will eventually.”
He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m making coffee and putting on music and not wearing pants, so. Prepare yourself.”
You brush your teeth side-by-side in front of the mirror, barefoot and rumpled.
He’s wearing plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips. You’re in one of his big, soft shirts that barely covers your ass.
Pedro spits, then wipes his mouth and gestures toward your reflection. “You’re doing the ‘walk of shame’ all wrong.”
“Oh yeah?”
He steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. You’re supposed to sneak out. Look flustered. Not stand here looking like a smug little goddess.”
You lean back into him. “I can sneak if you want.”
He brushes your hair over your shoulder, mouth at your ear. “Don’t you dare.”
You perch on the counter while Pedro makes eggs and toasts thick slices of sourdough. Coffee gurgles in the French press. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker—Fleetwood Mac, or maybe The Rolling Stones, something vintage and cozy and a little flirtatious.
He hands you a piece of toast like it’s a peace offering.
“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur between bites.
He shrugs. “You stayed the night. That earns you toast rights.”
“What else does it earn me?”
Pedro leans on the counter next to you, pretending to think. “More coffee. Back rubs. The good chocolate from the top shelf. Maybe a foot rub if you beg.”
You laugh.
But he watches you for a second, quiet, eyes soft.
Then, a little more serious, he says, “You’re okay? With last night?”
You nod right away. “Of course I am.”
“You don’t feel—like it was too fast?”
You pause. “No. Do you?”
He looks away for a second. Then back at you.
“No. I just… I don't want to mess this up.”
Your heart thumps.
“You’re not,” you say, and it’s true. “I like being here. With you.”
Pedro steps closer. Kisses you on the forehead.
“You make me feel lucky,” he murmurs. “Like… really lucky.”
You hide your face in his shoulder, smiling into his shirt. “Sappy.”
“You love it.”
“I kinda do.”
You end up back in bed with the window open and your coffee cups half-full on the nightstand.
You scroll through your phone lazily while Pedro reads a book beside you, one hand resting on your thigh like he just needs to be touching you, even when he’s distracted.
Eventually, he sets the book down and watches you instead.
“Next time,” he says quietly, “let me take you out properly. Like a real date.”
You glance up. “Like…in public?”
He nods, hesitating. “If you want. I can be careful. Private table. Back entrance.”
You study him for a beat.
Then smile.
“Okay.”
He exhales, slow and relieved. Pulls you toward him.
And it hits you—how easy this could be. How dangerous. How close you already feel to something you shouldn’t want this badly.
But you let him kiss you again.
Because right now?
You just want more.
Pedro 🍯
Friday night okay for our scandalous outing?
You
depends
will there be food?
and you opening doors for me like a gentleman?
Pedro 🍯
I’d open every door in LA for you
even the ones I’m not supposed to
You
that’s hot
okay I’m in
what’s the dress code? do I need to look famous?
Pedro 🍯
You are famous.
In my phone. In my bed. In my head.
But no—look like yourself. That’s what I like.
You
you’re lucky you’re cute
I’ll give you flirty and effortless
Pedro 🍯
It’s a look that destroys me
every time
Friday Night – 8:04 PM
Private restaurant in West Hollywood
The hostess barely glances at you as she leads you down a narrow hallway to the back, where the lights are low and the table is tucked away in a cozy, dim corner.
Pedro’s already there, standing when he sees you. Black dress shirt, a little open at the collar. Trim beard. That soft smile that’s reserved for you now.
He says, “Wow,” under his breath when he sees you.
You grin. “That’s what you were waiting for?”
“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But it’s a damn good bonus.”
He pulls your chair out for you, brushes his fingers down your arm as you sit. The tension’s quiet but buzzing. This isn’t like being at his apartment in sweats and bare legs. This is real.
The waiter arrives quickly—Pedro’s arranged everything. Wine’s already poured. A cheese plate. You’re grateful, because you’re nervous.
“Not what you expected?” he asks, eyes warm.
“It’s nice,” you say. “Just… kinda crazy. We’re really out.”
He leans in, voice low. “We don’t have to stay long.”
“No,” you say quickly, surprising yourself. “I want to.”
You talk about movies. About food. He asks about your classes. You ask about scripts he’s reading. It’s easy, even with the candlelight and clinking glasses and murmurs behind you.
But at one point, you feel someone glance toward the corner—just a shift, a flick of someone’s head.
