“I was supposed to sweat you out, in search of glorious happenings of happenstance on someone else’s playground”
summary: You don’t believe in love, you just write about it convincingly enough to get paid for it. You agreed to go on these fake dates for your heartbroken friend and for the column content, never expecting anyone to see through it. But then Harry does, and instead of walking away, he makes you another deal.
One Shots:
smut (MDNI):
Tear This Heart Out (Javier Peña x fem!Latina!reader)
summary: The country had gone to hell before you were even born, but after years of desperately trying to change it you discovered that it had been in vain, you ended up in an arranged marriage with a corrupt senator, with your old peers hating you and with a life full of commodities that reeked of spilled blood and faux promises, that was until you met him in a bar —a man that carried a pistol in his hip and danger in his name— and that for a mere night made you feel alive. And little did you know that would change your life.
They Say It's your birthday (We're gonna have a good time) (Harry Castillo x fem!reader)
summary: It's your boyfriend's birthday, and to celebrate you planned him a few surprises.
summary: you don’t believe in love, you just write about it convincingly enough to get paid for it. You agreed to go on these blind dates instead of your heartbroken friend and for the column content and free dinners, never expecting anyone to see through it. But then Harry does, and instead of walking away, he makes you another deal.
previous I masterlist I next
wc: 25.1k
chapter warnings: fluff, a bit of angst, alcohol, douchebags, mentions/allutions to financial problems, body dysphoria (implied) problems with food (implied). SMUT (so MDNI, you're responsible for your online consumption but please don't interact) Cunnilingus, Blowjobs, PiV, protected sex, dirty talk, aftercare.
“Hey,” his voice met you through the phone speaker. You closed your eyes for half a second trying to find the words to answer him—even when they were simple, the sound didn’t come through.
“Hey,” you replied, smiling for a fragment as you left your desk and began walking through the hallway to get to the stairs. The elevator was a mess during lunch hour after all.
“Did something happen or,” you asked quickly, almost rushed—you hated how dry your voice sounded through the phone.
“No, no, I’m just checking on you.” He said softly, you could hear movement through his side of the phone—traffic jams through thick window glass and ringing phones across the office desks.
“Right, well I’m not doing much. I'll probably go and grab myself some takeout,” you confessed. “What about you?”
“Nothing much, I’ll have a meeting in half an hour, there was a small issue with equities and some portfolio, but it’s not a big deal,”
“So you won’t make any big deals today?” you said with a chuckle, enunciating the words just enough to get a reaction out of him.
He laughed under his breath, and you chuckled when you heard the slivers of his voice through the speaker.
He took a breath to try and steady himself before replying: “I don’t think so, I reviewed some old ones first thing in the morning—that’s all. FiDi is usually calmer than 6th.”
“Huh, one would think it’s the other way around,” you began saying, prepared to tease him farther, as you often did, “you know, with Wall Street and all that.”
You heard him sigh through the phone, you could almost picture his furrowed brows every time you brought that senseless topic to conversation. You opened the door to the lobby, as you continued walking, waiting for his answer.
“Wall Street only looks important—”
“Sixth actually is,” you interrupted, mimicking his voice which in return, made him laugh. For a second, everything was silent and it felt as if you were friends and only that.
You felt your feet get frozen in place as the feelings stuck to your bones, clinging like a rougher skin than the one you were wearing—the feelings of you missing something you weren’t sure you had already lost and either way had begun mourning. You knew that feeling, amidst the silence you wondered if you had lived by it all along.
You licked your lips and focused on his laugh. He seemed happy and you liked to hear his laughter, so you went back to laughing, pushing everything down your stomach and gagging on the amalgamation of hard feelings you couldn't verbalize without throwing up.
“I know,” you said, careful with the sound of your voice to not give any cues of your true feelings away. “Teasing you about it is only fun if you’re here,”
There was silence on the line, you dissociated yourself to resist the urge of ending the call, you had gone too far. You had said too much and at the same time, not nearly enough.
He licked his lips as he walked back to the hallway, trying to keep his composure in front of anyone watching. He grabbed the doorknob to the office where the meeting would be held and carefully peeked through the thin line to the insides. It was empty except for the furniture and small water bottles piled up in the center of the room. And it was far-away from anyone watching him.
He walked in quickly just as you did—on different districts, different buildings, different directions—but for a second, both of you walked in synchrony.
Harry’s simmered down anticipation began blooming through the phone’s silence, just for you to hear his quiet laughter, his reaction only meant between you and him. You lightened up as you left the building, the silence and his loud smile soothing you into feeling as if you could leave every trouble behind the glass doors you passed through..
“Why?” He asked, his voice a sultry whisper that thankfully did not distort through the phone speaker—It sounded heavenly enough for you to almost miss the stop sign.
A genuine chuckle escaped your lips, unsure of what to say while you waited for the greenlight. For a second, the one filled with silence, everything felt ordinary; you noticed how much you liked that feeling.
“You look nice when you get stressed,” you confessed, finally crossing to the other side.
He snickered a quiet callow laugh that was quickly suppressed as he gained back his posture quickly when he noticed the shadows of passersby through the mattified glass.
“Nice?” he asked in a hushed whisper, coughing once precautious of anyone snooping through the halls and doors.
You opened the door to one of the bodegas that still had a hot-food bar by the pound, chuckling softly as you thought of your answer. While you were walking to grab a box for your food, you rested your phone over your shoulder and pressed your ear over it to keep it in place.
“Yeah, it’s fun to watch,” you said with a hushed laugh that was quickly replaced by a quiet sigh: “Shit, they’re out of the mac and cheese.”
He nodded absentmindedly to the first-half of your answer, and then he laughed in spite of himself when he heard you. His eyes drifted to his watch, just to check that he was still on time.
He hummed, “What are you having?”
“I don’t know anymore,” you said quickly, walking through the options just to pick another option. “I think I’ll have saffron rice and falafels or—oh wait, there’s Harissa chicken,”
His eyes softened as you continued rambling about food and nothing. Once you told him you were in the line to pay, he hummed to himself quietly before saying: “Have you thought about where we should go tonight?”
You smiled to yourself, catching your reflection through the corner of your eye. It only took you a second to try and go back to your normal face, but the after-taste of the smile still lingered through.
“No, I was hoping you’d want to surprise me,” you replied, trying to make it sound as if you were flirting, after all, you weren’t sure how any other tone of endearment could sound in your tongue.
He smiled proudly, almost as if he could picture you through the phone and you could see him as well. Both of you tried to imagine the other from the figments of morning memories—you pictured him with the suit and tie and he thought about you with the make-do pajamas—both of you smiled from the memories and built anticipation.
Harry nodded as he processed everything you said, “Believe me, I will surprise you,” he said with a sly smirk.
You could feel your own heart beating against your ribs and yet, the only sound that escaped your lips was a strained laugh. “You’re all talk, Castillo,”
He swayed his head sideways while moving his free hand through the air, walking around the room to stay further from the door, in case anyone were to walk inside.
“No, I mean it.” Harry said, making a promise that sounded more like a deal—perhaps the only big deal he would be making that day. “I’ll take you to a date so nice it’ll put all past dates to shame,”
“Well, it’s not like you have plenty to compete with or my standards are high,” you replied sarcastically, eyes-rolling.
For the first time in the call, your laugh didn’t make him laugh—not because it wasn’t contagious but because he could sense what hid underneath the peel of laughter.
“Then, I’ll make sure it’s even more special now,” his voice had no space for doubt or ego, the words escaped quick with the normalcy of ordinary words and yet, carried a whole different weight. “You’ll like it so much no other date will top it.”
“You’re competing with fake and non-existent dates now?” you asked, eyebrows raising as you chuckled incredulous.
“I’m not competing with anything,” he said smugly through the phone—so much you could almost picture him and the tiniest smirk that accompanied him. “Both of us know, mine will be better.”
You rolled your eyes even when your heart skipped a beat at the building anticipation. “You better put your money where your mouth is,”
“Pff, both of us know I don’t need to, ” he said, mouth shaping into a smile of amusement while you scoffed. “I’ll give you a date, a nice one that you’ll remember…”
He continued talking terms while you waited for your plate to get weighted and for the man to give you back your change. You rolled your eyes as you heard him speak but the smile in your lips gave you away for everyone to see, only when you saw it through the screen reflection you tried to take it back and hide it.
“Is that enough for you?” He finally asked, voice roped in silk-like sultriness.
You bit your lip in an attempt to hide a bubbling smile attempting to strike your expression.
“Just make sure it’s not too much,” you said, thinking of some smart comment to make up for the growing silence. “If you put all that money in your mouth, how will I kiss you?”
His eyes opened slightly, “It’s quite easy actually, you just put your mouth where my mouth is.”
His voice lingered in your ear and you scoffed, but it came out softer than you meant it to. You stepped aside from the line, balancing the warm plastic container against your hip as you reached for a napkin.
“God,” you muttered, shaking your head even when you didn’t mean it. “You think you’re smug.”
“I am smug,” he replied easily, the smile still audible in his voice but softer now, you chuckled loud enough to fill the silence.
You started walking again, the street noise filling the quiet space the flirtation left behind.
“So,” you said, deliberately casual, “I guess I’ll see you later then.”
“Yeah,” he answered. “Later.”
There was a pause in your words, filled with the afterglow of smiles. None of you rushed to hang up despite not having anything left to say.
“I should let you eat,” he added, practical again. Familiar. “Before it gets cold.”
You glanced down at the container, your mind conflicting with your heart. “Probably.”
“And I’ve got this meeting,” he continued. “I should probably hang up before someone sees me smiling over here.”
You smiled despite yourself, but kept your voice even. “Wouldn’t want that.”
He chuckled. “No.”
You reached the corner and stopped, waiting for the light. You adjusted the phone against your ear, suddenly aware of how quiet he’d gone and how quiet you were as well.
“Well,” you said, breaking it first, “good luck with your important things.”
Another small pause filled the space between both of you, the city noise replaced his voice.
“Talk later?” he asked, almost as an afterthought.
“Yeah,” you said. “Talk later.”
“Alright,” he replied.
“Alright.”
You could picture him nodding, like he always did when he was seconds before ending a call—out of habit more than anything.
“Bye,” you said.
“Bye,” he echoed.
He hung the phone first, and you could feel yourself breathe. The smile in your lips quickly dissolved, and you walked back to the office realizing you weren’t even hungry and the takeout bag wouldn’t survive in the office’s fridge. Surprisingly, you didn’t even care.
All you could think about was the books you had to submit, the drafts you could send as proof, college essays, papers—anything. The articles you had to write. Thanksgiving was next week and you’d be busy—that was a day off; that night you’d be busy as well, you’d see Harry. Sundays were off-limits. Perhaps, you could sacrifice Saturdays—besides this Saturday, when Mia had invited you to an exhibition in the gallery.
You entered the building once again, swiping your ID card over the sensors to check-in once again, your body moved on autopilot making its way back to your cubicle before you realized you were spiraling further from where you could hold or control.
Lunch hour was over surprisingly quick, and the time went past by you with unmistakable swiftness. People passed by and left and others came back to pick up their forgotten keys or pick up their bags, desk lights began to die by noon, and when you finally realized you wouldn’t do much more, you turned off the office’s computer and took the metro back to your place in Brooklyn with your mind a confusing tangled mess of emotions, feelings and dread.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Once you stepped out of the shower to get dressed, you stared at the bag of lingerie tucked away in the corner of your room, Mia had moved it while you were away. Despite your mind’s best efforts to make you call her for advice, you kept telling yourself you were the expert—you could navigate it on your own. Besides, you had always sworn you’d never be in a relationship and you wanted to keep coherent even if that meant secrecy.
You walked to the bag with sudden hesitation, grabbing the first pieces your hands caught, noticing how suddenly the fabric over your palms carried a foreign weight you couldn’t quite understand. You didn’t let it get to your head either way, what you did instead was closing your eyes and breathing deeply before walking to the mirror on the corner of your room and pressing the fabric over your body, trying to visualize better how you would look with it on.
Him and you fucking was a possibility after all, if anything, wearing the black lace would only mean you were being anticipatory. You were probably just nervous and expectant, it was the first time you were actually having a real date after all. You tricked yourself into believing that was actually it.
With the lace set hugging your body perfectly, you could feel your shoulders falter slightly in relaxation even when your skin prickled from the cold air. You grabbed a pair of black sheer tights; a long, black dress that hugged your silhouette just right, before grabbing the heels Mia had given you and picked your coat on the way out of your room to kill time pacing through the living room under a hefty excuse of breaking the heels for your wear.
Harry arrived at your place two minutes later; when he called you he continued to apologize as he wanted to pick you up at seven sharp, but he got caught in a traffic jam through the bridge. You said it was fine, it had been two minutes after all, and two minutes is nothing compared to the hours you’d spend with him.
You rushed out the door with an amalgamation of feelings blooming from your chest, you wondered while you stepped down the stairs if those were the same feelings everyone talked about feeling when they were in love.
Harry was waiting for you outside of his car, wearing black trousers, like the ones he wore to work in the morning; a dark gray wool sweater that sat over his white shirt and tie, you could tell because of the neck peaking—and a dark long coat that tried to protect him against the city’s night winds. His hair was slightly disheveled from all the times he rummaged his hands through it in quiet attempts to make it look better.
“What happened to your hair?” you asked tenderly, standing in front of him as your hand softly caressed the curls of his hair falling over his forehead.
“I tried to slick it back a bit, but it kept falling,” he said with the tiniest laugh, biting the inside of his cheek to hide his impending smile.
“I like it,” you confessed in a chuckle that finally freed his smile.
You leaned closer until his lips pressed quickly over yours, “It suits you,” you whispered finally, letting your hand fall from his hair to your side.
“Thanks,” he replied, cheeks slightly pink and head hung low. His hand moved to the car’s door, he opened it for you in a quick motion that caught you off-guard and made you step back.
"Are you having second thoughts?” his voice cut through your dissociation, you turned your gaze to face him once again.
“No,” you mumbled the word three times, trying to make it more believable every time you said it, you even added a laugh. “I was just surprised,”
“So soon?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “At what?”
“You’ll have to guess,” you said with a smile, opening the door further and sitting in the passenger seat—still chuckling under your breath.
Harry wore a stunned smile, still processing what you did. You stared at him through the glass for half a second until he turned around to look back at you, smiling in a way that created small creases at the corner of his eyes.
He knocked on the glass door once, signaling with his hand for you to roll down the window, and you did, partially—only enough to hear what he said, so the cold didn’t enter the car.
“You smell amazing.” His words travelled through the sliver of open glass making you laugh softly, you placed your elbow over the car and your laid your face over your palm, trying to appear calm when you were everything but.
“Thanks,” you said softly, careful to not sound as nervous as he made you feel. “I guess it’s better than the one I wore when we met,”
You bit back a laugh and turned around to hide your expression from him, when you turned back, your fingers moved softly over the window button, fidgeting with the possibility of finally taking away the transparent wall separating you.
He chuckled softly at your ramblings, putting himself together before knocking quietly on the glass once again to get your attention. You finally rolled the window down.
“It’s the one you were wearing to the wedding, right?” he asked, sticking his head through the window.
“Yeah. How do you remember?” you said, a confused expression adorning your face.
“I have a really good memory,”
“Really?” you asked, eyes opening whilst your teeth bit slightly your lips, preventing the smile to widen from ear to ear. “I wonder what other good… qualities you might have.”
He laid his head low as a tiny chuckle escaped his lips, turning to stare at the sky before lowering his gaze to look back at you—the smirk turning into a smile. “You’ll need to guess.”
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
He picked up a nice restaurant that you hadn’t even heard of. The front of it seemed to be what you had always pictured when writing about romantic dates; floor-to-ceiling windows, dim light crystal chandeliers, candle-lit tables with flames that reflected the million dollar engagement rings of the couples dining in, and of course: valet parking.
Harry got off the car first, walking to open your door out of pure attention to detail, handing the usher the keys to his vehicle with care before grabbing your hand to help you balance yourself as you got up.
“Come on,” he whispered softly against your ear while you remained lost in the luxury. Once you felt him give the first step towards the entrance, your feet moved as if on autopilot, following him.
Harry was quick with words, and even then, he didn’t lose his charm when talking. The hostess smiled as if she had seen the stare on Harry’s face a million different times on different men and knew already what was happening.
“Maybe we could get a booth, booths are like, more romantic.” you began murmuring towards his direction while the woman scrolled through her tablet searching for his name.
“Yeah, that’d be nice,” he answered, his hand snickered to lay on your lower back, his thumb brushing quiet circles of reassurance earning a quick smile from you.
“Your table’s ready,” the woman said after a moment, stepping out of her way to walk you through the place.
You turned to look at Harry, waiting for him to ask if you could get seated in a booth, yet he remained silent but for the faintest smile that tried to crack through his terrible poker face.
“Do you want me to ask for the booth?” you asked while turning to look at him, half-confused and half-waiting, “Or well, maybe a table is nicer or—”
The words died in the lump of nerves of your throat as soon as you turned back to face the woman and saw her opening a door instead of seating you at one of the free tables and booths around the place.
“Where are we going?” you found yourself asking instead, turning to Harry.
“To have dinner,” he answered easily, as if everything was normal to him—and the issue was that it was—the only one amazed at everything was happening was you.
The door finally opened, and with an inviting smile adorning his lips you decided to walk in first, his hand never leaving your back even when distance separated you for a second.
Your eyes didn’t know where to land first, they lingered by a second on the chandelier hanging from the center of the room before travelling to the floor-to-ceiling window with a beautiful view to the river and the city through the alley of an empty street—you hadn’t even thought Manhattan could have such views. Then you turned back to him, mouth agape only from the views of the place to be even more charmed by what he had between his hands: a bouquet—bigger than any other he had gotten for you and with flowers you hadn’t even seen before. Each petal tucked perfectly around the other in pink and peach hues you had never seen so clearly in a flower before.
You were at a loss for words and he could only move his hand slightly closer for you to grab the vase and see the flowers even closer.
“What even is—”
“Juliet Roses,” he said with a smile, walking already towards the only table in the room—in a quiet attempt to ground you in place.
Your eyes opened almost threatening to fall out of your eyesockets. “Aren’t those like super expensive, special, rare-to-find bouquets?”
“Yeah, I thought they were fit for you,” he said softly, eyes looking warmer because of the lights shining bright over him. “Do you like them?”
“They’re really beautiful,”
He chuckled, giving a step closer as he won back his composure. “As I said,” he murmured, voice low and devoid of any doubt or joke, “fit for you.”
You rolled your eyes and tried to bite down the smile as if somehow you could hide your happiness from his gaze—even when for once you felt as if it could fill a whole empty room.
“How long did you have that one prepared?” you asked once the chuckles faltered, trying to trick him to mistake your giggling for teasing sarcasm.
He sighed under his breath and yet the faint sound of a chuckle echoed through the line of his lips, “Was it that obvious?”
You laughed softly instead of answering him right away, “No, I just didn’t think you were cheesy,” you said, lacking a better adjective.
He nodded, pressing his lips together in a tight smile. “Because I’m too financey?”
“No, I just—I don’t know,” you smiled, finally placing the bouquet on the floor, next to your chair, closing the distance between the two of you to a few steps. “But I liked it,”
“Yeah?” he asked, raising his gaze from the flowers to meet your face, lowering his voice and widening his smile. “Well, there’s more from where that came from,”
“Good to know,” you murmured, walking closer to him and letting your hands stealthily move to grab the neck of his sweater, ghosting over his skin just enough for you to feel the way it pricked.
His gaze travelled from the palm of your hand to your arm and then back to your face, frozen in place as he admired your quiet ministrations.
“Is there more from where this is coming from?” He asked with a low voice, a smile creeping from between his lips as the air grew thicker around both of you.
You smiled softly, staring at him at a sudden loss of words. “Maybe,” you murmured slowly, only meant for him to hear.
“Maybe?” he asked, eyebrows raising in bantering defiance; his palm travelling to caress the back of your hand. His breath hitched so subtly you almost missed it, yet, your body reacted to his closeness by making you lose your balance for a glimpse, knees buckling in—giving into him before your mind tried to stop you.
His fingers closed around your wrist to keep you close, the warmth of his hands travelling through the fabric and touching your skin, anchoring you to the moment before your mind tried to sabotage the feelings.
For a second, the only sound echoing through the empty room was the one of your own heartbeat racing, until the rhythmic sound of knuckles against wood made its way through the door.
You flinched at the sound, feeling your feet racing to step back; nevertheless, you saw how Harry didn’t move. His eyes stayed on you, his hand still over your waist, thumb drawing soothing circles over the back of your hand. For a second you wondered if he was going to ignore the intruding sound. If he was going to pull you in and kiss you properly, slow and deep, until the rest of the world blurred.
The knocking sound intensified after a few seconds of charged silence. Harry exhaled through his nose and turned his head just slightly towards the entrance, jaw flexing.
“Come in,” he said.
The waiter stepped in with professionalism, walking almost as rhythmic as his knocking over the wood, making you feel as if the illusion of Harry’s skin over yours had been just a figment of your imagination. As if you weren’t standing there with your hands on Harry’s clothes, your leg brushing his and your body lit up like a consuming match.
Harry kissed you behind your ear, murmuring sweet words that you didn’t quite catch but somehow knew they were lovely. You smiled to yourself as he went away, his hand leaving yours to pull out the chair for you to sit—he gave you the one with the view.
“Good evening,” the waiter said warmly, as Harry sat himself, “May I start you off with something to drink?”
Harry pulled in slightly closer, the soft light of the chandelier illuminating his features softly. “Do you want wine?” He asked softly, as if it were a shared secret between the two of you.
You tried thinking about saying something clever or teasing, or both at the same time. You thought about asking him to order the same wine you had drunk on that first fake-date, you thought about saying Chianti or Blanc, but you weren’t sure how far you could joke now that there was a title attached to the relationship you had with him, a title that wasn’t ‘friends’ or ‘acquantices’, the realization of change made you shiver enough to hope he couldn’t notice.
So you unscrewed the complimentary water at the center of the table—equally expensive as the surroundings of your evening, and despite the dryness in your throat that hadn’t left after trying to drown your feelings, you murmured:
“A red would be nice, just maybe not so dry,” you said to Harry.
He went back and sighed under his breath, staring at you with a smile before his gaze travelled to the waiter.
“May I suggest a Sassicaia 2009?” the man asked, with no need to point for a menu or for a price.
“That would be amazing, thank you.”
The waiter nodded, then paused. “Right away sir,” and completely unbothered by the intimacy of it he disappeared quieter than he’d arrived, leaving the leather-bound menus over your table for you to peek at.
Once the door clicked shut and suddenly existence was reduced to you and him once again, silence filled the room, the need for words was non-existent.
His hand moved to rest over the leather of the menus, and your hand instinctively moved to toy with the hem of the sweater, you could feel the warmth of him through the fabric, and it was unfair how grounding it was.
“I have the feeling you didn’t plan this in a day,” you whispered, looking around again as if the room might expose him.
Harry’s eyes didn’t leave yours as he licked his lips, almost glad to be caught. “Yeah?”
You bit the inside of your cheek as if that could hide the smile in your lips. “How long?”
A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he deflected your gaze. The hesitation written across his face was the most honest thing you’d seen from him all day.
“Since Saturday,” he admitted in a whisper, his eyes flickering back to you.
Your lips parted with disbelief, your hand shifting astray from him. Memories of him and you in that attraction park with Phoebe began permeating through your brain.
“You’re insane,” you murmured.
“Maybe,” he leaned in, once again the light shone bright over his features, his voice softened into a whisper only meant for you to hear. “But I wanted to do it right.”
Your throat tightened into a lump of feelings you didn’t know how to unthread, no man trying to court you said things like that to you and meant them, not unless wanting something from you so both of you could get even.
You gave another sip to the bottled water, plotting the correct words to say.
“And what is ‘right’?” you asked, moving your shoulders upwards feigning stupidity when the question was at its best, rhetorical.
In return, Harry’s gaze flicked to your mouth as you continued speaking, noticing the lingering color of lipstick leave your lips and taint the water bottle’s neck, then his eyes travelled back to your eyes, and you felt how you could dive into the ocean of molten honey drawing on his lips because of the light.
“Right is…” he started, then stopped, trying to find the correct words.
Your free hand made its way back to his, playing with his fingers as if trying to make him unfocus, you tilted your head. “Tell me.”
His jaw flexed again before melting into a smile, his thumb brushed over your hand and you chuckled for a second before moving your hand back. He looked away for half a second, his eyes getting lost in the scenery behind your frame, and when he looked back to you his pupils seemed darker, overshadowing his sweet brown irises.
“Right is me taking you out,” he said, voice low as he began listing everything. “Feeding you. Making you laugh. Watching you relax.”
You blinked and went back to sipping on the water; thinking to yourself how you would wish for the water to be wine so you could blame the way your stomach coiled and your thoughts blurred on something that weren’t his words.
“And later,” he added, quieter, “if you want, I get to kiss you the way I’ve wanted to since that stupid beach.”
Your stomach flipped as your brain continued processing the words leaving his mouth, your hand instinctively shifted aback—you focused on the feeling of leather beneath your fingers as if that could somehow ground you.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, and tried to play it off with a small, crooked smile.
“You really think you’re very smug.”
Harry’s smile came in slowly, almost as if he knew the effect he caused on you. “I am,” he said with a low chuckle.
You rolled your eyes as the smile in your lips settled back into a thin line, his hand quickly moved to grab yours and squeeze it only once, trying to catch your attention and prove his point at once.
You let go of his hand to grab the thin leather-bound book, focused in the way his eyes followed your moves.
“What’s supposed to be good here?” You asked as you continued to scan through the options, no numbers next to the dishes
“Everything,” he said, grabbing a menu for himself. “Do you want anything for starters?”
“The caprese sounds nice,” you murmured under your breath, not even aware it was loud enough for him to hear.
“The caprese it is then,”
“What are you having?” you asked instead.
“The Lamb Rake,”
The faint sound of a choked laugh left your lips, “How fancy. I think I’ll just have pasta,”
“Have whatever you want,” he said with a smile before closing the menu to stare back at you once again, your gaze still fixated on the different dishes.
“The view’s nice,” he commented while you continued staring, you didn’t even hear him—or perhaps, you forced yourself not to.
“Oh, they have tiramisú,” you commented absent-mindedly as you flipped to the last page. “We should have that for dessert.”
As you closed down the menu and met his gaze once again, you found him already staring at you with a tiny smile. He was absolutely lost in you and you were worried about dessert, you chuckled as well.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, licking your lips.
He feigned innocence and leaned back into his seat. “Like what?”
Your eyes squinted with disbelief, your mouth agape at his denial, or more likely that he seemed to think those words could work and trick you.
His shoulders raised as he leaned in closer, close enough that you could see the reflection of the light over his eyes. “The view’s nice,” he defended himself. “Can you blame me?”
“Are you sure you’re staring at the view, Castillo?” you asked, finally leaning in just to defy him further, and perhaps tease him as well.
He chuckled but said nothing, leaving his eyes to speak for himself; luckily, you got the message and stopped teasing him.
The wine arrived minutes later, and despite the waiter asking Harry to taste the wine first, once the cup was poured he moved the glass to your side, asking you to taste it first, and you did.
“It’s amazing, thank you,” you said as you continued sipping on the wine, aware by that moment of how decadent the taste was—even when you didn’t know much about the tannins and the alcoholic volume.
Harry and you ordered after that, asking for the food to come at separate times than the appetizer, and with him ordering much more variety than what you had suggested. Once the waiter left once again, you broke down in a quiet laugh as he poured himself a glass of the bottle, eyes still fixed on you.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, fully unaware, eyebrows raising softly as he sipped on the wine himself.
You shook your head, still smiling, and lifted your own glass as if it could hide your face. “Nothing. I’m just processing.”
“Processing what?” he asked, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the table.
You glanced around the room again, almost laughing at the irony hanging from the chandelier, the private room and the bouquet that you believed could answer for you. But quickly the realization dawned over your head as you noticed for him money was just another Thursday. The fact that you were in a private dining room with a river view wasn’t screaming the answer loud enough for him apparently.
You sipped on the wine again and swallowed your words. “This,” you admitted. “All of it.”
Harry nodded slowly, as if he could understand beyond your words, his brows furrowed with concern. “Do you not like it?”
You blinked, surprised at his reading before you began chanting a chain of “no’s” to try and fix whatever had given him that awful idea.
“No,” you said finally before finding a better word to describe it. “I like it. I do. It’s really nice—I swear—this is already the best date I’ve gone to.”
The concern washed off his face as another smile appeared, and you felt your breath even out once again as you noticed his posture turning more relaxed. Telling yourself to keep your act together, after all, the night was so much for you as it was for him, and he shouldn’t have to spend another night hearing your concerns and fears.
“I think you really outdid yourself,”
He smiled softly, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked down, almost as if he didn’t believe it at all, and defeated you tried to shift the conversation askew, believing that the reason behind his doubt were your words. Words that you now regretted how easily they could escape from your lips.
You drank once again and as the alcohol washed through your body, you softened your shoulders and tried to let your smile settle into something gentler. You leaned forward just enough for your voice to drop into that warm, honeyed tone you’d used when talking in public and while writing for those who wanted love to look easy. You felt as if you were betraying yourself, but you didn’t want to hurt him either.
You finished your glass. The last sip lingered warm on your tongue, and despite asking for something ‘not-so-dry’ you could feel the dryness accumulating in your throat, a feeling that you were used to and a feeling you hated, nevertheless. You set the glass down with a care that didn’t match the speed of your heartbeat, but you didn’t let the smile fall from your lips.
Harry watched attentively over the rim of his own, he had barely touched his own drink, the candlelight caught the curve of his cheekbones and the shadow of his lashes. And through the glass you could see how natural that glow looked on him.
You liked it and yet, you envied it, you wanted it or you wanted him, or perhaps, you wanted both,—you tried making up your mind but the wine was already getting to your head, making it more difficult to think. Perhaps, it would be better if you didn’t.
You hated each thought as fast as it appeared, the force of a habit too entailed in your mind to leave you alone after all those years. So you did what was only left for you to do, you reached for the bottle first, fingers wrapping around the neck with practiced ease, and poured yourself a little more, with a soft smile and open eyes, as if you weren’t doing it for courage.
Then you poured for him, despite his glass being more full than empty. You tried doing it as a tiny overcompensation for your past words, almost trying to restart the moment or at least pull it out of the silence.
Trying to prove to yourself all those mantras you hadn’t even touched in years: I can do this. I’m not a problem. I’m not a burden. I can be sweet. I can be easy. The words echoing like silent prayers through your mind.
“I meant it,” you added despite the silence, and for once you saw the tiniest of smiles appear back into his lips.
Harry’s fingers traced the rim of his own glass without lifting it, almost as if he could still feel the lingering shadow of you while you poured it. “You don’t have to say that.”
You smiled, quick and reassuring, the kind you’d perfected over years of interviews and conferences and book signings, but for once there was more true happiness than what you wanted to admit. “I want to.”
He glanced up at you then, uncertain despite the smirk. “You say it like you’re trying to convince me.”
You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “Maybe I am,” you sipped once again, trying to hide yourself behind the already-emptying glass. “You’re not very good at taking compliments.”
Harry let out a quiet huff of breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “I just don’t do anything worth all that praise.”
You tilted your head, studying him for a second longer than what was polite. Suddenly the painting you had created of him through the light of the place had a crack, struck with the words and the way he had said them, almost feigning modesty and yet, simple stubborn disbelief. And as someone who had worn self-deprecation as a double-edged sword under your skin your whole life, you could easily identify when the weapon cut the other way, and that pain didn’t quite fit his angelic face.
“Well,” you said gently as he continued circling the rim of his glass. “That’s something we’ll have to work on.”
His brows lifted and his eyes opened, he almost choked on the bitter red liquid. “We?”
You smiled, soft and disarming, leaning in just enough so he could see you better. “Yes, we.”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a proper sip of his wine this time, eyes never leaving yours, almost as if he was trying to decide if you meant the words with that simple lightness you had used in your tone.
To his fortune, you didn’t give him time to spiral. You leaned forward again, elbows resting near the edge of the table, fingers loosely intertwined. The candlelight flickered across your knuckles, shining over your rings and the polish of your nails, your index began quickly playing with one of them, turning it around into small circular movements that always betrayed you by showing emotion. No past dates had noticed, and you couldn't let anyone around you see it.
“So,” you said, brightening, deliberately shifting the air between you, “let’s talk about you.”
Harry blinked and cleared his throat with confusion. “We already are.”
“No,” you corrected, smiling. “We’re talking around you. I want to actually talk about you.”
“And what should we talk about?”
“Tell me something,”
Harry raised his brows. “Something?”
“Yes,” you insisted. “Something about you.”
He stared at you for a second, then smiled like he was about to call your bluff.
“What do you want to know about me,” he asked, “that you don’t already know?”
The question caught you off guard, not because it was unexpected, although that was one of the reasons, but because it was true, and you hadn’t even taken time to think about how true it was.
You knew his schedule more than you wanted to admit. You knew his coffee order, the fancy one, the one he’d make at home and the one for his busiest days—the difference in all of them laid in the quantity of espresso. You knew about Peter and Charlotte, you knew figments about his parents, you knew he wanted a dog and when he was a child, he wanted to play football. You knew about the cities he’d travelled to, the way he liked sweets but would always deny it. That he’d always get a tequila in the rocks neat, the same way he always unbelieved when somebody gave him compliments. The fact he had gotten leg-lengthening surgery at some point of his life and the way he always rubbed the ring in his thumb when he was thinking.
You knew what he told you, and even those sides he hadn’t you had learned over time. That made you feel warm and at the same time as if someone had thrown cold water over you.
You took a sip of wine and bought yourself a second with a smile. Your eyes drifted toward the chandelier, toward the bottle of wine, and then back to him.
You thought of your drafts and your published pieces, of one of your first articles about ways to create connection in relationships for anyone who wanted to fall in love on purpose.
“If you could wake up tomorrow,—” you began asking, you noticed the moment he leaned back, trying to relax himself unknowing how quickly that would change. “And you could change anything about your life, with no consequences, what would you change?”
Harry stilled, looking away from your gaze as thoughts begin forming behind his eyes. Then, he sipped on the wine as he realized those kinds of questions could only be answered by a looser mouth.
Through the wine-glass you could see the way his eyes shifted back onto the table, rising slowly until they landed over your face, where the smallest of smiles was threatening to peek.
He narrowed his eyes. “Wait—” Harry pointed at you with his glass and a soft accusatory smile. “That’s from one of your articles.”
The teeth began showing through your lips in a mannerism you couldn’t deny at all. You gasped, pretending to be offended. “It is not.”
“It is,” he insisted, voice warm with triumph. “It’s one of those trick questions.”
“Trick questions?” you asked, playing dumb.
Harry leaned forward, amused now, eyes bright. “The ones you wrote in that article.” He paused, as he tried to remember the title of that article. “The Questions you need to ask on a first date,” he finally recalled, even when it was a paraphrase.
You laughed genuinely, and the sound filled the room in a way that made it feel less like a set and more like a date.
“So what is this?” he asked, his voice quivering between the fine line between mocking offense and the truth. “Am I research now?”
Your brows lifted, and your pulse slowed down for a second. “What?”
Harry’s eyes danced. “Should I be worried? Are you going to write a piece about me, make everyone despise me and leave me bankrupt?”
You chuckled, nearly choking on your wine. “Oh my god,” you laughed, wiping the corner of your mouth with your napkin. “You really think I have that kind of influence?”
He grinned, pleased with himself and the effect he could have on you. “I’m just asking.”
You shook your head, still laughing, and leaned forward again, letting your voice soften.
“No,” you said with ease and honesty. “You’re not research.”
Harry’s smile faded into something gentler and far more attentive, he even leaned forward once again, trying to not let any detail from his sight get lost in the faded lights.
“Then what am I?” he asked quietly.
The question landed low in your stomach, because you realized you weren’t sure how to answer at all. He was Harry to you, and even now, despite calling it dating, he remained the same Harry. You took a sip of wine.
“You’re…” you began, then lost your voice to a soft chuckle disguised as a smile, pretending it only appeared because you were about to tease him again.
Harry waited for your answer, sipping on the wine once again to ignore the coiling sensation in his lower stomach as you were waiting to answer him.
“You’re you, and you’re my boyfriend” you said softly. “Besides, I just write about the bad dates.”
Harry’s breath caught so subtly you almost missed it.
His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass, and without saying anything else he sipped on his wine, just enough so the blush on his cheeks could be blamed on the alcohol and not to you.
“You’re always good with words,” he murmured, almost accusing.
You smiled sweetly despite your eyes rolling teasingly at his comment. “Well, I am a writer.”
Harry shook his head once, like he couldn’t believe you had missed his point. “It’s not fair.”
You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “That I am a writer?”
“That you can just say things like that,” he said, voice low, looking at the tablecloth as if it was the most interesting thing in the world and then back into your eyes, making your stomach flip. “I feel like my brain just short-circuited,”
You let your smile widen, because that single reaction was easier than admitting you liked the way his voice sounded when he was undone by what you had said, almost proving to you that you weren’t that bad at the ‘love’ game as you often believed.
“Well, you still have to answer the question,” you said, gently bossy, as you reached for the bottle of wine once again, this time to pour him some more.
His gaze drifted to the window again, to the river, to the city lights, as if the answer lived somewhere out there, then he looked back at you, and despite your efforts to hide the smile in your lips, the happiness remained there.
He opened his mouth and then closed it, as if the answer continued to change through his head every time he thought he had it right.
“I would leave work early,” he said
Your brows lifted slightly and your lips curved upwards, “How early?”
“Like, just two hours and leave maybe. Or maybe just, not go at all.” He changed his answer with a tiny smile. “Then I’d have more time and I’d still have the money to give you anything you want.”
He nodded satisfied with his answer even when his gaze remained low, as if he was embarrassed by the simplicity of his own answer.
“More time for what?” you asked, careful not to push too hard but just enough so he could also know that you were truly interested in what he said.
Harry’s gaze stayed on yours, and he smiled once again, almost surprised that you hadn’t noticed before. “For the things that matter.” He said smugly as always.
And you allowed the words to settle between you quietly, almost melting with the light and the reflection of it against the glasses and the window. As most times, you felt the instinct to fill the silence with a joke, to keep the mood bright and safe. But the wine had hovered over your basic freight and freeze instincts to make you brave for a moment, so you didn’t do anything and your brain didn’t plan on an escape route.
You just nodded and softly chuckled. “That’s a good answer,” you said.
Harry’s mouth twitched, and once again his natural need for deflection made its way through the conversation. “It’s a boring answer.”
“It’s not,” you insisted. “It’s very you.”
“Are you saying I’m boring?”