You both go still.
Pedro reaches across the table and touches your hand, thumb brushing the back of your fingers.
“Don’t look,” he says gently. “They won’t get anything.”
You nod, swallowing.
“I’m okay,” you whisper.
His grip tightens slightly.
“So am I.”
Outside the restaurant
Pedro’s car pulls around to the back entrance just like he’d asked. You both slip out quietly, sunglasses on—even though it’s dark—and hoods up. The manager gave him a discreet nod on the way out, like this wasn’t his first time protecting someone.
Once you’re in the car, doors shut, windows up, and seat belts clicked… he finally exhales.
You laugh a little, heart still racing. “That was weird.”
“It was,” he agrees, starting the engine. “But not terrible, right?”
You glance at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been watched while eating cheese.”
Pedro grins. “To be fair, you looked very hot doing it.”
You nudge his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
You do.
10:05 PM – His Apartment
He lets you in first. The lights are soft. The space smells like bergamot and whatever cologne still clings to his jacket.
You take your shoes off by the door without thinking. He shrugs out of his coat, throws it on the back of the couch. His shirt’s still half-unbuttoned.
“Wine?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Just water.”
Pedro nods and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it from the fridge. You trail behind him, watching the lines of his back move beneath the dark cotton of his shirt.
When he turns, you’re sitting on top of the counter, arms crossed.
“You’re quiet,” he says gently, handing you the glass.
You take a sip. “Just thinking.”
He nods. Waits.
You hesitate. Then, “Do you worry? About people knowing?”
He pauses. Then crosses to stand in front of you, leaning back on the opposite counter, arms loosely folded.
“I do,” he says honestly. “Not because I’m ashamed. I just… I know how people talk. And I don’t want them to get it wrong.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah.”
He watches you.
“I also don’t want to stop seeing you,” he adds softly. “So I guess I’ll figure it out.”
That makes your stomach flip.
“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?” you ask. “This?”
He tilts his head, thoughtful. Then he shook it.
“No. Not when you look at me like that.”
You blink. “Like what?”
Pedro smiles a little. “Like I’m not just some actor you had a crush on once. Like I’m… real.”
You don’t say anything, but you take a step forward. So does he.
Your hand lands gently on his chest.
“I like the real you,” you say. “Even when you’re dramatic.”
“I’m not dramatic.”
“You literally made an escape plan for dinner.”
He chuckles in a low tone. “Fair.”
Your fingers hook at the collar of his shirt.
“Can I stay again?”
Pedro leans down and presses his forehead to yours.
“Please do.”
Pedro steps between your legs, his palms firm against your thighs, slowly sliding up under the hem of your dress. The fabric bunches at your hips, but neither of you cares. You’ve kissed him before, but not like this—not when everything feels like it might break open if you dare to go a little further.
“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, lips brushing just below your ear as his hands roam.
Your breath catches. “I haven’t even done anything.”
Pedro pulls back just enough to look at you. “You wore that dress.”
You tilt your head. “You told me to.”
He smirks. “Yeah. My own damn fault.”
His mouth is on yours again—hot, unrelenting. The kiss turns hungrier. You moan into it when he presses closer, the hard line of him slotting between your thighs.
His hands are greedy now, tracing the backs of your thighs, then cupping your ass, pulling you forward against him. Your hips grind instinctively. He groans into your mouth, like he’s trying to hold back but failing.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—Jesus—”
One of his hands slips around to your front, dragging his fingers between your legs over your panties. He feels how warm you are, how soaked the fabric is. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and full of heat.
“This all for me, baby?”
You nod, lips parted. “Been like that since dinner.”
He lets out a low, guttural sound and presses the heel of his hand right where you’re throbbing. You roll your hips against it, helpless. Your legs tighten around his waist as your back arches into him.
Pedro leans in, his voice ragged. “You want me to touch you?”
You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”
His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them to the side. And then he touches you—slowly, carefully—like he’s trying to memorize every reaction. The pad of his middle finger slides through your slick folds, circling your clit just once.
You jerk slightly, gasping.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, watching your face. “You’re so wet already.”
You try to kiss him again, but he teases you, keeping his lips just out of reach. His fingers move lower, pressing gently at your entrance. He slips one inside, slow but sure.
Your head falls back. “Pedro—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, curling them just right. “You feel fuckin’ incredible.”
You rock your hips in time with his rhythm, your moans filling the quiet kitchen. The counter is cool beneath your thighs, but you’re burning everywhere else—chest flushed, heart racing.
Pedro leans in and kisses the underside of your jaw, then your neck, his voice hot and gravelly against your skin. “I wanna see you come like this. Just like this.”
You grip his shoulders, legs trembling slightly as the pressure builds. He keeps his thumb on your clit, circling it in time with every curl of his fingers.
“Fuck—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”
“I won’t, baby. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”
It hits fast. Your hips stutter, mouth falling open in a whimper as you come around his fingers, clenching tight while he keeps working you through it. He watches every second of it, like he’s completely wrecked by the sight of you falling apart in his hands.
When it’s too much, you grab his wrist, panting. “Okay. Okay—”
He kisses you then, deep and messy and full of hunger. You taste yourself on his tongue, and somehow that just makes it hotter.
“Next time,” he murmurs against your lips, voice full of promise, “it’s gonna be in bed. And I’m not gonna stop until you beg.”
You smile, still breathless. “Who says I won’t beg right here?”
He laughs softly, tucks your hair behind your ear, and leans his forehead against yours. “You’re trouble.”
“You like it.”
Pedro hums, pressing one last kiss to your lips. “I really do.”
Pedro kisses you again—more urgently this time, like he’s chasing the taste of your moan. You’re still coming down from your high, but he’s nowhere near finished. His hand strokes down your thigh, then back up slowly, deliberately. His lips drag down your neck to your collarbone, tongue flicking over the skin as he murmurs, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby.”
You squirm in his grip, panting softly. “Pedro…”
He groans when you say his name like that, like a plea. His hands slip under your thighs, and in one swift, effortless movement, he lifts you from the counter and carries you into the living room. He lays you out gently on the couch, kneeling between your legs, spreading them with his hands.
Your dress is still bunched around your hips. Your panties are crooked, barely hanging on.
Pedro looks down at you—lips swollen, legs open for him, pupils blown wide. “You want more?”
You nod, voice shaky. “I—I want your mouth.”
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me.”
He leans in, dragging your panties down your legs slowly, deliberately. You watch him with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. He kisses the inside of your thigh first—soft, reverent—then bites, just a little, enough to make you whimper.
And then he licks you.
It starts slow—his tongue parting your folds, gentle strokes that make you arch your back. But he doesn’t stay soft for long. He groans into you like he’s starving, hands gripping your thighs as he locks you in place and sucks hard on your clit. Your hips jerk up, and he just tightens his grip, flattening his tongue and dragging it slowly up and down before circling your entrance.
You’re already close again.
“Pedro, fuck—oh my God—”
He looks up at you, mouth shiny, eyes wild. “Come again for me. Just like this.”
You tangle your fingers in his hair, anchoring yourself while he devours you. He slides one finger back inside you, then another, curling them just right as his tongue works your clit. You fall apart again—loud, shaking, hips grinding against his mouth as you come harder than before.
You feel him groan when you clench around his fingers. He fucking likes how wrecked you are.
When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless and trembling. He kisses your inner thigh one more time before leaning over you, lips slick with you, eyes blown wide.
You reach for him, cupping him through his sweats. He’s rock hard and twitching under your palm. “Your turn.”
He swears under his breath, grinding into your hand. “I’ve been dying since you walked in.”
You tug the waistband of his slacks down. He helps, finally freeing himself—and your mouth waters at the sight of him. He’s thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.
Pedro watches your face as you stroke him slowly, teasing him the way he teased you.
“You gonna let me take care of you?” you ask, sweet and soft.
He groans low. “Not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”
But he lets you guide him on top of you, your thighs still slick and spread. You rub his tip against your folds, not letting him in—just grinding, coating him in your arousal. You both moan at the contact.
He leans down, forehead pressed to yours, hips moving in slow, desperate circles.
“Fuck, that feels good,” he mutters.
You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, your voice a whisper against his jaw. “Next time, you’re gonna fuck me for real.”
Pedro pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “This isn’t even close to done, sweetheart.”
He ruts against you again, both of you panting now, bodies slick and sticky. He kisses you—deep and messy—as he comes against your stomach with a groan, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
You lie there together, tangled and panting, the whole room humming with the tension that still lingers.
Pedro finally exhales a breathy laugh. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”
You grin, heart racing. “Big, big trouble.”