“I’m not,” you assured him. “I’m saying you’re a good answer,”
He licked his lips, pretending to be unsatisfied with your answer. “To what exactly?" he asked defiantly.
You smiled, because you had an answer to give. “To all my questions.”
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Dinner went by with ease, the appetizers didn’t take much time to arrive despite being plenty—you even suspected he had ordered the whole menu before you arrived from the amount of plates served on the table. Of course, you knew Harry could be a show-off, even when he tried to hide it or pretend he wasn’t, but sometimes you truly underestimated him. Seemingly, tonight was one of those nights.
“Do you like it?” Harry asked mid-bite, his fork still in the air as he began talking.
You played with the untouched brussel sprouts, trying to distract yourself for a second from all the attention you weren’t used to receiving. “Yeah, they’re good.”
He nodded to himself and grabbed a bite of what seemed like fried calamari, from the wine and the fuzziness you didn’t care much about. “I called ahead and everything is mustard-free, so you don’t have to worry about it.”
You smiled even if you tried to hide it with the wine glass, of course, after months of knowing you, he had learned to read you better than that.
“Thanks,” you murmured, the sound ricocheting through the alcohol and the glass.
His gaze remained fixed on you. “How was your day?” He asked, playing with the side of asparagus.
“Stressing,” you declared bluntly, then you turned to meet his eyes. “It was tolerable, but of course, I think both of us know I was probably just looking forward to this,”
His eyes opened wider and a laugh escaped him. “To this?” He asked, not measuring the expectations.
You rolled your eyes and gave another sip to the wine. “Which other activities could I have on a Thursday night better than this?”
He uttered a soft laugh that got filtered through the space, “Right,” he murmured to himself, letting the ambience turn once again into ambient noise and cutlery against ceramic.
“Are those any good?” you asked, biting up the side of a piece of mozzarella.
“What?” Harry asked, finally looking up despite his slight confusion.
You bit the remaining cheese from the fork before signaling to the plate next to him—with the greens, although untouched, moved around the plate as if someone had eaten from them already. Then, with the fork mid-air, you found his doubtful gaze, moving from you, to the plates on the table, you quickly lowered it when you began thinking how rude it might seem.
“Oh, I haven’t had them,” he began saying, and you thought he’d say something else but his lips quivered for a second, and he got quiet again. You did too, picking up a piece of tomato and balsamic from the caprese.
“Those look good,” he said seconds after, not even thinking much about his words.
You pushed the plate towards his way with a smile. “Have some,” you murmured.
He quickly moved his head sideways, pushing back the plate to the center of the table. “No, I’m fine,” he said quickly, the words falling from his lips like utter nonsense.
“Harry—” you teased with a smile, pushing the dish back to the middle just before pushing it further to his side. “They’re really good,” you persuaded him, picking up another piece and letting it hang in the air for a second, before you carried it to your mouth.
His eyes followed your movements as his elbow rested on the table for his head to rest over his palm—the chandelier’s light dwindling over his eyes, reflecting you in the tiniest of sparkles.
“I’ll pass this time,” he said with a quiet smile of resignation.
“Bullshit,” you murmured under your breath. Your eyes rolled slightly when you noticed he smiled, nevertheless, you grabbed his fork and picked a piece of cheese and tomato before holding in mid-air, just in front of him.
“Try it,” you chimed, wiggling the fork a little.
Harry’s gaze flickered from your face to your hand and then to the fork. You noticed the second his expression tightened, not quite in discomfort but in a different emotion you hadn’t exactly seen in his face.
“I’m fine,” he repeated, albeit it sounded more as if he was trying to believe it himself.
“You don’t sound convinced,” you murmured, noticing there was something else he wasn’t saying at all, and damningly, he was good at hiding his feelings under the charm and the poise that even you, who had been surrounded by wealthy liars, couldn’t tell.
He shifted in his seat, straightening slightly as he debated whether to lie, to ignore, or simply, to confess.
“I—” he began talking, but from his lips there was only silence. “The reunion went long and they ended up bringing food, and everyone was having something so I ended up eating as well,”
You lowered the fork and moved closer to try and analyse his shifting expressions, you focused on his lower lip and the way it quietly trembled for a second, then, your gaze shifted to his glassy eyes and quiet expression.
“But if you want some, you know you can have some, right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I swear.”
“I’ll believe you this time,” you said with a smile, grabbing the fork once again and pointing it towards him lightly. “But you do have to share dessert with me, deal?”
He laughed softly and finally picked up a piece of cheese, he did not eat it instantly but he placed it on his plate, which was enough for you at the moment. “Deal,” he replied smugly, eyes opening just slightly.
The main course came a few minutes later, carried in shiny silver tries that seemed to be made of actual silver. The waiter placed Harry’s plate first, the lamb arranged neatly over the ceramic, shining perfectly under the low light exactly as the magazines portrayed it. Then yours followed, the pasta neatly arranged in a surprisingly numerous portion appeared in front of you, piping hot as the vapor showed.
The waiter politely reminded you that the plates were hot, both of you thanked him and afterwards, asked for the dessert to begin being prepared. Then the steps and the click of the shutting door shifted the air into an alarmingly silent ambient.
Both of you stared into each other with a lack of words and appetite. You finally avoided his gaze and found your fork to try the pasta, blowing slightly over the food in an attempt to cool the food down. He smiled at the motion and mimicked your steps with a piece of his lamb.
He remained attentive as you tried the pasta, almost wondering if you’d like it as he hoped you did. After all, he knew the restaurant was good; he wouldn’t have brought you someplace that wasn’t the best amongst the best—it wouldn’t have even entered his mind to do so, nevertheless, he wanted to confirm he had chosen correctly, once again.
“You should eat too,” you pointed out with a soft smile, trying to not be accusatory despite your raised eyebrows.
“Is it good?” He asked, still playing with his fork mid-air, almost believing that the food would choke him if he didn’t know the answer before eating himself.
“It’s splendid, Harry, like the whole night,” you replied, easing his nerves as you filled his cup once again. “Now eat, please.”
He finally smiled victoriously and tried the lamb, it was as good as he remembered it to be. Or perhaps it was only a byproduct of the company he had this time.
You picked the bottle after a few minutes passed, half of the pasta still resting on the plate, Harry’s was clean. However, there was no wine left, yet, you shook the bottle quickly and poured the few drops left over your half-empty glass.
“Should we order another one?” you asked, resting the darkened bottle over the table once again.
“I can’t drink anything else if I’m going to drive us back,”
“Us?” you asked playfully, resting your cheek against the back of your hand. “Seems like we are getting ahead of ourselves,”
“The date isn’t over yet,”
“What?”
“I said I would take you to the nicest date you had ever gone to,” a smile adorned his lips as he kept on talking, “And I always deliver,”
You rolled your eyes despite your mouth quirking upwards into a betraying smile, the forgotten anticipation in your belly growing once again. The doors opened as you remained staring at him, almost not noticing the way the waiters grabbed your plate and his, and placed in front of you the tiramisu.
Once when you were finally aware that the room was left for only you two to be, you leaned in closer, dodging unsuccessfully the lights of the chandelier over you, but not caring much about the reflection over your face.
“I’m going to be really surprised if there’s something else that can top a private dining room with a view and a five-star course,”
He nodded, feigning understanding, of course for him there was already something that could make the night better; so he mimicked your actions and leaned closer, which made you react almost instantly forcing you to lean backwards.
“Then you’ll truly be surprised,” he said with utter relentlessness, grabbing one of the forks left for the dessert and picking up a piece of the tiramisu, the cocoa powder falling like the snow at the beach over the white porcelain.
He placed it just in front of you, waiting for you to grab it, you extended your hand to pick up the cutlery, but instead he brought your hand closer to him, kissing your knuckles softly and carelessly, as part of the cocoa powder and coffee covered side of his chin, he smiled dumbfounded completely lost in your gaze as you reciprocated his stare.
After seconds of silence, you finally lowered your hand once again, his hand was still holding the fork tightly.
“Can I have my bite now?” you asked playfully, extending your hand once again for him to give.
And he did, in a quick motion, as he said with honesty: “You can have anything you want.”
The cold of the metal hit against your skin in a cold motion that left you almost as breathless as his words did, but as soon as the chocolate hit your tongue, you swallowed it alongside his words, to see if somehow you could believe the sweetness in them, doubtless for once and for all.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Harry did not even allow you to check the number written on the lower side of the bill; he grabbed his wallet and pulled out the card without thinking twice. When the ticket came back, he signed it up with the agility of a movie star that could commit its skills to memory.
“Not even a look?” you asked when he hid the white paper from your sight. Leaving you no other choice to calm your nervosity but to grab the bouquet of flowers laying on the floor, right next to you.
Despite you not watching him, he moved his head sideways with a soft smile. “Not even a peak,” he murmured, closing the small leather book and picking up his card from the table’s surface.
“That’s mean,” you huffed against the petals, as if the roses could drown out your wine-drunk complaints.
He blinked for a second, and in the absence of his gaze his eyes travelled towards you so when his eyelids fluttered open, his irises were already fixed over your face with the utter patience of a man who could see beyond your flesh and bone, making you feel almost naked despite being covered in layers of clothes.
“Why do you want to know?” he said, voice reverberating through your ribs.
“Just because,” you murmured with a smile that tried to pretend to be genuine, but you were aware he could see right through it. “It’s plain curiosity,” you added, as if that could be enough for him to believe you.
He hummed, resting his hands over the table and his back against the chair as his head laid softly over the edge of the backchair, gazing upwards to you. Trying to study your emotions under the faint lights of the night and the restaurant as you stood in front of him.
“That and nothing else?” he asked, thumb rubbing against the back of his hand, making you wonder if you could get to know.
“That and nothing else,” you lied, the taste of the own bitterness drowning in your tongue worse than any tannin of the wine had ever done, leaving your mouth dry and your stomach tangled.
But despite your best efforts to try and forget about the numbers surrounding you, you always ended up reaching to ask anything just so you could know how you were measured: how much, how long, how little, how many…. how, how, how; how much did he feel at the moment? How hard would the after-drop feel once he inevitably left? How much happiness did you have left to feel? How much time would it take you to forget the depth of his eyes, as they reached for your gaze like they did in that precise moment like some secret perquisite you never wanted to lose?
He opened up the leather-cover and moved the ticket towards your direction. It only took a quick glance from you to read past the numbers and the total.
You smiled to hide your true feelings, unaware of his gaze over your expressions.
“Wow, I had no idea wine could be that expensive,” the sentence left your mouth before you could even process the thought, at least it made him laugh as well.
Your fingers pressed against the leather once again, and despite hearing his voice echoing as he said you could have everything you wanted, his generosity weighted on your skin like broken promises and no matter how many times you could read and re-read the amount he had just paid, you couldn’t believe you could fill in the quantity.
But you didn’t want to ruin his night either with your doubts—a night that hadn’t even finished—so you closed the leather and tried to forget the numbers although they were already engraved in the back of your eyelids, and waited for him to get up before kissing his cheek and murmuring a quick “thank you” even when your heart beat against your chest insensately.
The cold air of the city hit you on the way out and while Harry and you waited for the valet to come back with his benz. Harry excused himself as he had to take a call and walked to wait further from you, he tended to raise his voice when stressed and ever since you were close he preferred to be alone when doing so.
In the meantime, you waited with your back against the wall as you wrote in your notes the different material you could send as a sample, and amidst that concentration was when you heard a voice foreign to Harry’s.
“Fucking bitch,” the words travelled through the air, and you turned sideways to see who they belonged to.
You hadn’t seen him at first, matter of fact you had forgotten half of them were still roaming through the city. You didn’t even remember his name, but of course, you could never forget the tone of condescension in his voice. He walked towards you, thinking that you were on your own.
“You’re waiting for your car?” he asked defensively, “Another thing that you bought on daddy’s payroll?”
You shrugged, you hadn’t even remembered that to half of them you were still Mia.
“Why do you care? We didn’t match, so get the fuck away from me,”
“Is that why you’re here? Are you on a date?” his eyes drifted to scan the restaurant entrance, as if he expected some man to step out and kick him away.
You knew the sane thing would’ve been to walk-away, but you also knew that he was the one who had approached; and, you also knew that tone in his voice that pushed you to near insanity.
For a moment you didn’t answer. Your eyes moved over him slowly, trying to pull something from memory that you could use against him, but there were none. His face vaguely stirred the smell of alcohol from a dim bar, the smell of cheap whiskey, and finally, when you stared at his lips and his choppy moustache, the loud comments about “women these days.” Despite the memory being fuzzy like an old photograph, the resentment in his eyes was crystal clear.
“Yes,” you replied finally, words cold as the whooshing air. You hadn’t used that tone ever since you had met Harry and had left your days of pretend forgotten in a vault of bittersweet memories. “And you’re seemingly still single, wonder why?”
He scoffed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat as he took another step closer, you took another one back.
“The right one hasn’t come by,” he murmured as if he was waiting for you to be his consolation prize. “Besides, I’d prefer being single than being with you, I even feel bad for the man, unlucky bastard.”
You huffed but tried to remain silent, after all, there was nothing worth discussing with someone you were already aware was an asshole and a piece of shit. But the man didn’t move, and you wondered if that was just another personality trait you didn’t remember or a product of the strong smell of beer coming from his body.
“Do you even remember me?,” he asked, spit falling from his mouth over the floor, you moved your heel quickly and raised your eyes to meet him. His words, this time less like a statement and more like a question.
You tilted your head slightly and raised your shoulders for a brief second of uncertainty. “No,” you answered honestly. “Should I?”
His laugh burst out again, sharp against the freezing cold, sharp and humorless reverberating over the pavement.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath as he leaned closer, lowering his voice despite his words becoming blunter by the second. “You went out with me six months ago,” he said. “The place in Midtown. You ordered chicken fajitas and spent the whole night telling me how women don’t need men anymore.”
You didn’t remember his name, or his age, or what his likes and dislikes were, but you did remember Mia hated that guy’s description. She was skeptical of the ones that described themselves as “the nicest man you could ever imagine,” and she was right—after all, she was good at reading art and better at reading people—he turned out to be the one who “hated overly independent women.”
So you decided to become his worst nightmare in a little black dress until he stormed out halfway through dessert; turned out his worst nightmare was only a dramatized version of yourself—you didn’t mind it back then—but the chills waltzing through your body at the moment were real. Back then, however, you were aware it was all pretense, all for the sake of keeping Mia’s peace intact and your articles flowing. Now, with the perfect man waiting for you at the distance, you weren’t sure if the performance was only theatrics.
The corner of his mouth twisted when he saw the recognition and you straightened a little, the cold air brushing against your cheeks, wind blowing hard enough for your hair to block your vision as discomfort tugged at your sleeves.
“Well,” you said calmly, “if you remember it that well, then you probably also remember you were the one that stormed out.”
His face hardened as if you had hit him in the groin. “You humiliated me!” he snapped with the childish agony of a spoiled little kid.
“I disagreed with you,” you corrected.
“You mocked everything I said,” he protested, rolling his eyes.
You shrugged lightly and went back to your phone. “Yeah, that tends to happen when people say stupid things.”
His eyes flashed for a second with the low illumination of your own phone. “God, you really are exactly the same,” he muttered at your indifference.
And you felt the second your fingers stopped moving and your brain stopped thinking and your chest tightened slightly as if someone had blown out all the air your lungs could gather.
Because he was wrong, you weren’t exactly the same but at the same time you were. Months ago you would’ve enjoyed this more, you would’ve laughed at your own wittiness the next morning or thought about ten different ways to rewrite the scene into something that would pull at the reader’s heartstrings. But in that moment, under the faint light of the night and the crisp air of Manhattan, everything just felt tiring.
“You approached me,” you said evenly. “Not the other way around, if you’re still upset about a bad date from half a year ago, that sounds like a personal problem.”
“You really think you’re better than everyone, don’t you?”
You exhaled slowly through your nose, unsurprised that he had twisted everything to fit his narrative. “No,” you said. “But I definitely think I’m better than this conversation.”
You turned around, too tired of the idiot that threatened to ruin your precious night. But he was quick, walking right next beside you, leaving you with no choice but to continue hearing his tortuous words full of stupidity.
“Who’s the guy?” he asked suddenly.
“What?” you asked with a disbelieving huff.
“The guy you’re waiting for,” he said, glancing toward the restaurant entrance. “Some rich idiot you tricked the same way?”
Your expression went flat, and for the first time in the night you didn’t have some witty remark or some joke to make; your mind was completely blank.
But luckily, you recognized Harry’s silhouette from the distance, and as quick as your heels allowed you to walk, you went towards him, hoping that at least that could make the stranger leave you alone
He was quiet, phone still in one hand, his brows drawn together in confusion and irritation at problems that were stressful enough to come to him during the night. He turned around as he heard the steps of your heels approaching him, the ghost of a smile already appearing over his lips but the look on his face told you immediately that the intruder was still behind you. His eyes flicked quickly between your face and the man behind you, and without any advice to the caller he ended the call and placed the phone inside his pocket.
“What’s going on?” he asked quietly, his eyes totally focused over you.
The other man snorted, not even allowing your lips to part. “Oh great, is this your new guy?”
Harry’s gaze moved back to him slowly, remained over his face for less than a second before going back to you.
“Do you know him?” he asked, and once again, before you could answer, the other man answered for you.
“Yeah,” the man said bitterly. “But she gets with so many men she already forgot,”
Harry’s jaw tightened slightly at the words from the man, and perhaps, from the lack of your own—not that there was a second for yours to appear. Nevertheless, your pulse was hammering against your ears, because you knew how everything could look like despite what it truly was. So, no longer caring if the other man talked or didn’t, you opened your mouth:
“I can explain,”
“You have to be careful, she’ll probably forget about you too,” the man interrupted, once again. “She’s crazy. Honestly, man, if you’re smart you’ll run.”
Harry’s eyes remained fixed over you, and yours continued set over him. The man scoffed at your silence, comfortable in his thought that he had just ruined your night.
“Seems like Mia’s not as sharp as you thought,”
Something in Harry’s expression shifted in understandment, not because he had doubted before but because he finally knew what he could do. And in spite of the adrenaline coursing through his body, he stepped forward deliberately slowly; forcing the man to walk backwards and for you to finally find a shelter in the silence to catch your breath again.
“Watch your mouth,” Harry said quietly.
The man blinked, his expression shifting into utter pathetic shock. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Harry repeated, continuing to walk towards him as you silently wondered how on earth it was possible for the valet to take so long to appear.
“You’re defending her?” he asked incredulously.
Harry didn’t hesitate, not even a second of doubt passed through his eyes as he decisively answered him.
“Yes,” he said with quiet certainty that somehow landed louder than any insults you had heard that night.
Your heart skipped violently in your chest.
“But you don’t even know what she has done,” the man insisted, and Harry glanced at you briefly, giving you a soft smile. Then he turned back to the stranger.
“I know enough.”
The man laughed again, shaking his head. “You’re pathetic,” he scoffed defeatedly. “You think you’re special? She did the same thing to me.”
Harry’s expression didn’t change, his shoulders raised slightly with the confidence of suddenly knowing everything.
“Then maybe,” he said calmly, “you deserved it.”
The man stared at him like he had lost his mind. “What does he have that I didn’t?” he demanded again, this time looking at you while gesturing angrily towards Harry.
Harry sighed softly and your breath caught. You didn’t mind making a scene, but you could already hear the faint rumble of the engine cutting through the corner of the street.
The man opened his mouth again at your lack of response, but Harry cut him off before he could speak with a loud shush and a raised arm.
“You should leave,” he said.
The same words you had used moments earlier, that sounded way more decisive than when you uttered them moments ago. The man looked between both of you, his expression twisting with disbelief.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
Then he shook his head, turning away with one last bitter laugh.
“Good luck with that mess,” he called over his shoulder. “You’ll need it.”
He disappeared down the sidewalk and the street went quiet again for the seconds left, then both of you walked towards the side and waited for the car in silence, with only the distant sound of traffic filling the space between both of you.
Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it, and the second you felt Harry turning toward you, you turned away, because the fear you had been holding back all night had suddenly crashed into your chest and left open the loudest silence you had every imagined.
Because now he had seen it, the same woman that had appeared that first night when he met you, the sharpness and the cruelty and the version of that had ruined dates for months under faint excuses that either way didn’t justify the outcomes in the slightest.
It was one thing to know it, another very different to relieve it, and much worse, for him to realize that perhaps there wasn’t as much pretending as you’d like to tell in all those nights. But suddenly the car appeared in front of you, and he opened up the passenger seat, and silently he drove, and you could only hope for the traffic of the city to quiet your doubts.
The city lights streaked past the windshield in slow lines of yellow and white, the hum of the engine filling the small pockets where conversation might have been. Harry drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely against the gearstick. The heater had begun to warm the inside of the car, slowly chasing away the cold—from both, the words and the weather—that had clung to both of you outside.
You sat angled slightly toward the window, the bouquet of Juliet roses resting across your lap. Every now and then your fingers moved over the petals, smoothing them and picking at them and afterwards feeling guilty for the actions your nervous hands had made.
Harry glanced at you once at a stoplight and you were aware of how quiet you were. It wasn’t the quiet he was used to; he knew that you weren’t thinking about some witty remark or preparing to say something unhinged that would make him laugh.
But he was aware that you weren’t saying anything, and in response, he didn’t say anything either, at least for the few blocks that came next.
As the next red light approached he finally decided on asking the question roaming on his mind.
“So,” he said casually, “who was that guy?”
You turned towards him, shoulders lifted slightly. “I don’t know,” you replied honestly.
Harry’s brow lifted with surprise, “you don’t know?”
You shook your head lightly with a soft nervous laughter. “I mean, I met him once when I was faking being Mia,” you said, aware that he knew that already. “But that was months ago, and I honestly don’t remember his name.”
Harry hummed thoughtfully, the green light softening the edges of his features.
“That must be rough for him.”
You snorted quietly despite yourself, he had a talent in making the tension disappear in the air.
“Yeah, apparently.”
The corner of Harry’s mouth tugged upward faintly, proud that his words had stern into the correct result. You looked down again at the roses, fingers brushing along the petals but not picking at them this time.
Silence slipped back into the car but the thought remained in your head and the sensations coiling behind your ribs, uncomfortable and stubbornly pulsing against you as if your own heart threatened to escape.
Your eyes shifted back to Harry, who know looked completely relaxed, and that made you feel even more nervous—guilty even—your fingers picked at the first petal and when you noticed the scattered coral and rose pieces over your black dress you decided on finally talking; you could no longer take destroying something so precious. Whatever he felt after what you said would be better than that—even if it hurt.
“Harry,” you said finally.
His brown eyes turning towards you in a sight that in any other situation would make you melt. “Yeah?” he asked quietly, as if there wasn’t any guilt gnawing at your bones.
You hesitated on speaking once again, but you decided to do it in spite of your racing heartbeat.
“The way I talked to him—” you began slowly, suddenly aware that you could no longer continue, you felt as if he saw any further he would throw you out of his car.
Harry nodded once, his hand shifting from the gearstick to your thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles over the fabric in a subtle attempt to calm you down, attempt that you realized almost instantly but nevertheless, worked on you.
Your throat tightened slightly as you regained the courage to continue talking. “That was…” you exhaled quietly, “That was like an act,”
Harry glanced at you, confusion flickering across his face, “I know.”
“You know?” you blinked, utterly confused.
He gave you a sideways look and a soft laugh—not at you but at the situation—perhaps even from the remaining emotions towards the guy, he felt as if he could’ve done more for you.
“You literally told me that months ago,” he said, recalling that first night you had met him.
You swallowed as you realized how far your own brain had decided to trick you, also aware that some parts of your brain weren’t an act at all.
“I know,” you said quickly. “I just—” once again, you struggled to find the right words, the world outside the windows blurring into glimpses of light followed by pitch black and buildings.
“I just didn’t want you to think that was…” you paused again, frowning faintly at yourself.
“That was what?” Harry asked.
“What I’m actually like,” you said quietly. “Or that I will do that to you,”
Harry looked at you again and both of you thanked that the traffic at Manhattan never ended, because for a second, amidst the silence and the lack of movement and sound, the concern in your voice was obvious now. So, he studied you for a second longer before answering.
“I’m aware it’s an act,” he said, and the certainty in his tone made your shoulders loosen slightly, somehow you felt as if you could finally breathe.
But you still looked thoughtful and Harry could notice that as well, despite moving slightly as the car in front of him changed lanes.
“You were good at it though,” he added with a laugh that made it sound like an actual compliment.
Your head snapped up towards him. “Good?”
He nodded, a smile forming in his lips. “You terrified him.”
You huffed out a laugh and Harry’s lips curved faintly.
“You don’t remember him at all?” he asked finally, eyeing you for a second before noticing the car behind him.
Your head moved sideways before you could speak. “He kept saying women nowadays don’t let men feel useful,” you explained. “Like independence was some kind of personal attack towards them and their attempts at dating”
Harry let out a small breath through his nose. “How charming.”
“I know,” you said dryly.
You looked back down at the roses and after a second, simultaneously, both of you chuckled, then your heads turned and your eyes locked and you laughed once against the synchronicity.
“Back then I was also exhausted,” you admitted. “Those months were rough and Mia had already told me she hated the guy and had told me what would certainly spook him”
You rolled your eyes faintly as the memories settled back into your head. “So I just leaned into it.”
Harry smirked slightly at your word-choice. “Leaned into it?”
“Yeah,” you said. “I figured if he wanted a helpless woman who needed him to open jars and validate his ego every five minutes, the best way to scare him off was to do the opposite.
Harry laughed quietly at your reasoning and planning. “That’s one strategy,” he declared.
“It was fool-proof, always worked,” you shrugged. “Until some guy whose biggest dislike was cheap perfume appeared, and he wasn’t spooked at the ‘opposite’ theory so…”
Harry chuckled. “How rude,” he declared, his brows shifting into feigned stern lines.
You peeked at him through your eyelashes, “you were a finance guy!”
“Still am,” he said, pretending to be utmost offended.
You sighed dramatically and leaned against the window with a sigh, “exactly.”
Harry chuckled under his breath and the car slowed after a u-turn in an avenue that, under the black lights, you didn’t recognize.
You lowered your hand again, glancing at him, “But back then, you didn’t get scared off.”
“Nope.”
You squinted slightly, still unsure of that one part you couldn’t figure out yet. “Why not?”
Harry shrugged, almost as if the answer was obvious. For him it was at least. “You looked like you were having fun,” he declared as if that was the fairest answer.
Your eyebrows knit together, “I was not having fun,” you declared, recalling the stress and drowning that faking being someone else brought, even when those nights also meant getaways from your real life.
“You were a little,” he said, figuring out that side of you that you foolishly thought was well-hidden.
“I was being antagonistic,” you declared, self-vilianizing yourself.
Harry nodded, “I remember, and being enthusiastic at it.”
You stared at him with disbelief and an open-mouth, “that’s not the same thing.”
“It kind of is,” he said while squinting his eyes.
The light turned green and he continued driving. You leaned your head back against the seat, still frowning faintly despite the ear-to-ear smile drawn in your face and the chuckles threatening to fall from your lips.
“Most guys hate that version of me.”
Harry shrugged again. “Most guys are stupid,” he declared without a second-thought.
You snorted softly, looking through the mirror but your eyes falling once again over his reflection. “Yeah, they are.”
He glanced at you again, “but I know it’s an act,” he said, assuring you once again of his certainty towards you.
Your eyes softened slightly, “yeah,” you replied, trying to belief it yourself.
Harry tilted his head towards you, this time the lights of the city and the cars illuminating his face in an almost-angelic halo. “And even when it’s not,” he added, “it’s still just you, and I like it.”
Your chest warmed slightly at the simple way he said it. He had said earlier that he envied the way you could put your thoughts into words, but you envied the way he could make the most simple of sentences become valuable in a second, as if that was just an after-effect he simply held.
You looked back down at the roses and then back at the windows and the street, Harry tapped the steering wheel once as he skipped on a yellow light, that you decided not to tease him for.
“So,” he said lightly, “I don’t mind if he thinks I’m the idiot who fell for the act.”
You smiled faintly, and leaned your head against the seat, turning towards him. “And did you?”
Harry glanced at you softly, his expression warm and his eyes completely brown like molten mahogany and honey under the soft shadows of the night.
“Yeah,” he said easily before looking back into the road. “And I’d do it again.”
The drive went by slowly—partially because of the traffic, partially because of him—the quiet anticipation keeping you on the edge as the mid-Manhattan scenery quickly changed; the well-lit stores shifted into well-kept old-facades that held enough silence so the whooshing wind echoed against the windows.
His building came into sight after a few minutes, and with no other detour left he pulled a u-turn and parked his car.
He opened up your door, and helped you with the bouquet. The petals falling from your lap and over the gravel like cascades of pink waterdrops, nevertheless, the bouquet appeared intact. You stepped inside the lobby through the door of the parking lot and shrugged the cold away, already familiar with the polished marble floor and the soft lighting that always made the place feel warmer than it should for such a sleek building.
Harry walked behind you slightly surprised of how well you seemed to adjust into the space, not thinking about the fact you had been there, and waited for him in that same lobby many times in the months before.
“Well, what’s exactly my surprise?” you asked, walking towards him in a lazy attempt to steal the bouquet back, he shifted his hold of it, placing it further from you. That made you laugh.
“I thought they were mine,” you said, getting closer to him hoping that the proximity would catch him off guard and let him give in.
“They are,” he said with a soft smile, his cologne mixing with the wine. “But you’re walking in high heels,”
You shrugged at his comment, lifting your feet backwards and leaning closer towards him almost trying to proof your point. “I’ve walked with them before,” you declared.
“I know, but you’re drunk right now,” he said with a soft chuckle that you quickly interrupted.
“I’m tipsy at best,” you laughed.
He nodded quickly, as if weighing your arguments with his own, his gaze faltered over the flowers for a second before travelling back to you.
“Can you let me carry them for you, then?” he asked with soft eyes and equally disarming smile, as if he had truly come out of some movie.
The end of the heel touched the floor once again and you nodded in response, walking backwards twice with your hand trying to reach for the elevator’s button. You crouched slightly to press the small dotted-arrow button, your left knee faltering slightly, product of the tannins and a quick mouth that could only be so quick.
You grabbed his forearm to steady yourself, and in return he placed his free hand over your waist, you could only chuckle. The elevator doors slid open and both of you stepped inside. The silence there felt heavier than the quiet of the car had been, as if the building itself knew the difference between all the other nights you had come here and this one.
You leaned against the mirrored wall opposed to him, his arm although lightly ghosting over your body got further from you to press the button for his floor.
“So,” you said casually, giving a step closer to him. “This mysterious surprise you promised better not just be the view from your living room.”
Harry glanced at you, faintly offended but enough for a soft laugh to fall from his lips with nervosity.
“My view is very impressive,” he replied with a serious glance that turned soft in a matter of seconds.
“I know,” you said with a smile, fixing the lapel of his coat as a hefty excuse to get close to him. “You’ve shown it to me more than once.”
“And yet you still came upstairs,” he pointed out.
You hummed thoughtfully, and before you could answer, the elevator doors opened.
His apartment looked exactly the same as the other times you’d been there—clean, wide windows stretching across the living room, the city glowing beyond the glass; turning the thousand shining lights in the city into quiet constellations that faded the true stars away.
The faint smell of the expensive candle he had bought lingered in the air with familiarity. The same scent he had bought for you and for Andrew’s house.
You stepped in first as he closed the door, slipping your coat off and laying it in the trench close to the entrance, before going towards him to pick the bouquet and lay it carefully on the coffee table.
For a moment he simply watched you move through the space so easily, like you already belonged there. He would’ve given anything to make you feel like so.
“You’re suspiciously calm,” he pointed out, taking off his own coat and laying it next to yours.
You turned back toward him, raising an eyebrow as you took off the heels and raised your legs over the couch. “I trust you didn’t bring me here just to show me furniture I’ve already seen.”
He walked over to the sideboard near the wall, reaching into one of the drawers. When he turned back toward you, there was a small black box in his hand.
Your brows knit immediately, the sudden anticipation turning quickly into fear.
“Harry,” your voice broke into a whisper of pure fear. Could it be possible that after all this time he knew you so little?
“What?” he reacted, not understanding where the sudden shift in your voice came from as he deemed his own actions as harmless.
“Why are you holding a jewelry box?” you asked scared—the small box over his hands seemed bigger than it should look—you had seen many proposals, you had read about it in many books, you had even researched for them… out of plain curiosity, but you had, either way.
Nevertheless, it was too soon for you, too permanent to wear that rock over your finger and that oath over your heart. But Harry didn’t mind your doubts, as he knew a truth that you did not in that very second; instead, he smiled slightly but didn’t answer right away, walking over to you with that same quiet certainty he had carried all night.
“You remember that boutique on SoHo?” he asked and you nodded in response, body already loosening as a product of his proximity. You couldn’t quite tell if that was a good thing or a bad one. “You said you liked something there.”
You stared at the box like it might explode at any moment, somehow, you wished it could, and opened a big space in the earth that could swallow you whole, away from him and him away from this mess.
“Harry.”
“It’s not that dramatic,” he said calmly, his palm caressing your cheek and his thumb loosely tracing circles over your skin, soothing you while simultaneously stopping your mind from rambling any further.
You hated that you wanted to back away from his touch with the same intensity in which you wanted to lay over his body and forget about the worries in your mind.
“Harry.”
He ignored the tone and opened the box, you closed your eyes for a fraction of a second until your gaze landed over the earrings. The exact ones you had worn months ago at that wedding where the two of you had pretended to be a couple. The silhouette of asymmetry setting over the black velvet inside the box. It felt like a fever dream.
You looked up at him immediately, at least it wasn’t a wedding ring. And despite being a simpler piece, it still made your stomach twist.
“But—” you frowned. “I thought those were impossible to buy”
“They were,” he said simply, before fixing his own answer. “They are,”
Your brows pulled together, extremely unfazed as you didn’t understand then how that could result into the pair of earrings laying in the box over your palms.
“So I called the jeweler.”
“You called the—”
“They made another pair.”
You stared at him as he picked one of the earrings up carefully between his fingers so the light could hit the metal better and you could truly assimilate the beauty of the piece he had gotten for you.
“These are better actually,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “The originals were plated but the jeweler said the actual metal catches light better—lasts longer—they’re a little shinier too…”
You weren’t listening anymore, although you could still see the way his lips moved. Your chest felt too full, your heart feeling so full you felt as if it would crash over your ribs at any second. But Harry was still talking.
His lips kept moving, somehow you felt as if they should be kissing yours instead.
“I thought it’d be nice if you had your own pair this time. You liked them that night, so—”
You placed the earrings back in the box before placing it over the coffee table. It sat open, still catching the soft light from the windows and the lights. Harry frowned slightly, mid-sentence at the urgency that you carried in your movements.
“Did I—”
You didn’t let him finish. You didn’t want him to finish the sentence at all. Instead, your hands grabbed the front of his sweater and you sat over his lap with urgency, pulling him down toward you before he could even process what you were doing.
Your mouth crashed into his and for a single split second he froze from the surprise. Then his hands immediately came up to your waist, pulling you closer as he kissed you back just as hard. Lips messily crashing over each other, like quiet evidence that you had been holding back for far too long.
Your fingers slid into his hair as you pushed him back over the couch, breathless and laughing softly against his mouth.
When you finally pulled back for air, your forehead rested against his.
“You’re insane,” you murmured.
Harry exhaled a quiet laugh, his hands still holding you softly, drawing soft incoherent lines against your back.
“Good insane?” He asked doe-eyed, lashes framing his gaze like a frame does a masterpiece worthy of the Louvre.
You pressed your fingers tighter against his scalp, twisting the loops in his hair trying to get closer to him. Then, you kissed him again instead of answering.
Your lips fondled on top of his just like they had on the beach, if back on the beach instead of snow he tasted like wine and vanilla. You didn’t mind the taste, just like you hadn’t mind before.
His hands continued to caress the curve of your back as both of your mouths tangled in a heated frenzy of lip over lip. You could feel the way his fingers danced over the fabric, climbing up your spine until they found the knot that tied together the top part of the dress; you smiled against his mouth when he began untying the silk ribbon, uncovering you.
The black lace was in front of his face then, and you could see how his breath caught in his throat at the sight of it against your skin. In result, your hand travelled down from his hair to his chin as you guided it upwards to face you.
“I’m over here, you know?” you said, biting the corner of your lip to suppress a smile.
This time, it was him who didn’t answer, his lips instead fell over the right side of your neck, travelling upwards to your jaw and kissing you hard. His hands continued to rest over your waist, even when you desperately wanted them lower, or higher—everywhere—if only everywhere could be possible.
But you knew that in order to have him, as close as you needed him, both of you would need something larger than his couch. With a gruesome amount of willpower that you wished you didn’t have to use, you tried to pull away from him and stand up.
The rest of your dress fell directly over the floor, leaving you with nothing but the tights to cover the lace underwear, and for his eyes to rest directly over your body. The bulk in his trousers was deeply noticeable by that moment. You lowered yourself slightly, grabbing his arms to pull him upwards to you.
Perhaps you shouldn’t have. Because once his head was close to your body, his lips went back to devouring you whole—like he could never get near to getting too much.
The force of his movements forced you to walk backwards, clashing slightly over the coffee table; the flowers, the earrings and the few books he had, rumbled over the glass, but you didn’t care. Instead, you pushed your body against his softly, your chest pressing against his—the strap of your bra getting caught onto the button of his cuff as your own hand travelled to grab his wrist, your body instructing him to move backwards, or at least, far enough so you didn’t destroy anything.
”Harry,” his name escaped your lips after a few seconds—seconds in which his mouth never left the softness of your skin, and he continued to draw wet lines over your neck and jaw.
You tiptoed through the dim-lighted hallway of his apartment, your head had memorized it so many times while you were there and yet, you felt as if you were navigating a strange sea all at once.
Your fingers traced the nape of his neck until finding some hair to yank slightly, pulling him away just to pull him back to your lips, where you had been wanting him ever since you could recall that day. Thankfully, he obliged and pressed his lips over yours.
Your arms descended to his back, and then, to his waist, until you began rolling the cashmere of his sweater upwards, trying to uncover more of his skin and feel him closer. Harry didn’t complain instead he smiled deeply into the kiss, his arms leaving your body for a glimpse just to help you ditch his sweater faster.
He tried not to pull away from you when he took the fabric off his head; he threw it, between anticipatory giggles, somewhere neither of you cared to look as you were deeply enticed in one another.
Your hands travelled from his back, drawing lazy figures over the fabric—that had yet to be discarded. At least, if you couldn’t feel his skin yet, you could pull him closer; your fingers moved fast to the loops on the side of his trousers, pulling him closer to your body and losing your balance in return.