He kisses your shoulder and smiles into your skin. “Worth it.”
You’re curled up in Pedro’s bed again, half-asleep with your cheek against his chest, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on your back.
He shifts a little beneath you, reaches over with a yawn to grab his phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen as it lights up.
Then he goes still.
You feel it before you hear it—his body tensing just enough to draw your attention.
You peek up at him. “Everything okay?”
Pedro doesn’t answer right away. He swipes through something on his phone with a sharp breath through his nose, then hands it to you silently.
Your stomach flips.
It’s Twitter.
A photo. Grainy, long-lens, obviously taken from across the street.
Pedro Pascal on a late-night coffee date?He’s walking beside you on the sidewalk. His hood is up, and yours is too. Your face is angled down, half-covered by your oversized scarf. But it’s undeniably him.
His hand is on the small of your back. Gentle. Familiar.
The photo already has over 80k likes.
“Shit,” you whisper, sitting up a little.
Pedro watches you carefully. “Your face isn’t in it. You’re okay.”
“I mean… yeah, but people are gonna figure it out, aren’t they?” You hand him the phone, heart thudding.
There are already hundreds of quote tweets. Gossip accounts, stan edits, comments like:
“whoever she is… I fear I’m her now”
“idk who she is but I know she smells like vanilla and reads poetry”
“Pedro Pascal out on a date???? Real man hours”
“y’all think this is PR? 😭”
You fall back into the pillows, groaning into the sheets. “I literally had exams yesterday. I was studying in a hoodie like twelve hours ago.”
Pedro chuckles softly. “And now you’re an anonymous femme fatale. Wild.”
You glance over at him. “This doesn’t freak you out?”
“Not really.” He reaches out, brushing your hair back. “I’ve been through worse. You okay, though?”
“I mean…” You sit up, wrapping the sheet around yourself. “I didn’t think this was gonna get real like that. That fast.”
Pedro watches you quietly for a moment. Then he reaches for your hand.
“We don’t have to rush anything. If you want to pull back, stay private, disappear for a bit, we can do that. But I also—” He pauses, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I like this. You and me. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”
You soften. “I don’t want that either.”
“Then we play it smart.” He smiles a little. “Let them talk. They don’t know anything.”
You squeeze his hand. “Okay. But if I get doxxed by a thirteen-year-old running a fan cam account…”
“I’ll delete the internet for you.”
You laugh, and he leans over to kiss your temple.
Just like that, the tension fades a little. Not gone, not really, but tucked away beside the coffee cups and slow mornings and quiet confessions in bed.
You wake up later to the smell of butter and fresh coffee.
The space in bed beside you is empty, but warm. Sunlight spills through the curtains in long strips, cutting across the crumpled sheets and your bare legs. You stretch slowly, sore in the sweetest way, your body still humming from the night before.
You find Pedro in the kitchen, barefoot in his plaid pajama pants, the ones with a little rip near the pocket. He’s focused on the skillet in front of him, brows furrowed, spatula in hand like he’s trying to win an award for best boyfriend breakfast.
You linger in the doorway, quietly watching him like you’re afraid saying his name will break the spell.
He turns at just the right moment, catching you with a sleepy smile.
“Well, good morning, mystery girl.”
You grin. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? You are a mystery.” He gestures to the open laptop on the kitchen counter. “You’re trending.”
Your stomach dips. “So it wasn’t just a bad dream?”
Pedro nods. “Hashtag 'Pedro Pascal Date Night' has entered the chat.”
You groan and pad into the room, barefoot in his T-shirt, curling your arms around his waist from behind. “This is so surreal.”
He leans back into you just enough to kiss your knuckles. “You’re still you. I’m still me. Nothing changes that.”
You rest your cheek against his back. “I know, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting it to feel this big.”
Pedro turns gently in your arms and cups your face with those warm, capable hands. “Then let’s keep it small. Just you and me in this kitchen. My bad pancakes. Your bedhead. The rest can wait.”
You nod. Let him kiss you. Let him hold you like that.
A few minutes later, you’re sitting at the little dining table while he plates the eggs, toast, and strawberries in a way that’s oddly charming and not very symmetrical. He brings you your coffee just the way you like it—too much cream, not enough sugar.
“God,” you say, taking a sip. “This is dangerously domestic.”
Pedro raises an eyebrow, settling across from you. “Dangerous?”