Both of you giggled, his hand behind your head cushioned the wall; both of you pulled away for a second, but both of you were close enough that even when staring, his nose nudged close over your cheek, and it was a matter of seconds before he went back to peppering you with kisses until you squirmed softly trying to gain back some friction.
“What’s wrong?” he mumbled close to your ear, his knee nudging between your legs as if he already knew what you wanted. “Better?” he asked, even when you hadn’t answered his previous question.
“Yeah,” you replied in a hushed whisper, getting on your tiptoes just to create some friction over his thigh. His arm moved down to grab your thigh, moving it upwards so your leg went around his waist, pressing you closer to his body.
“Fuck, that feels good,” you murmured in spite of yourself, Harry didn’t respond, but he pressed your body tighter against the wall and began moving his thigh in synchronicity with your hips. The friction coiling between the fabric and the sweat building up on his skin and your own, mingling into a combination of sensations you had yet to experience.
His hand continued travelling agonizingly slow over your thigh until meeting the flesh of your ass. A sigh of pleasure left your lips, and your mouth, in an attempt to materialize the sounds it tried to drown, sought to kiss his neck when he got close enough to you, lipstick falling over his skin and the fabric equally.
Your hands fell from his hair around his neck and began moving downwards as steady as you could while continuing to rock yourself over his thigh, his hands pushing you harder over him, making you aware of the wet patch trailing on your underwear. You wondered if he could feel it
“Harry,” his name fell from your lips, drowned in pleasure, before you could say anything else.
“Yes?” he asked, his hand moving further down your ass, grabbing you as if he couldn’t get enough. The ghosting sensation of his fingers over your pussy eliciting another moan out of your lips, and that seemed to be enough of an answer for him, as he rutted even harder and his hand travelled to caress your jaw while his lips attacked the opposite side of your neck.
Your fingers began to desperately undo the knot of his tie, pulling it stealthily away from under the white fabric and placing it around the flesh of his neck, the sweat at the nape making it stick.
He smiled against your skin, already aware, his hand moving upwards to toy at the clasp of your bra, undoing the first hook easily as you began undoing the buttons on his shirt. You pulled the extremes of the tie, tugging gently around his neck, and forced him to move away from your body—where the skin was already wet and red from all his ministrations.
“Kiss me,” you murmured, trying with all your willpower to keep your voice steady despite the friction building between your thighs and the heat pooling in your panties.
“I’m kissing you,” he replied with a smirk, already trying to go back to your jaw, but you pulled his head away once again. Your hands letting go of the fabric to caress his face, remnants of sweat and saliva accumulating over his mustache and stubble. You wondered if he’d look like that after he, hypothetically, ate you out.
“What—” he began saying before you interrupted him, pulling him closer and pulling the shirt away from his body. You tiptoed to try and surround his waist fully, making an effort to feel the building bulge under his pants even if that meant losing the friction of his thigh for a few seconds.
His arm quickly found your leg and held you tight against his body to give you support, his arms surrounded your lower waist as he began to move you away from the wall and instead, carried you in his arms through the hallway to inevitably end up in his bedroom. His lips never broke apart from yours.
Harry lost his balance a few steps away from the doorframe, making both of you stumble slightly, his legs faltering slightly, and in order to arrive safely to the room, you planted your feet back onto the floor and grabbed his hand, staring at him for a second. The heat of the moment barely dissipated until you saw the trail of body hair forming at the lower side of his stomach, and the bulge under his trousers poking at you.
“Are you finally telling me how that dream of yours went?” he said with anticipation, poking at you and forcing your eyes to travel back to his face. Part of you wanted to die of embarrassment, the other one was combusting at the thought of him thinking of you with that same desire that had permeated your dreams ever since that damned wedding.
Had he dreamt of you in that same way? Pictured you over, under, sideways… What did he want to do with you?—all those questions were seconds away from being answered, and the anticipation was lingering over your skin.
You smiled with a hint of mischief and squeezed his hand tighter before walking backwards and making him go there with you, thankfully it didn’t take much before his arms were already draping around your waist and his lips hovered over your skin.
“I’d rather show you,” you whispered once the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and as soon as you finished talking, his mouth went back to devouring you.
Your back fell over the mattress in a matter of seconds, his hands already sneaking to your back to undo the hook of your bra, you raised your hands so he could pull it out from you easier and yet he didn’t. Instead he travelled down, just under your breasts, continuing to kiss and plant open-mouth kisses, covering your stomach; his torso already pulling apart your knees, you sighed at the anticipation, looking down to see him settling on the floor.
You extended your arm to grab a small pillow and throw it at him, so he could place it under his knees at least. He grinned at you when the cotton damaged his hair slightly, but he complied, picking up the pillow and placing it below his knees.
He picked up your thighs, and tugged them forwards to him, keeping you at the edge of the bed, and more comfortable as his lips continued descending, he stopped right on top of the hemline of your tights.
“Did you wear this for me?”
“And what if I did?”
“They’re driving me insane. I was fighting to keep my hands off of you the whole night, and now this—” he peppered you with even more kisses, until his teeth scraped over the surface of the tights. “if I had known you were wearing this all along, fuck—”
You missed hearing him cursing and unfiltered. Just for you, no one else got to hear Harry like that but you.
“You have no idea what you do to me, baby.”
Baby. God, you liked how that one sounded in his lips.
“Neither do you,” you replied, buckling your hips upwards so his chin was covered—even slightly—with the wetness of your pussy.
His hands shifted to touch you over the lace and net, your hips moving quickly to use the friction, his thumb rubbing soft circles already, and yet—he hadn’t had the courtesy of taking off your clothes.
“You’re soaked,” he muttered, looking back at you, your eyes already facing the ceiling, seeing stars more than roof.
“Hey,” he said, his hand nudging at your thigh, almost as if he was asking you to look at him—although he never verbalized it. He wouldn’t need to, by the time his fingers faded from your skin, your eyes were already over him and his disheveled hair.
“I thought I was the one showing you how my dream went,”
“I’m taking some creative freedoms, if you don’t mind,” he murmured against your thighs, his hot breath fanning over your skin like the smoothest silk that had ever adorned your body.
“Well, take them quick,” you protested as your fingers tangled in the bedsheets.
Harry took his time—his damned and self-proclaimed liberties—his lips caressed your skin over the fabric despite the protests that escaped between muffled sounds from your lips. His fingers danced over your stomach, toying with your waist and the hemline but never taking it off. Your hands, desperately, moved to find his and guide him to the hemline, but he just tangled his fingers over yours and glanced at you quickly.
His nose nudging softly at the start of your inner thigh, his cheek falling over your wetness and then, as he gently turned over to where you wanted him. He travelled back to cover your thigh in kisses.
“Harry,” you protested, your head falling over the mattress with desperation, the same feeling coiling at the bottom of your stomach.
He took another look at you, longer than the one he had previously taken, and then, without any other advice, his lips travelled upwards from your thigh falling right on top of your waist, your hands quickly moving from the wrinkled bedsheets to his hair.
He began kissing the hem of the tights, until his teeth caught the centre of the fabric, his hands travelled from his sides to your waist, lifting you from the mattress as he pulled the thin fabric from your waist—leaving you finally, with nothing but your panties.
He pulled away the rest of the tights with his hands as his mouth travelled finally to your underwear, his lips meeting the lace as he moved downwards until his tongue, hot and wet, licked a stripe, through the fabric, eliciting a soft moan from your lips and your back to arch slightly. His hands continued to ghost over your waist.
“You taste so good baby,” he whispered through the fabric, the vibrations of his words falling over your folds deliciously. “I bet you taste even better without these on,”
You nodded desperately. “Take them off,” you said, only once, hoping that he’d comply; as soon as you felt his thumbs hooking under the fabric at each side, you knew he had. And in a matter of seconds, you finally had his lips right where you wanted them. Your hands, falling over his curls to guide him, to hold onto something, to hold him, and to do all at once.
“There,” you murmured, as broken moans fell from your lips, half-gasps and whispers of his name that had been drowned in pleasure.
His nose nudged gently at your clit as his tongue devoured you open, licking through your folds; the stubble and mustache only adding even more friction.
Your fingers tugged at his hair as you continued to guide him—not that he needed any guidance—he knew exactly what he was doing; but either way, you wanted him closer.
His tongue was flat against your folds, lapping sideways and upwards at your folds while his nose continued to bump over your clit. You felt his throat get caught in a moan as he continued eating you, the vibrations falling straight to your core.
“Harry,” you tried saying, although his name fell like a moan. “More,” you mumbled, not caring if you sounded desperate because you were.
You felt the way he moved away from you, your hand falling sideways as he backed away, just enough to truly see you. His chin covered in your wetness, looking even more beautiful than what you had imagined.
“More,” he repeated, almost as if he was already thinking of what to do to fulfill your desires.
His gaze travelled then from your face, to your chest, to your stomach and finally to your dripping pussy. Then, he pulled you even closer, getting your thighs over his shoulders as he positioned himself as close as he could get to you. Your waist slightly agape from the bed, and your back, already arched at the anticipation of what he was about to do.
This time, his tongue was swaying in circles around your clit while his hand hovered over your inner thighs, his fingers moved towards the center, spreading the lips of your pussy as he continued eating you, another moan escaped him and the sensation made you clench over his tongue and fingers.
“Do you like that?” he asked, his hot breath fanning against your folds, getting another moan out of you.
You got yourself on your elbows, trying to see better what he was doing. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I like listening to you as you’re pleasuring me, in my dreams—”
“Dreams?” he murmured, finally looking up at you. For a second, he truly believed he had misheard you, that pleasure had flooded your voice, but once he caught a glimpse of your sight, he wasn’t as sure.
“Not just one?” he asked, heart already thudding at the possibilities of your answer.
You could only damn the fucking freudian slip, and perhaps the way your inhibitions were worn after everything.
“No, not just one,” you admitted, almost defeated although not at all.
“So what was I doing in your dreams?” Harry asked, laying his cheek next to your thigh, planting a soft kiss even when you needed his lips closer to you.
You sighed at the feeling and closed your eyes trying to reminisce any other sensation past the one he was giving you.
“You bit it, licked it, spat on it…” you began enlisting, the monotony in which you recounted it made him chuckle slightly. He wanted nothing more but to make all of your dreams—in the literal sense—come true, and for that night at least, that meant giving you as much pleasure as he could allow himself to give.
“Like this?” He asked, already diving back into your pussy, his lips closing around your clit to suction at the tiny bud, his fingers caressing your outer labia as his teeth began scraping just slightly over the surface. His head moved up and down so his nose could also pleasure you.
Then, he moved away just a little, as you tried to keep your eyes set straight on the scene unfolding, trying to memorize it so you didn’t have to conjure the dreams anymore but the memories of what he was doing to you. He licked two of his fingers, already wet with your pleasure, and he moaned at the taste, his eyes interlocked with you.
“You taste so good baby,” he mumbled, his voice already rough with pleasure, and his eyes—his fucking eyes—you could finish just by looking at them a little longer.
You gathered some more strength and with the help of your elbows you sat, your thighs still pressed over his shoulders, and in a swift motion you grabbed his hand and took his fingers into your mouth, tasting the combination of your pleasure and his spit.
His big brown eyes looked up at you for a fraction of a second. “Yeah, we taste good,” you mumbled, and just like that he dove one last time between your legs.
His tongue lapping quickly at your clit, his fingers moving this time inside of your pussy, both of his muscles working at different rhythms that worked, making your back arch and fall once again over the mattress.
He bit at your clit again as his fingers plunged in and out of you, gaining speed, the moans and groans that fell from his lips arrived straight to your core, eliciting even more moans from you in response. Until you felt your lower belly form a band that felt close to exploding, you knew you were close, and so did Harry apparently, as he began to gain speed with his tongue, lapping even more quickly over your clit, moving his chin downwards and upwards so the friction also fell over your labia, and his fingers began to caress your walls as he moved them upwards in a hooking motion.
“Harry,” his name fell from your lips as you were close to your orgasm. He only gained speed, holding you in place as he continued to pleasure you and your orgasm washed over you. Even then he didn’t stop, which only resulted in your orgasm to fall over his face and cover him in glistening pleasure.
“What else happened in those dreams of yours?” He asked, barely away from your folds, the hotness in his breath making you clench around nothing.
“I—” you could barely form a coherent thought, your brain continued to repeat everything that had happened seconds ago. “I gave you head,” you confessed.
You noticed the way his eyes sharpened, you couldn’t quite tell if they became filled with anticipation or simply darkened by the lack of light in the room. But either way, you urged him to stand.
And as you did, and for a second met him at eye-level, you noticed there was something else that he wasn’t telling you.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, nudging at him. But he only looked at you, calm as a river and silent as a stone. “Harry, if you want to stop, we can stop. I don't mind.”
“No, no, I just…” It took him a second too long to get the words right. “Tonight is all about you, your dream—”
“I know, but I also want to blow you,” you chuckled for a second after saying it. Then, you tried your best to steady your voice between pleasure, nervousness and anticipation. “Not because you want me to or because it’s not something I want. I’ve been dreaming about this, Harry. As fucking stupid as it sounds.”
“It’s not stupid,”
“Okay then, will you let me give you head?”
“It’s just—”
“Just what?” you interrupted, already getting on your knees and making him sit on the edge of the bed, where the maps of your pleasure were already stained over the sheets. “This is for my pleasure Harry and I also want you to feel good,” you assured him, already reaching for the loops of his trousers to undo the belt, until his hands met yours.
“I want to do it,” he mumbled, pressing his hands over yours, guiding them to the buckle of his belt and to the fly; undoing everything in one quick instant, he lifted himself slightly to get rid of the fabric. Still, his boxers—his damned, hundred dollar boxers—covered his perfectly hard cock. The outline was visible through the fabric, and a small patch of precum stained the elastic, right where his tip sat.
“Can I take this off?” you asked, fingers already sneaking at the band. He didn’t answer right away but you realized the way his breath held in his throat. He didn’t answer, so you repeated yourself, waiting for him to say something, but he was still silent.
“Harry,” you wished you could have called him something sweeter, but you couldn’t come to do it; you hoped his name could bring him back to you; and when his gaze travelled back to your eyes you sighed in relief.
“Talk to me,” you mumbled, sinking on your knees once again to kiss the inside of his thighs and push the fabric completely away from his body, however when the belt and the trousers touched his knees, his own hand stopped you, and in response, you stopped your ministrations to look at him.
“I don’t…” he began talking but his words became drowned into incoherent mumbles.
“What?”
“I haven’t?
“No one’s given you a blowjob before?” you asked, wondering if that was what he wanted to say.
“No, I mean—Yes. I’ve had sex, it’s just—”
“Just what?” you asked, already lifting yourself up so you could stay closer to him. You noticed the way his hands instinctively pressed against his thighs, almost as if he was covering himself.
For a second you remembered the scars on his legs, maybe that was the reason for his sudden change in personality, the same man telling you he wanted to give you the sex of your dreams shrieking in front of you because of surgical lines at the side of his legs. You didn’t understand his sentiment, but you knew about feelings and about bodies. And if that was the reason, you could try to reassure him, even when in your head you continued to wonder if that was it; as he didn’t know that you knew the real reason behind them, so why was he so adamant?
“Does it still hurt?” you asked, until you noticed his lost eyes; even he had forgotten about that lie. “After the accident,” you tried to freshen his memory. “We can shift positions,” you began suggesting, his eyes glossy under the soft lamplight looking at you almost pleading.
“No, no, it’s—”
“What?”
“You won’t feel pleasure,” he replied. You believed he was still trying to make the night about you, as he had claimed before. You weren’t aware that his words were much deeper.
“Says who?” you asked nevertheless, sinking yourself again and grabbing the belt and fabric, pulling it slowly, waiting for him to say anything. But this time he didn’t.
“Can you let me take these ones off too?”
He nodded, still looking at you attentively. You smiled, your lips travelling to kiss his inside thighs, as your hands began reaching upwards. His own hands seemed lost, confused as to where to lay, he kept them on the air, lingering just above the bedsheets, you grabbed them and directed them towards your hair, his fingers quickly tangling around you.
“Relax,” you whispered, caressing the outer side of his thighs and parting his legs further so you could fully stay between them. You quickly realized he didn’t flinch, which for a second made you believe he was truly relaxing, until you reached for the elastic of his boxers and he flinched.
“Wait,” he murmured, no longer able to keep his act together. “You, you have this idea of me—the one of your dreams—but this, this is not a dream.”
“No, it isn’t,” you replied, almost smirking at the realization. But that same hunger wasn’t present in his eyes.
“I don’t want reality to be a letdown for you. I don’t think I can handle seeing you look at me and realizing I'm not what you expected,” the words fell from his lips so quickly you believed they were a hallucination.
Then it finally dawned on you that it wasn’t his scars, he hadn’t flinched when you reached for his legs, but as soon as your fingers pressed over the elastic of his boxer he reacted.
Was he anxious about his length—you found yourself wondering, even when it made no sense; the outline hidden behind the fabric showed a rather endowed figure.
You stared at his body for a few seconds, sitting over the pillow and your legs as you tried to form a coherent thought about the ‘why’. For now, the only hypothesis you could think was how men believed their height was proportional to their length, and maybe—just maybe—if Harry believed his height wasn’t enough, then by default neither was the rest of him.
Your chest tightened just by thinking of it, because you had fantasized about him—longer than what you would’ve allowed yourself to admit—but he was still worried about not measuring up to your expectations.
And for once in the whole night, you were actually speechless. Until you weren’t.
“Well, then it’s a good thing I never wanted ‘dream’ Harry,” you reassured him with a smile, rising once again to press your palms over his thighs. “Do you not want this?”
He moved his head sideways, he wanted you more than he could admit out loud.
“Then we’ll take it slow. Here,” you grabbed his palms once again and pressed one deeper over your hair, the other one resting just under your jaw. “Can you keep them there for me when you’re inside me?”
He nodded, slightly confused by your request but still following your words. Finally you moved to remove the elastic, letting his dick finally rise in front of you.
Your mouth opened agape as you stared at him. He was bigger than what you expected, he was even bigger than what he probably thought, and thicker than what you had imagined.
He was more than perfect and way better than the blurry image your mind conjured into dreams all those nights ago.
You looked up at him, his eyes already focused over your body. You smiled quickly at him before pressing a kiss at the tip of his dick, licking softly the side as one of your hands moved to grab his base. The other one reminded him to keep his hands over your head, a flimsy attempt you thought of to keep him steadied through the moment.
You took his tip out of your lips with a loud ‘pop’, your hand at his base moving to his balls as your lips moved to the veins on his side, kissing and licking all at once, resulting in your lips coated in his precum and your saliva. The vibrations of your moans, present on your lips, making him twitch as you continued to work him.
“You were afraid of this being a letdown?” you murmured as you continued to lick him, your hands fondling his balls and the base. Your mouth descended to where your hands rested, and you licked him from base to tip, earning a small groan of him.
“It’s even better than what I had dreamed of,” you reassured him, your eyes interlocked with his.
“Yeah?” he asked in a tiny whisper.
You only smiled in response before taking his tip in your mouth and hollowing your cheeks, determined to fit him completely until the back of your throat.
“Fuck,” he murmured in spite of himself, his fingers over your hair tightening and then loosening, suddenly aware of his actions. And you had only taken his tip.
You took him out of your mouth for a second to spit in your palm, then you took him in your mouth deeper; feeling the veins at the bottom of your tongue and lips,
Your hands began motioning at his base, fingers pressed over him, as you tried to wrap your lips around your teeth to avoid hurting him, until he seemed to catch onto your tryings and grabbed your chin, making you look upwards.
“I liked that,” he said, half-gasping. You took him out of your mouth again, looking at him this time to lick your lips and prepare to take him slightly deeper.
“With teeth?” you asked, almost shy. He nodded, surprised even with himself.
You nodded in return, looking at his dick once again. “If it hurts or anything, just say so. Deal?”
He sighed, staring at you already kissing his tip again, but finally—between badly suppressed groans—he murmured: “Yes, baby.”
You took his dick inside your mouth, this time, teeth scraping slightly over his veins as the rest of him passed through your lips, your tongue swirling around him over and over, feeling the way he twitched when your teeth scraped over him and then the sensation was replaced with the hot, wet feeling of your mouth.
You returned to look at him as you finally took enough of him to hit the back of your throat, gagging just for a few seconds, your fingers moving over his remaining length. You moved your hand away from the one he had tangled in your hair and travelled to grab the one he had pressed over your throat.
You guided his fingers until they landed on your side, making him press slightly.
“Is that me?” He asked, a moan escaping him along your name and strained sounds of pleasure.
You tried to say ‘yes’ and despite the word not coming out of your throat, the vibrations fell directly over his dick, making it twitch inside your mouth even more quickly. Looking upwards you realized his closed eyes and the rapid respirations of his nose, his chest rising and falling as his stomach tensed with his back.
You tried taking him deeper in your throat, your nose almost nuzzling his balls, your hands fondling the underside of them and what was left of his shaft. It was almost immediate when he opened his eyes and looked down at the sight of you, his hand tightened around your hair, and the one resting over your throat pressed over your jaw. You could feel him twitching all inside your mouth and tongue, the rhythmic sensation of him being seconds away.
You sped up, not caring anymore if you drooled over him, your hands maneuvered to continue touching his shaft and balls and your lips switching from taking his whole length to taking only his tip in a matter of quick seconds, until he went rigid.
“I want to wait,” he murmured, strained. “I don’t want to cum yet,”
You tightened your thumb and forefinger around his base, simulating a ring and tightening slightly. You didn’t want to take him out yet but you knew otherwise he wouldn’t finish; so despite yourself, you took him out of your lips slowly, a string of saliva and precum still connecting your lips to his tip.”
“It’ll keep the blood in there for a little longer,” you whispered, your voice slightly broken after taking him in your throat. You felt the way he twitched slightly and smiled.
“Or you can wait, that works too.”
“Are you sure it works?”
“Positive,” you said, kissing the inner side of his thigh and beginning to build the trail of kisses up to his waist, where you turned to look at him once again. “And if not, I don’t mind waiting… or getting him hard again.”
He caught your cheek and pulled you in for an open-mouth kiss, his lips full of your taste while yours still relinquished of his pre-cum and you.
“If you keep doing that, I’m going to finish already,” he confessed, still kissing you.
You nodded, aware that he wanted to wait. Your hand shifted to caress his full shaft a few more times as you tried to keep your balance steady while you rose to straddle his hips.
“These have been on you for a long time,” he murmured, his hand already shifting from your jaw to your back, finally undoing the last buttons of your bra and throwing it someplace in the dim-lit room.
His lips traveled from your lips to your jaw as his left hand traveled to pinch your nipple slightly,
“Do you like that?” he asked, nibbling at the skin of your neck, “Want me to do it again?” he asked before you could even answer his first question.
“Yes,” you replied, although your voice seemed to fade with the pleasure drowning you.
He lifted your hips slightly from his body, turning you around to keep himself on top, then he moved himself slightly to open up the drawer, searching for a condom amidst the mess.
He was already ripping the foil off the circular foil when he noticed the expiration date. The dry-spell had taken a hold of him and perhaps, bad luck as well; they had been sitting inside his drawer, expired for a month.
“Fuck,” he murmured, throwing it to the floor.
“What 's wrong?” you asked, not understanding what was even happening—partially because you had never seen a circular condom, and also because he had just thrown it away.
“It’s expired,”
“I might have one in my bag, let me go and see,” you said as you sat down, but he pressed his lips over yours.
“I have another pack in the bathroom I just—” he got closer to you as he said it. “I don’t know how much I can wait.”
You chuckled slightly, pushing him closer for another kiss that turned heated in a matter of seconds. Then, with all the determination he had gathered, he rushed to the bathroom.
You were left alone in the middle of the dark, staring at the ceiling and at the subtle light filtering through the windows, scared of yourself and how easy it felt to stay but wondering if once the sex was over, you’d try to gather your things and leave. You tried to drown the thought, but it continued to linger in your mind.
The thought of him leaving. The thought of him seeing you weren’t fit for him. The thought of him merely realizing you were a fraud all along, and that ‘The Girlfriend’ was too big of a character for you to play, but at least you could give him sex, that requirement you did fit all too well.
Why was he taking so long? Could he come back already? Since when had you become such a codependent person? Fuck! You are independent!—The thoughts continued to spiral in your head when it should have been filled with thoughts of him. Of the man you were supposedly making love with.
Were you fucked up for wondering if he had ditched you? Thrown himself naked to the street because there was no bigger humiliation than fucking you?
Your hands moved to your pussy almost by instinct, your brain plotting for a way to occupy itself. Your thumb began circling your clit as your index began pumping in and out of your hole, and yet, it didn’t feel near as good as when he had done it. You closed your eyes shut and tried to concentrate on the feelings to quiet your mind, but your mind didn’t quiet.
It only added more noise, so much that your ears didn’t register the sound of the door opening and shutting, or of his steps.
“Couldn’t wait for me?” He murmured, your eyes opened and your hands stilled as you turned to look at him, opening up a cylinder of hard cardboard.
“I missed you,” you said with a strained laugh. Your voice heightening up for a second; so you changed the topic. “What even are those?”
“Condoms,” he replied sheepishly.
“They seem fancy,” you pointed out with a soft laugh.
“Yeah, I—” he seemed almost shy to admit out loud, “I buy customs, the regular ones don’t fit me quite well.”
“Oh,” you murmured. Part of your mind went straight into how you bought the three-pack trojans at a gas-station. What were trojans compared to custom ones?
But he misread your silence for judgment, unaware that your brain was already measuring prices while he wondered if he was accomplishing your expectations.
“I’m not surprised,” you said, looking at his eyes and then scanning his body for a fraction, not even noticing you were biting your lip until you caught him staring.
“You were more than I imagined. I’m not even sure if it’ll fit,” you added, making him crawl over the bed and move towards you, his lips finding your own again.
“We’ll make it fit,” he murmured against your skin. “We’ll make it fit, baby.”
He went back to kiss you, until you pushed him away slightly, reaching to grab the condom in his hand.
“Can you let me put it on you?” you asked, eyes focused on his reaction.
“Yeah,” he replied, caught off-guard, then, more securely, he repeated his answer.
You finally grabbed the piece of foil, and pressed your hand against his chest so he laid on his back as you rested next to him for a second. Then you knelt over the bed and turned to look at him, your fingers fidgeting over the edge, opening to find the rubber, wider than any other one you had ever touched.
You pressed the tip of the condom to seal it as the rubber touched his leaky tip, he moaned your name for a second as you continued to roll it down his cock.
“God, you feel incredible,” you murmured with a sigh, turning to look at him aware of what you were about to say. “I can’t wait to have you inside of me.”
“I can’t wait to be inside of you,” he said shakily between moans. His head falling back, “I don’t want to stop until I have you seeing stars.”
You stopped for a second, turning to look at him, sweat adorning his face and body and smaller moans falling from his lips, incoherent enough that you could only make the words “baby” and “fuck” out of them, until he caught you staring, and he became quickly aware that he hadn’t just thought what he moaned out loud. His cheeks reddened almost instantly and he hid his head against a pillow, a groan caught in his mouth and from his lips escaped a strangled moan. For once in the night he couldn’t come to contain himself, you even felt the way his veins throbbed against your palm, even with the barrier.
“Hey, don’t shy away from me,” you grabbed his cheek to make him look back to you, as you began straddling just above his waist. His tip touching the back of your waist. “I want to hear you.”
“Besides, I’m going to hold you to that promise,” you murmured, already kissing his earlobe and neck and positioning yourself right over him.
He took a deep breath as his own hand moved between your bodies to find his dick and give it a few pumps, before he moved it to your pussy. With his tip, he gathered enough of your arousal to coat himself, then his hands grabbed your hips as both of you turned around on the bed, until he was on top of you,
Your hands moved over to his back, nails scraping slightly over his skin eliciting a soft hiss out of his mouth, “‘M sorry,” you replied quickly.
“Don’t,” he replied, pushing himself slightly deeper inside of you, you looked down to see much of him wasn’t inside of you yet, and nevertheless, your eyes rolled back slightly.
“Is this how it went in your dream?” he asked, his hand moving once again over your clit, drawing lazy figures above it.
“Your lips,” you tried to say, but your sentence was quickly broken when he pulled away just to push deeper.
“What with my lips?”
A moan escaped from your lips, and no coherent sentence could form in your mind before running back to the way he made you feel. So you merely placed your index over your lips, hoping—praying—that he got the clue.
“Where they here?” he asked, pulling in to kiss you and pushing deeper inside of you. Lips colliding briefly, muting the sounds of the moans both of you no-longer tried to hide.
“And then?” he asked, already picking up a pace, his own voice beginning to break.
Your hands traced downwards towards your chest, drawing circles over your nipples, then his mouth moved towards one of them, while his hand pinched the other.
“She also wants attention,” he said, almost as an excuse. His tongue flicked over one of your nipples as he gave a light squeeze over the other.
“Fuck—Harry—That feels incredible!” you said, your nails scraping over his back muscles, the vibrations of his moans falling over your skin. “I need more!”
“More?” he asked, pulling away from your nipples just to push himself deeper inside of you—and he wasn’t even halfway through. Then, he buckled his hips even deeper, making you moan loud enough that the echo of your sound reverberated through his department, and that only made him moan just as loud.
Feeling how tightly you enveloped him, how your walls squeezed perfectly over him. He didn’t even want to pull away, but he turned to look at you, your eyes open and your lips slightly agape, as silent pleas continued to fall from your lips still.
He went back to your lips, one of his hand pressed still over your chest, tugging and pinching over your nipples rhythmically while he continued to push and pull inside of you, the other one over your clit, making you spiral then and there.
“Harry,” you said, grabbing his hand, trying to stop him and also for him to never stop. “I’m close,”
“Yeah, baby,” he said strained, a moan falling from his lips when he felt how tight you squeezed around him as you orgasmed. “Cum around my dick. I want to feel you.”
He began to fasten his ministrations, lowering himself once again to kiss your nipples and flick them with his tongue, drowning you in sensations you didn’t even remember where possible.
“Fuck! Harry, I’m—” you couldn’t even finish your sentences, only moans fell from your lips, and equally from him as he continued to touch you.
“I’ve got you,” he finally moaned before trying to steady his voice. “I’ve got you.”
Your orgasm washed over you, making your back arch and your legs to shake, and still, that wasn’t enough to stop him, as he continued to touch you, his tongue never tired of exploring the valley of your breasts, or his fingers to explore your pussy.
And you needed more of him, you hadn’t gotten enough just yet. And he also hadn’t finished.
“Harry,” you moaned, as coherent as your voice could sound. “More!”
“What else do you want, baby?” he said, his hips moving faster, adjusting you to his length and his girth until finally all of him was inside of you. His nose nudging at the side of your neck, as his voice—low and sultry—murmured at your ear: “Tell me what you want to feel and I’ll make it happen. I’m yours, baby. All of this is yours”
Your hand travelled once again from his back to grab his own hand and push it right over your belly, forcing him to feel himself through your skin.
“Feel how deep you’re inside of me, Harry—” you murmured against his ear, the words making him twitch even more inside of you. “I want you even deeper.”
You said, wrapping your legs around his waist to feel him even closer, your fingers still clawing at his back—he had said he was yours after all.
“Fuck, baby—you have no idea what you do to me,” he said through broken phrases, his fingers giving one last squeeze to your nipples as they travelled behind your back, to hold you as it arched to meet better his thrusts.
“Don’t you dare hold back, take it—everything—take everything you want,” he began saying, his thrusts beginning to gain speed. A moan falling from his lips as you felt him twitching inside of you and your own walls spasming around him. Your free hand travelling to his back to press him even closer, and his travelling back to your clit once again.
“I’ll give you even more,” he said, his lips beginning to suck small circles over your skin.
“More!” your head fell backwards as he continued pleasuring you, your mind was blank for a moment—for that second there was no city and lights and noise, there was only you and him and how he made you feel and how you made him feel.
Then, there were no words, only the sound of skin against skin, of your moans and broken words, until he eventually brought you to the edge.
“Harry—” your own words died in your throat, replaced by a moan.
“I know baby, I know—” he said, his own movements beginning to lose motion as he couldn’t hold himself any longer. “Can you wait for me?”
You nodded enthusiastically, pulling him even closer, your own hips buckling upwards to meet him. His forehead falling right over yours.
“Look at me,” he murmured, his dick pushing even deeper that you swore you could feel it in your guts. “‘s not a dream, it’s just me,” you didn’t know if he was telling you or asking you, but either way you pulled him closer, to catch his lips in another heated kiss of tongues and moans.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said half-gasping, for that moment alone you truly believed your voice.
One last time, he caught speed of his movements and fingers, you felt your walls clenching around him and his dick pulsing inside of you, his hands around your body and his lips over your skin, and with one last groan you felt him come inside you, and you clenched around him, finally letting go.
He collapsed over you, his head falling perfectly at the nape of your neck. You could only hear the sounds of your jagged breathing and accelerated hearts, and even the faint echo of your pleasure reverberating through the walls.
“Don’t move just yet,” you protested when you felt him adjusting himself.
“Wasn’t planning on,” he replied, kissing right over one of the hickeys he had left over your neck.
You chuckled slightly and pulled him closer to you, feeling the way he continued to soften inside of you.
With him over you, your fingers draw lazy figures over his back, tracing the muscles and writing his name and your own. His breath, in contrast, soft, disheveled and full of sex fell over your neck as time went by.
“I do need to move now, I don’t want to break this thing,” he murmured against your ear, finally pulling away from you and walking to the bathroom to throw the condom away.
As his steps vanished through the floor you found yourself staring at the ceiling, the voices coming back desperately fast, reminding you of all the hundred times you had had sex and left the bed right after the guy pulled away; that same compulsion flooding through your veins once again.
But the bathroom light shone over the floor and you turned to look at him once again, he had a soft damp towel on his hand, and he walked towards you.
“Here, uhm—” he reluctantly handed it to you, although he wanted to be the one to help. “Can I?”
You smiled slightly at his reluctance. “Yeah,” you said softly, uncovering yourself.
Your mind trying as hard as it could to not break at the fact, no one, in your entire life, had offered to clean your thighs after sex. And you couldn’t deny the fact that it felt way too intimate, like
“Fuck, we—we made quite a mess,” he chuckled, more to himself than to you, his hands and the warm towel passing through your skin. A soft moan escaping from your lips one last time, product of the sensitivity.
“Too much?” he asked, and you shook your head, your body shaking slightly from the sudden loss of warmth. “I’ve got you,”
“It was incredible,” you said with a sigh, but staring at the ceiling you realized how your brain urged you to get him away from you and run, but your heart continued to beat in your chest so relaxed, you wanted to stay there.
After cleaning you, he laid the towel right where the stains had been made. Then, he laid right next to you and pulled you even closer; his arms stretching to cover your back.
“I wasn’t too rough, was I?” he asked, reminiscing the night. His pupils still blown.
“You were perfect,” you murmured against his skin, still smelling of sweat and sex.
“So, was it better than the dream?” he asked, his voice low, echoing against your skin.
“Way better—” you said with a chuckle, opening up your eyes to look at him. “Dream Harry didn’t show me the fucking stars.”
“Awful guy,” he said with his best impression of staying serious despite his voice still being full of sultriness and sex.
“The worst,” you replied with a soft laugh, as he enveloped you with his arms, pulling on the covers over both of your bodies.
“Harry,” you whispered later in the night.
“Mhh?” he replied, half-asleep already.
You smiled slightly before talking, aware of how your own words sounded. “This was the best date I’ve had,”
He smiled to himself for a second and kissed your skin—not caring where it landed exactly—his nose going back to nudging against you gently as he smiled.
“Good to hear,” he murmured before going back to sleep.
“Thank you,” you whispered, and despite closing your eyes your mind didn’t stop rambling.
Once the date was over, and the haze was gone through the air, the thoughts in your mind became louder and louder—loud enough that his touch wasn’t enough to distract you from them.
So you tried to shut your eyes and pretend they weren’t there, holding onto the words you had promised to him about staying, even if staying churned your stomach and worse than it—your mind—and for the wrong reasons, that meant not sleeping at all.
summary: you don’t believe in love, you just write about it convincingly enough to get paid for it. You agreed to go on these blind dates instead of your heartbroken friend and for the column content and free dinners, never expecting anyone to see through it. But then Harry does, and instead of walking away, he makes you another deal.
previous I masterlist I next
wc: 12.6k
chapter warnings: miscommunication, angst, fluff, Harry is literally whipped, internalization, a lot of internal monologue, PROGRESS, sexual innuendos and vulgar language.
His hand travelled to grab your waist and pull you even closer to his body. Both of you smiled through the kiss—you could feel the way the commissures of his lips tilted upwards and his mustache tickled over your skin.
It felt magnetic and majestic all at once. You remembered the hundreds of times you had written and read about moments like such—talking about how ephemerality made them even more precious—you never believed so and you certainly didn’t believe that when you kissed him. If anything, you didn’t want his lips to ever leave yours, so you opened your mouth, lips parting as an open door inviting him to walk in.
Your knees buckled as you got on your toes, his balance shifted ever-so-slightly. Both of you were breathless and drunken into the kiss. He didn’t protest nor resist when your lips parted even more, he melted himself into the caress, chasing your lips as if they were the last source of oxygen in the whole universe. His hands travelled even lower just to carry you slightly, your feet already leaving the snow-covered sand, his lips never losing yours. Slowly, his tongue began caressing your lips, his teeth began scraping over your tongue. Mouths clashing into breathless encounters that continued to echo through the cold-air.
His breath stuttered against your mouth when you finally broke the kiss, foreheads touching, noses brushing, both of you laughing softly as if you were high on each other's reckoning presence.
Snow clung to his lashes now, melting slowly into his skin. Your lipstick was everywhere—smudged at the corners of his mouth, stamped faintly onto the edge of his mustache, a careless constellation across his stubble. You wondered how your lips were looking—judging by the way he kept staring at them, you imagined you were wearing the same map on your skin.
“You’re—” he started, then stopped, blinking at you as if his mind had shortcircuited all at once. “You’re…”
You weren’t helping at all; one of your hands travelled from his neck to his hair, playing with his curls. The other went back to lay under his cheek, caressing his stubble with your thumb like a sacred prayer on a marble statue. Under the moonlight, he looked even more majestic than the best bust a maestro could make.
“Standing right here?” you offered, breathless and smug, licking quickly your lips, tasting the aftertaste of lipstick and his own taste over them. Wine and mint.
He laughed, a quiet, disbelieving sound. “Yeah. Standing beautifully right here,” he corrected. His hand travelled from your waist to your hair, shaking off the gathering snow.
“Would you look at that?” you said, already leaning over his lips. “Chivalry's not dead after all.”