You smirk. “You’re lucky I’m into it.”
He lets out a low laugh. “You have no idea how into you I am.”
You pause, caught off guard by how easily he says it. How it doesn’t scare you the way you thought it would.
After a beat, you lean across the table and whisper, “So what happens next?”
Pedro reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it like it’s second nature.
“Whatever you want,” he says. “We will figure it out. Together.”
And there it is again—that quiet thrum of something honest. Something with roots.
Something, Somehow, Someday | Belmont Cameli☆ smau & irl au
Genre
slow burn, co-stars to lovers, friends to lovers, he fell first, she fell hard, he loved the loudest, HEALTHY COMMUNICATION!
(FC for y/n will be Laura Harrier along with Alisha Boe and various pictures on Pinterest.)
Pairing
belmont cameli x oc!costar!reader
Media Coverage
The social media of our lovely cast!
More fun things to come!
Synopsis
Y/n is a nepo baby in every sense of the word, something the media has never let her forget. Born into a legacy, Y/n grew up surrounded by fashion archives, red carpets, film sets, and some of the most influential names in entertainment. As the daughter of Victoria Selena Cavalli, one of fashion's most iconic household names, and the late Marcus Jones, she inherited two worlds that were larger than life.
To the public, she is the definition of Hollywood royalty, but they don’t quite see beyond the persona she has built for herself, missing the humble, gracious girl who has pushed herself to a limit that can no longer be defined. Instead, they have labeled her as just another nepo baby who has been handed it all on a silver platter, when in reality, she is just a girl who inherited the world before she was old enough to understand it.
As her life in the spotlight takes an unexpected turn into a season no one is ever truly prepared for, she accepts a role many believe could be a career regression. In reality, it becomes the role that connects with her more than anything she has done before. Raw, complicated emotions; maybe because, for the first time, she no longer has to pretend she is perfectly put together. She never imagined herself playing a role in a book that she had read just for the fun of it, even if it meant playing a character that never quite existed. She never expected that playing Mallory Hayes would heal her in a way that was unconventional.
What she doesn't expect is to find herself falling for her co-star, something she swore she would never do. Especially not someone like Belmont Cameli: a man who sees through every carefully built wall she's spent years hiding behind. Someone who makes her realize that safety was never supposed to feel like confinement.
Belmont never expected to fall for the girl Hollywood had labeled as closed off after the sudden death of her father, but somewhere along the way, he began to understand that Y/n Jones was never distant; she was just a girl who learned how to perform before she allowed herself to heal.
Warnings:
Parental loss, angst, discussion of loss, trauma, communication, survivor's guilt, alcohol consumption, nudity, grief, panic attacks, ED
About Y/n Jones
the women behind the headline!
SOMETHING, SOMEHOW, SOMEDAY
☆ The pilot
☆ episode 1 (pt.1) | BEAU STEP AWAY FROM THE CAR
☆episode 2
☆ episode 3
☆ episode 4
☆ episode 5
☆ episode 6
☆ episode 7
☆ episode 8
☆ episode 9
☆ episode 10
This all is going to take place after this season has already come out !
DIRECTORS' COMMENTARY
Hi guys, I’m honestly really excited for this series! It honestly stemmed from a dream and some life experiences as well, so this is purely self-indulgent in the best way possible. I’ve been sitting on this idea since they announced Belmont as Garrett, so I’m truly so excited to share it. The name of the series is from Rolemodels' song Something, Somewhere, Someday
First off, my layout is very largely inspired by @calumsargwife , @astridwisp , @maverist
This series explores grief, healing, and everything in between that we don’t often see others navigating, as well as what it means to find safety amongst people when you have spent a majority of that time protecting yourself. While at its core it is a romance, it is also a story about growth, loss, and allowing people into that.
Thank you for supporting me and my little corner of the internet; I cannot wait for you to experience this story with me!
Also don’t be afraid to comment, I love talking to you all it makes my heart happy!
The Arrangement - A Harry Castillo Fanfic Masterlist
She’s the lie he hired. He’s the truth she wasn’t ready for.
After a bitter breakup with Lucy, 50-year-old private equity billionaire, Harry Castillo, isn’t looking for love - he just needs someone beautiful, discreet, and uncomplicated to be on his arm for a high-profile week of events in New York. What he gets is you, an escort, 28 years old, with sharp wit, hidden depth, and zero interest in becoming someone’s fantasy girlfriend off the clock.