You pulled him closer to your body, slower this time, the ocean and the snow forgotten—frozen in time as the tiny particles floating through the cold humid air. Your lips brushed his—just a tease, just enough to feel him chase it instinctively. He was quick, one touch and both of you were gone, succumbing to the bliss.
He was back to devouring your lips, moans of bliss hidden by the closeness of his lips—yours and his both combined as a perfect harmony. You tried to pull his mouth even closer, and that was when the light hit you.
A sudden, blinding beam cut through the snowfall, white and sharp, sweeping across the beach like an accusation. It caught you mid-smile, mid-breath, mid-kiss. The world snapped back into focus with the sound of boots crunching against sand and snow.
“Hey!” a voice called out, rough with authority and irritation. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
You squinted against the light, lifting a hand to shield your eyes. The beam lingered shamelessly on the two of you—on Harry’s disheveled hair, on your flushed face, on the unmistakable evidence of smudged lipstick that announced what you’d been doing moments ago.
A man emerged from the glow, bundled in a thick coat, flashlight in one hand, the other planted firmly on his hip. Lighthouse security, maybe. Or just some loner who had decided tonight was the perfect night for him to walk through the shore.
“This isn’t a hotel room,” he snapped. “Don’t you have any decency?”
Harry stiffened beside you, shoulders squaring like he might say something, but nothing came out. He just stared, lips parted, still a little dazed, still very much under your spell. If anything, the light only made him look worse—lipstick brighter, expression softer, utterly guilty in a way that made you want to not give a damn about the audience and keep kissing him until the only thought in both of your brains was the sensation of the tangled tongues.
But you knew that would have to wait for another time of privacy. The one on the beach was quick to end, unless someone spoke some sense into the eerie man who had randomly found you on the almost empty night scene.
Slowly, deliberately, you turned your head toward the man, dropping your hand from Harry’s chest only to lace your fingers back into his like you were anchoring yourself to his body, giving you strength
“Don’t you have any manners?” you echoed, tilting your head. “You know, my aunt taught me that it was very rude to pry on strangers. Didn’t your parents teach you so?” You gestured vaguely at the empty, frozen stretch of sand and snow, before raising Harry’s hand over your own, as if asserting dominance.
His jaw tightened. “This is inappropriate behavior.” You glanced at Harry, then back at the man. He had no badge or flashlight. Probably just some guy passing by that couldn’t mind his own business and act blind.
Unluckily for him, you had a bad habit of having an impulsive mouth searching for fights and an even unluckier streak of getting together with guys who thought kissing was overrated and instead went straight into the matress—you might’ve let it pass if only they were a bit good on their abilities, but most of them were all bark no bite. Now, it was an understatement to say that the man’s interruption to your kissing was the reason why your veins were heating up from passion.
“Is it? I thought it was pretty normal—don’t you have a wife? a girlfriend? Perhaps not, did we make you jealous by any chance? If so, don’t worry… someone will come into your life. One day you might have what we have.” You pulled both your arms into your chest as if mimicking a fighting position. “Just hold on tight”
Harry made a small, helpless sound next to you—undistinguishable between a laugh or a gasp. You felt his grip tighten, like he was bracing himself or trying not to let go of you for a second.
The man scowled. “Watch your mouth.”
“Oh, trust me,” you said sweetly, “I was. Very carefully,” you added, turning to look at Harry who only turned a brighter shade of pink in embarrassment. Then, your eyes travelled back to the intruder. “Until you interrupted.”
For a second, the only sound was the ocean and the wind and Harry’s barely-contained laughter shaking through his chest. You could feel it against your arm, warm and real.
The man sighed, clearly regretting every life choice that had led him to this exact moment. “Just—take it somewhere else. This area’s monitored.”
You nodded solemnly. “Of course. We wouldn’t want to disturb the multitudes in here.”
You tugged gently at Harry’s hand, already turning away before the man could respond. The beam of light followed you for a few steps, then finally clicked off once both of you got inside of the car, leaving the night to fold back in around the vehicle. Without a word to mediate, he just started the engine, turned to look at you for a second and started the engine, driving through the shore.
You thought he’d go back in a second, after all: there were lights adorning the trees. But he seemed to have no intention of it, he just kept driving.
You pressed your lips together, debating if asking the question floating through your hair was worth it. “Aren’t we going back?” you asked, turning to him.
He looked at you estranged, as if the answer was obvious. It was, that was your problem with it—you knew he wasn’t turning back but you didn’t understand why.
“You left a string of lights there,” you said, turning from his eyes to stare back at the road. “You’re just leaving them there?”
“I bet the man turned them off,” he said quickly. The air got as thick as the fog over the margins in the windshield glass. “I saw no light through the rearview when we left.”
You nodded your head silently, not sure of what to say. You hadn’t even turned to look at him, your own heart kept beating through your ribs with uncertainty.
“I thought we were having a moment,” you said nervously with a chuckle, unsure of which was the correct way of bringing up everything that happened moments ago.
He nodded, a tiny smile adorning his lips. “We were, before that man interrupted us.”
“He’s probably gone by now, we could go back and—” you took a chance with the red light and moved slightly closer to him. “—spend a few more minutes there.”
“I don’t think I can go back after that,” he said with a soft smile which ironically made yours disappear. “Not after everything that happened.”
“He was the one snooping,” you said, more defensive than what you thought you sounded. Harry exhaled through his nose, one hand tightening around the steering wheel. “Yeah, he was.” He didn’t add anything more, and you were left to your own thoughts.
You laid tightly against the backrest, unable to let go of his words, your mind continued malleablazing them. You turned your head towards the mirror, your reflection meeting you like a damned doppelganger: matching eyes, matching hair, matching smudged lipstick on your chin and lips.
You fixated on that, suddenly ashamed of the way the red fell over you, you hadn’t even thought about the fact it was you who had kissed him; and then the questions plagued your head like a tickling bomb waiting to explode: Was he ashamed of you? Was he ashamed of what you had done?
Not wanting to think about that or anything at all, you closed your eyes and moved your head slightly closer to the coldness of the window. The palm of your hand moving to clean your lips of any remnants of lipstick—of any possible evidence of your stupidity. You were the unbeliever after all, if anyone was supposed to be embarrassed about love demonstrations, it should’ve been you.
And yet, you rarely find yourself embarrassed in front of strangers. That was why you had accepted the fake dates after all, you could deal with rejection from people you didn’t even know. You didn’t care about them and they didn’t care about you. Finally you closed your eyes, and urged yourself to fall asleep before tears mapped through your face.
You were in the Alamo drafthouse in downtown Brooklyn, telling a blurry man-figure you hadn’t watched any of his four-favorites: American Psycho, What we do in the Shadows, Pulp Fiction and Uncut Gems. He didn’t even ask you which ones were your favorites, you didn’t match his so he had no interest in knowing yours. You entered the movie theater in silence next to him.
The light of the ice-cream parlour was hitting hard over your eyes as a man instructed you in line next to him; a different man-figure this time, blurry-face and different voice. He told you he absolutely despised mint-chocolate, you told him that one was your favorite—it wasn’t—he didn’t care about any other word, suddenly both of you were polar opposites. You sat down in a small booth down the back. He said he was going to the bathroom, he never came back.
A different man came instead, the booth merged into a park bench; once the park bench disappeared you were walking in the park with another man, once that one left you were ice-skating. You were bowling once the other guy left you, you were in another restaurant, and then another, and another. And all the times the guys left and you didn’t care.
It was all a game of play-pretend with them after all; then you were in front of another restaurant. You walked inside with wet soles because you didn’t care about anything but the articles that came out of it. It was a game of play-pretending after all.
The blurry man in front of you didn’t do much, he stared at you—you couldn’t see his eyes but you knew he was. He made you laugh. He was taking more time than most men usually took. You tried to embarrass yourself, it didn’t work.
“How’s life treating you?” the figure asked, you stared at your reflection through the glass of wine because you knew no man asked that kind of question. When you turned back to stare at him and give him a hefty look that would throw him off—the man was Harry.
He was wearing the same smudged lipstick you had over your reflection in the wine-glass. His head slightly tilted, eyes studying you with meticulous precision, as if you didn’t even need to answer before he already knew what you were going to say.
“Do you want to dance?” He asked, tilting his head to the side: a wedding unfolding in front of you. Now he was wearing a suit, you looked down to yourself, almost trying to hide from him—you chuckled when you realized what you were wearing: a sky-blue silk dress and Jimmy Choos.
You turned back to the dancefloor, everyone was jumping and spinning to a distorted pop-song that you didn’t quite know, you turned your eyes upwards seeing your reflection in the broken mirrorball spinning round and round just like your head. “Aren’t you embarrassed to do that?” you asked him with sarcasm.
He sipped on his tequila again, resourcing to liquid courage to allow the words to simmer pass his lips. “That’s why I’m drinking—I’ll be too drunk to remember in the morning.”
You frowned, chuckling as your eyes found its way back to the tablecloth. The room felt unstable—like the edges of it were crumbling down as you spoke. The glass on his hand rippled slightly, alcohol trembling as your own heart continued beating unsteady.
“This has to be a dream,” you said suddenly, not sure if you said it out loud or to yourself.
Harry blinked—you realized you had spoken out loud. “What?” he asked nervously, as if he couldn’t quite see it yet.
You smiled to yourself, relieved more than surprised. You pinched the inside of your wrist. There was the sting, sharp and unmistakable, followed by a strange echo of glass shattering; the memory of pain lingered unspoken in the eerie realm.
“I’m dreaming,” you repeated, lighter now as relief washed down on you.
The lights flickered. The walls bent inward for a second before settling again. Harry didn’t disappear or blur but the rest of the people did—they didn’t quite disappear, you could somehow hear their voices and laugh under the faint sound of the music, but they weren't there anymore. And even though he hadn’t faded into the dream, the scenery changed and you were suddenly in his arms, middle of the floor, swaying under the shadows and lights of the mirrorball’s neon lights.
“So,” you went on, almost amused at how everything changed, “this is my brain’s version of you.” You looked up from his shoulder, your mind depicted him with excellence, all those times admiring him from a distance had paid off somehow. “Imaginary Harry,” you echoed, softer, laying on his shoulder once again.
His mouth twitched, but not into a smile. If anything, he looked nervous. The music began growing, you turned to the dj, there were only vinyls moving in ghostly sync, you smiled to yourself remembering it was all a dream and turned back to meet his eyes. He opened his mouth as if preparing himself to say something—he didn’t—instead he hesitated. He hesitated for so long that the song finished and you began questioning why it had taken so long for your subconscious to make up words for him to say.
“I get embarrassed,” he said.
You laughed softly. “What?” His hand descended to rest over your waist and his head rested on your shoulder as if he was unwinding and tired. Your hands instinctively crawled him, setting over his broad shoulders as you pulled him closer. “Is that everything you want to tell me?” you asked,
“No,” he said quickly, his chuckles reverberating through your collarbone. “I mean—yes, but not like you think.” He pulled back, trying to see you clearly, then he flushed as if unsure what to say; he ran a hand through his hair, curls falling back into place in that familiar way that made your chest ache even in sleep. “I don’t get embarrassed because of people watching me—us. I get embarrassed because sometimes I feel like I’m not supposed to enjoy those moments and people know that.”
Your smile faded, and yet both of you continued moving through the dancefloor. “I’ll say something,” he continued, voice low, careful, “or feel something, and it’s like I can hear myself too loudly. And then I think—why did I do that? Why am I like this? I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing and then I feel like a stupid kid all over again.”
You stared at him, something tender and sharp blooming behind your ribs.
“So you wanted to be with me because of that?” you asked quietly. “Because I embarrass myself so much that you don’t even have to feel embarrassed for yourself?”
That made him flinch, a pained expression of realizing how far silence could twist words.
“No,” he said immediately. “God, no. It’s the opposite. You don’t shrink. You don’t apologize for existing. You just are, and I like who you are but it also scares makes me realize I can't do that.”
The dream shifted again. The door of the barn that was staring at the greenery of the ceremony dissolved into the shoreline, snow falling in piles, the ocean waves frozen.
You tugged at the lapel of his suit, moving him from the dance floor to the beach, until you were standing again, the cold biting at your cheeks, Harry in front of you, closer than before.
You crossed your arms. “You’re excuses are very convincing for someone I made up.”
He huffed out a breath that turned into fog. “I’m trying.”
“What?” you asked.
“To say it right.” He replied, with an honest smile.
The snow slowed. Each flake hung suspended, glittering like it was waiting for permission to fall. Harry looked past you, toward something you couldn’t see.
“We’re here.” The words landed heavier than they should, and you didn’t know why. You pulled him closer, trying to make sense of the words rummaging through your head. “The song’s not over,” you ended up saying, turning your head to the barn you had just walked from, the wedding reception covered in sand, snow and sea.
You leaned over his shoulder, pulling him close. “I know you're upset, but you should know you would never embarrass me,” he repeated.
Something shook your shoulder lightly, “We’re here.” Harry repeated but his voice didn’t seem to come from his mouth, instead it came from the edges of the beach.
Something shook you again. He disappeared, and you opened your eyes.
He was next to you, in the car. The city lights of Manhattan shining bright—almost blinding you. You turned to look at him, slightly startled.
“We’re here,” he repeated himself. The hum of the engine softened underneath his voice. You turned your head to the opposite side, looking through the window at the Tribeca building.
“Oh, yeah, right—the vinyl player.” The words fell from your mouth rushed, you were quick to unbuckle your seatbelt and get out of the car. Too certain he would leave and everything unsaid would remain just like that.
He unbuckled his seatbelt and walked to the backseat, opening the door so he could help you with the heavy furniture, even when his palms were sweating from the words still lingering through the air.
He carried the vinyl player on his arms, painfully lowering it as if he was doing weights just to keep his field of vision. You grabbed your bags and walked upstairs until crossing through the glass door into the warm air of the lobby. Harry left the lights of the car on indicating he might take some time—but that time wouldn’t be forever. With every step you took through the corridor you began facing the fact he wouldn’t stay long, and despite every emotion amalgamated into some strange pressure over your ribs, you knew as well that the nerve his words had struck wouldn’t hurt forever.
You waited for him on the other side of the elevator as he continued pushing the wood furniture past the metal barricade, you pressed on the button to keep the door open one more time until both of you were inside and the heavy doors closed in a whooshing sound.
You had already pressed the button to the thirteenth floor, keys rumbling through your hands as you fidgeted with the same keychain you had toyed with during that meant-for-catastrophe first date.
You avoided his eyes and his presence whatsoever, you needed time to figure out what you felt and what you didn’t. The elevator finally dinged and once the doors opened, you didn’t care and you walked past him quickly, holding yourself together as best as you could afford to do.
Your apartment, luckily, wasn’t far away from the elevator door and with him waiting next to you, you rushed to place the key inside the lock and finally rushed into figuring yourself in silence.
You walked inside and he waited by the door’s margin. “You can leave it there if you want to, I’ll move it in the morning.”
“No it’s fine, where are you placing it?” he asked, walking through the door into the foreign space.
The kitchen was first, then on the end was the living room, a floor-to-ceiling window with natural light, the opposite side full of bookshelves that spread through the hallway: three living rooms. your aunt’s, yours and the one designated for guests despite being once an office.
“I’ll just leave it in my room until I figure out how to reorganize the living room furniture,” you mumbled quickly, nodding your head towards the side you’d walk to so he could follow.
“It’s really pretty in here,” he said. You could see from your peripheral the way his head moved to scan every wall and surface.
You nodded in agreement, unsure of what to reply. To your luck, you didn’t have much to say once you arrived at your room, you turned the door handle and turned around to face him. He was a millimeter away from you and you realized he hadn’t removed the smudged red over his lips.
You tried to look away as you walked backwards to create distance. “You can leave it right here,” you said quickly before walking to the small nightstand next to your closet to grab a bottle of makeup remover and a cotton pad before walking back to him.
He had just left the vinyl player next to a few packed boxes near the entrance, holding his arms together so the tension could begin fading from his muscles. You touched his forearm and he turned to look at you.
”Here,” you said, pressing the damp cotton over his fingers. “So you can, you know, clean your—“
He grabbed the cotton pad despite of himself, but didn't do anything with it. Instead he gave a step into your direction. ”Are you upset?” He asked.
”No,” the heightened edge in your voice revealed more truth than your words did. Harry was aware of it, after all, he was one of the first to notice that flaw about you.
”I’m sorry about what I said,” he said honestly. Throwing the cotton pad to the small trash can on the corner, proving his lack of care for the smudged red on his face. “I mean it—everything I said in the car—”
“What did you say in the car?” You interrupted, turning around and walking closer to him—almost defying.
He took a deep breath, recalling the words he had used before to prove his point. ”That I get embarrassed—“
”And you feel like you’re doing things wrong, like a dumb kid,” you echoed the words as you remembered them, realizing quietly that the apologies weren't byproducts of your dreaming.
”I thought you hadn’t listened,” Harry said with a soft smile.
”I didn’t know if I had made that up in my dreams,” you answered with a faint smile that either way continued to hide shades of hurt.
”You were dreaming about me?” He said, smug as ever, as if nothing had happened.
”Don’t flatter yourself,” you chuckled while walking closer, suddenly shy to touch him. You stopped walking suddenly and instead stepped back—rethinking what words should leave your mouth.
“We should talk about this, right?” You signaled with your hand between the both of you; he nodded in response as you lowered your hand and sighed under your breath.
“I can’t stay here otherwise they’ll put me another fine that I can’t pay,” you confessed in a breathy chuckle.
He nodded for a few seconds, your eyes raised to watch him as he cautiously thought about his answer, biting the inside of his cheek in the meantime before he finally said: ”Would it be okay for you to stay in my place then?”
The smirk that was already drawn on your lips as a byproduct of his presence grew wide at the sudden opportunity to flirt with him once again.
”And do what exactly?” You asked, finally gaining enough courage to give one step to his direction.
“Whatever you want,” he said, voice more soft than flirty. He allowed the words to breathe between you—open-ended, risky and honest all at once—making your chest ache and lighten at the same time.
You looked at him for a moment too long, debating if you actually wanted him to leave your room at all. “Give me a few minutes,” you said finally, already walking backwards as if standing still would make the weight of everything unbearable. “I need to grab some things. You can wait for me in the living room if you want, sleep a little even.”
He nodded immediately, hands lifting in a quiet surrender. “Yeah. Take your time.”
He disappeared down the hallway, footsteps slow as if trying to remain as close to you as he could. Then you quickly closed the door to your bedroom and began rummaging in silence and quiet panic when you realized you had to understand your feelings on your own.
Harry stayed where he was for a second, then exhaled and let his shoulders drop. The apartment felt different without you in it—still warm, full, artsy in the way he always pictured when you talked about it—but without you, every space seemed quieter. Loneliness crept at his back like a held breath he had forgotten he continued to hold.
He wandered into the living room, careful not to touch too much, eyes tracing the details instead. The apartment hadn’t changed ever since you saw it for the first time when you were a kid and spent your weekends through its hallways—once it belonged to you, you tried your best to keep the memories of the past alive. Stacks of magazines and books spilled across surfaces—some neatly arranged, others just trying to hold onto the space. Margins crowded with notes, sticky tabs blooming like paper flowers from spines.
A small map next to the TV of the living room with a map covered with tacks, next to a fading post-it in a writing that wasn’t yours: ‘New York’s a city for everyone! Tell us where you visit us from…’ Most of the pins were from the US, some others from Mexico, a few more in South America, Europe and Asia.
Harry walked to the kitchen, it was simple. He opened up the fridge just to find it empty. There was a framed newspaper clipping hung slightly crooked on the wall near the cabinets, paired with a photograph of you much younger, laughing at something out of frame.
The city lights outside painted everything in amber and blue, softening the edges. Once again, Harry drifted toward the bookshelves, scanning titles absently—recognising your name through the different spines; until something unfamiliar caught his eye.
A small wider box sat tucked between two volumes of poetry anthologies, half-hidden like it wasn’t meant to be found but not trying to hide itself either. He pulled the box gently, staring at the engravings in the front and the golden embossing of the word ‘Tarot’.
He smiled faintly to himself when he remembered your story in the car, wondering for a second if that might’ve been the same deck that you had once trusted undoubtedly.
You came back a few minutes later, hair slightly damp from the bathroom sink, tote bag slung over your shoulder, coat folded under your arm. You stopped short when you saw where he was standing.
“What did you find?” you asked, noticing he had a small rectangular figure on his hand—you thought it was a book until you noticed there were no dents of paper in between the spines.
Harry grabbed the box and placed it over the coffee table, moving the candle—the one he had gifted you—and the magazines aside. Forcing your eyes to meet with the letters over the thick cardboard.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no bite in it. “They’re my aunt’s,” you clarified; as if those words could make your feelings meaningless and your reaction invisible.
You sat your bag down on the floor carpet and sat next to him on the couch. “I kept them because they were hers. Not because I—” You trailed off, waved a hand vaguely. “You know.”
He did know what you would say; you were a walking contradiction and he knew that as much as you did. You had called it a phase during high school, you believed in all of that back then, and now, you only believed when faith could shield you from the pain of reality; when telling yourself you were loveless could be justified by a damned deck of cards and not because of the possibility of an intransigence love.
He leaned back against the shelf, arms folding loosely. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.” You defended yourself.
“Is it?” he asked, tone mild, curious rather than challenging.
You glanced at the box, then away. “I don’t believe in things blindly.”
“No,” he agreed with sarcasm. “You’re very selective.”
Silence settled—not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. You busied yourself checking that you had everything in your bag, keys, notebook, phone, computer… Harry watched you move around the room, familiar with your rhythms by now in a way that surprised even him.
Habits had spilled over both of you as if you had known about them your whole life.
“You ever use that deck?” he asked casually, like he was asking about a book you hadn’t gotten around to reading yet.
You paused before replying a small, dry: “No.”
He nodded absentmindedly. “But you know how,” he said.
The words were more of an affirmation than a question; still, you doubted for a second—not because the statement was true or untrue but because you felt like you could be honest with him. Your gaze fell onto his profile through your peripheral vision before traveling back to the ceiling lights, then back to the box over the coffee table.
“Yeah,” you murmured.
He nodded once, like that was all he needed. Then, after a moment he grabbed the cardboard box and passed it to you, “Humor me.”
You laughed softly, almost incredulous; yet, after everything the universe had conspired for you, you might have as well started believing in anything.
“You’re impossible.”
“You’ve said that about yourself too,” he replied, and you knew you couldn’t fight him on that.
You closed your eyes for half a second as you laid back on the couch; seemingly tired to hide the fear crippling on your eyelids, then you opened them again—searching for his gaze—he was still patiently waiting for whatever your decision was. You felt the second your lips quivered into a soft smile of giving-in.
“One card,” you agreed, grabbing the box and taking the lid off of it. “Any requests?” You asked while taking out the small instruction-sheet and the booklet with the information of every card.
“No,” he said, shifting in closer to you. “Will you draw one for you as well?” He asked softly, almost nudging you.
You didn’t know what to reply at all, the only answer you could afford to give him was a half-crooked smile as you stared at the box; once acknowledged it seem to feel heavier between your hands, as if the cards were made of steel sheets instead of thick paper—you didn’t know how much you could hold them without them opening you whole.
You looked back at Harry—still waiting for an answer—he thought for a second you might have not heard his question, that you were already channeling the required concentration to perform the reading. So, he resorted to not saying anything, and in fear, you accompanied his sentiment.
Finally, you knelt by the coffee table and brought it closer to both of you. The movements were careful, reverent despite yourself. You signaled the space on the carpet next to you, he quickly descended to make you company without further protests. You placed the cards softly against one another—paper sliding through the wooden surface—a sound you hadn’t heard in years but recognized instantly.
It brought back memories: unpleasant and pretty ones, you tried to ignore them, and yet as you continued mixing the cards in your hands they came back, piling one over the other as the paper slid thoroughly.
All those times you shuffled the cards and hoped for anything but the damned five of cups; all those times your friends pulled out packaged hope and love while you kept stuck in a loop of uncertainty that you didn’t even want to believe in but resorted to doing so. After all, pretty lies were everything one could resort to believing in when the truth was so ugly it had to be hidden with more awful fallacies.
You shifted your vision once again, looking at Harry who was looking back at you with soft eyes. Suddenly the present was even more nonsensical than your past. You tried to ignore the feeling in your guts—tried to feel as if having the same man you had tried forcing into dislike you, across from you, the same night he had confessed he liked you, was normal.
You continued shuffling slowly, methodically, praying for muscle memory to guide your hands, then you sorted to split the deck into three piles.
“Do you mind if I go first?” you asked, almost doubting the way your voice sounded. “So you can also see… how I usually do this.”
He simply nodded, a soft smile drawing on the corner of his lips, making you smile as well.
“You basically pick one,” you said as your right hand moved over the three different piles.
Ever since the first time you practiced tarot, you always picked the deck in the middle—you thought that it was grounded, methodical, almost as if it was the only option that made sense of something unexplainable. You were about to grab it once again, feeling the sensation wash over you: the five of cups once again damning you; some bittersweet self-fulfilled prophecy.
The neighbor’s dog barked once, and the startle made your hand shift slightly towards the card on the right, your fingers caressing the soft matte paper. There was no going back.
“Shouldn’t you start again?” Harry asked as you grabbed the pile of cards.
“Fate is fate,” you said with a chuckle. “Besides, I’ll get the same card again so, it doesn’t matter.”
The barking became a faint whisper through the walls in a matter of seconds, you tried to keep your concentration as you drew the top card of the pile.
For a moment, you just stared at the drawings of the back of the card. For the first time in your life, you weren’t sure if you truly didn’t mind getting the same fate once again. You closed your eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and finally, turned the card—scared of how easily the only pretty lie you had remaining could become the ugliest truth you could uncover.
You placed your hands around the paper, shielding it from his view.
Harry leaned in slightly—almost teasingly. “What is it?”
You swallowed with confusion as you placed the paper over the edge of the table. “Death.”
He winced, staring at the cloaked skeleton under the inscription, you felt a weight being lifted from your shoulders.
You shook your head, a strange smile tugging at your lips. “It’s not what it sounds like. It means there will be changes or transformation,” you let out a quiet breathy chuckle, “I’ve never pulled this before.”
You slid the card back into the deck and closed the box gently, still not fully aware of what had just happened. You tried to put an end to it, otherwise, you felt you might lose your head.
“You still have a chance to get out of this,” you said suddenly, once again shuffling the whole deck of cards.
He blinked before he gave you an ear-to-ear smile. “I don’t want to. I started it after all.”
“Oh and you always finish what you start, now?”
“When haven’t I?”
You thought about saying ‘the beach’, but decided not to; instead, you shuffled the cards once again, repeating the same movements your body had already performed. Placing the three small decks over the table and waiting for him to pick—wearing in your face the same patience he had shown you before.
He picked the one in the middle, you placed the other two decks aside, and waited for him to grab the card.
The Star appeared in front of both of your eyes. He stared at it for a whole second and you stared at his reaction; finally his eyes lifted from the piece of paper and went to meet your gaze.
“What does this one mean?”
You leaned closer despite yourself. “The meanings vary, but it’s mostly hope for the future.”
His smile widened once again, “Then I guess we’re both lucky?”
A smile grew in your lips as a response despite the words being unable to flourish from your lips.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Harry’s place received you with the familiar warmness you had gotten used to. The after-smell of the candle you had picked still lingered through the air even when the jar was more wick than wax.
Despite studying every theory about love so many times, you lacked enough practice to know how to lead the conversation towards the unasked question—when you wrote about it, you talked about creating an environment, about settling a mood and creating expectations.
‘Bring Flowers. Be romantic. Create big gestures’ You knew they were more lies than truth, but you figured writing fiction about something that would never happen to you wouldn’t have repercussions. So you waited, fidgeting with your fingers as the dim lights of the kitchen continued shining.
“What are you doing?” you asked instead, trying to keep your focus on the rattling sounds of pans and pots instead of the questions roaming your brain.
“I asked if you wanted tea back in the car, you said yes.”
“Oh, yes,” you replied, trying to put together all the pieces missing in your mind. Pretending you hadn’t been absent-minded ever since you left your aunt’s place.
“Are you okay?” he asked, stepping aside from the simmering kettle and walking towards you. Leaning into the edge of the kitchen aisle. The faint glow of the outside moon and the warm glow of the kitchen lights shining over his factions in an ethereal glow.
“Yeah, just a little tired,” you said quickly, stepping backwards just to shield yourself and him. You licked your lips as he went to grab two ceramic cups from the cabinet, You tried to occupy your mind by biting the inside of your cheeks—keeping your mouth shut so the words stacking on your throat wouldn’t come out like daggers.
“What are we, after today?” you ended up saying, too sharp and way too quick for your own liking. You didn’t know exactly what you were supposed to do. There were way too many words in your head, too many worries.
He shifted in silence, walking back to you with practiced ease. You hated how he seemed unaffected by the same feelings messing up your brain.
“What do you want us to be?” Harry asked, forearms pressing over the kitchen bar, you walked backwards almost impulsively—two steps forwards were enough to force yourself to keep your feet grounded in place.
You opened your mouth and stood silent for a second, thanking the kettle for saving your skin. He poured the water over the ceramic and handed you a box of Tea Forté, you grabbed the first pyramid you saw and placed it inside the tea.
“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “I just—” You let out a breath, fingers pressing tight into the warm ceramic. “I know we can’t go back to what we used to be, but—”
You cut yourself off, shaking your head, trying to rewrite the still-forming sentences inside your brain.
“I mean,” you rushed, words tripping over each other now, “we’re dating?”
It came out half-statement, half-question; like you were trying to see if the word would break in your mouth, or elicit some strange reaction out of him. At first, everything was silent, you quickly sipped on the hot tea, the taste of berries burning your tongue accidentally as you realized you didn’t mind the tingling sensation at all.
Harry was frozen in place. Not in a dramatic way—just enough to show you he was as startled by the phrasing as you were. His brows drew together, confusion and care tangled in his expression.
“Uh,” he said, then paused, clearly recalibrating. “Yeah. I mean—” He glanced at you, searching your face for something solid. “If you want us to be.”
“So, am I your girlfriend?” You asked with a soft smile of nervousness.
The words fell out before you could stop them, bare and unprotected, like you had tripped over them on the way to saying something else. You immediately hated how small they sounded once they were out in the open—how much weight you had accidentally put on a word you’d never tried on before and suddenly you couldn’t hold back either.
Harry blinked and sipped on his own cup of tea. Not because he didn’t like the idea—if anything, naming what was happening would’ve been easier—but the speed in which you said everything caught him off guard. One moment you were taking three steps back and the next one you were taking a leap while he had just figured out where he was standing in the race.
“I—” He let out a breath, soft and uncertain. “I think… yeah.” Then he winced slightly, as if that hadn’t sounded right. “I mean—if that’s what you want. I’m not trying to rush you into anything.”
You nodded too quickly. “I’m not— I don’t feel rushed,” you said, even though your chest felt tight, like you’d been holding your breath for too long. “I just… I don’t know how this is supposed to go.”
He tilted his head, a soft smile on his lips. You could still see the shadows of lipstick over it.
“Supposed to?” He asked, almost as if you were talking to him in a foreign language.
You laughed under your breath, rubbing your thumb against the rim of the mug. “I don’t know what this should look like,” you said with hesitation, then added quietly, “I’ve written about it. Interviewed people about it. I can tell you exactly why most relationships fail and how narratives around love are constructed and sold.” You huffed out a breath and pushed the cup forward. “But actually being in one? That’s—” You searched for the correct word. “I never thought it could happen to me.”
Silence stretched again, but this one felt different, it was filled with things neither of you quite knew how to say. You wanted to open your mouth again, tell him to forget it, that you’d figure yourself on your own and bring him the finished piece after, but he didn’t let you talk, instead he opened his mouth first.
“I like you,” he repeated with ease. “But I don’t really know what this is supposed to look like either.” He hesitated, then added, softer, “I’m not great at this stuff.”
His words surprised you. You looked at him more closely, noticing the way his shoulders were slightly tense, the way he kept glancing at your face like he was afraid of misreading it and scared of saying something wrong.
“But you’ve dated before,” you said with a chuckle, trying to disprove his theory and assure him he wasn’t committing any mistake.
He smiled despite rolling his eyes kindly—more teasing than bite. “Yeah, but I’ve never felt what I’m feeling right now.”
You studied the words for a second, almost palpable through the tea’s fog and the thick air. “So you’re scared too,” you said. The statement, more a hypothesis than a question, sat like simple syllogism awaiting to be disputed.
He sighed as if caught and didn’t deny the whispered allegations. “Yeah,” he said simply, eyes fixated on the apricot warm tea-bag lingering in his cup.
The admission sat between you, wrapped in air, fog and air—fragile and honest—as every secret that ought to be exchanged.
He raised the cup to drink and hid the quiver in his lips, downing the warm water as it could give him strength; the bitter aftermath of the smallest leaves resting over the tip of his tongue. “But I still want to try.”
You smiled back at him, moving the cup aside so there was nothing separating his hands and yours.
“You know, I’ve never understood why people bother with trying if something could still go wrong,” you began saying; hands stealthily moving to grab him—squeezing his hands just once to remind him you were still there, listening. “But I want to try this with you too.”
He grabbed your hands then and lifted them up until his warm lips rested over your fingers, pressing a soft kiss over your skin.
There were no words exchanged anymore—they weren’t needed. He walked from behind the bar to meet you, and for the first time in the night you took the first step towards him without a second doubt in your mind.
Both of you smiled at the proximity, his hands moving from yours to linger impossibly close to the back-side of your waist.
“So, we’re dating.” You said finally, more a statement than a question in spite of the doubt lingering in the reverberation of the word.
You moved your hand to settle it in the back of his head, pulling him closer one more time to feel his lips over yours and try to quiet the turmoiling thoughts in the back of your mind.
His lips stayed on yours for a second longer than necessary, you didn’t comply once he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. Proximity was intoxicating.
“We’re dating,” he mumbled softly, as if the word was still a strange language he learned from you—and yet you didn’t know the true meaning behind it.
You nodded, smiling, even as something tight coiled under your ribs. Dating. A word that implied mornings, and continuity, and being seen after the lights were off. Full of all those dreams you had never dreamed of, and of those nights you had run away from.
Somehow, having something so close to you and so tangible felt so strange, the questions tangled all together before the words could manifest; and unsure of what to do or not do, ask or not to ask. You shut every emotion in the depths of your chest, after all, it was probably just initial shock.
“I’m going to take a quick shower,” he said after a beat, thumb brushing your jaw in an almost-accidental way. “You can make yourself comfortable. You know this place is your place as well.”
He pressed one last chasté kiss over your lips before you watched him disappear down the hallway, listening to the muted click of the bathroom door and, a moment later, the rush of water filling the apartment with white noise.
You exhaled and threw the tea-bags in the trash before placing the white ceramic in the dishwasher. You turned then and stared at the reflection of the place through the kitchen window—layering with the outside lights like some picturesque strange watercolor dream.
Without him there, the silence floating through the space felt louder. You knew he rarely spent time in his own home, you often teased him about having a space so big for only one man. The words he said, about that space being yours as well, felt strange. Everything that inhabited his place felt so foreign to who you were that you couldn’t believe the words.
You wandered—more out of restlessness than curiosity; after all, you knew his place well. You walked through the bookshelves behind the couch, tracing the edges of bookspines about topics you didn’t understand and countries you hadn’t visited. Sometimes, after a few titles you stumbled across some classic that reminded you he wasn’t so different from you—that thought calmed your restless brain for a second, until you stumbled across some decoration you knew was more expensive than anything you could afford and your brain began moving on autopilot measuring every interaction once again.
Once the white-sound of the shower stopped, you decided to place your computer and leave it charging for the night over the desk in his bedroom. You waited for him sitting in the reading chair behind one of the couches—turning the small lamp on and closing your eyes.
Until you remembered: You hadn’t even brought pajamas.
You stood in spite of your tiredness, walking to knock on the bathroom door to ask him if he had some long-sleeve he could lend you and some pants as well—after hours of wearing the same pair of tights your skin was itching for something loose to cling on. Harry told you to pick something from the cabinets inside his closet, almost every item of clothing was worth thousands and despite your eyes gleaming at the variety, guilt clinged nevertheless over your fingers while caressing the different tags.
You ended up grabbing a pair of wide cotton pants—oversized even for him, and a simple white longsleeve, and trying to race against the time he had left before coming back from the shower. You placed the clothes over the bed as you removed the layers of clothing you were wearing.
You were halfway into pulling the white long-sleeve over your head when you heard the bathroom door open.
Steam spilled into the room first, then his steps. You turned around to look at him.
Harry walked in with a small towel over his shoulders catching the drops of water falling from his hair—black long-sleeve clinging to his torso, boxers low on his hips, hair still damp and curling at the ends. The fabric hugged him in a way that felt almost unfair to only stare at, like the shirt had been tailored just for him to wear and for you to stare.
You scoffed, recovering fast from the awe and turning it into a chuckle. “Of course,” you said, arms crossed. “Even your underwear is Boss.”
He blinked, then looked down at himself like he’d forgotten what he was wearing, then smug as he always was he went back to look at you with a smirk in his lips. “Oh, so you were staring?”
Your smile got wider as you continued looking at him, eyes travelling down one last time before meeting his gaze once again.
“I’m not blind,” you murmured quickly, lips quivering upwards in a grin. And feeling that the warmness prickling on your skin was no longer a consequence of the seeping steam, you rushed to redirect the conversation.
“Does every single thing you own cost more than my rent?”
He smiled a pained-smile because he knew how quick you were to bring money into the conversation, and how quick you were to try and disprove how different both of you seemed to be. As if a river separated both of your worlds even while you were standing in the same room.
“To your surprise,” he began, voice low but devoid of any seriousness—as if he was waiting to say the punchline of a joke—. “Some of my socks are under that budget,”
“Some?” you asked, disbelief condensating into chuckles that escaped from between your lips despite yourself.
He walked to sit at the edge of the bed, right next to you. His eyes swiftly setting over your gaze, and yet, your eyes drifted away from him—unintentionally—forcing you to notice the surgical scars on the side of his knees. Fading symmetrical lines settled over the skin of his thighs, and right next to the joint: two dots.
He caught your gaze almost immediately, and you stopped your hand from caressing his skin.
“You’re going to be cold,” you said instead, tilting your head to look at him once again. “Walking around like that.”
“I’m fine,” he replied easily, eyes drifting once again to look at himself. “I don’t get cold that fast. Besides, the heating’s on.”
“That’s good,” you said, tone light, teasing just enough in a quiet attempt to bring back a softer look in his face. “Because you look really good like this.”
You noticed how his ears flushed pink and his smile hid self-consciousness—you couldn’t be quite sure what was the catalyst, yet, something told you it might’ve been the secret lingering between both of you, and the fact he didn’t know that you already knew.
“You do too,” he said quickly, a smile covering his lips in an attempt to hide his feelings.
“Yeah?” You asked, already crafting some other comment that would elicit some kind of chuckle from him. “So I only look good when I’m wearing your fancy clothes?” you said with a teasing smile as you got close to him.
The comment came out bitter-sweet, a joke polished with sarcasm, but the insecurity underneath the words was very real. You felt it immediately, like you’d stepped too close to the edge of truthfulness.
He chuckled, shifting closer. “No,” he said, soft but sure. “You look good all the time.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest loosened a little. “Romantic,” you murmured with a soft smile, getting even closer to his lips.
“I try,” he murmured with a smile that finally seemed genuine, and you moved closer to him to press a quick kiss on the commissure of his lips. The sensation was still foreign.
Your gaze slipped back to his knees before you could stop it, your hand settled over his thigh almost instinctively so you didn’t lose your balance. Fingertips lightly caressing his skin, until his body stiffened from the proximity and he moved from you.
“Do they hurt?” you asked, turning to stare at him with true worry, a flicker of something guarded in his eyes.
“They’re fine,” he said—more defensive than he should’ve been. “Why?”
You shrugged casually before pulling back just slightly—confused at his defensiveness from what you considered a rather innocent touch. “I just thought the cold might numb your bones a bit. I brought the CBD drops—I was going to ask if you wanted some.”
Relief passed through him in a quiet wave. “No, I’m fine,” he exhaled softly, reaching for your hand and finding crumpled sheets—you were already out of reach. He kept his hands to himself and so did you.
Waves of silk sheets settled between both of you in strange motions as the night lights continued softening through the curtains. Lights dimmed and both of you grew quiet sharing a different kind of silence. Slipping under the covers like it was the most natural thing in the world.
‘After all, you had shared beds before.’ You tried repeating those words over and over until they could finally be truthful, but your mind also knew that you weren’t dating back then, now with the newfound title there was an imaginary requirement to fulfill: The girlfriend.
Harry moved instinctively to the edge, turning around in a quick motion to give you your space.
“You don’t have to,” you murmured, already turning onto your side. “I don’t mind,” you added with a smile even when you weren’t sure if you did.
He turned around to watch you for a second, searching your face, then slid closer. One arm wrapped around your waist, careful, like he was afraid of crossing a line.
You didn’t move, you weren’t eager either. You didn’t shift closer but you tried to not run away.
You laid there, eyes open in the dark while you felt his nose nuzzling over the skin of your neck, listening to his breathing even out, his chest rising and falling against your ribs. You weren’t used to staying or sleeping next to someone you had already established was romantically attracted to you, and now that that was happening to you, it was impossible for you to feel anything but fear, fear that it would end, like all good things do—and that you would eventually show too much of yourself and he’d run away.
The uneasiness quickly made its way to roam over your brain, Harry had only met you as a friend, he barely knew who you were outside of that parameter—he had only seen what you had been reckless enough to show him while you were still in the safety of being friends. But you were no longer ‘only friends’ you were dating. And the problem was that you didn’t know if you could play that part without him realizing he could probably do better or eventually, stop feeling whatever hormones were telling him he should be feeling.
You told yourself you could pretend long enough to give him the fantasy and allow yourself to have one as well; you were good at pretending, and pretending had always been enough.
After all, it was a matter of time before he ended up seeing your true colors and running away. The least you could do was enjoy the time you had and play-pretend that the fiction you wrote could become real.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Morning came quietly, the sun stealthily coming through the blinds just like the cold. You hadn’t rested or slept well at all, your eyelids felt sore and your body heavy. All you could think about was MUSE, the article and the possibility of being taken seriously for once.
Harry had left the bed seconds ago, and you pretended to be asleep as you saw him getting dressed—white buttoned shirt, navy trousers, blazer and tie. You would be lying if you said it wasn’t a sight to behold and you would also be lying if you hadn’t felt guilty for thinking that so early in the morning.
Once he left the room, you grabbed your clothes and walked to the shower, quickly getting ready before leaving and hopefully, learning what exactly would be happening to your job and work-life.
You were washing your face when you noticed, while staring in the mirror, how foreign the woman looking back at you seemed to be. There was the tiniest smudge of lipstick in your tooth and yet, he hadn’t noticed and you hadn’t premeditated it. The puffiness in your eyes wasn’t from crying; even the shirt you were wearing—sentiments that you never thought could belong to you and somehow simultaneously had always been yours—prickling under your skin.
There was a knock on the door, “I’m almost finished,” you said quickly. Turning on your heel to unlock the door, hair damp falling in the towel you were wearing over your shoulders.
The lock clicked off and the door opened, and Harry was in front of you—tranquility in his smile.
“Hey,” he muttered quickly, before getting closer and pressing a quick kiss over your lips. “You’re up early,” he remarked.
“Yeah, force of habit,” you muttered, grabbing all your toiletries and makeup and placing them once again inside their bag. The rattle of plastic against plastic shushing momentarily the thoughts in your head and the fear coursing through your veins.
You turned around too fast, to meet his gaze once again. “You needed something or—”
Harry was unzipping the fly of his trousers, quickly turning to meet your eyes—yours and his filled with utmost confusion and tints of complicit embarrassment—you turned quicker than you should’ve. Fleeing almost as if you were scared, somehow breaking that line was too much.
You turned around and closed the door. Muttering a swift: “I’m sorry” before walking back into the bedroom to grab your clothes from one of the small couches in his bedroom.
The door from the bathroom opened once again just after you had placed the sweater past your head.
“You slept well?” Harry asked, his voice fluttering from the hallway.
“Yeah,” you lied with a smile on your face. This time, the pitch in your voice didn’t give you away. Thankfully, he didn’t pry further.
“Good, I’m making breakfast, whenever you want to go so I can drive you to your—”
“I think the day’s nice,” you said, looking through the blinds before meeting his gaze again. “I think I’ll walk.”
“From Laight to Five?”
“Yeah, it’s not that far,” you said quickly. “But maybe we could grab lunch together,” you said with a smile, hoping for him to agree.
“I can’t, I’ll be at the FiDi offices today—I wouldn’t make it in time,” he said, a soft smile on his lips. “Dinner?”
“Dinner,” you agreed. “I’ll go there in a minute.”
He nodded with a smile and left the room. You turned your head towards the faint sunlight coming through the blinds—casting soft shadows over everything. You walked to the desk to unplug your computer, when you noticed the picture in the frame on the edge of the surface—Harry next to his brother, both of them dressed in light blue gowns—graduating.
The low-side of the picture was cut with imprecission, a small inscription under the wood: “Go forth and set the world on fire.”
You grabbed it without much thinking, caressing the polished wood with your thumb. You heard the faint sizzling sound of oil against the pan and thinking you had enough time, you tried to take the picture out of the frame.
You walked backwards to sit on the edge of one of the couches in his room—the picture between your fingers wasn't cut but bent—the other side taking the illusion away from their tallness.
Harry looked younger, no mustache nor stubble covering the skin around his lips. His gaze was softer, less stress accumulating behind his pupils and more dreams adorning his irises. A boyish grin taking years off of his face. Pride and tiredness over his shoulders. The diploma in his hands awarded him with honors.
“What are you doing?” the voice startled you even when it sounded far. In spite of yourself, you jumped slightly, holding tighter the photograph, the edge of the paper creating a slight cut over your index finger. You grabbed the crumpled clothing laying on the floor and placed it over the photograph.
Harry entered quickly, phone in his hand and stress settling over the lines in his forehead. He grabbed his hair with the opposite side of his hair, trying for it to remain styled despite his rough steps.
He lowered the phone, and grabbed your chin so you were on the same height when he kissed your lips.
“I have to leave right now, they have a problem with a stock portfolio,” he said quickly—almost rushing the words out of his lips with urgency.
His gaze shifted towards the rest of the room. “Make sure to not forget your laptop,” he said finally, squeezing your shoulder with tender playfulness before leaving.
The echo of his voice, still discussing stock markets and money, disappeared through the empty hallway; your hands, in concert, acted quickly to hide the fact you knew more than you told. And as soon as you finally heard the front door closing and his warm voice leaving the place, you walked outside of the bedroom to be received by the same walls that once without him—seemed cold as the city’s air.
You split your way to 5th avenue between metro stations and walking sections. The numbing-cold air snickering through the scarf and sleeves, leaving you a cold shivering mess, yet, in your head you figured making Harry public knowledge would only make his unstoppable absence worse.
The office didn’t change much in the weeks you hadn’t came in—the only difference you caught was the front desk, having a small turkey plush for the thanksgiving celebrations—besides that everything seemed just as you remembered.
You scanned your card at the elevator and entered through the whooshing doors, your body no longer trembling from the cold aftershock but rather the anxiety that came with change, you held the strap of your bag stronger, until your nails were pressed tight against your palm, and only until the metal doors opened, you let everything go.
The hallway to the direction of the main cubicles seemed different, Holly’s office was empty, her name no longer engraved on the front door and the desk was cleared, the nostalgia crept your head with anticipation, with the hope that despite the odds and doubts, your article could be good enough.
Someone touched your shoulder as you continued staring through the glass, you jumped slightly before turning around and meeting Gabi, who quickly pulled you into a hug.
“Shit’s been crazy since you left,” she murmured against your ear.
You laughed, genuinely thinking she was exaggerating. “Everything looks the same to me,”
She pulled back, staring at you for a second with mortification. “You didn’t get the emails?”
“I haven’t checked my work mail at all, Why?”
“Come, you’d better want to sit down when you read this,”
Both of you walked to your desks, you sat down and she stood back, staring at your movements. Your hands shook slightly as you began searching for notifications and emails.
You didn’t even know where to begin which:
Subject: Litigation Notice – Unfair Dismissal Claim Holly Lee v. MUSE
“Is she suing the company?”
“Yes, but worse than that—she’s suing the entire Eros team,”
You paused for a second, trying to think about anything yet nothing came to mind.
“Can’t we counter-sue? We have proof, I mean—her email appeared on the page, the money malversion…” you took a breath before scrolling through the next one marked with the important tag.
Subject: Internal Review Notice: Verification of authorship regarding EROS section
Your heart skipped a beat before you even clicked over the letters. You didn’t even want to read whatever was written.
Dear Eros Journalists,
This message is to formally notify you that the Human Resources and Legal Affairs departments have initiated an internal review concerning recent allegations related to the misuse of artificial intelligence tools and potential authorship irregularities within published editorial content.
As you may be aware, the company is currently responding to external legal claims asserting that AI-assisted writing practices were used broadly across the editorial team. While no conclusions have been reached, MUSE takes allegations of plagiarism, misrepresentation of authorship, and violations of editorial integrity extremely seriously.
At this time, no employee is being accused of misconduct.
However, in order to protect both the organization and its contributors, we are implementing verification measures to establish clear authorship records. These steps are precautionary and intended to ensure accurate documentation in the context of ongoing legal proceedings.
All writers, editors, and contributors are asked to submit supporting materials that may help demonstrate individual authorship practices, including but not limited to:
Please submit materials via the HR portal by November 27th. If you are unable to locate older materials, note this in your submission as well or request direct contact with HR for their assessment.
We understand that this request may feel unsettling. Please know that these measures are being taken to safeguard the professional reputations of our writers and the integrity of the publication as a whole.
If you have concerns or require further clarification, you may contact HR directly or request a confidential consultation.
Thank you for your cooperation during this process.
Sincerely,Human Resources DepartmentMUSE
Once your eyes finished reading you turned to Gabi, unsure of what to reply or think about everything you had just learned.
“I mean, they have to notice we didn’t plagiarize anything. We’ve always cited sources even before Holly, and we’re paid to write, of course we’re going to write well!” You paused your ramble for a second. “Have you uploaded anything?”
“Some papers I wrote during college, a few articles”
“I don’t have any journalistic papers,”
“You don’t?”
“I mean—the ones I wrote in college, but after it, I wrote fiction for years until I ended up here.”
“It doesn’t say anything about not submitting works of fiction, it’s just—”
“No, I know,” you interrupted. Of course you knew, you had fixated on those words over and over. “But, my writing changed over the years. I tried to keep myself away from all that, I used a pen-name and most copies don’t even have a picture.”
“They can’t be that bad if they got you a job here,” Gabi assured you quietly.
“What about the section chief contest,”
“They haven’t said much about it, my guess is they’ll try to sort this out and push the contest for Valentine’s”
“Because we’re not stressed enough during February," you chuckled bittersweetly. “And in the meantime?”
“We still have to put out articles—all this craze is meant to stay here. Holly was forced to sign an NDA but she continues to throw shade at all of this, so it’s better we act as if nothing happened.”
“So, same thing as always? Send seventy percent of the work to the editors every week?”
“Until they say otherwise,”
You sighed, closing the tabs and staring at the screen with tired eyes.
“Well, so much for having a week of rest.” You chuckled.
“It’s good to have you back either way,”
“I’m glad I’m back—well, I was, until I read those emails.”
“Also, I mean, not to be nosy but I wanted to ask—” she paused her words, a smile drawing in her face. “Who was that guy?”
“Which guy?”
“The man who took you to lunch all those months ago,” she began and you continued staring at her with confusion. “Oh come on! The guy who almost combusted when he thought you were dying,”
“Oh, that guy.” You realized there was no point in hiding Harry, people had seen you with him before, yet when the words that should have come out of your mouth began forming in your head you noticed you were incapable of saying them out loud. Somehow saying it felt like a lie.
“Are you dating him?”
“Yeah,” you said with a smile.
“And what's it like? Is he treating you nicely?
The smile in your lips betrayed you before the words left your mouth. “He’s amazing,” you said truthfully, “And he treats me nice—we’re actually grabbing dinner tonight,”
“Ugh, I didn’t even want to know that!” She said, faking disgust to make you laugh. “What’s his name?”
“Harry,”
“As in Harrison or as in Harold?”
“Does it really matter?” you laughed, estranged at how quick she had come up with the question.
“Well, for starters one’s more moanable than the other,” she pointed out, as if the fact was obvious.
You chuckled incredulously, hiding your laugh with the palm of your hand in order to not startle the rest of people. “Well, he’s just Harry.”
“Even better then,” she said with a flirty smile as you opened your document to browse through the pending works.
“Well, I’ll leave you to your work.”
“Thanks,”
“I’ll be honest—I’m glad you’re dating, at least this way you’ll stop yourself from marrying your writing,”
“If a guy were to be as the ones I wrote about I would have a shiny rock on my finger as we speak,”
“And is Harry?” she asked, already walking to her side of the desk. “Is he one of the guys you wrote about?”
You paused. Truth be told, you didn’t know. Your characters were perfect—too perfect, that was their flaw. Harry was perfect even while being imperfect, that was a quality you had rarely explored until your latest; most criticized works—the same ones he enjoyed. You had never waited for some man to come into your life, you had played with the idea; toyed with the fantasy; had encounters some nights. And somehow, you had never summoned into your imagination a man like Harry.
He wasn’t like the men you had met during fake dates, he was no walking caricature of the eccentric millionaire either. But he wasn’t like the men you had written either, he was different—he was real.
“I guess I’ll have to find out,” you said with a soft-smile that tried to hide uncertainty and the weight of so many questions and burdens you didn’t even know how to carry.
You read the title of the almost-finished article:
“When romance becomes a deadline: urgency, measurement and the pressure of finding love”
And as you continued to read through the lines of your previous writing, you wondered if it was possible for your past-self to warn you about whatever was happening through your head.
You knew you were rushing to romance everything, you knew you were doing it because the quicker you called it a relationship the sooner it would end. And you knew those thoughts might not even condense into reality, but your brain didn’t care about it. Your head had already decided that you were running counter-clock, and it was a matter of time before he noticed you weren’t the kind of woman he wanted.
You tried to summon those thoughts away to focus on your writing—trading a worry for a worry. You bit the inside of your cheek as you continued reading through the lines of how harshly you wrote sometimes. You began thinking as you continued descending through the sentences that was why everyone preferred the lies, they were better, they didn’t hurt your ribs, they didn’t make you feel relieved once the lunch hour arrived.
And they surely wouldn’t make you feel confused when a call from him arrived.
They say it's your birthday (we're gonna have a good time)
Harry Castillo x fem!reader
summary: it's your boyfriends birthday and to celebrate, you've planned him a few surprises.
wc: 7.2k
content warnings: SMUT (MDNI), birthday sex, porn with little plot, fluff, PiV, unprotected sex, oral sex (fem!receiving and male!receiving), lingerie kink, established relationship, frottage, praise kink, wall sex
Ever since Harry and you began dating you knew you had hit the jackpot with a man like him. He was attentive, funny, charming, he liked keeping you on your toes with every surprise he organized for you; bouquets every other date, homemade dinners, even vacations in other countries.
On paper and in your mind—he was the most perfect depiction of a man, but Harry Castillo did have a bad habit that drove you crazy every other time, it was actually two habits that had slowly merged into one.
He lived life fast and sometimes, he thought his money could fill all the spaces where his presence wouldn’t linger. At first you didn’t notice, or at least you pretended that it didn’t matter, he still made the effort of taking you to fancy restaurants and giving you jewelry everytime he thought he had fucked up the relationship. But slowly, the apology turned into a force of habit that didn’t move you.
You thought you’d break up with him because of it—but you realized your heart still skipped beats every time he came home tired and still managed to kiss you before falling asleep; so you decided that it would be better if you spoke it out first.
He told you the truth about many things, about his fear of falling in love and actually feeling everything he was feeling, and about his leg-lengthening surgery and his way of thinking. You confessed as well everything that you felt and surprisingly, he understood you and he tried to change.
But there was still an old habit that Harry continued to falter on—living slower. Of course, doing so in the city was difficult. He thought that because the city never slept neither should he, you had grown up up-state, fewer noise and more time. And sometimes you wished he could take time to slow things down.
So, once you were out drinking with your mutual friend group and one of his closest friends mentioned how his birthday was coming up you felt your heart shrinking. He hadn’t even mentioned it. In all the months you had been dating he hadn’t said the date, ever. And worse than that he confessed that he had forgotten, and with the time he had left for the day he doubted he would do something special—or something at all.
Which was the reason why you decided to call in sick for work on his birthday and spend the week before shopping for the special day.
He always left for work early, his birthday wasn’t an exception—so when he came back to bed to gently nudge you to tell you he was leaving, you kissed him, whispered “good birthday”, and made him promise you he’d come home early so you could share a cake.
Once the sound of the main door of his department clicked shut, you began moving.
The morning light spilled through the living room windows in thin, golden stripes, and for a second you stood still in the middle of the place. Despite January being cold, there was sun peeking through New York's skyline—perhaps the universe’s gift for him.
He had left coffee already made for you, always thoughtful. And with that in hand you pulled your laptop and began checking everything on your list. This wasn’t like one of Harry’s surprises—grand and fast and expensive for the sake of impact. This was slower, built piece by piece, just like you wished he would learn to live one day with you.
You had made a spreadsheet, covering every aspect of the celebration.
The rooftop of his building was the easy part. After all, it was cold—so with help from your friends you pulled the awnings and rented an equipment of open-air heaters.
By midday, you were out the door, hair tied back, tote bag slung over your shoulder, city noise swallowing you whole. You had ordered canapés and food from his favorite places and yet trying to cover every possible palette he could be craving; sashimi, rice bites, tacos, pizza, sliders—even the flaky pastries from a bakery he claimed to despise yet, every time you got them, he stole more than one bite. It was clear as air that what he despised was waiting.
You ordered so much that you doubted if you should buy trays for the guests to take as leftovers, you ended up doing so, somehow that felt right. It was a surprise birthday after all, and spending one time a year wouldn’t hurt a fly.
The cake came next. You could've taken the easy route and just bought one, however, you also wanted to make something from scratch for him. You came back to his department and left all the food aside, cleaning the kitchen before giving your all to bake the recipe you had memorized already from all the times you had secretly made it in the past week.
Harry’s sister-in-law, Charlotte, had insisted on helping you before her husband and your boyfriend came over. When you heard the doorbell ring, you knew mid-afternoon was already settling.
“Oh my god!” she said, leaving her things on the sofa by the living room and entering through the kitchen. “You made him a cake?”
“Yeah, he never likes the ones from bakeries,” you said easily—proud of remembering something from him.
“What flavour is it?” she asked curious, walking to look at the station you had created of bowls full of dough and frosting.
“Vanilla sponge soaked with citrus syrup. Mascarpone filling, fresh berries and topped with glass sugar.” You said from memory, as if saying it out loud meant you could finally forget the thirteen steps it took to make the filling correctly.
“He’s a lucky man,” she said, picking up the dirty dishes and piling them in the dishwasher.
You called his parents again before getting ready, they knew your plan already and knew what they would do: They would insist on trying to cut him some leverage on his birthday to send him home early and luckily not tired enough for his celebration.
“Don’t worry,” his mother had said, voice conspiratorial despite the years of running a business together. “We’ll handle him.”
And they did. You imagined it easily: them insisting he take the afternoon off, disguising it as concern, reminding him that work would still be there tomorrow but his birthday wouldn't. That tonight he should celebrate. You pictured the confusion on his face, the way he’d probably try to argue before giving in, always respectful when it came to them.
When you came back into the kitchen to help Charlotte arrange the canapés and food in the silver trades, both of you quietly catching up about life.
“I also brought the gift,” she said mid-conversation. “I can’t believe I had to hide it from Peter as well—they always tell each other everything.”
You laughed at her comment and excused yourself to walk to the kitchen and check that everything was organized the same way you had left it before. And there it was: a travel box for his clocks and ties, engraved with your handwriting—along with a vintage gold Rolex, the back engraved with your writing: “always worth the time.” The same words he reassured you with every time you thought you were rambling were going back to him and becoming shared.
“What do you think? He’ll like it, right?” you asked, staring at the black box in which his gifts would be waiting for him.
“I think giving men things is difficult,” she sighed and you nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, and then they say we’re the complicated ones,” you joked again, turning to meet her eyes as she laughed.
It was even more difficult to get something for a man like Harry, someone who has no scarcity, no evident desire for something tangible: no wallet, perfume or home-decor could be better than what he had already. You wanted to give him something valuable instead of something worthy—the same reason why you had a second gift already prepared for him. One that no one besides you knew about.
“But I think you did a really good job,” she reassured you with a smile and you felt the knot in your throat untighten. You were quietly holding onto the thought that everything would be perfect.
The rooftop decoration took longer than you expected. You hauled up folding tables, strung warm lights along the railing and turned on the heaters. Laid out the food carefully on the tables. You set up a small mixology bar—his favorite tequila, fresh herbs, citrus, handwritten recipe cards taped down so they wouldn’t fly away in the breeze. The city’s skyline stretched endlessly around you, loud and alive, but up there it felt like a held breath.
You brought the cake last, adding more berries and a few leaves of mint around the snowed fruit. As the sun dipped lower, your phone lit up with his name, you felt nervous and anxious all at once when you saw the incoming phone call.
“Hey, you’re coming home already?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.
“They kicked me out,” he said, incredulous. You could hear the smile in his voice, the confusion underneath it. “Can you believe that?”
You laughed softly through the phone. “Well, I did tell you to come home early. It’s your birthday after all—they can’t overwork you on your birthday.”
“I know, I know,” he sighed. “Actually, I was thinking maybe we could go out? Dinner somewhere nice?”
You hesitated just long enough to sound thoughtful. “Actually,” you said, voice casual, “why don’t I take you out? My treat.”
There was a pause. Then, warmer, softer: “Okay. Should I change?”
“We can discuss that once you’re here,”
When he came home he was on a phone call with a guy from finance. You didn’t care and silently kissed him. Once he finally ditched the phone call, he went to his bedroom and placed a quarter zip-up and a coat. You were already dressed in polar black tights, a little black dress and a jacket.
He was spraying himself with perfume when you came in to check on him. Peter had texted you that most people were there already.
“So, how are you feeling, birthday boy?”
He chuckled and turned to you, “Can you even call me ‘boy’ when I’m pushing fifty already?”
You sighed, “well, I think it has a nicer ring than ‘birthday grandpa’ but sure—suit yourself.” You chuckled, and he only pulled you closer, staining his lips on the red of your lipstick.
“Well? you didn’t tell me how you’re feeling,” you insisted on asking.
“I’m good,” he said, picking up his wallet, phone and keys from the entry bowl.
“Good?” you asked with a soft laugh. "Not excited or filled with an unexplainable amount of joy?"
“Well, I’m not tired.” He said it as if the absence of an emotion that shouldn’t be there in the first place was something good.
You grabbed his hand once both of you begun to walk through the door. “Oh, I forgot to tell you—someone came by in the morning to tell us to check on the monitor in the roof-top, that’s it’s been failing on this floor.”
“We can check once we come back,” he insisted with a smile.
“But what if we can’t come back because of the thing?” you asked, feigning confusion.
Harry stopped right there in the hallway, keys dangling loosely from his fingers. He looked at you over his shoulder, tired lines faint but visible around his eyes, confusion overtaking whatever mood he’d been in moments ago.
“Where’s the thing?” he asked, voice low, practical, already strained from the day.
You hesitated just enough to sell it. “Uh—on the monitors, I think. Or… something on this floor?” You winced a little, deliberately. You hadn’t planned on him asking many questions. “They didn’t really specify and I forgot to ask. Sorry.”
He closed his eyes for a brief second and sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Not annoyed—just exhausted.
“No, it’s fine,” he repeated, softer now, fatigue settling back into his shoulders. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart. If someone mentioned it, it’s worth checking.” He slipped the keys into his coat pocket and reached for your hand again. “The sooner I file the report, the sooner they’ll look into it.”
The elevator ride up was uneventful—bright lights, steady hum, familiar mirrors reflecting the two of you standing a little too close for people supposedly going out to dinner. Harry leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, head tipped slightly as if he were already thinking about what kind of report he’d have to write.
“Honestly,” he murmured, “if it’s just a monitor glitch, they’ll probably—”
He got interrupted once the elevator dinged, and by the time the doors slid open he had forgotten what he wanted to say. Staring at the darkness of the night shining over the rooftop only made him forget even further what his reasoning was.
There wasn't a flicker of light in the place, not from the city or from the moon—everything was muted with the awnings. You had made sure that without the strings of lights the place looked only like a wide, open rooftop swallowed in black, cold air rushing in immediately, carrying the low whistle of wind and the distant sound of traffic far below.
Harry frowned, stepping out slowly. “That’s strange.” He looked up, instinctively scanning for light fixtures. “Rooftop lights are on an independent circuit.”
You slipped your hand from his before he could notice how tightly he was holding it. “Maybe they’re off because of the glitch?” you offered, still playing it casual.
He sighed, tired but unconcerned. “Could be. Remind me to mention it in the report.”
He took another step forward, coat rustling softly. “Careful,” he added over his shoulder. “Watch your—”
You moved to the side, heart racing, fingers finding the cold metal you’d left in that place earlier. Then you quickly twisted the cylinder as the explosion of serpentines came flying over his body and the lights came alive all at once. Warm string lights burst into glow along the railings. Heaters hummed on, pushing back the cold. Soft music spilled into the air. The city skyline revealed itself again through the shadows, endless and bright, framing tables dressed in silver trays, bottles, and laughter.
“Surprise!” you screamed along with everybody. The word echoed from every corner. Friends stepping forward, clapping, laughing, calling his name. His parents near the far heater, his father already pressing a hand to her chest. Peter lifting a glass from the bar as if making a toast to his brother already.
Harry stopped dead, not fully processing what was happening. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. He turned slowly, like the world had shifted just enough to throw off his indisputable balance.
“…What?” he said, breathless, the tiniest of smiles forming in his lips.
You stepped back toward him, smiling softly. “Happy birthday.”
For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then he laughed—quiet, disbelieving, almost reverent.
“You lied,” he said, turning to look at you, but there was no accusation in it. Just awe.
You shrugged feigning innocence. “What?" you asked, despite your voice giving you away completely. "Just a little.”
He shook his head, a smile pulling at his mouth as he looked around again, taking it all in—the lights, the people, the food, the care stitched into every corner of the surprise you had created for him.
“I knew it,” he murmured
“You clearly did not," you said with a playful eye-roll.
He looked back at you then, really looked, and whatever exhaustion he’d been carrying all day seemed to fall away with his exterior suite, in there, with you, he could just be himself unapologetically. He pulled you into him without warning, arms wrapping around you firmly, grounding. His chin rested briefly against your hair.
“Thank you,” he said, low and sincere. Only meant for you to listen to his words. “For… all of this.”
You turned back, quickly pressing a kiss on his cheek, close enough to his ear so he and only he could listen when you said: "You deserve it."
Harry moved through the rooftop at an unhurried pace, stopping to greet everyone properly, listening, laughing, accepting hugs he usually would’ve rushed through. He opened gifts as people handed them to him—his brother got him, his favorite cologne; some friends got him silk ties; books, small sculptures for the apartment, framed photographs. Someone handed him a neatly wrapped envelope and he raised his brows.
“A sauna weekend?” he read, amused. "And it's for two," he said, turning the paper your way as his brows raised in conspiracy, you only chuckled in response.
When it came time for your gift, you handed it to him quietly, away from the crowd. He opened it carefully, reverently, eyes flicking up to you only once before looking back down.
He didn’t read the engraving out loud. Didn’t need to. His thumb brushed over the metal, slow and deliberate, like he was committing it to memory. He swallowed, then closed the box and met your gaze.
“It's perfect,” he said softly, “It's so perfect—you have no idea. I love it. Thank you”
You smiled, and pulled him closer to you once again, "I love you, Harry."
"I love you too," he echoed, pulling you closer so only you could hear him.
Later, the cake was cut and the candles blown out, slices shared between laughter and quiet conversation. He stole bites from your plate like he always did—still not fully believing that you had learned to make a cake just for him. The heaters kept the cold at bay and the city humming beneath you like a living thing.
As the party thinned and friends bundled back into coats, Harry stayed close to you, hand always finding yours. When the rooftop was nearly empty and the lights dimmed to their softest glow, he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. The last of the guests trickled out slowly, Harry walked everyone to the rooftop door, thanking them—really thanking them—with that earnest warmth that only showed when he was genuinely moved. You watched him from the tables, arms crossed loosely over your chest, heart full in a quiet, steady way.
When the door finally shut and the rooftop settled into a softer silence, broken only by the hum of heaters and distant traffic, Harry turned back toward you.
“Alright,” he said, already rolling up his sleeves. “Where do you want me to start?”
You stared at him, standing up from your place. “Absolutely not.”
He paused, confused, brown-eyes gleaming under the soft lights of the city. “What?”
“It’s your birthday,” you said, hands on your hips. “Don’t do a damn thing, for God’s sake.”
He smiled, tired and fond. “I can’t just stand there while you—”
“Yes, you can,” you cut in, already stacking empty trays. “You can stand there, look pretty, and accept that you are being spoiled.”
He stepped closer anyway, reaching for a folded table. “If we finish faster,” he said mildly, “we’ll be sleeping faster.”
You snorted, feigning innocence as your eyes looked mischievously at him. “Who said anything about sleeping?”
He bit his lip slightly, almost hiding it from you out of reverence. The flicker in his eyes lightened and his smile turned into an anticipatory smirk.
“Well,” he replied, voice lower now, “either way, I don’t want to be all alone down there when I could be here, with you.”
You held his gaze for a beat, then sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’ll let you help me.”
Victory flickered across his face and strangely, what you felt didn't feel like defeat at all. You worked side by side, dismantling the night piece by piece. Lights were carefully wound around their spools. Empty bottles were sorted. Leftover food packed away neatly, just like you’d planned. The heaters clicked off one by one, the rooftop growing colder but somehow cozier with just the two of you there.
At one point, you caught him zoning out, hands resting on a table, eyes unfocused.
“Hey,” you nudged him. “Birthday boy. Stay with me.”
He blinked, smiling softly. “Sorry. I was just… thinking.”
“About?,” you teased.
“About how you did all this,” he said simply. “And didn’t once make it feel strange to receive. It’s—.” He paused, seemingly at lost of words.
“Nice?” you offered, smiling softly at him and slowing your steps.
“Yeah.” He replied, an even sweeter smile adorning his lips.
“Good, you deserve it.” You replied, pulling on your toes to give him a quick peck on his lips, he moved the box and laid it quickly on the edge of a chair just to be able to grab your cheek and pull you closer to him. Melting completely in your touch.
With all the strength you had saved you finally pulled away from him, trying to go back to put the rest of the decorations and trays in boxes. When everything was finally packed, Harry grabbed the last box before you could protest.
“I’ve got it,” he insisted. “You’ve done enough.”
You opened your mouth to argue, then stopped yourself. “Okay,” you said instead, already plotting to get the extra minutes to put through the other surprise you had for him.
By the time he came back up after dropping everything off, you were already curled up on the couch inside the apartment, hair loose, wearing soft pajamas and a robe pulled snug around you. The city lights filtered through the windows, dim and gentle now.
He paused when he saw you, coat already off, tie loosened.
“You look…” He trailed off, searching for the right word—he never found one.
He sat beside you, shoulders slumping as the last of the night finally caught up with him. You leaned into him, his arm wrapping around you automatically.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For tonight. For everything.”
You tilted your head up. “I actually,” you said lightly, “have one more surprise.”
His brow furrowed. “Another one?”
You nodded, fingers slipping to the edge of your robe. Slowly, deliberately, you pulled it aside just enough to reveal black lace lingerie beneath. It was his favourite pair, you knew the way it drove him crazy every time he began untying your dress and peeked at the lacy straps. Tonight it wasn’t an exception.
His breath hitched—soft, unmistakable. His eyes dropped for half a second, then lifted back to yours, dark with something playful and warm and undeniably interested.
He let out a quiet huff of a laugh. “So,” he said, voice low, tiredness replaced by something sharper, “I get to see you being sexy? Is that my gift?”
You arched a brow, feigning offense. “So you think I’m not sexy?”
He didn’t hesitate. Not even a heartbeat.
“I think you are,” he said, stepping closer, hands settling at your waist over the robe, warm and steady, “every damn day.”
The way he said it—certain, grounded—made your chest tighten. You reached up, fingers brushing his collar, tugging him just a little closer.
“Well,” you murmured, pulling the robe aside just enough to remind him of what waited underneath, “to clear up your mind—the gift is me. As long as you want. Any way you want. Any place you want.”
His smile this time was slow. Dangerous. Familiar.
“God,” he said softly, forehead resting against yours. “You really know how to end a night.”
He kissed you then—not rushed, not careful. His hands slid with intention, like he had all the time in the world now.
You shimmied out of your robe and began straddling over him. His hands travelled to tangle over the edge of your panties and then upwards, tangled on the trim of the brassier—as if he was debating on undoing the clasps or let the silhouette linger over your body for longer.
His lips began travelling from your lips to your cheek before hiding on the crook of your neck, at the same time his kisses were turning more desperate, more teeth and tongue than lips. You could already feel the tent building between your thighs, and instead of doing anything else, you only tried to move your hips faster, trying to relieve the aching wetness flooding your pussy.
You could bet he could already feel it through the thin layer of underwear and his trousers.
Both of his hands travelled back on your hips trying to hold you steady in place.
“Baby—” He sighed with pleasure, hiding his face on your neck. “If you continue doing that I’m not going to last,”
“As I said, this goes as you want it to go,” you said, pulling your hands to grab his face. This time it was you who was leaving open-mouth kisses on his jaw and stubble. “That means, if you want to cum, you do it. And if you still want to go—” you paused yourself and moved to his earlobe, biting quickly at the soft flesh as your free hand moved to unbutton the buttons of his shirt. “If you want another round, then I’ll make him hard again, and again and again…”
You continued whispering the words as your hips continued to buckle over his lap, your hand travelling from his chest to his trousers, unbuckling them and trying to get rid of the clothing separating both of your skins.
He grabbed your arm then, stopping your movements suddenly before the same hand travelled to the back of your neck and pulled you from his neck to his lips.
“I think we should take this to the bedroom,” he whispered quickly over your lips.
“After this one we can go,” you whispered back before kissing him with your whole mouth. “Then I’ll give him the attention he deserves.”
“Okay baby,” he said reluctantly before settling his hands over your hips and allowing his lips to move over your cleavage. You arched your back as your hands moved to his shoulders to keep you balanced as you continued to straddle him.
“You feel so good,” you said as a soft moan broke through your lips, “Can you feel how wet you make me?” you asked him as your movements became more erratic.
“Harder,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady even when the moans of pleasure and your name continued to escape through his lips like the sweetest melodies. You could barely control your movements as you felt your own high approaching, he could feel it—he knew it in the way your movements changed, and he grabbed your hips stronger, controlling your movements with utmost care as he continued to chase his own relief.
“Are you close?” he asked, you continued to get lost in the pleasure so much that you could only nod in response. His hips began to buck upwards as his dick began twitching in the anticipation of what was to come.
And then, he finally stopped. You could feel the wetness staining his clothes and your underwear and you could only think about how that made you grow in more anticipation for what was to come.
He hid his face on the other side of your neck and placed a few kisses as he felt his high sink enough so he could walk to the bedroom. His hand lingered over the band of your bra, debating once again if he should unclasp it already or wait until the privacy of your bedroom.
“Should we finally take this to bed?” you asked after a few seconds, toying already with the collar of his shirt and with the unfastened tie. “Maybe you could tie my hands with this.”
“Do you want me to do that?” he asked, his hands travelling even lower to caress your thighs.
“Tonight’s all about you honey, whatever you want.” You repeated, voice sweetly from the emotions and the afterglow.
“Whatever I want?” he asked again, as if he couldn’t believe it yet.
“Whatever, wherever, as long as you want—I trust you,” you said with a soft smile repeating your words. Lips moving once again to continue kissing him.
Until he finally grabbed your body and stood up along with you, your legs were quick to settle around his waist as his arms grabbed your ass and kept you closer to his body. His trousers were left in a puddle on the floor next to your robe.
His lips continued to devour yours and your jaw, and every place they could reach for. He continued to make his way towards the bedroom, until he couldn’t stop himself and moved one of his hands to his back and tried to untangle your legs. You pulled away from his lips in confusion.
“Let me have you right here, please,” he said, the voice of a man starved and full of need. “Please,”
You nodded quickly, biting your lip to contain your anticipation. He continued to kiss you, your back crashing against the wall, his hand covering your head so you wouldn’t hurt yourself. His tongue clashing over your teeth and your lips, stealing more moans from your voice and your breath.
“You look so pretty, so beautiful—God—” he continued to say as he travelled down on your neck and your cleavage. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I?” he said, already moving from your cleavage to the valley between your breasts and then your stomach.
“Harry—” you said his name as a plea and as a praise. You wanted more from him. Anything and Everything he could give you.