But Harry makes you an offer you can’t refuse: a month of luxury, five-star hotels, couture fittings, private jets, and a generous paycheck… in exchange for playing the part of his girlfriend at a string of galas, charity balls, and business dinners.
You aren't some downtrodden dreamer. You are funny, clever, and fiercely independent. You're doing this job to stay in control of your own life - not waiting for a saviour. And Harry isn’t trying to fix anyone; in fact, he’s the one who might be broken, and he doesn’t even realise it.
Warnings: 🔞 NSFW themes (slow burn but oh it burns), smut, Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour, deception, and dangerous amounts of eye contact, Contractual arrangements that spiral into genuine affection, Rich people problems + broken people pretending they’re not, Soft power games, Sharp banter + late-night vulnerability, Trust issues + protective instincts
Pretty Woman inspired but make it jaded playlist 🎶
The excerpts in the story are from ‘The Master And Margarita’ by Mikhail Bulgakov | Read it if you haven’t, it’s fantastic!
A/n: my first Harry fic yay! written for ‘fic workout’ game, hosted by wonderful @iamasaddie Aly! I know how much you love this book (I’m in your walls) so your pictures and you inspired me to write this little thing. Hope you’ll like it<3 Kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing<3 Dividers by saradika-graphics
MASTERLIST
Harry had seen you many times before he really met you. In his building’s elevator or in the hall, you were always accompanied by your husband, though it didn’t look like you were in his company. Always on his phone, with an air of pompousness plastered on his face, he treated you more like his shadow, insignificant and mundane.
Harry would greet you both with a polite nod, meanwhile wondering how you ended up with such a man, living among the wealthiest people of New York with their fake smiles, fake tits, fake everything. You seemed to be different. You were real.
“And I was struck not so much by her beauty as by an extraordinary loneliness in her eyes, such as no one had ever seen before! ”
The first time Harry saw you alone in the elevator, you had a volume of “The Master and Margarita” in your hands, one of his favorite books, and he grasped the opportunity to start a conversation.
”Are you enjoying it?” he asked, smiling at you from behind a bouquet of pink roses he was holding.
You gave him a blank look and he pointed at the book with his chin.
”Oh, the novel? Yes, very much.”
“Do you like my flowers?”
When Harry quoted Margarita’s first words to the master, your eyes lit up and a soft laughter escaped your lips. That sound was more beautiful than anything he’d ever heard.
“I do!They’re gorgeous. Are they for your …?”
“My date,” he said out loud, thinking that you were more gorgeous than any flowers. He wished he’d give them to you instead of the woman he was feeling nothing for.
The doors opened and the two of you stepped out into the hall.
“What are your favorite flowers?” Harry blurted out the first thing that popped in his mind, hating to let you go already.
“Peonies,” you answered, pressing the book to your belly. You were nervously spinning a wedding band around your finger when you said quietly,
“I’m going to the park across the street. It’s beautiful there. You could join me some day…to discuss the book. If you’d like.”
“I’d love to.”
“and I suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, understood that all my life I had loved precisely this woman! ”
Harry’s holding a huge bouquet of red peonies with one arm, trying not to drop them on the elevator floor. His other arm is wrapped around your waist, his thumb rubbing your soft skin over the waistband of your jeans.
“Stop, I’m ticklish,” you giggle, wiggling under his hand. “And there’s a camera.”
“I don’t care,” he whispers in your ear and pulls you close. “I’d take you right here if you let me.”
You turn your face to him, your blown out eyes sparkling with need, and Harry reaches for your lips, but you push your nose into the bouquet a second before he can kiss you. His voice is strained as he rasps against your temple,
“I miss your taste, baby. Every second I’m not licking your sweet pussy, I die a little.”
“My god, Harry,” you whine, clinging to his side. “Tonight. I’ll come tonight.”
“Will you stay forever?” His eyes are full of hope and you press your forehead to his and whisper,
“Soon.”
He finally catches your lips and kisses you passionately just before the doors slide open on your floor. You breathe in the peonies one more time and Harry promises,
“They’ll be waiting for you at my place.”
When the elevator starts moving up to his floor, Harry readjusts his hold on the heavy flowers, smiling to himself. It’s ok that he can’t give them to you openly yet, he’ll wait until you are ready. What’s a few days when he’s been waiting for you his entire life?
Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!💞