“No, it’s true—I’ve been a stupid man leaving you unattended.” He said, already kneeling, placing a quick kiss over your thighs and then over the lace bow of your underwear. “Has she missed me?” he asked, looking upwards to meet your eyes.
“Like hell,” you said honestly, your hand moving instinctively over his hair, trying to move the curls hiding the brightness of his eyes.
“Then I should make it up, shouldn’t I?” He said, pulling your thighs even closer and toying with the hem of your underwear
“Harry—” you were beginning to protest, saying how tonight should be all about him
“No, no, I want this—” he insisted, moving your leg to settle over his shoulder and licking your pussy through the thin layer of underwear separating his mouth from your flesh. “Any way I want, right?” he asked once again, making sure you wanted him as well.
He raised himself slightly, trying to reach the hem of your panties with his mouth, then he proceeded to pull it down with his teeth before diving in into your wetness.
“She’s soaked,” he remarked, “And I haven’t even touched her properly,”
“Please—” you whispered, buckling up your hips so his nose aligned perfectly over your clit, bringing you delicious pleasure, instead he held you steadier and began to lap over your folds with astonishing precision. Leaving you a breathless, moaning, mess.
His stubble was tickling with your inner thighs as his tongue began to lap circles over your entrance, your mind blanking in the anticipation of what was to come, of the way every fiber in your body was beginning to be consumed by his touch.
He continued to whisper praises over your pussy, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine. His name continued to escape your lips as a moaning plea of need and pleasure. His arm parted your knees even wider and pulled you closer to his mouth, not letting a single inch of your skin go to waste.
He continuously lapped over your entrance, tongue moving up and down and then shifting to go sideways as his nose continued to move and apply enough pressure over your clitoris to send jolts of electricity down your body. He continued to eat you like a man starved of everything.
“I missed your taste," he said as he continued lapping on your pussy, “You taste so good baby—I don’t tell you enough.”
He pulled himself even closer to your body, moving his head completely so no inch of your body was left unattended, his hands moved up and down your thighs continuing to build the anticipation of everything happening.
He began slurping over your pussy, not wasting a single drop of your orgasm and juice falling through your thighs mixed with his spit.
“Harry—” you said again, voice louder and full of desperation for release. “Please,” you began chanting.
He finally gave in and moved his arm from your thigh to your entrance, two of his fingers plunging in and out of you as his lips began suctioning every skin they could get, his nose continued to nudge over your clitoris with agonizing pressure that had you standing on your toes for more. Finally, after minutes of torturing you through the sweetest of pleasures, he made you cum all over his face, knees shaking and legs barely able to stand.
He held you close, your head lying over his shoulder, his jaw and mustache all ruined with your juices—the evidence under the faint light of the corridor was clear, and even then, as you tried to backwalk on your toes, he continued to toy with one of the straps of your brasier.
“Are you finally taking it off?” you asked, still through the effects of your second orgasm.
“But you look so pretty with it,” he said with a sigh, as you finally entered his bedroom.
“That’s what you always say,” you said, forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed as your upper body fell over his lap, your arm stroking his cock as you began spreading your knees on the floor to get comfortable to kneel and suck him. “And you know what I say after?”
“What?” he whispered, leaning in closer to see you.
“That I think I’d look prettier without it,” you said, toying with the hem of his boxers as you moved up to meet his lips once again.
He smiled against your kiss. “Well, we should test the hypothesis—”
“That’s what you always say after,” you said, interrupting him before unclasping your brassiere so your tits could fall freely over your chest and stomach.
“And what do you say after that?” He asked, you could already see the bulge in his boxers grow bigger.
“I’d rather show you,” you said, beginning to remove his boxers, as your lips began to map kisses through the skin of his knees and thighs, not minding the scars at all—instead, you tried to kiss them even more, trying to make him forget there was some part of him he tried to hide from you once.
When your lips were finally arriving at the end of his thighs and the hem of his boxers, he tapped your cheek once, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I thought we were doing what I wanted?”
“You don’t want this?” you asked, brow raised in doubt.
“I haven’t trimmed,” he confessed with a slightly-embarrassed smile, in return your smirk widened.
“I don’t mind that,” you said before diving back to the ministrations over his thighs and to finally freeing his dick from the stained grey boxers he had been wearing.
"You're so handsome, do you know that?" you said as you pulled yourself closer to him, spitting over the tip of his dick before you took it inside your mouth, your hand grabbing the base of it, guiding it through your mouth as you continued to move your hand up and down his shaft.
He wasn’t fully hard, but you didn’t mind that, you liked to feel how the veins twitched when they passed through your tongue just as his moans left his mouth faster and louder, it gave you a strange sense of control that you loved.
Then, his hand travelled from his thigh to settle over your hair, just as you had begun to find a pace, the sound of your lips sliding through his dick were beginning to fill the room. And he wasn’t fully hard and yet, he wasn’t fully inside of your mouth either.
Your eyes looked upwards to look at him, the way his brows twitched with pleasure and his lips tried to contain every minuscule moan, you tried to take him faster, your head moving up and down his shaft as your free hand began fondling his balls.
Then, when you began feeling he was fully hard, you tried to take him all, holding your breath and hollowing your cheeks as your mouth began sliding through the mix of pre-cum, cum and spit that had been accumulating over his tip, where your lips hadn’t touched him yet, your hand continued to please him. You continued moving, inch by inch, until all of him was inside your lips. You tried to hold the gag-reflex, pressing your hand over his hand to try and keep you in place for more time, that was when moans of your name began falling from his lips accompanied with “please”
“You feel so good baby—” he said finally, voice straining with pleasure, “I don’t think I’m going to last. You’re so good. Fuck—you’re taking me so good.”
The praises were always what disarmed you and what made you want to do everything you could to make him cum faster, to hear another one of his sweet words. So after seconds of adjusting you finally moved again, trying to take his whole shaft at the speed you were taking him before—feeling the ridges of his veins and the way he twitched over your tongue, you knew he wasn’t lasting any longer.
You finally felt the way his dick began twitching just as his thighs began contracting in pleasure, from his mouth, a thousand different curses of pleasure began escaping and the hold of his hand over your hair started to wear down.
You took him out of your lips, a string of spit still connecting you to the still leaking tip, you went in and kissed the soft muscle one last time, before kissing the sides of him and his now-empty balls.
He grabbed your head once again and pulled you towards him, your lips pressing over his once again—his tasting of you and yours tasting of him.
“Can you go another round?” you asked him coyly, already moving to sit on his lap, feeling the way his dick continued twitching under you.
“Baby, I don’t think I can even feel my legs—” he said with a broken chuckle just as you were beginning to call it a day and fall asleep next to him. “But I think I can last one more,” he whispered in your ear and you felt the way your smirk widened once again.
“And what would you want that one more to be?” you asked, tilting your head.
“Your pussy,” he said softly despite the words itself lacking softness at all. “Let me grab a condom—”
“Don’t” you said, grabbing his arm before he tried to reach the bedside table. “Not tonight,” you insisted, knowing he had many times said he had confided that secret to you.
“Honey, are you sure?”
You nodded enthusiastically, “I’ll buy a pill in the morning, don’t worry. Tonight’s all about you.”
You went to kiss him once again, pulling his back to the mattress and feeling the way his dick was starting to harden once again, probably at the knowing that for the first time since you had been dating there wouldn’t be a barrier of latex separating both of you—not that it mattered, but still, there was something in feeling with his own flesh the way your body behaved around his.
It didn’t take much time for him to turn you over, the weight of his body over you as he finally ridden himself from the open white shirt and the necktie—both of those items discarded somewhere in the darkness of the room.
He continued to kiss you, your arms tightening around his back, leaving traces and moving up and down his body, his belly poking softly over your flesh deliciously as the weight continued to nudge over your body accompanied with his caress.
He pumped over his dick two more times before he toyed with his tip over your entrance, the anticipation not hitting him yet, until he finally put the tip in, and you could feel your mind overflowing with every inexplicable sensation.
You wanted more. You needed more of him, you pulled him closer from his shoulder, begging him to begin moving or to give you more, in between incoherent babbles there was no difference amongst your pleas.
He started to enter you slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely as you began feeling the way every vein of his began to get memorized by your entrance, the length, the way his tip twitched in excitement.
“Harry,” you said, grabbing his hand to place it between your bodies and over your stomach, pressing it so he could feel the outline of his dick inside of you. He left a half-moan half-curse seconds before he began moving with excruciating slowness.
His hips clashing over your own, his breath fawning over your neck, his hands caressing over your hair. You couldn’t continue believing he was real and that you were real as well white with him.
Your lips parted, more tongue moving over his mouth and his teeth caressing over your upper lip as his movements began gaining speed, your hand moved from his back to his neck, trying to pull him closer to you and for him to never leave you.
“I’m not lasting any longer,” he said. The hand over your stomach moving down to your clit, as he tried to stimulate it and get you to orgasm with him.
“Are you close?” he asked, lips parting over your neck with open-mouth kisses and bites that you knew would leave marks in the morning—you didn’t care.
You nodded as you felt your high approaching. “Don’t get out,” you murmured quickly when you began feeling the absence of his length inside of you, he only kissed your jaw in response before he went back to put all of his weight on the final lunge that made both of you cum.
His head hid on the crook of your neck once again, not before kissing you one last time.
“God, I love you,” he said softly, just as you felt him begin moving to bring you a towel or a glass of water as he always did. But you didn’t want to lose him just yet.
“No, stay with me,” you protested, “It’s your birthday—we’ll worry about all that in the morning,”
He kissed your cheek once again before shifting slightly to pull at the sheets to cover both of you with them.
His head was facing yours just as you were facing him, you smiled once again. “How’d you like your birthday?” you asked him softly, pulling in for one last kiss for goodnight.
“It’s the best one I’ve had,” he said with a soft smile before he pulled you even closer to him.
He kissed your head one last time before turning on every lamp in the bedroom. All the troubles were forgotten outside the two of you, and unbeknownst for both of you, for the first time Harry had tried to savor the moment without trying to rush it, because the moment was you—and when it came to you all the time was worth it, and for you when it came to him, there wasn’t enough time to show him how much you cared for him.
summary: you don’t believe in love, you just write about it convincingly enough to get paid for it. You agreed to go on these blind dates instead of your heartbroken friend and for the column content and free dinners, never expecting anyone to see through it. But then Harry does, and instead of walking away, he makes you another deal.
previous I masterlist I next
wc: 22k
chapter warnings: indirect mentions of childhood trauma, indirect mentions of toxic family dynamics, mentions of death of a loved one, implied financial problems, some drinking, vulgar language, miscommunication, angst, fluff, Harry is literally whipped, rich people issues, overconsumption, reader eats chicken, internalization, a lot of internal monologue, progress, mention of suicide (kind of an allegory), sexual innuendos and discussion of sex as a topic.
A/N: Happy Holidays and Happy New Year! Since Tumblr won't let me post the whole thing together I had to divide chapter 9 in two posts, so once you're done with this one, feel free to click on the at the end of this chapter that will take you straight to the next part :)
By 10am the three of you were already in the car, wearing three layers of clothing each and shivering, but in the car towards an attraction park nevertheless. Of course, neither Harry nor you knew that the attraction park Phoebe was so excited to go to was around one hour away from your location, and seemingly the girl didn’t know that either.
“Are we there yet?” she asked once again it was maybe the thirtieth time she had made that question since Harry had started the engine—you were still fifty-eight minutes away.
“You can sleep if you want to,” Harry said, “We’ll wake you up when we’re there”
“Why didn’t you tell me it was so far away?” the girl complained.
“Because we didn’t know either,” you chuckled.
“Why didn’t you know?”
“Because we just didn’t know, I’m sorry,” you offered, it was the best answer you could manage to give to her. Somehow it seemed to work when her shoulders loosened up and she turned to look through the window.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, eyes lost on the pavement and the highway.
“What if we played something?” you asked, head turning to look at her.
After a few minutes, Phoebe was already invested in the little game, forgetting completely about how long or short you were to the park; and finally when you were twenty minutes away from the park, she fell asleep.
“Who taught you that game?” he asked, eyes still steady on the road.
“The internet,” you murmured quickly.
You turned to look at him for a second, trying to memorize him completely; the grays in his hair that were starting to appear in the sideburns. The way that there were some spaces on his stubble that resembled circles or hearts or maybe nothing and just like in clouds you had assigned them a random figure. The creases on the side of his neck, the lines in his forehead, the light pink of his lips and the beautiful brown of his eyes—all of it engraved in your mind, until you asked yourself: Why? Why did you want to do that?
“Ask me something,” you ended up saying, trying to see if something else could take your mind away from the questions you asked yourself.
“Something like what?”
“I don’t know, anything”
“You promise not to get mad,” he asked and you shrugged, thinking there was nothing he could ask that could anger you. He sighed before talking. “On Memoirs of a City—”
“You hadn’t told me you had read that one too,” you interrupted, eyes focusing on him.
“You promised not to get mad,” he defended himself.
“I’m not mad, I’m confused—there are only like five copies of that shit—”
“Language,” he interrupted.
“She’s asleep,” you answered in a lower voice, “But anyway, what did you want to ask?”
“The protagonist says on her note that she met love before the ocean and somehow one was more deathly than the other but both were because of him, right?”
“Uh-huh, I remember what I write.”
“But which one killed her?”
“Which one do you think?”
“Both,” he answered, satisfied with his analysis of that confusing short story, “Because, she says love felt like ecstasy and sandpowder; I always read that as she was on drugs,”
You chuckled gently at his words. “When I wrote it I never thought she died at all, I believed that was why she was so violent with her descriptions, she never committed to the part."
“You always said you only wrote romance,” Harry said suddenly.
“Well, I have fifteen other books that are purely romantic and that one was a short-story I published on a local newspaper before a guy offered to buy it and never actually publish it.” You rambled, half-angry and yet, nostalgic all at once.
“Can I ask why you wrote it?”
“Only if you tell me when you read this one and The Quiet Hours, and where you found them,”
“I searched them a few days after the wedding down at the public library,”
“Mhm, okay, I’ll believe you,” you said with a smile, “It’s not biographical or anything, I had watched a play—from my aunt—’Our Eleven Goodbyes’ it’s really good, I think they’re doing a revival of it off-broadway. Anyway, the protagonists have eleven crucial moments in which they should’ve broken up because their relationship’s turning messy by the minute and they never do,”
“So?”
“So the story is kind of the girl reflecting on all of it, how it has kind of hollowed her and how she just wishes she had said goodbye at some point,”
“But then why is it called Memoirs of a City? There’s never a city mentioned there,”
“Right, the big haunting question. Do you remember the name of the man?” you asked,
“Was it Troy?”
“Yeah, remember the Iliad?” you asked, and the second his brows unknitted you understood he had finally made sense of everything. So you continued talking. “I really like that metaphor, about people as cities or countries or some location.”
“Which one would I be, if you were to write me as something,”
“I think New York City fits you already, there’s diversity on the city—romance, thrill, there’s pretty sides and—”
“Ugly sides?” he offered, but of course that wasn’t the word you were searching for. You doubted there was any ugliness in him.
“Underappreciated sides," you said instead. "Besides, I can’t think of many cities with that duality,”
“With which duality?”
“Everyone wants to see New York until they live there. Then, people complain about the city but still everyday there’s at least a thousand tourists walking through its streets—”
“So you think I’m dual?”
“Don’t you think so?” you asked in return, “How many people know the real Harry Castillo, not the finance man, the millionaire, the—”
“The ladies man?” he offered with a raised eyebrow, making you roll your eyes.
“You wish,” you said in a chuckle, “but well, how many know that guy?”
“Few,” he said honestly. Besides his parents and few friends, he could only think of you.
“And which one would you be?” he asked seconds later.
You looked through the window at your reflection on the mirror before you answered, “Lisbon,”
He nodded to himself with a smile on his lips before he muttered: “Beautiful city,”
“You’ve been there?” you asked, turning once again to see him.
“Yeah, 2019. I thought I told you,” he said with a chuckle.
“No—I mean you said Portugal but I don’t know why I never thought it was the capital,” you answered with a smile.
“Why Lisbon?”
“I don’t know—it’s cracked everywhere, it’s nostalgic and it’s still sinking but since it isn’t Venice no one remembers that.”
“It’s still a beautiful city,”
“If you forget it’s just ruins,”
“I think that’s what makes it memorable,”
“Of course, maybe if I’d ever seen it in person—”
“I could take you,” Harry offered, a laugh escaping his lips
“Oh, stop fucking around,” you said, punching his shoulder with playfulness.
Both of you heard Phoebe’s groans and decided to try and stay in silence, united by the mutual sentiment that it would be better if she remained asleep instead of awake at least for the last few minutes of the car ride.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Contrary to the supermarket, finding a parking space there wasn’t difficult, mainly because it wasn’t even midday and most people wouldn’t have agreed to take their kids out on a cold Saturday, but maybe that would change with the time you spent inside there.
Harry was the one to wake up Phoebe after finding a space near the entrance.
“We’re here Pheebs,” he muttered to her,
At first she was a little lost in her surroundings, not even knowing when she had fallen asleep, but at the sight of the panoramic and the fortune wheel she woke up ecstatic.
In front of the line there was only a group of teenagers not older than eighteen, while you waited you turn to the side poster, where the rules for the park were printed next to a map. Harry arrived next to you a few seconds later, after Phoebe had asked him to take her some pictures by the entrance to show her parents once they were back. He was quick to apologize for taking long, you only shrugged and said it didn’t matter.
Finally, the group of teenagers left the booth to enter the park with the red bracelets placed on their hands. That was also the moment where you read the poster in front of the booth that indicated the prices: Adults over 21: $39.50, Regular tickets (ages 2-21): $51.50.
“What the—” you turned to see Phoebe holding Harry’s arm, you couldn’t cuss otherwise she’d make you pay her a dollar, “—duck are these prices?”
Harry chuckled, “It’s fine,” he said to you before asking for two adults and a regular ticket.
“That’ll be 141.82,” the woman behind the booth answered, “Will that be cash or card?”
“Card,” Harry replied quickly, taking out his wallet before handling a dark blue card through the window that disappeared into the low-light of the inside.
Then, the sound of the register flooded the space before the card was returned back with three dark red bracelets that you picked to separate them, handing one to Phoebe, one for you and one for Harry.
“Do you want help?” you asked Phoebe, already crouching to tie the way-too-big bracelet on her right hand. “Just make sure that they can see it, okay?”
“Yes,” she replied happily before pointing her finger behind you at Harry, clearly struggling to paste the edge of the bracelet on the opposite side.
“Let’s go,” you whispered at her before walking towards Harry.
“Let me,” you quickly said, grabbing the edge of his coat’s sleeve to pull his arm towards you.
“No, it’s fine,” he was quick to defend himself, sheltering in the stress of trying until succeeding because asking for help was reserved for kids, not for a man pushing fifty.
But you chuckled—not at him, but at his hesitation and obstinacy, at the end of the day those you wore as well under your sleeve; and he was always the first to see through them, if anything, you were only returning the favor.
“Don’t be stubborn, let me help” you replied with a soft smile, picking up the sticky side of the bracelet before aligning it to the opposite side of the paperish band,
“Too tight?” you asked, eyes shifting from his wrist to his face,
“No, it’s good,” he replied with a soft smile, and you noticed the faint pink wearing on his cheeks—Was that a product of the cold air or your closeness? Only time would tell—you told yourself, despite knowing it was the latter.
“Are you cold?” he interrupted your quiet ministrations over the paper band, you chuckled at the idiocy of the question since the city had been freezing since November arrived.
You finished with the bracelet and let go of his arm. Eyes shifting to look back at his face—still waiting for an answer.
“Not a lot,” you finally answered, “why?”
“Your face is pink,” he replied with a soft smile that he had followed the same logic you had and therefore already knew the answer to the unasked question.
“So is yours,” you said, more defensive than what you should’ve been, after all it was only blushing; if anything it was only attraction or touch-starvation, love wasn’t still in the picture.
“Well, I’m not cold either,” he answered, and of course if he wasn’t cold the mystery of the shade on his cheeks could only be pointed to your presence.
You didn’t deny anything or said anything else, you only chuckled and rolled your eyes, trying to hide the fact your heart felt warmer and the smile on your lips got wider.
“I’m hungry,” Phoebe said as the three of you passed an open-air foodcourt,
The three of you walked towards one of the few food courts inside the park, Phoebe wanted Pizza, you wanted Mac and Cheese. Harry insisted on still being full from breakfast.
“I feel like it’s just a permanent state fair, don’t you?”
“I’ve never gone to a state fair,” he said in response.
“What?” you asked, almost turning in your heels from his words, “Never as in like really never?”
His head moved from side to side and before he continued talking you spoke instead. “I used to love state fairs when I was a kid, there was this ride I loved called Gravitron or something but it spun you really fast,” you chuckled, by that moment you were already next in line to order, “—So fast you didn’t feel anything, I remember I used to turn myself upside down,”
“Is there one of those in here?”
“I didn’t see anything on the map, but if there is one you have to go with me—It’s the best thing ever I swear,”
“Don’t you get dizzy?”
“No because it’s anti-gravity forces, so physically you don’t feel anything at all because of the gravitational pull of your body against space,”
“Oh, really?”
“I’m not sure I just made it up right now, but it sounded smart, right?”
“Totally,” he teasingly remarked, his smile widening only made you smile even more.
Finally your turn on the line arrived and you couldn’t help but stare at his lips cautiously as he talked; until sanity took a hold of you and forced you to look away and even then, in spite of yourself you looked back once, then twice and then you lost count of how many times but you did know there were one too many, and that was beginning to scare you.
You hadn’t even finished half of your food when she was already begging to go and play. Harry was drinking his coffee next to you—two creamers, one sugar—it seemed that when a professional coffee bar wasn’t nearby, that was his way of taking it.
“You can go on without me, I’ll find you,” you offered, you thought that otherwise Phoebe might combust from boredom.
Harry turned his head sideways, “She can wait a few minutes,” he murmured. His hand, warm from the coffee, went to cover your wrist for a second, trying to soothe all your worries away before they began forming.
“But what if the park—” you begun protesting.
“It won’t happen, I assure you that her day won’t be ruined if you take ten more minutes to finish your meal,”
“You don’t know that,” you began to obstinate. But he cut you with a soft chuckle:, before saying “She won’t.”
Once you were finished and Harry had disposed of all the trash while you asked Phoebe which rides she wanted to go first, the three of you decided to finally explore the park.
There was a mock-up Eiffel tower near the first ride Phoebe went on, a small rollercoaster that was more of a train-ride but was either way exciting for the girl, Harry and you waited over the fence for her to appear every lap. She’d scream ‘Hi’ or wave her hand at you only to pretend the next lap she didn’t see you and was instead searching for the two of you through an imaginary multitude—it didn’t matter what she did, any decision made both of you laugh.
Once she had gotten off of the ride she pointed to the next: the bumper cars, another attraction in which she walked alone and both of you decided to wait for her by the exit sign.
This time Phoebe’s voice was absent, but instead what could be heard was the sound of the loud beep of her small cart every time she tried to make her way through the other few vehicles. Harry laughed first, trying to hide his chuckles on the collar of his coat,
“What?” you asked, trying to understand what he was laughing at.
You turned to see Phoebe, shoulders clenched and hands tight over the steering wheel, trying to be as close as she could manage to be. You couldn’t help but chuckle as well,
“She has the driving posture of a middle-aged man,” you said with a chuckle.
“Hey! I’m a middle-aged man,” he said, faking being offended by your comment just to see your smile widen, “I feel very offended by your comment.”
“You don’t drive like a middle-aged man,” you said, “You just drive, the middle aged part you’ve already got it.”
“That’s mean,” he chuckled.
“I’m just messing with you,” you chuckled, starting to think that you had misread the lines and crossed the wrong ones.
“I’m just messing with you too,” he answered, and simply as that, those words were enough before you tantalized yourself with all the non-existent possibilities conjuring in the back of your mind.
You smiled and pulled closer to him just for an inch, “I think the temperature dropped a bit,” you said as a trivial excuse that of course, he didn’t buy.
“I can go get you a coffee if you want,”
“No—I’m fine,” you didn’t even know why you denied it. It made no sense just as it was complete nonsense for you to be as close to him as you were.
The distance between both of you was completely nonexistent by the time Phoebe had begun to get bored of the game, his hands were ghosting over your own as you tried to keep all the layers closer to your body to preserve the body heat—a petty excuse your lips had conjured just to hide the fact you wanted him close.
“You sure you’re okay?” his soft voice over your ear sent down your spine that he confused with the weather’s shenanigans
You turned to look at him, a soft smile drawn in your lips as you began to get conscious that the sudden movement had made his hands actually press against your jacket, and that same pressure had spread through the fabric and imprinted onto your skin, leaving you almost speechless at the realization that it was his hands over your torso, and the fact that you didn’t dislike the idea of closeness at all—not with him at least.
“Ew!” Phoebe interrupted the moment. “Don’t kiss in here!” she exclaimed again, as if that could be the biggest embarrassment she could suffer.
Harry laughed at her words, this time hiding his face on the crook of your neck, your hand instinctively reached to the nape of his neck, and instead of keeping him away, it only pressed him closer—making you feel the vibrations of his chuckles on the side of your neck.
Then, as if sudden lighting had struck down on you, your hand left the warmness of his body as your body pulled away from the magnetism of his own. You stared at him, both of you wearing the same confusion on equal hiding smiles, everything left unsaid was a far more rattling noise than what you wished for it to be.
“Can we go and see the games now?”
You were the first one to look away, “Sure, which one do you want to go first?” you asked Phoebe, the little girl already walking in front of you. There was a moment in which you turned to look back at Harry and see if he was already walking behind you—he wasn’t, his feet were still stuck in place and his eyes kept glued onto yours. You always joked with your friends that you didn’t have a heart for romance, but for that instance in which his eyes lingered over your figure for a second too long, you believed you had the tiniest of slivers of it threaded in between the fibers of your body.
Phoebe had walked onto the first booth trusting she’d win the big prize despite the game being rigged. Harry paid the five dollars for the three darts she’d have to throw at the balloons over and over until she had finally popped one and won a small plush of a horse that she claimed looked a lot like Harry.
The man only laughed and obliged, turning to look at you with the small plushie next to his face, as if making you compare both of them.
“Hmm, I see the similitudes,” you chuckled, closing one of your eyes trying to focus on the details that he shared with the plushie, “But I thought you were a unicorn,”
“A unicorn?” he asked, chuckling slightly at the word as if that could mask the vulnerability underneath the mask of the superfluous man. “Who told you that?”
“Mia, but I know those were words from your matchmaker,” you chuckled,
“And do you think I am a unicorn?”
“Well, it doesn’t seem like you have a horn to me so no, you’re not a unicorn,”
“Then what am I?”
“You’re Harry,” you chuckled matter-of-factly as if that was the only possible answer to the question. Then your steps faltered, trying to stay next to him before you licked your lips and asked with a soft smile and a chuckle: “Do you think you’re a unicorn?”
He turned his head sideways, slightly embarrassed but trying to hide it, “No. I’m just Harry.”
It was the first time he allowed himself to say it as if it actually meant something, then he went back to look at the horse again and smiled.
After looking at the nearby stands and some ‘baby’ attractions that Phoebe had declared weren’t for her anymore, she decided on going to the teacups. The line wasn’t long, another family and some teenagers in front of you. The cups were brighter up close—pastel purples and blues, chipped at the edges, spinning lazily as a previous round unloaded. Steam curled faintly around the platform, the air smelling like metal and cold.
“We have to go on the purple one,” Phoebe explained quickly, Harry and you only nodded at her request as you continued to follow her, arriving at the entrance so the staff member could check her height and the band around her wrist, then she quickly glanced at Harry’s shoes and then to his face.
“I’m sorry sir, how tall are you?” the staff asked.
“6 feet,” Harry said almost as if he was proud of it.
“Would you mind measuring up again?”
“Uhm, sure” he said, walking to the side and standing straight so the stadiometer could measure him properly,
“According to this you’re 6’2, you’re over the limit for this ride,” the girl said once again standing aside
Harry looked down, genuinely surprised and at the same time trying to swallow the bittersweet irony of it all: who knew that getting taller could have its perks? there couldn’t be any perks—after all getting taller was better than any decision he had taken in his whole life.
So he just laughed under his breath. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I wish I was,” she said. “Safety rules.”
“My shoes have a small heel, it’s probably just that—I’ll take them off,” he offered immediately.
She shook her head. “Can’t ride barefoot either. I’m sorry but you’ll have to skip this one.”
“So he can’t go with us?” the girl asked, already on the verge of tears.
Harry crouched down, leveling with her quietly anticipating. “Not on this one Pheebs. But tell you what—you go with her,” he nodded at you, “and I’ll wait right by the exit. Front-row seat and take a few pictures for your parents, how’s that sound?”
Phoebe hesitated, because she really wanted to go with both of you, but of course, that wasn’t possible this time.
“I’ll make it really fast,” you said, quietly conspiring to cheer her up.
“Okay,” she said, already bouncing again. “But you have to watch.” She added, pointing to Harry as the three of you began walking, him to exit the game while the two of you went on one of the purple cups.
“I will,” Harry promised, standing back. “Every lap.”
You shot him a look—half apology, half something else—and guided Phoebe before closing the small door of the ride. The teacup lurched into motion and Phoebe immediately grabbed the wheel, cranking it with manic joy, laughing loud and unselfconscious and simultaneously forgetting about the person missing that should’ve sat next to you.
You kept one hand steady, one eye drifting toward the exit between spins trying to catch a glimpse of him, your lips quivered in a half-formed smile of childlike wonder. You hadn’t even remembered what mechanic games felt like, but you were suspicious that the smile wasn’t only from nostalgia but from the reciprocated smiles that between fast-spins you were able to retrieve.
Phoebe got tired after a few seconds and begged for you to take the wheel, which took another few seconds while you recovered your balance. The cup slowed down suddenly and that’s when you noticed her: a few feet from Harry, hands wrapped around a paper cup, pink scarf loose around her neck. College-aged, you guessed. Bright blue eyes. Talkative. She laughed easily, leaning forward as she spoke. Eyes completely fixed over him.
Harry was leaning against the railing as well, not touching her, or doing anything out of the norm. He was merely engaged with her. He was an extrovert after all, and as you often described him ‘nice to be around’.
Yeah, that was what he was, just engaged and talking—you told yourself, unsure if it was actually working. You cranked the wheel even more, telling yourself you were doing it for Phoebe’s enjoyment and not to blur the image so much the mysterious girl disappeared from your sight.
It was as if something twisted low in your stomach, sharp and unwelcome. You frowned, blaming the food, the spinning, the cold, the weather and life—anything that didn’t require further inspection. You hadn’t heard a word they were saying, but you didn’t need to. The way she smiled and the way Harry smiled as well, the way his posture opened—it was all too easy to fill in blanks you had no right to.
“Faster!” Phoebe yelled and you spun harder than necessary, instantly regretting it because suddenly motion sickness began to get to you and all that you could force to stare at were your hands over the wheel.
By the time the ride slowed and you helped Phoebe out, Harry was alone, scrolling down his phone, smiling at something that you couldn’t see or could ask about.
Phoebe ran ahead. “Did you see me?” she demanded.
“I did,” Harry said immediately, attention snapping back like it had never left. “You almost broke the ride.”
She grinned, satisfied. “Can we go to the haunted house now?”
“Sure,” Harry answered. Then his hand touched your shoulder, taking you out of your spell and forcing you to look at him. “Are you okay?” he asked, brows raised in true concern for your expression.
“Yeah, just a bit dizzy,” you said with a soft smile, his hand tightened slightly when he noticed your head was spinning more than what you said.
“You sure it’s just a bit?” he asked teasingly and you rolled your eyes.
“It doesn’t matter, it’ll pass,” you answered definitively, and tried biting your tongue to prevent the question from slipping past your lips, but it didn’t matter, it did anyway. “Was it a good conversation?”
“With who?” Harry asked, genuinely confused.
“The girl who was there with you, the one with a pink scarf,”
“Oh, she’s a finance student and was thinking of enrolling in the company’s summer program next year. She just asked for advice,”
“Right,”
“Are you jealous?” he asked tantalisingly slow—almost teasing.
“No!” your voice pitched higher, giving you away. “I’m not, why would I be jealous?”
“I don’t know, you just sounded—” he interrupted himself before saying some bullshit he wouldn’t know how to explain later.
“I sounded what?”
Hurt. “It doesn’t matter,”
You scoffed with a laugh, “Okay, but just to clear things up. I’m not jealous.”
The haunted mansion loomed darker and quieter than the rest of the park, fake fog curling around the entrance. A far longer line than the ones forming through the rest of the attractions. Phoebe read the sign with exaggerated seriousness.
“Two riders per car.”
She turned to you instantly, knowing that she’d have to pick someone again. “I’m going with you,” her finger was pointed towards your direction, and you chuckled despite yourself.
“You sure you don’t want to go with Harry?” you asked, actually confused, “He skipped the last game after all,”
“He scares easily,”
For a second he feigned offense: “No, I don’t.” He defended himself, voice just a bit higher and filled with sarcasm.
“Then where do I go?” He asked, just a little defeated, but once he looked at the ‘single rider’ line he noticed that was his answer.
Phoebe tugged you once so you could rush to the end of the line and hopefully get a seat faster, you didn’t comply anymore, only smiling at her while staring at the old facade of the attraction.
Harry was standing a few feet away from you, since the ‘single rider’ line was shorter, you were honestly thinking of insisting that he’d go alone with Phoebe so they could make up for the lost time on the teacups, but apparently that wasn't in anyone’s plans.
The line kept on going, and then it was finally going to be your turn, you walked with Phoebe to the stairs before the staff member checked on your wristbands and buckled up your seatbelts.
Then they called Harry’s line, you weren’t even paying attention for being busy with Phoebe convincing her that it wasn’t going to be as scary as she thought it’d be,before you could say anything else, a familiar voice spoke up from behind: “Oh hey—same plan?”
You couldn’t even turn back because the ride had started, and amidst the corridors of darkness and pre-recorded screams, you had lost Harry.
Phoebe clutched your arm at the first jump scare, then laughed so hard she snorted when she noticed the light from the LED speakers. You laughed with her, your mind fully on her reactions, her safety, the ridiculousness of the animatronics.
When the ride ended and you stepped back into the cold air, the first thing you noticed was Harry—leaning against the railing, arms crossed, looking exactly like someone who would never admit he’d been startled at least twice. The second thing you noticed was that he wasn’t alone.
The girl with the pink scarf stood next to him again, cheeks flushed from the ride, eyes bright in a way that suggested she’d enjoyed herself far more than she was letting on. She was mid-sentence when she noticed you approaching, her words tapering off as she took you in. You, on the other hand, were quick to force a smile and to walk to them with practiced steps.
Phoebe jumped down the last step ahead of you, rushing to the exit sign to stand next to Harry.
“That wasn’t scary,” she declared immediately. “It was fake.”
Harry snorted, palming her back “Sure it was.”
The girl in the pink scarf laughed. “That’s not what you said inside.”
He shot her a look, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You absolutely did,” she replied, grinning. “You grabbed the bar so hard I thought you were going to rip it off.”
Phoebe gasped. Not even acknowledging that the other girl was practically a stranger a few hours ago, somehow kids always asked the incorrect questions despite always having questions, because the only thing she could ask was: “You were scared?”
“No,” Harry said, and you shot him a look, remembering how he jumped back when you were watching Scream on Halloween. He sighed, resigned, “Okay. Maybe a little.”
The girl laughed again, then turned fully toward you, her expression softening into something warm and open. “Oh—hi. I didn’t get to meet you properly earlier.”
She glanced between you, Harry, and Phoebe, her smile widening. “I’m Kathy,” she said, extending her arm at you. “By the way, your daughter is adorable.”
You blinked. Maybe you had heard wrong. But from the look on her face, and from the way Phoebe’s gaze landed mortified over yours just like Harry’s did over Kathy, you were one-hundred percent sure you weren’t imagining things.
“—My what?” you asked,
Phoebe perked up immediately. “I’m not her daughter.”
Kathy’s eyes widened, but an embarrassed chuckle escaped her instead, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry—I just assumed—earlier, with the teacups and everything, I thought you two were married.”
You felt your brain short-circuit for half a second over the last word.
Harry froze beside you, then cleared his throat, very deliberately. His hand came to rest at your back again, casual but unmistakable.
“We’re not married,” he said evenly. “But this is my girlfriend.”
There it was again. Even when the word was different you couldn’t help but feel how it landed differently than before.
Kathy’s surprise melted instantly into delight. “Oh! That makes sense too.” She laughed softly, eyes flicking back to you. “You’re gorgeous, by the way. I love your coat—it suits you.”
You couldn’t dislike her anymore, the coil undoing in your stomach had disappeared and you weren’t even aware when, but probably the off-guard compliment had something to do with it.
“Oh—thank you,” you replied, a little breathless from everything you had just heard seconds before. “I really like your scarf. The color’s really nice on you,” you said sincerely.
“Thank you,” Kathy said, visibly relieved she hadn’t completely embarrassed herself. “I really did think you were his wife. You just look good together, you know?”
Harry smiled at that, fond and quiet, “Well, what can I say I have a beautiful girlfriend,”
You rolled your eyes and turned to look at him, he didn’t even fight or take back his words, his smile only widened even more.
Kathy checked her phone, then winced. “Speaking of girlfriends—my girlfriend just finished her shift and I told her I’d meet her before she freezes to death.”
“She works here?” you asked, engaged already with the woman.
“Yeah,” Kathy said. “Perks of dating staff. I get unlimited rides sometimes,” she said, showing her wristband, a different color from the ones Harry, Phoebe or you had. “But I really should get going, thanks for the advice and everything. Hopefully I’ll get in.” She addressed those words to Harry enthusiastically before turning to look at you. “It was really nice meeting you. And—sorry again for the wife thing.”
You smiled, genuine now, almost stopping yourself from hugging her and apologizing for everything you had thought before, instead you could only manage to say: “No harm done.”
She waved at Phoebe, who waved back enthusiastically, then disappeared into the crowd. The space she left behind felt quieter and Phoebe was quick to tug at Harry’s sleeve once the silence had grown too long
“Can we go to the carousel now?”
“In a minute,” Harry said gently. “Why don’t you wait by that bench for a few seconds, we need to talk a bit.”
She hesitated, then nodded and wandered a few steps away, busying herself with the zipper of her jacket.
You didn’t say anything at first, you didn’t think Harry and you had anything to talk about.
Harry tilted his head slightly, studying you. “You’re very quiet.”
“I’m not,” you said automatically defensive.
He smiled, knowing he was right. “You are.”
You sighed, rubbing your arms for warmth. “I was just worried Phoebe might get the wrong idea.”
His eyebrow lifted, slow and deliberate. “About what?”
“About—” you waved a hand vaguely because you felt stupid trying to say it out loud once it was obvious you were wrong, “—things. You talking to another woman, you know how she is, and well she doubted us a bit before.”
“Mm,” he hummed, clearly entertained. “So that’s what that was.”
You shot him a look paired with a tired smile, already walking to meet Phoebe.
“Don’t,” you said clearly.
“Don’t what?” He asked, brow raised and smirk widening teasingly,
“Don’t tease me,” you murmured, eyes shutting tight for a second too long.
“I’m not teasing,” he said lightly. “I’m observing.”
You scoffed and smiled in spite of yourself: “You’re impossible.”
“But I’m your boyfriend,” He said, trying to play his part because you were close enough that Phoebe could listen to anything you said—of course, she was a kid and she was far more invested in the music from the carousel—you knew that of course, but you didn’t tease him either way.
Instead, you chuckled and rolled your eyes before mouthing a quiet: “You wish,”
He didn’t say anything either, because he couldn’t deny it: He truly wished.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
By the time the sky had deepened into that washed-out indigo that only amusement parks ever seem to get right, your feet hurt in a dull, familiar way and Phoebe’s energy had finally begun to fray at the edges. The lights flickered on one by one around the park, rides glowing brighter against the cold, music looping just a little louder to compensate for the thinning crowds. Closing time loomed like an inevitable dooming end. You’d walked through most of the park by then—played a couple more rigged games, shared a funnel cake that left powdered sugar on Phoebe’s jacket and your sleeves, went on the flying chairs with Harry’s hand ghosting over yours everytime he thought the security belt had gotten loose. Sitting next to him on the turbulence rollercoaster, the carousel, and basically everywhere.
While you were leaving through the exit line of the ferris wheel you had spotted the Gravitron sitting farther back than the rest of the rides hidden by the dimmed lights of the park, there was no line and its doors were shut. It was obvious it was closed or on maintanece maybe. But that didn’t seem to matter because, for a second you just stared at it even stopping mid-step without realizing. Harry noticed immediately.
“Is it that one?” he asked quietly, following your gaze in between the rest of the games.
You nodded, a small, almost embarrassed smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. That one.”
Phoebe crossed her arms the moment she saw it. “It looks scary, I don’t want to go there.”
“That’s okay,” you said automatically. “We don’t have to.”
Harry studied the sign posted at the entrance, then turned at the empty operator booth. “Looks like it’s not running,” he thought out loud.
A staff member passing by confirmed it without slowing. “Short-staffed tonight. Sorry.”
You shrugged, trying to look unaffected before turning to Harry. “It’s fine. I figured.”
But Harry didn’t move on right away. His eyes lingered on the ride, then flicked back to you, something thoughtful settled into his expression as he was threading together every possibility until he found the solution.
“Hang on,” he said suddenly.
Before you could ask what he meant, he was already scanning the area, then lifting his hand slightly. “Kathy!”
She was sitting near one of the food stands, now bundled into her scarf and a pink jacket, her girlfriend beside her in a red staff jacket, both of them laughing about something.
“Oh—hey!” Kathy said, surprised but pleased it was him who was calling her name. “You’re still here?”
“Barely,” Harry replied. Then, a little sheepish but still unmistakably himself, he gestured toward the game. “This is going to sound like a ridiculous favor—and honestly, just so you know whatever your answer is you still have a place on the summer program, I swear."
Kathy followed his gaze, then looked back at you waiting on the distance under the low-light, understandment dawning slowly over her features softening her smile.
“Let me guess, that ride?” she asked with a chuckle, as you had begun walking towards them.
“It used to be her favorite,” Harry said simply and thankfully you were close enough to overhear it. Then, with a small smile, he added, “And I’d really like to see my girlfriend happy.”
Your chest tightened at the word again, somehow you couldn’t believe how easy it was for him to act as if the word meant something for both of you and simultaneously, a ‘worthless’ word could make you shiver so easily.
Kathy’s eyes flicked between you, Harry and her girlfriend, then she laughed softly before turning to her girlfriend immediately, murmuring something in her ear. The woman glanced toward the ride, then at you, then back at Kathy, clearly weighing policy against affection.
After a moment, she sighed, already defeated. “One run,” she said. “Five minutes. That’s it.”
Kathy whooped. “You’re the best.”
Harry let out a breath like he’d been holding it in longer than you realized. “Thank you,” he said, sincere.
Kathy grinned at you. “Looks like you’re getting your ride.”
You stared at her, then at Harry. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” he replied quietly. “Besides, I owe you one for all the rides I missed,”
Phoebe tugged at your sleeve, suspicious. “You’re going on that thing?”
You crouched to her level. “Just once. I’ll be right here when I get off.”
She considered this, then nodded solemnly. “Okay,”
Harry smiled, “The offer still stands?”
You chuckled, looking at him with a defeated smile because you couldn’t deny him anything while he looked at you with those same brown eyes, “Of course."
As the lights flickered back on and the low hum of the machine filled the air, you felt something settle in your chest—warm and unfamiliar and dangerously close to contentment. Because, no normal friend would try and do what he’s doing, and he wouldn’t have done it without second-thought for someone who was just a friend either.
But for the first time in the day, you didn’t question anything else but under which number you’d place yourself. You picked 7 and Harry walked next to you staying under the 8.
The operator sealed the door with a practiced thud, metal locking into place, and the hum beneath your feet deepened into something alive. The lights inside were low and neon blue, the padded walls curving upward like the inside of a shell.
Harry looked around, intrigued in that quiet, analytical way he always did when faced with something unfamiliar, and because everything was unfamiliar he turned to look at the only source of familiarity: You.
“So,” he said, planting his feet a little too carefully, knees buckling while the attraction continued to turn on. “What exactly am I supposed to do?”
You smiled despite yourself, resisting the urge to just stand closer to him and show him instead of just telling him. “Okay, first of all—stop standing like that. You won’t fall or anything.”
“I’m just trying to understand it,” he replied, brows knitting. “There are rules to this, right?”
“I don’t think so,” you said with a chuckle. “As long as you don’t end up puking—”
“That doesn’t help,”
You laughed, the sound echoing slightly as the machine began to rotate, slow at first, almost mimicking the teasing going in between you two.
You stepped closer to him, standing in the middle of where you ‘side’ should probably end, but that didn’t matter because you wanted him to enjoy this just as much as you used to.
“Alright,” you said, voice louder now through the noise of the machinery. “You have to start leaning now before it picks up speed. Once it does, the wall will hold you.”
He glanced at you. “How?”
“You trust me, don’t you?”
A beat. “Yes,” he said, too quickly for someone who was supposedly still skeptical of everything that wasn’t numbers.
The ride accelerated, the floor vibrating, pressure blooming outward. You leaned back easily, the familiar pull settling into your body like muscle memory.
Harry did not. Instead, he clenched his eyes tight and unthinkling grabbed your arm, almost like a second reflex, not hard enough to hurt you but tight enough so he could still feel grounded to reality.
“Harry,” you laughed, breathless now. “You have to lean back.”
“I am leaning back,” he protested, though he clearly wasn’t. His neck was slightly upfront, trying to look clearly at you.
The force increased, pressing you both sideways. His shoulder bumped yours, then stayed there. His hand slid from your arm to your waist, fingers splaying through your coat as he tried to steady himself.
Your breath caught, his arm was standing now between the padding and your body, and somehow the force seemed to calm him slightly, as if it was grounding him in place.
But once the speed increased his body just ended up turning around inevitably, the force of the attraction pressing him over you.
You wanted to say something, tease him or even just complain, but you couldn’t. The words were non-existent because the only thing you could think about was how close you were too him, close enough that you could feel the scent of his perfume still lingering like it had in the city.
Your bodies pressed together, your hips aligned perfectly with his, his arm still around you, trapped between your bodies and the wall. The ride spun faster, lights blurring into streaks, sound dissolving into a low roar and you decided that you couldn’t fight anything, and that you didn’t want to fight the feeling either.
Harry tried to keep moving, settling the distance in between the both of you, but of course, it was useless. You couldn’t win a match against gravity.
“It’s fine, It’s five minutes—It’ll be over soon.” You said loudly, trying to get him to hear you.
Of course you didn’t know Kathy had gotten inside the operator room with Phoebe, and the girl was playing with the buttons as her ‘first time visitor special experience’.
You knew you should have moved once the speed had wore off. You knew you should have twisted, found the bar, put space between you. Instead, you stayed exactly where you were, your hand lifting to reach over at the padded ceiling.
But then the ride spun faster and your right hand remained trapped in between your bodies, and once you had finally gotten it out, your fingers brushed against his collarbone. It was just an accident—mostly, because you could’ve moved your hand seconds later but you had silently settled on not doing it.
The ride spun faster, gravity pinning you both there, your coat bunching under his hand. You could feel the heat of him even through layers, solid and grounding and too much.
“This was truly your favorite ride?” he asked softly through the noise.
“Yeah,” you said louder, “I used to try and do tricks just so the ‘cool kids’ could notice me.”
“I can’t even turn my head,” he replied. “I think I’d die.”
“You’re doing fine,” you said, and you meant more than just him surviving the ride.
He tilted his head just slightly, enough that his temple brushed yours.
“Are you enjoying this?” he asked gently.
You scoffed. “I’m enjoying watching you panic.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He accused softly, teasingly while not trying to be,
Your heart stuttered. The words lingered between you, unspoken implications stacking up like static you wouldn’t admit unless alcohol was involve.
“Harry,” you said, a warning you didn’t fully understand at all.
“What?”
“You’re very close.” You pointed out as if it wasn’t obvious just because you didn’t know what to say anymore.
“I know,” he said. Then, quieter, almost as if he was apologizing: “I don’t think I can move.”
You closed your eyes for half a second, letting the force hold you there, letting yourself pretend there was a reason for this closeness beyond physics.
When you opened them again, he was looking at you—and somehow you knew he had never looked at someone else like how he looked at you. There was a spark in his eyes that didn’t come from the neon lights. And it didn’t look like the polite, attentive gaze he wore so often or the amused glint he used to deflect. This was something else—focused, unguarded, like he could actually be himself.
For a moment, neither of you spoke and the ride finally began to slow. The pressure eased, just slightly, enough that you felt his hand tighten at your waist without him realizing it. Then the lights brightened, the hum faded, and gravity gave you both back your autonomy.
You stepped away at the same time, breath uneven, smoothing your jacket like you could simply leave everything inside the game and go back to reality once you stepped out.
“Well,” you said, far too quickly. “You survived.”
He cleared his throat. “Barely. I was distracted.”
“By what?” you asked teasingly.
He hesitated, just long enough to make your pulse spike.
“You,” he said simply.
You opened your mouth to argue—to deflect, to joke, to explain it away—but the door opened with a hiss before you could.
Phoebe’s voice carried in immediately. “Did you turn upside down?”
“No,” Harry said instantly, stepping aside to let you out first. “Absolutely not.”
You laughed, stepping back into the cold night air, your cheeks warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the ride.
Behind you, Harry followed, quiet now, thoughtful.
And neither of you said a word about how close you’d been or how much you hadn’t wanted it to end.
You didn’t want it to end at all, so once you left and the staff member asked for your wrists to cut off the bands you asked to keep them, he looked at you with a confused glint but either way you walked out of the park with blisters on your heels from all the walking, hands freezing from the cold, and one of the happiest memories you would’ve ever imagined to have.
Phoebe fell asleep as soon as the engine started, and Harry and you quickly agreed on going through a drive thru on the way home instead of making dinner.
“Every couples first date should be on an amusement park or trying weed,”
“What?” Harry laughed, trying to keep his eyes on the road but turning to look at you for a second.
“I wrote that,” you repeated, more to yourself than to him. “Well, I said mushrooms were also a valid choice,”
“Is there an anthropologic reason to that?”
“No, I just thought mushrooms and weed are kind of similar so—”
“About the first date,”
“Right, of course. So… on an amusement park you go on games right? And well you go on this games with your partner: Carousels, ferris wheel, rollercoaster—all of them liberate dopamine and adrenaline and because you’re sharing that experience with someone you already care or have felt similar things before your brain just does the correlation: ‘this person creates dopamine’ therefore, I want to be with this person.”
“When we first met you said you didn’t know anything about love,”
“Well you can’t know everything about something nonexistent,” you argued quickly.
“Then you said love wasn’t all that nonexistent—”
“It is for me,” you interrupted.
“Right,” he sighed.
And the car filled up with unbearable silence that none of you were brave enough to break, you turned to look through the window at the third fast-food place he’d driven past by. Needless to say, that was where you had found a way to break the silence and change the topic.
“This is like the third Wendy’s we’ve passed,” you frowned with a soft chuckle
Harry looked through the rearview just for the glimpse of a second. “Is it?” he asked before turning to look at you briefly.
“Yes,” you said, not annoyed, just confused. “So where are you planning on getting us food?”
“There’s a Shake Shack coming up,” he replied easily before looking at the GPS again, like this had always been the plan.
You leaned your head back against the seat, letting out a quiet breath through your nose. “Of course there is.”
He smiled faintly, eyes still on the road. “You don’t like Shake Shack?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” you said. “It’s just… slower. And pricier. And we’ve been up since early and it’s eight and—” you stopped yourself, realizing you were spiraling. You softened your tone. “I just thought we’d do something quick.”
He glanced at you. “You seriously wanted Wendy’s?”
“No,” you replied immediately, then corrected yourself with a small shrug. “I mean—no. I didn’t want Wendy’s. I just wasn’t expecting Shake Shack.”
“Why?”
“Why not Wendy’s?” You hesitated for half a second too long. “It’s there. It’s easy. It doesn’t require thinking.”
Harry hummed, amused but not dismissive. “You always choose the most efficient option.”
“And is that bad now?”
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s just noticeable.”
Another stretch of road passed, dark and quiet, Phoebe shifting softly in her sleep behind you.
“And,” you added, lowering your voice again, “you haven’t really eaten today.”
He laughed under his breath. “Here we go.”
“I’m serious,” you said, turning to look at him now. “Are you on a diet or something?”
He blinked, looking at you softly from his peripheral. “What?”
“Or fasting?” you added, genuinely asking. “I don’t know, some people do that now.”
“No,” he said quickly, still smiling. “Nothing like that.”
“Okay,” you nodded. “Then why are you running on coffee alone?”
“I ate,” he defended himself.
“Like three pizza bites,” you countered. “That doesn’t count.”
He chuckled. “You’re very invested in this.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Why shouldn’t I? You’re caring about me”
You scoffed, but there was no heat behind it. “I just don’t want you passing out on me one of these days.”
“On you specifically?” he teased.
“Yes,” you said. “That would be incredibly inconvenient. I’d have to call 911 and they’d be surprised I don’t know my boyfriend’s information.”
He laughed, the sound warm and genuine, shaking his head slightly before his gaze cherished your face to memory. “That would be tragic.”
“For everyone involved,” you added. “Especially you, you’d be left to your luck and I’m not so sure money can buy you out of that.”
“I appreciate the concern, very touching.” he said lightly.
“Don’t get sentimental,” you replied. “I’m still mostly motivated by keeping the act together.”
“Of course,” he smiled, eyes flicking to the road again as the silence settled back in—lighter now, no longer sharp, it was the same comfortable breeze that you had shared months before—on a different road and a different time, when you were still more than strangers but unlabelled as friends. Comfortable in that way you refused to examine too closely.
The white glow of the neon sign appeared a minute later, cutting through the dark stretch of highway like an inevitable conclusion. You turned to look at him as if waiting for some estranged miracle that he’d change his mind, you didn’t even know why you were searching for an ounce of doubt in his expression—perhaps you needed to be reminded that he could be moved, or that he wasn’t trustworthy, or that even if you grew accustomed to like him
Harry slowed the car. “Alright,” he said, almost ceremonially. “What do you want?”
You didn’t even have to think about it. “One of the chicken ones,” you said. “Diet coke and fries.”
He nodded immediately. “Got it.”
“And—” you added, glancing toward the back seat, “you know what she wants?”
“Yep.” He shrugged. “She tells me every time.”
The car rolled into a parking spot, engine idling softly. Harry put it in park and unbuckled his seatbelt, you shrugged to look at the windows; people crowding through the place as if they were handling free-stuff, but of course on a Saturday night everyone’s in the mood of getting out and enjoying life.
“You’re staying here?” he asked, taking you out of the people-watching trance.
You nodded. “She’s asleep. I should keep an eye on her, in case she gets cranky or wakes up.”
“Okay,” he said, already reaching for the door. “I’ll be quick.”
“Sure, see you in twenty minutes,” you muttered.
He laughed as he stepped out, the cold rushing in for half a second before the door shut again. You watched him walk to the door, hands inside his coat pockets, shoulders relaxed, left leg limping when he gave a step over the stairs, he shrugged as if it didn’t matter and grabbed the railing to keep his balance—then he turned sideways as if he felt embarrassed somebody had looked, you chuckled for a second at how boyish that seemed to be for a man that appeared to have his life figured out; then he turned to look at you and you looked to the side, as if you hadn’t witnessed anything, but the smile lingered on your lips like a screaming tell-tale nevertheless. He walked inside.
You scrolled on your phone for the first minute, by the time you raised your eyes he was already waiting for the food. How efficient—you thought before lowering your gaze once again.
Then, before you knew it, Harry was outside of the car, soft smile that hid how cold the weather had turned to be, juggling a paper bag and two drinks, breath fogging slightly as he smiled again waiting for you to open the door.
“Sorry,” he said immediately, sliding into the driver’s seat. “They were packed.”
You stared at him. “You took, like, five minutes. How were they packed?”
He grinned as he started the engine. “Yeah. I ordered ahead.”
You blinked. “You knew what I wanted?” You chuckled, because there was no possible way he could have known what you were going to order.
“Kind of,” he said easily, pulling out of the lot. “I trusted my gut, but I did mess on the drink—but I told them at the moment it was a typo.”
You scoffed, but it lacked bite. Truth was you felt scared of not feeling scared that he knew you. “Wow, first my coffee order and now this—I’ll begin thinking you want me to be your girlfriend.”
He chuckled but said nothing—you’d be a liar if you said that didn’t scare you—Why wasn’t he denying everything? Or teasing you? Or saying something about the night you had a wet dream about him?
He handed you the bag before your thoughts could fog the windshield glass, and until your hands caressed the paper bag you finally broke the spell away. You peeked inside—cardboard boxes, napkins folded neatly on top.
He placed the drinks on the cup-holders,
“And for the record,” he added casually, “I got myself a burger too. Before you get concerned about me passing out.”
You looked at him, then nodded once. “Good, I don’t want to run to the ER or something,”
You finally folded the bag properly on your lap as if that could stop the food from going cold, pressing the sides in with practiced movements. That’s when your fingers snagged on a sticky paper that ended up stuck between your fingers.
The receipt—taped to the front of the bag, tugged at it by accident. You weren’t searching to read it. You really weren’t trying to see if what he said about ordering ahead and knowing and reading you perfectly was true or not. The order, placed before you even arrived to the restaurant and under it on bold letter:
NO MUSTARD / MUSTARD SEED ALLERGY
You froze. Because of course you had forgotten to mention it, half of the time you went out you forgot to say it—after all, it would only cause a bearable cramp-like pain, you could live with it.
For a second, you just stared at it like it was a misprint. Then you looked at him.
“You added my allergy.” You muttered, acknowledging more to yourself than to him, as if trying to see if it was real and not some kind of hallucination.
Harry didn’t look surprised. Or guilty. Or anything, really. He just nodded once as if it ws the most obvious thing to do. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t say anything,” you said, confused more than anything else.
“I know.”
“I forget half the time,” you chuckled, more embarrassed that you would like.
“You forget every time since I’ve known you.” he corrected gently. “But you gave me a reason to never forget so.”
Something shifted in your chest—small, sharp, unwelcome. You folded the receipt once, then twice, like if you made it smaller it would matter less. But you couldn’t just crumple it—it was too important still. Instead, you kept it inside your pocket before going back to talking.
“What can I say? Bad habits,” you said with a chuckle that lacked joy.
He shrugged and looked at you with uncertainty. “More like a force of it.”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “Oh, now you’re a therapist too?”
He laughed. “Please. My therapist would’ve felt insulted if he heard you say that”
You turned toward him. “You go to therapy?”
“Used to,” he shrugged, like it was an expired subscription. “A while back.” He hesitated for half a beat, then glanced at you sideways. “Is there some anthropological reading for that as well?”
You turned to look at him. “For you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Since you’ve been conducting fieldwork on my eating habits.”
You snorted. “I didn’t know they called fieldwork to telling someone they probably should eat more than coffee in a day.”
“It feels peer-reviewed,” he replied.
You leaned back, considering him—not defensively, not clinically, but with the careful distance you always kept when you were close to saying something true. It was a strange feeling thinking about that when it came to him, because he was one of the few persons you couldn’t figure out at all. Like he controlled whatever you got to know, and then, when you had him wrong you’d end up redoing the whole thing again. You couldn’t get to know him in a whole day—in a sense he was like you in that way.
“Anthropologically speaking,” you began, “humans are obsessed with control. Especially in societies where value is tied to productivity, success, or visibility.”
He hummed, already invested in wha you were saying even if he had to rationalize words he hadn’t heard since decades. “Sounds promising.”
“People don’t just want to survive,” you continued. “They want to be legible. To others. To systems. To themselves. So they optimize—habits, careers, personalities. Whatever gets them read as ‘enough’ according to the standard”
He smiled faintly. “And you’re saying that’s me.”
“I’m saying it’s very human to go to therapy,” you replied. “Especially for people who grew up being told—even subconsciously—that they had to earn their place amongst they’re silver spoon clique.”
He was quiet for a moment, fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel before relaxing again.
“That’s a generous way of putting it,” he said.
“Anthropology usually is,” you shrugged. “It’s less about judgment, more about patterns.”
Another beat passed, and you didn’t know anymore if you had talked more about him or about you.
“That why you think I went to therapy?” he asked, casual but not careless.
“Partly,” you said. “Therapy’s just another way people try to make sense of the pattern they’re stuck in.”
He nodded slowly. “Not so far from reality,”
You smiled to yourself and reached back into the bag, adjusting it again so it wouldn’t tip over. Then, almost as an afterthought, you asked: “Why did you go to therapy?”
He exhaled through his nose. “It was mandatory, in a sense. Recommended,” he corrected quickly. “Work stuff and pressure. My brother suggested I tried it after some things.”
You nodded, accepting it without asking for more. You already knew better than to pull at threads people weren’t ready to let go of. And you knew those that Harry had carefully embedded over himself. You remembered him looking from side to side to police if someone had seen him falter, even if the surgery hadn’t been the catalyst like you were beginning to theorize, you couldn’t just unthread the very thing holding together his allure.
“Huh,” you said simply, trying to redirect wherever your mind was drifting. Changing the dreadful for something cheerful.
He waited, like he was already expecting you said something else—whether it was a dissertation or some snarky comment.
“I knew it,” you added suddenly with a soft whispery laugh.
His shoulders tensed. “What?”
You turned toward him, grin breaking through. “You were totally Dahmering me to your place that night, right? And then it all went wrong and now here we are, now you’re trying to kill me in the Hamptons—Truly enticing all the work you put in there.”
He blinked, then burst out laughing. “What?”
“You talk about it like you committed the worst crime on the planet,” you said. “I figured—psychopath. Or at least someone with a very unsettling situation.”
“That’s your conclusion?” he laughed.
“You make it sound ominous,” you replied. “I had to fill in the blanks.”
He shook his head, still laughing. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” you said smugly, “I’m pretty sure everything I said was accurate.”
The laughter settled into something easier, warmer.
“I used to go to therapy too, you know?” you added casually, eyes on the road ahead. “After my aunt passed I stopped—couldn’t afford it anymore.”
He turned to you immediately. “I can help you with that.” It came out fast, almost on automatic and for the first time, you didn’t shut the offer down.
You laughed instead. “Wow. You didn’t even hesitate.”
“I’m dead serious.”
“I know,” you said, still smiling. “That’s why it’s funny. Aren’t you even asking me why I went in first place?”
“Nope,” he said satisfied, and for a second your heart stilled, until a smirk drew in his lips. “I have my suspicions.”
“Motherfucker,” you muttered, punching his arm lightly.
He laughed, rubbing the painless spot. “See? Defensive response.”
“Shut up,” you said, smiling despite yourself.
You reached into the bag and finally pulled out a fry, eating it slowly, the warmth grounding you. The car moved steadily through the dark stretch of road, Phoebe breathing softly behind you, the night wide and patient settled the echo of a quiet reminder: ‘You didn’t believe in love’ and for the first time, the same words that had been your shelter for years seemed to be void of any sense.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
The three of you overslept until midday, the rest of the Sunday went by with Phoebe playing with her dolls or watching cartoons and Harry and you getting swallowed by a sudden need of overcompensating a ‘free-day’ with work.
You were finishing with the third paragraph of the article you were thinking of submitting once you got back to work, but no matter how much you wrote on that one, there was no denying that the true inspiration hit you on the one you could foresee would never meet the light of day.
And for the fourth time in that day, you ended up spiraling into that one instead.
I told myself love was simply an evolutionary incentive with a marketing budget. It was easier to make it academic than to consider what it meant for me personally.
Eventually, though, I realized I wasn’t the only one who operated this way. A surprising number of us anti-romantics have fashioned entire identities from the belief that we’re too rational for love, too busy for it, or too self-aware to fall for something as unpredictable as another person.
Your fingers stopped moving for longer than a second, frozen over the keyboards just as youe eyes quietly read over each line. Then you deleted the whole thing impulsively, scared of how raw it felt to dissect your emotions. Then you pressed the undo button, and turned the computer off.
“You seem inspired,” Harry muttered from his side of the table. “You want a second opinion?”
“No, I’ll just call my editor or something—No big deal.”
He smiled quickly and went back to type numbers on his spreadsheet. “I’m sure you’ll do great,” he said quietly, giving you a feeling of hope for just a second that made your stomach tighten.
You hadn’t noticed when dinner-time began coming close all for being focused on the white screen in front of you. Harry didn’t call you out on it, until he quietly nabbed your shoulder and asked if you’d like salmon for dinner, to what you said yes.
After dinner, Phoebe was quick to run back to her room and get in bed, tired from all the playing even when she seemed to not be tired at all. Harry was still working on his computer in the table while you were on the opposite side on your own. And to your discomfort, everything was awfully silent.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you quickly replied, eyes still lingering over the screen, “You?”
“Yeah,” he quickly answered.
The conversation should have died there. After all both of you were separated by two screens and different worlds of numbers and feelings that didn’t seem to coexist under the same umbrella.
But Harry was even more afraid of silence than you were, more when the silences both of you shared were louder than the words exchanged sometimes.
“You know, I read a really stupid article today,”
You chuckled, lifting your eyes from the screen. “Not mine I hope,”
He smiled and looked from his computer to meet your eyes, “Of course it’s not yours. It said Tuesday was the most depressing day of the week according to a modern study,” he began mumbling.
“Tuesday?” you asked with a surprise,
“Right?” he replied in a chuckle, “I think it’s Sunday,”
“Sunday?” you asked, even more in awe.
“Yeah,” he said after a second, rubbing a thumb along the edge of his laptop like he wasn’t actually looking at anything on it anymore. “It’s not sad but more like… the week’s over and I’ve somehow managed to do nothing.”
You scoffed lightly. “That’s objectively false in both of our cases, we’re overworked if anything—”
“I know,” he said quickly. “That’s the dumb part.”
You tilted your head. “Go on.”
He hesitated, then let out a quiet breath. “It’s like—Monday through Friday I’m busy. Meetings, calls, numbers, decisions. Everything’s loud. And then Sunday comes and it’s quiet, and my brain decides to ask me what any of it was for.”
“And I start thinking,” he continued, slower now, “Did I actually do anything meaningful? Or did I just… keep things moving so they wouldn’t fall apart?” He paused, then shook his head. “Which sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”
You raised an eyebrow. “If that’s dumber than what I’ve said before, I’d be impressed.”
He chuckled, short and evasive, eyes dropping to the table. “I’m not answering that.”
“Coward,” you muttered, but there was no real bite in it.
He smiled, grateful for the deflection, clearly ready to let the subject die right there. You watched him for a second longer, deciding quickly that taking a break from writing wouldn’t be bad.
“If you don’t want me to know, that’s fine by me,” you said quickly, eyes still lingering over the screen until his eyes lifted back to you and you forgot the white light for a few seconds. “But,” you added, shrugging slightly, “despite my reputation, I’m a good listener.”
He frowned, confused. “Your reputation?”
“That I’m careless,” you said easily. “That I don’t give a fuck about anyone.”
He shrugged for a second, not even hesitating in his answer, “I don’t think that precedes you.”
You blinked and chuckled, trying to evade how strange it felt for him to say it—matter of fact to believe it. “Wow. That was fast.”
He shrugged. “No one who truly knows you would think that.”
Something in your chest tightened, sharp and unexpected. Your lips quivered when you felt your mind go blank with the awful sensation of not-knowing what to say anymore.
“Don’t worry,” you said quickly, waving a hand like you could brush it off. “That’s just something people said back in college.”
He studied you for a moment, expression unreadable, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. That tracks.”
“Excuse you?” you said with a chuckle.
“I mean,” he said gently, trying to hide a chuckle between a clenched smile. “Everyone has a reputation in college.”
You tilted your head, lowering the computer. Far more invested in the conversation than on the already darkened screen.
“Yeah,” he said, daring your doubt. “They stick whether they’re true or not.”
You studied him for a second. “So,” you said lightly, because that’s what you always did when something felt too close, “what was yours?”
He blinked. “Mine?”
“Mhm,” you nodded. “Let me guess. Player?”
He barked out a laugh so fast it surprised both of you. “Absolutely not.”
“Really?” you teased. “Heartbreaker? Mysterious? Dressing in quarter-zips and vests despite being nineteen?”
“God, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I was painfully average.”
“Wow, painfully is a strong adverb,” you echoed.
He hesitated, fingers tightening together before relaxing again. “I had few friends, did my assignments on time, had good grades.”
Your teasing smile softened. “Your parents must’ve been proud,”
He shrugged, eyes dropping to the table. “They were—they are—but being average wasn’t my reputation back then,”
“So what was the rumor?” you pressed gently. “The myth of future finance man Harry Castillo.”
He smiled faintly, like he already knew he was going to regret answering. “That I was lucky to have anyone at all.”
Something in your chest shifted. “Of course, jealousy is a disease,” you said with a soft chuckle meant to lighten up the space.
He let out a breath that sounded almost amused. “Tell that to a bunch of twenty-year-olds.”
You waited for him to say something or shift the conversation. He was still unsure of how much he could word without letting all his secrets slip.
“I had a girlfriend,” he continued, choosing his words carefully, like they were stepping stones over water. “Most of college.”
You didn’t say anything, instead you moved from your chair to sit next to him, turning up the lights from the kitchen and leaving only the faint light from the living room to illuminate you both.
“She wasn't unkind,” he continued. Then, like he felt the need to justify it immediately, “Not all the time. But enough.”
You leaned back slightly, giving him space without withdrawing. “Define unkind.”
He laughed under his breath, humorless. “Where do I start?”
You didn’t interrupt. You never did when someone finally started talking. Much less when that someone was the same man you had never figured out at all.
“She cheated,” he said plainly. “More than once. And every time it somehow became my fault. I wasn’t confident enough. I wasn’t exciting enough. I didn’t take control enough. I didn’t want sex the right way. Or I wanted it wrong. Or vice versa.”
Your jaw tightened but you didn’t look away from him.
“And,” he added quietly, “there was always this undertone of—you should be grateful. Like I was already pushing my luck by wanting more.”
You exhaled slowly through your nose. “Let me guess,” you said, voice even. “You internalized it.”
He smiled at you, a little rueful. “You’re good at this.”
“Well, after everything I’ve written I’d hope so,” you replied with a chuckle,
That got a real laugh out of him, brief but genuine. Then he sobered again. “She used to say things during sex,” he went on, gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder.
You stayed quiet, but your posture changed—more grounded, more deliberate. Listening wasn’t passive for you; it was active, intentional. “Like?” you asked softly, not pushing, just opening the door.
His jaw tightened. “That I was soft. Vanilla. Boring.” A short, bitter laugh escaped him. “That if I really cared about her, I’d want to do more.”
“She’d compare,” he continued. “Or she’d mock it. Say I didn’t take charge. That I didn’t fuck like a man.” He swallowed. “And then she’d try to steer things into other territory.”
Your fingers curled against your thigh and despite the feeling of blood boiling under your skin, you didn’t interrupt or say anything to him at all.
“She liked things rough,” he said carefully. “Or at least she said she did. And when I hesitated, she’d frame it like I was holding back. Like my discomfort was proof that I was inadequate.”
Your voice, when it came, was steady. “Did you ever want those things?”
He hesitated. “I mean—” he started, then stopped. His fingers curled into his palm, a nervous habit you’d already clocked. “Sometimes… sometimes that stuff thrilled me. I have even thought about trying it again.”
The words came out fast, rushed, like he wanted them gone as soon as they existed. Then he stiffened, eyes flicking to you, alarmed.
“Not—” he cut himself off, clearing his throat. “Not like— I’m not saying this about you. I’m not—” He exhaled sharply, embarrassed. “I’m not trying to throw myself at you.”
You laughed softly, not mocking, just warm. “Harry. You’re fine.”
He blinked. “Is this not too much information?”
“I don’t think we can say that after everything else,” you said easily. “Besides, you’re sitting on a kitchen chair talking about your ex, college and trauma. If this is you making a move, it’s the worst one I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen a lot.”
That got a real laugh out of him, shoulders loosening. He hesitated again, but this time he didn’t stop himself, he remembered the way you saw him: not like a myth, or a standard or some strange legend, it felt way simpler than that—he could be himself, unfiltered for once.
“I just—” he said slowly, choosing each word. “I don’t know if it means I’m fucked up. Wanting something I thought was fucked up before. Wanting something that hurt me.”
You didn’t answer right away. You shifted closer, not touching him, but enough that he could feel your presence without pressure.
“The million-dollar question,” you said finally, “everyone asks themselves that at some point.”
He frowned. “They do?”
“Yes,” you nodded. “Different packaging, same core. Why am I still drawn to this if it hurt me?”
“And?” he asked quietly.
“And the answer is boring in a way,” you said. “Desire doesn’t have a moral compass.”
He scoffed. “Wow, that’s reassuring.”
“It’s accurate,” you corrected. “Your body learned excitement in a specific context. High intensity. Uncertainty. Power imbalance. That doesn’t disappear just because you rejected it.”
“So I’m just stuck with it?” he asked.
“No,” you said. “But you don’t get rid of it by shaming it either. Wanting to explore something again,” you continued, “doesn’t mean you want it the same way. Or for the same reasons. Context matters.”
He looked at you, searching. “How?”
“Agency,” you said simply. “Consent. Choice. Safety. When those are present, the same act can mean something completely different.”
“So if I wanted to try it again—hypothetically—” he added quickly, “that wouldn’t mean I’m recreating the same harm?”
“No,” you said. “It would mean you’re renegotiating it.”
He leaned back, exhaling slowly while absorbing everything you’d said, but then his mouth twitched—like there was still something caught behind his teeth he hadn’t figured out yet.
“I think part of what messes with me is that sometimes it’s not even about wanting it in real life. It’s more like… the fantasy of it. The idea. And then I wonder if that alone makes me—”
“—complicit?” you finished gently.
He exhaled. “Yeah.”
You leaned back against the couch cushion, thoughtful rather than defensive. “Fantasy is a kind of a lab,” you said.
He glanced at you. “A lab?”
“Yeah,” you nodded. “The brain runs simulations without consequences. No one gets hurt there unless you drag it into reality without consent or context. And,” you added, then hesitated—not because you didn’t trust him, but because you were choosing honesty—“I should probably use a real-example too.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” you said. “But I want to.”
You shifted a little, angling your body toward him without closing the distance entirely. “So, I’ve never really dated anyone. But I’ve had friends with benefits at different points.” You lifted a finger immediately. “Not saying this because I’m flirting.”
He chuckled, tension easing. “Didn’t think that. It’d be a bad move, honestly.”
You laughed too, shaking your head. “Good. We’re on the same page then.”
Then you lowered your voice, not dramatically—just instinctively, like some truths asked for quieter air.
“There was this one guy,” you went on, “who made me realize I liked things differently in a way.”
Harry’s posture stilled—not stiff or trying to eroticize your tale, he was merely wearing the same attentive glare you had worn minutes before while he spoke,
“And before you panic,” you added, a small smile tugging at your lips, “if any man called me a slut or a bitch outside of that context? Or even implied he was only talking to me for sex?” You mimed a punch. “I’d be done in that second,”
He snorted for a few seconds, and that sound made you lose your composure and laugh as well.
“But with this guy,” you continued, “it was different. Because it was contained. We both agreed it was a performance.” You shrugged and Harry nodded slowly.
“Afterward,” you said, “he’d call me the sweetest names. Cook dinner. Clean my apartment without me asking.” You smiled faintly at the memory, not longing—just honest.
“That,” Harry said quietly, “sounds healthy.”
“It was,” you agreed. “Because there were rules. Safewords. Parameters. Choice.” You met his eyes. “And when you don’t want to do it, you don’t. That’s the whole point.”
He let out a breath, like something heavy had finally been set down.
“So when someone pushes you,” you added, voice firm now, “or shames you, or frames their desires as your obligation—that’s not kink. That’s bullshit.”
His jaw tightened. “She never understood that.”
“No,” you said plainly. “And if she didn’t, then fuck her. She was full of shit.”
He startled, then laughed—really laughed.
“She’s married now,” he said, like it was an afterthought that eliminated all of her wrong-doings.
You didn’t miss a beat. “Well, if you ever run into her,” you said solemnly, “you have my full permission to tell her we’re getting married too.”
He turned to you, startled. “We are?”
“Yes,” you nodded seriously. “And that I absolutely adore you.”
He stared for half a second, then broke into laughter, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
You smiled, soft but steady. “What—too much?”
“No,” he said, still smiling. “Just unexpected.”
You leaned back again, giving him space, the air between you lighter now—safer. He shifted on the couch, the corner of his mouth lifting like the thought had only just occurred to him.
“Have you ever written about this kind of stuff?” he asked.
You hummed, thinking. “Years ago.”
“Really?”
“Mm,” you nodded. “Not like—explicit guides or anything. More about power, consent, context. How people confuse desire with damage.” You shrugged. “It didn’t last long.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“I mean,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your hand, “we like to pretend we’re progressive, but most kinks are still taboo unless they’re watered down enough to be palatable. You can write about sex as long as it’s aesthetic. Or empowering in a very specific way. Or edgy but not too much.”
“And if it’s not?” he asked.
“Then suddenly you’re ‘romanticizing harm’ or ‘normalizing unhealthy dynamics,’” you said, air-quoting with your fingers. “Even when the entire point of the piece is consent, agency, negotiation, and aftercare. So I pivoted. Wrote around it. Talked about intimacy, attachment styles, communication. All the respectable stuff.” You smirked thinking of the punch-line of the joke that summed up your life. “Which is ironic, because the respectable stuff is what most people are worse at.”
He laughed under his breath. Then he laughed again—longer this time, softer, like it surprised him as much as it surprised you.
“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him.
“I don’t know,” he said, still laughing, shaking his head. “I just—” He tried to stop, failed, laughed again. “This is such a weird conversation to be having. And yet,” he added, grin wide now, “I’m completely fine.”
“Pff, that should be concerning,” you said. “But hey, at least you shared it with an expert,” you added with a soft laugh.
“Well, your professional parameters suck,”
“Feel free to contact HR,” you chuckled, until you felt him pull a millimeter closer to your body.
You looked at him then—really looked at him—and felt it again, that quiet warmth you kept mislabeling as coincidence. Another pause followed, but this one felt different. Not heavy or fragile, it was simply settling into place as if it was natural.
“It’s kind of nice,” he said, softer now. “Not having to edit myself.”
You nodded, pulling away by an inch. “The feeling’s mutual”
He glanced at you sideways. “You make it easy.”
You scoffed automatically. “Don’t start.”
“I’m serious,” he said, no teasing this time. “Most people I’m always—” he mimed straightening something invisible. “Here, I don’t feel like I have to.”
Your throat tightened, but you masked it with a smirk. “Careful. If you keep talking like that I might start charging you per session.”
He laughed again. “Fair.”
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
“How is the article going?” Harry asked while pouring the last shot of espresso over your coffee.
Morning, despite being a work-less Monday when both of you were supposedly having a rest from the fast-paced life of New York, had woken you even more tired than those impatient times of the city.
You were still submerged deep within your world of words, typing furiosly over and over until your mind couldn’t conjure any other sentence.
“Amazing, considering I shouldn’t have started it until Thursday,” you said quickly, glancing fast at his face to smile as a thank you for the coffee. “But considering I want to submit this, not so much.”
He walked past you, glancing at you and the words of the screen. “You’re too hard on yourself,”
“That’s only because I’m ambitious,” you repried dryly.
“Of course,” he admitted without any truth in his voice, sitting beside you.
“Don’t you have any more work to do?” you asked quickly, eyes pretending to be staring at the screen while secretly looking at him from the peripheral.
“I finished everything for now. I’m just waiting for a few calls,”
“Efficient,” you chuckled.
“I was hoping for us to see the city—have brunch maybe,”
You laughed, finally looking away from your screen. “Brunch?”
“Yeah, I mean most places around here are good for that—even better than in Manhattan,” he began saying, and as if it was a negotiation he began enlisting other perks of walking through the city: “Besides, maybe something’ll catch your eye.”
“Maybe I’ll stick to the one million dollars offer,”
“Maybe I’ll double it by two,”
You chuckled even louder, “That doesn’t even make sense. You’ll double it by two? That’s redundant,”
“It doesn’t matter—what matters is if that’s a yes?”
“To the brunch offer? Yeah. To the doubled by two million dollars? No.”
“Then how much?”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Then what do you want?” He asked coyly, half unsure and half-wondering if you’d ever say the answer to the question at all.
Truth was you didn’t want money—not from him at least—asking for money would be idiotic, considering he had offered money or any financial resource as soon as you mentioned a struggle all under the excuse of being a ‘good friend’. You might still have the doubts if his charity act could be only that: a charity act; but when needed, you wouldn’t say no to a free dinner even when you said no to him offering to pay for Therapy appointments or your department’s rent—maybe you could ask him for him to repair the vinyl player from the Tribeca department. Or maybe not.
“I still don’t know,” you replied amidst a dry laugh, and for once, he didn’t push.
Truth was you didn’t know exactly what you wanted from this deal because you couldn’t understand why it had been so easy to agree to it the second time, you wondered if he could tell the doubt in your face, but his face was solely wearing the same smile he had worn the whole day.
He simply nodded and walked away into the living room, sitting in the couch and pretending to read a novel while his mind continued spiraling like a damned frenzied train in an action western. Your mind was left overworked to maximum speed between understanding what to write and what to feel.
Was everything merely a time-bomb? you found yourself thinking so—It might’ve been inevitable, after all—How long can someone write about love before starting to feel its effects on life? How thin can you make the barrier between fiction and reality before the friction ends up mingling one substance with the other?
You changed tabs for the first time in the day, and without a moment for doubt to creep in, you began typing your thoughts away.
This is where the lie begins to fall apart. Love may introduce uncertainty, but the lack of it introduces a different kind—one rooted in isolation and self-preservation that has overstayed its usefulness. Many of us are not avoiding love because we’re above it; we’re avoiding it because we’re not sure we can sustain it, or because we doubt we’re capable of being chosen and chosen again. It’s easier to believe we don’t want something than to confront the possibility that we might lose it if we ever have it.But despite all our efforts to intellectualize or dismiss it, love continues to operate outside the boundaries we set. And perhaps, that’s the magic of it—that despite the best of our efforts, we are unable to escape the enigma of love—for better or for worse love’s meant to find us like a cupid’s arrow pacing at the speed of a snail.
You stopped yourself before you ended up confessing the painfully obvious truth you had began to realize in the past nights of quiet thinking. “What are you reading?” you said instead as you walked to the living room.
Pretending that you could leave the fiction in the kitchen and carry yourself poised. Sitting next to him with tranquility, as if strange uncertainty wasn’t simmering under your veins like an unexplainable phenomenon that some experts could begin cataloguing as infatuation—meant to eventually become the very thing you proclaimed dead: love.
A/N: Happy Holidays and Happy New Year! Since Tumblr won't let me post the whole thing together I had to divide chapter 9 in two posts, in case this one appears first on your notifications click on masterlist and go to Chapter 9: The Getaways to read the first one and from there come here :)
With that said, if you're here after the previous chapter, enjoy!
After Phoebe left for school, Harry and you were quick to make yourselves presentable to Southampton’s standards.
After layering thermal clothing under a sweater and a pair of jeans, you thought you could call it a day, until you walked to the living-room and found Harry wearing almost a full-suit; he was only missing the tie to pull the whole navy arrangement together.
You chuckled when you saw him. “Don’t you think you’re a bit overdressed for the occasion?”
“I’m wearing jeans,” he defended himself with a chuckle, making you look down to see he was in fact, wearing jeans.
“With a blazer and a white shirt,” you said with a soft laugh, your hand moving quickly to adjust his left lapel. “If you grabbed a vest you might end up looking like every other man working in FiDi.”
“Should I change?”
“No, I’m just messing with you—I think you look good,” you muttered quickly, taking a step back to hold yourself at the right distance before saying another stupidity.
“Okay,” he said to himself softly as you walked to the passager seat. And without any other comment he opened the door to the driver seat and started the engine.
For a cold November day, the restaurant was surely busy. Not that it mattered, Harry had made a reservation the night before and instead of waiting cramped in the small lounge area or in the hefty outside, a booth was granted quick to both of you.
The waitress was quick to bring you the menus and complimentary water. He ordered eggs benedict with smoked salmon, you ordered a platter of an omelette, hash-brown and french toast. Both of you ordered mimosas.
“It feels a bit too breakfast-y for being brunch,” you said with a chuckle, looking at the rest of the people having runny eggs and pancakes with orange juice. “I feel like someone’s mom is going to judge me for having alcohol at eleven AM.”
“Well, they will judge us both in that case,” he chuckled, smirk widening as he got slightly closer to you—as if the joke he was sharing was meant for your ears only.
Both of those gestures made your smile widen as you looked through the window at the passing couples and families, people-watching as you often did since you were a kid. Were they friends, foes, lovers, cheaters—maybe they were merely humans and that was the big secret.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked, the words sending you back to think about the wedding day.
“Is that all they’re worth?” you decided to ask daringly.
He chuckled, licking his lips as the answer bubbled in the back of his head. “Of course not—they’re priceless.” You looked back at him, paying attention to the faint smile that followed, not smug this time, but careful. “That’s why I wouldn’t insult them by putting a number on them.”
You laughed. “That’s good. Where’d you read it?”
“I just thought about it right now,” he admitted smugly. “Was it good?”
“Well, it’ll get you to know my thoughts,” you said with a soft smile drawn in your lips.
He went in closer by an inch, looking briefly at your lips before his eyes fell once again over your eyes. “Please do tell,” he said with a smirk.
“I was thinking about us.” You said simply, well-aware of how the phrasing would mean once it materialized.
His smile faltered for a second, the same second where confusion filled his expression like a mask that dissolved in thin air when looking at you once again. He was speechless—once again because of you.
“Us?” he asked, before sipping on the glass of water nervously.
“Uh-huh. What do you think they think we are?” you asked, nodding your head towards a group of waiters talking.
Harry followed your eyes until one of the waiters looked back at both of you—waiting for a request or a head-tilt, but instead he saw you both turning to look at each other, laughing and pretending you hadn’t been looking in the first place.
“That we’re a couple,” Harry mumbled matter-of-factly.
You huffed and rolled your eyes. “You’re not fun,” you said sternly.
“What?” he shrugged helplessly.
“Look,” you said getting closer to him, turning your head towards an older man and woman sitting on the corner. “What do you think they are?”
He laid back on his seat, trying to analyze everything through the obviate factor.
“Well, they look around the same age so, couple?”
“There’s no ring on his finger though,” you said before sipping on a glass of water, hiding your smile behind the crystal.
He looked back and fixated on the hand of the old man, you weren’t lying.
“What do you think they are then?” he asked defeated.
“I thought they might be family—but if we think couple, maybe they’re having an affair.” You lowered your voice on the last words, as if both of you were sharing a life-changing secret.
“At that age?” he scoffed with disbelief.
“True, well maybe he’s divorced and is falling in love again.”
“Or maybe they were lovers before and they found themselves again after all these years,”
“See, you’re starting to get the hang of it.” You said with a chuckle as the mimosas were served on your table.
“So? What do you think they think we are?” you asked once again, this time trading the water-sip for the alcohol.
“That we’re two alcoholics who went drinking all-night and need more alcohol now?”
“We got drunk on a Monday?”
“Yeah, we’re irresponsible,” Harry said with a laugh. “What do you think they think we are?”
“Maybe that you’re some boss and I’m your assistant,” you began saying, "or secretary. Maybe they think we have an affair.”
“Or that we’re boring—maybe we’re truly just a suburban long island couple out here.”
You laughed genuinely at that, the rest of the conversation oscillating between people-watching and guessing what people might think about the two of you; until the plates were served and you found yourselves eating in comfortable silence and occasional bickering—like old couples are costumed to.
After brunch, you didn’t do much besides walking through the main street under the excuse of ‘window shopping’. Every storefront was even neater and more self-aware than the one before, showcases full of items that you knew already cost more than your monthly rent.
“This feels like a fever-dream,” you murmured, stopping in front of a boutique with hand-thrown mugs worth more than what you thought was possible for ceramics. “Like if I touch anything, someone’s going to be judging me because apparently I’m doing it wrong—Why is everything so expensive here?”
Harry smiled, hands in his coat pockets. “You don’t want a sixteen-hundred-dollar lamp?”
“Oh, of course!” you replied with a scoff. “That will totally go with my million-dollar vegan-leather couch.”
Harry laughed at your words and before you knew it both of you drifted to another window, where different items were shown with the same high places. At some point Harry stopped short in front of a real estate office—floor-to-ceiling glass, glossy photos of homes perched against dunes of sand.
The slogan read: “The American dream meets the eternal holiday!”
He tilted his head to look at you. “So,” he said casually, like he hadn’t been thinking about it at all, “is this… like you imagined?”
You followed his gaze, the houses frozen mid-perfection. White shingles. Endless windows. A version of quiet that had been carefully curated to be sold in bulks to everyone with enough money to afford to make the fantasies a reality.
You shrugged. “I never really thought much about the Hamptons.”
“No?” he asked, surprised.
“No,” you said, honest. “I mean, I know it’s nice and it is—but it feels like it’s only liked during summer.” You smiled faintly. “Right now, it doesn’t feel much like The Hamptons, it’s just Southamptons. I don’t know how to explain it. I did want to see ‘The end’ though,”
He glanced at you. “You mean Montauk?”
“Yeah,” you nodded. “I always told myself I’d go one of the nights I babysat Phoebe but I was always tired.”
He raised an eyebrow. “At night? You wanted to go there because of the project and mystery or what?”
You laughed, the sound strained surprised out of your lips. “No.”
“No?” he echoed, amused.
You shook your head. “No, It was because of a movie I used to love. You’ve never watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?”
He frowned. “No.”
You stopped walking, turning to face him fully now. “You’ve never watched it?”
“No,” he repeated, defensive already. “Should I be ashamed?”
“Yes,” you said immediately. “Deeply.”
He laughed. “Okay, but what does it have to do with Montauk?”
You softened, hands tucking into your sleeves. “Meet me in Montauk,” you said. “One of the characters says that, and well—they end up going to Montauk again. It makes more sense if you watch the movie. I’m not sure if I can explain it”
“I’ll watch it then,”
“I think you’ll like it,” you murmured, “And it’s really good.”
You kept walking, hands brushing occasionally as the sidewalk narrowed, neither of you moving away. The town felt quieter the farther you got from the restaurant—less curated, more lived-in. Fewer boutiques, more closed storefronts with handwritten signs taped to the glass: Back in Spring. See you next season.
“I think I know what you mean,” Harry said after a while. “Like the city’s not trying to impress any tourist or something.”
“I mean, technically we’re some kind of tourists but yeah, that’s exactly it,” you replied. “I think I’d hate it in summer.”
He laughed. “Noted.”
Eventually, the cold began to win, creeping into your fingers and the tips of your ears, and you both wordlessly turned back toward the car. The drive home was quieter than the one there, not awkward at all, but thoughtful—you had learned that around Harry those kind of silences were even worse, because they made you spiral about everything, and most times, they confronted you.
You watched the road unwind through the windshield, bare trees blurring into lines.
“It’s weird,” you said suddenly.
Harry glanced at you. “What is?”
You hesitated, chewing on the thought, debating if you should change it or simply spit it.
“The week’s almost over.” You finally stated.
“Yeah,” he said. “It went fast.”
“Too fast,” you murmured, then sighed. “And I feel kind of bad about it.”
He frowned slightly. “Why?”
You shrugged, eyes still on the window. “I don’t know if I’m missing all of this already,” you admitted, “or if I’m starting to miss it because of you.”
“Because of me?” he asked once and you nodded, but then once both of you got a red He repeated the question like he needed to hear an answer to actually believe you.
“Yeah,” you said quietly, trying not to look at him but doing it in spite of everything. “And that’s the part that’s… confusing.”
He waited for you to explain yourself, like he always waited. And you ended up talking, like you always did since you had met him, because after all, there was nothing much to hide when you were with him.
“I mean,” you went on, words loosening now that you’d already crossed the line, “we still hang out in the city. It’s not like this is the last time we’ll see each other.”
“Right,” he said, careful.
“So I’m not even sure I know what I’m missing,” you added with a soft, humorless laugh. “Which feels dramatic, considering nothing’s actually ending.”
He exhaled slowly, hands steady on the wheel. “Maybe you’re missing the version of us that only exists here.”
You scoffed, immediately defensive—too close, too real. “Okay, that sounded like something from one of my drafts. Don’t plagiarize me.”
He smiled, but didn’t argue.
You shifted in your seat, needing an out, and found it in the first familiar shield you could reach for.
“Also,” you said, lighter now, “you still haven’t met your part of the deal.”
He glanced at you, eyebrow lifting in sarcasm. “What deal?”
You finally turned to look at him, brows lifting in astonishment, making him laugh softly.
“Ah. That.” He said, as if he hadn’t thought about it at all. “It’s fine,” he said easily, like it truly was. “Whatever you ask, I think I already know how to top it.”
You frowned, turning away from him despite still trying to see his smirk. “That’s incredibly arrogant.”
He smiled, eyes still on the road. “Maybe. Or maybe I just pay attention.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “You don’t even know what I’d ask for.”
“Sure I do,” he replied, turning to look at you.
For the first time, you felt truly seen and somehow that scared you even more than what you thought.
Andrew and Angie arrived an hour after Phoebe came from school. They asked quickly for a debrief of how the week had been, and the five of you sat on the table to have lunch. Then, just as soon as the day began to turn dark, the couple subtly farewell both of you by sending Phoebe to sleep, proclaiming your departure from the small town back into the neverending buzz of New York City.
Your bags were already on the trunk of Harry’s car, so were his. And it felt strange when you finally left the guest’s room, the emptied bed and desk where you had strangely inhabited for a week next to him. The pillows reeking of your shampoo and his body-wash. What felt weirder was the awaiting sensation of you missing it, because you knew you would, you knew you were feeling it already.
There was a knock on the door, you didn’t need to turn your head to know who it was.
“Ready to go?”
“Yeah,” you murmured quickly, picking up your chargers from the wall and taking a brief look at the room before finally leaving it.
For a second you only stared at Harry, as if whatever version of him you had allowed yourself to get fond of would be left with the same building. Just another dream or possibility that would quickly vanish with the inevitable passing of time the highway brought.
You stared at his eyes, memorizing the way they made your heart race. To his lips, the way his smile had driven you crazy. The dimple on his left cheek. The shade of his stubble and the mustache blooming over his upper lip. He had cleaned the edges in the morning, you could tell because the skin looked redder than before.
It felt weird to imagine that after that day, you wouldn’t sleep next to him anymore. Or talk to him all day. Or have him sharing stories about his family while both of you walked through the kitchen as if the space had belonged to both of you all along. But you knew that if you were to keep yourself together—and for the sake of your own sanity—after that day, you would have to create a distance, otherwise, you weren’t sure how long you would have to deny your faith in a feeling that had never ever felt so close to reach.
Just an inch—the one separating your lips from his in the darkened hallway.
You hugged Phoebe before you left, she made you promise you’d come back soon. Harry did the same while you stretched hands with the kid’s parents. ‘See you soon,’ both of their voices echoed in your head as you waited for Harry to finally leave the warmness and fall back into the bitter cold of nightfall. At the same time, you were grateful he had taken long, it gave you time to clean the tears threatening to fall from the commissure of your eye.
When he finally closed the door and turned to look at you, it was as if the world had paused for a second and the air struck colder than before, like a blow coming from reality instead of the weather.
None of you said anything as you walked down to the car, until he opened the trunk to double check for your belongings and then he laughed for himself. The sound was too loud even then, loud enough that you turned around to see him, the remnants of his laughter still in place even as he walked to the driver seat.
Then the silence got broken. “What’s so funny?” you asked with raised eyebrows, he hadn’t started the engine yet.
His smile softened as he turned to look at you, “I just remembered the day we arrived,”
You sighed and turned to face your shoes over the black mat of the car. You wished you could forget that day—the anxiety you felt and the guilt once every voicemail came into your phone.
“I’m sorry I was all moody,” you huffed under your breath, the apology felt watered down, as if there was nothing you should apologize for but either way, you tried to take the leverage off of your shoulders.
“It’s fine.” He replied, voice softening around the edges of your armour. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. I was just stressed and instead of letting it cool down I just dropped everything on you. That was on me.”
You chuckled, your mind machinating for a different topic before your heart throbbed from underneath your skin and jumped right into his hands. “It’s fine. But I do have a question—”
“Well, I hope I have the answer,” he chuckled, finally starting the engine and getting into the road.
“Are you ready to pay for your part of the deal?” you asked with a playful demeanor that contrasted the nostalgia from before.
“Something caught your eye?” he asked, more doubt than certainty.
“There was a vinyl player in one of the stores—the one in the Tribeca department broke and I think it’d be good to replace it.”
“Okay,” he paused for a second. “Do you have plans for tonight?”
You chuckled, “Was a week not enough for you?”
“No,” he replied—disarmingly honest—you wished he had laughed or raised an eyebrow, but the honesty hit harder than you could imagine. “You know that I can overpay that offer,”
“The vinyl player was like sixty-thousand,” you said with an exhausted laugh. “I doubt you have more than that on you right now.”
“Touché,” he exhaled quickly, taking a turn to go back to the streets you walked the day before. “But I have something better.”
“That ego’s going to be the death of you, Castillo.” The words left your mouth hushed, oscillating between being a joke and being a truth. The silence after them only deepened everything, you weren’t sure what he thought.
“I mean it, matter of fact—what if after getting we buy the vinyl player I show you.”
“Deal,” you said sure of yourself, trusting already that no matter what he bought you after, he wouldn’t be able to guess.
Once the big box of metal and oak-wood was sitting in the backseat like a secret third-listener. You waited for Harry to reveal his big-surprise while fixing your lipstick in the passenger seat, he walked back to the trunk and grabbed a small bag. By that moment you were torn guessing between a piece of jewelry—maybe the earrings you had worn during the wedding. Maybe something else, something expensive.
The sound of the door opening pulled you out of the spiral of thoughts.
“Are you ready for your big surprise?” he asked, smirk widening.
“I’d hope so,” you quickly replied with a smile.
Then he gave you the small bag. You pressed your lips together as if suppressing anticipation, your hands digging inside the small paper bag to find the big surprise.
A tie. A black tie. Was it supposed to be a joke? or a symbol? or some kind of joke?
Well, it sure proved he didn’t know you at all. You’d never wear ties, not even if the one he was giving you as a burgundy Kiton.
“I don’t get this,” you murmured quickly. “I mean, thank you but I don’t even wear ties.”
“I know,” he replied, way too sure. showing that you were only ahead of yourself.
He grabbed the tie from your hands and allowed it to linger for a second over his own hands.
“This is only the beginning of the surprise,” he muttered quickly before getting closer to you by a millimeter.
You chuckled, backing away instinctively when you felt his breath fanning over your cupid’s bow.
“I really wasn’t throwing myself at you when we were discussing sex ethics,” the words left from the depths of your already-scared and racing mind.
Harry chuckled for a second, trying to hide the discomfort he felt once he realized he hadn’t been obvious enough about his intentions.
“I’m not trying to do that,” he replied, mind racing to find a way to fix what his actions had done.
“Then what?”
“I want to surprise you, so I thought it’d be a good surprise if you had your eyes covered before the surprise.”
“You sure you don’t want to Dahmer me to some strange location?”
His expression softened, his eyes shifting from accompanying the smirk on his lips to quieting into a smile like the one he was wearing all those nights before in that restaurant in New York, even the few light that entered through the window mimicked the same shading over his profile the restaurant light had provided, and you felt how the tumultuous memories flooded your mind.
“Positive,” Harry affirmed, his smile widening back into the smirk he was wearing previously.
You nodded your head more to yourself than to him. “Okay then, do I cover them or should you?”
“However you’d like, it’s your surprise after all,” he replied, smug as always.
“You do it then,” you said with a hushed whisper. “If it’s my surprise I shouldn’t be doing a damn thing,” you replied, voice lowering as a matching smirk appeared on your lips.
He chuckled, hiding the guilt he felt under his ribs as he had perfected the technique over the months. There was no point in showing what he felt when the boundary of friends would keep existing between both of you for god-knew-how-long.
Suddenly the silk over his skin had turned coarse and itchy.
“You do know how to tie it, right?” you asked teasingly, noticing his emerging doubt.
Harry chuckled, smirk falling back into place where doubt had been making space. “Of course I know—I’ve done it plenty of times,”
“With your college sweetheart?”
“That’s a low blow,” he said, mouth opening as if he was actually hurt. “If I say yes, will you get jealous again?” he asked, getting even more close than before, the silk of the tie reaching
“Now you’re reaching Castillo—I’ve never been jealous,” you said with a chuckle. Your famous last words before the whole world turned dark when the tie fell over your eyes and his breath fanned over your skin.
You weren’t quite sure how long it would take for both of you to arrive into the city, there had been over fifteen minutes and the only thing you could rely on was the vibration of the wheels under your feet and the way they stopped every other turn.
You chuckled for a second just to break the silence blooming in the car. Despite not knowing what you were laughing for, he echoed your chuckles with ease.
“What are you laughing at?” you asked first, trying to unveil him even when the one with covered eyes was you.
His chuckle continued, palpable in the air like some strange reverberation of air against glass. “Your laugh,”
“Oh, now you’re making fun of me—way to ruin a surprise, Castillo.” you mumbled, pretending to be hurt by his words, as if bickering hadn’t been one of the ways your friendship had flourished.
“It’s charismatic,” he defended himself.
“That’s a big word for you,” you teased back, as if taking revenge for what he told you. Then the silence continued to spread through the air. “You really think so?”
He nodded, then, when he noticed you couldn’t see him, he murmured: “Yes”.
You chuckled again, unsure of what to say.
“What are you laughing at?” he said, repeating your words from before.
“I don’t know,” you murmured quietly. “Just that this is how true crime documentaries usually begin, you know?”
“You never let that go, do you?”
“No,” you replied easily. “If I’m going to get murdered, I want to at least be self-aware about it.”
He laughed under his breath. “You’re bluffing.”
You chuckled, the tone of his voice letting you know he didn’t mean it. “And? You like it.”
Another pause followed, one that felt intentional as if he was letting the road swallow a thought before speaking again.
“I do,” he admitted silently.
You smiled beneath the tie, the sound of his voice doing that annoying thing where it settled somewhere warm in your chest. The car kept moving steadily, the vibration familiar enough that your brain defaulted to its most reasonable conclusion: You were drifting back into the city. The carhonks confirmed that as well.
"You know that just because you aren't Bundy-ing me somewhere, you don't have to go full Ballard on me," you chuckled.
There was a beat of silence. Then—soft amusement.
“Ballard?” he asked.
You smiled under the tie, lips curving slowly. “He’s an author,” you said. “Wrote a book about people who crashed cars and had sex in the scene.”
He let out a breathy laugh that hid his discomfort. “Right. Of course. I should’ve known.”
“You’re the one who asked!” you defended yourself
“Well,” he said, mock-defensive now, “for the record, I am respecting every traffic law.”
You scoffed lightly. “Wow. Incredible. Someone get this man a prize!”
“I’m under the speed limit,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself. “Seatbelt on, on both of us. Both hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road”
“So disciplined,” you teased.
“Exactly,” he said. “No transgression. No danger. Just extremely responsible driving.”
“Ruins the fantasy,” you replied. “If you’re going to blindfold me, at least commit to the bit.”
Laughter creeped into his voice mixed with amusement. “You seem to be enjoying this already.”
“Am I?” you shot back immediately. “I can’t even look at my face—I have a blindfold over my eyes.”
“Really?” he asked, feigning innocence. “That’s strange.”
You turned your head toward him instinctively. “As if you weren’t the one who put it there.”
He hummed, thoughtful, like he was genuinely considering that fact for the first time. “That does sound like something I’d do.”
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, though the smile in your voice gave you away. “You’re getting far too comfortable with this.”
“You started it,” he said calmly.
“I made a literary reference,” you corrected, raising a finger in his direction. “You’re the one who escalated it.”
“Give it time,” he replied. “We're almost there.”
The car slowed again after some time, the sound of the tires against the pavement sounded different—like what was beneath them wasn’t asphalt at all. It sounded like dirt, perhaps some park outside of the city, or some open-air shopping mall. The tires crunched in a way that made your brow furrow beneath the tie.
The engine cut after a few seconds, breaking apart your doubts. Silence followed—thicker, and wider than before. Harry turned down the windows of the car. There was no honking or the sound of automobiles. Only the whooshing side of air.
The crunch came again when he opened the car and got out of it. The car dipped slightly, suspension adjusting, and you felt the shift in your stomach that came with leaving a paved road entirely. His steps sounded dense, as if the surface was damp and he had trouble moving through it.
“Okay,” you murmured, brows knitting beneath the tie. “If this is where you bury me, I’d like it on record that I had figured you out since the very first night.”
He laughed under his breath. “You’re very dramatic for someone who agreed to this willingly.”
“I agreed to a surprise,” you corrected. “Not starring on the 7pm news,” your hands moved towards the edge of the door, searching for the handle to get down.
“Wait,” he interrupted gently. “Just give me a minute and stay here.”
You turned your head toward the sound of him moving, lips parting. “Harry—”
“I promise,” he added quickly. “No Bundy. No Ballard. No weird surprises that I have no idea how you’re thinking of them.”
You sighed theatrically. “No taking the blindfold off already either, I suppose”
“You’re starting to get the hang of it.” He laughed under his breath as cold air rushed in, then the door shut again.
You were alone now, still blindfolded, still buckled in, suddenly hyper-aware of every sound passing through the environment: The trunk opened then, and then the sound of him taking something heavy out of the car, the seats buckled slightly readjusting the position once the weight had been lifted.
A low grunt escaped his lips inevitably as he moved what sounded like a box through the dirt, the smell of dampness travelling through the windows to you.
“I could help you know!”
“It’s your surprise, you shouldn't do a damn thing!” he defended, using your own words.
Then, there was the sound of compressed air being lifted. Every time you tried to guess what the surprise could be—you got it wrong. So you did the only thing left to do: waiting.
A few minutes passed, maybe five or ten, you weren’t quite sure; after all time acted strangely when anticipation was involved. You heard footsteps again—more than before. Dragging. The soft thud of something being poured. A faint rustle like leaves falling over each other on a windy September night.
Then, Harry’s voice: “Okay,” he said, close again, a little breathless. “I need you to stay put for just a bit longer.”
You smiled despite yourself. “You’re really milking this.”
“I know,” he admitted, slightly ashamed of himself. “But I need you to trust me.”
“Dangerous words,”
“I know,” he said, cleaning his hands against his coat. “That’s why I don’t use them lightly,”
“Well, at least we know your ego’s still intact—I suppose that means the surprise will actually surprise me, right?”
“That’s the plan,” he said, and despite being blinded, you could almost hear the sound of the smirk forming in his lips.
Then he left again, the sound of his soles drifting against the echoes of soil and stones. You tried, in spite of yourself, to stay put. Trying not to pace or overthink at all.
When he came back finally, opening your door carefully, you could feel the way your stomach unbuckled in anticipation that suddenly seemed to die—as if the feeling was so massive it was unbearable already. His hand hovered near yours, trying to stop you from falling, the same question asked without words.
“Ready?” he murmured, breath clashing over the skin of your face.
You nodded, scared that if you opened your mouth to say something only the butterflies in your stomach would escape from their gilded cage.
You gave the first step, and surprisingly the soil didn’t feel as wet as it smelled. Then, a question popped in your head: Perhaps it wasn’t dirt at all, but if it wasn’t—then where did the smell of dampness come from?
He helped you out slowly, guiding you by the elbow. Your shoes met more of the uneven ground, shitting under your feet every time you moved.
You could feel the way your heart stopped a beat and your breath caught when he let go of your arm.
“Wait,” he said softly, positioning you a few feet farther from your previous position. “Don’t move.”
“Harry,” you warned, already smiling too much. “If this is a prank—”
“It’s not,” he said again, quieter this time. “I just need one more second.”
You heard one last sound, and despite having a piece of clothing over your field of vision, you could feel the warmth on your skin that came from the lights he had turned. Scattered through the place and nevertheless, landing softly around your frame
Then his fingers found the knot of the tie behind your head. Your breath caught once again.
“Okay,” he said. “Now’s the time.”
His fingers travelling softly over your head, you didn’t know what to expect and your hand moved by instinct over his own.
“I just—give me a second,” you said, voice breaking inevitably.
“Of course,” he said, backing away softly, leaving you to ground yourself.
You took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to think of something else, trying to predict what your reaction would be, trying to guess one last time what the surprise could be. But your mind was blank.
“Now,” you murmured, waiting for his ministrations over the knot of the tie to continue.
It didn’t take long, instead, it felt agonizingly slow and you could feel the anticipation growing over and over again.
And finally, the blindfold was gone, and you could feel the lights over your eyelids even stronger.
You blinked once—only the bright lights. You could hear in the catharsis of the lights the way he shifted from place, trying to see what your reaction was. You opened your eyes again, light filtering through your lashes: bright and pale against the dark you’d been sitting in. You blinked hard over and over, eyes watering from more than just the contrast.
Finally, they adjusted to their surroundings and the beach stretched out before you.
The ocean—wide, endless, steel-blue under the dark sky—rolled in slow, steady waves. Wind swept across the shore, cold and sharp and alive. That was where the smell of salted air came from, not damped soil but the shore itself.
You turned your eyes to meet the sand under your shoes, and you noticed there wasn’t only sand, there was snow. Not covering the whole place, but sprinkled just enough to allow the white mantle to blink under the lights.
A stretch of beach dusted in white, uneven and imperfect, piled in drifts and footprints like someone had tried—desperately—to convince winter and the universe it belonged there.
The sand peeked through in places, the contrast surreal and unmistakable. Your heart slammed against your ribs, because he was right: That topped everything you could imagine yourself asking for.
“No way,” you breathed.
He stood beside you, hands tucked into his coat pockets now, watching your face instead of the ocean. In his mind, there was more beauty there than in the whole frosted coast.
“You said you’d never seen it,” he said quietly.
You swallowed. “You planned the whole thing in a day?”
“No,” he chuckled, defeated and undercover. “But when we talked about your story, the protagonist had never seen the ocean. You’re going to tell me that wasn’t autobiographical?”
You smiled in spite of yourself, “Was it that easy to figure out?”
“I knew I wanted to take you to the beach just so you could see the ocean—but then you mentioned Montauk and—” he paused himself, his shoe shifting as if he was inviting you to walk with him.
“This is Montauk?” you asked, even when you seemed to know the answer already.
“This is Montauk,” he affirmed softly. “Then you mentioned the movie—so everything just stacked.”
Your gaze dropped instead, drawn to the ground beneath your feet. You lifted your foot and nudged it gently, like a soft kick. The snow scattered easily, breaking apart and thinning to nothing where your shoe had disturbed it, sand peeking through like the illusion had been exposed.
“You ordered snow?,” you asked, half a laugh slipping out.
“It’s biodegradable,” he said immediately, almost too quickly, like he’d rehearsed it in case you said something.
You turned your head to look at him, incredulous. “How ethical of you,”
“I’m not a monster,” he replied lightly. “I hoped you’d appreciate that detail.”
You kicked it again, watching it dissolve, then glanced back at the ocean. The waves rolled in steadily, indifferent to you and yet impossibly present.
“I still can't believe that you really planned this,” you said quietly, “it feels like a dream.”
He didn’t answer right away.
The wind moved between you, tugging at your coat, threading cold slivers through your hair. Somewhere behind you, the lights hummed softly, everything felt intentional on the shore: the garland of lights through the palms, the snow covering the beach. And then the ocean wild and unbothered tickling at the coast.
“That was the idea,” he said finally. No smirk or teasing tone in his voice.
You noticed the way his shoulders eased a fraction, like the tension had been there long before you arrived. You noticed because you’d started noticing everything about him weeks ago—how he paused before speaking, how he softened his voice when he meant something, how he never rushed you even when you were clearly spiraling.
You looked back at the ocean, partly because it was less overwhelming than owning the feelings coursing through your veins—the vast ocean felt safer than looking at him.
The waves moved in slow, steady patterns, unconcerned with the fact that your chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with the cold, it was the kind of thing you normally catalogued as dangerous. Grand gestures. Intimacy disguised as thoughtfulness. The sort of thing that invited feelings you didn’t know what to do with once they arrived.
You told yourself, quickly, that this didn’t have to mean anything beyond the Hamptons. That whatever version of you was standing here didn’t have to survive the drive back. But there was something weird in that moment, that you didn’t want it to end. Not at all.
“I don’t usually let people do things like this for me,” you said, lightly, as if it were trivia instead of a confession.
He nodded once. Not surprised. He had known that already, even before he was planning for the ‘surprise’ disguised as some counter-deal.
“I know,” the words landed gently, without judgment, without triumph—like he’d known it for a while and decided it didn’t change anything to say them out loud.
That, somehow, was what made you laugh.
A small, self-deprecating sound escaped you as you shook your head. “I mean, it tracks,” you said. “I just ask for expensive things because I’m soulless. Zero emotional depth. Just no emotions and high price tags.”
You kicked at the snow again, lighter this time, like you weren’t trying to erase it—just interact with it without committing.
He turned toward you then.
Not sharply. Not dramatically. Just enough that you felt it.
“It’s not like that,” he said.
The correction was gentle, almost instinctive, like he was defending something that mattered to him without needing to raise his voice.
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “It’s not?”
“It’s not what I think,” he said again, quieter now.
“And what do you think then?”
“I think you don’t ask for material things because you’re empty. You ask for them because you don’t expect people to give you anything for free. ”
The words landed softly—but precisely. You shivered when you noticed he wasn’t wrong, in fact the words left his mouth as if they’d been waiting for the right moment all along.
You swallowed, eyes drifting back toward the ocean. The waves rolled in, unbothered, steady in a way that felt almost unfair.
“That’s a better way of saying I have trust issues,” you murmured.
He shrugged faintly. “Or that you’ve learned to be self-sufficient.”
Snow drifted past your face again, a few flakes catching briefly in your hair before melting away. You let yourself feel it this time—the cold, the quiet, the way the world felt oddly held together instead of precarious. What scared you wasn’t feeling everything in the moment, the sensation of missing something that hadn’t been over was what pushed you overboard.
There was no way you could miss a feeling that didn’t exist at all.
You turned on your toes slowly, boots grinding into sand and scattered white, the movement giving you something to do with your body now that standing still felt like too much. When you faced him again, he was already looking at you—like he’d been waiting for the exact second you’d turn back.
For a moment, it looked like he was about to say something. His mouth parted slightly, breath drawn in with intention, eyes steady in that way that usually meant this matters.
“I—” he started. You didn’t let him finish.
“So,” you said lightly, clapping your hands together once like the moment needed direction, “what’s next in the immersive experience? Do we walk dramatically along the shore? Should we build a snowman?”
His expression faltered—just a fraction—before easing into a smile. “A snowman?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, dead serious. “Really commit. You already went full production value. Might as well take advantage of it”
He laughed, the sound low and warm, shoulders loosening. “I don’t think the snow budget covers that.”
You kicked at the white again, watching it scatter and dissolve. “You sure? It feels real enough.” You paused, then added, teasing, “Very convincing. Texture, temperature—nice touch.”
“That part,” he said carefully, “wasn’t intentional.”
You hummed, unconvinced. “Of course it was. You’re thorough. I bet you researched melting points.”
“I did not—”
Something brushed against your cheek. You stilled, brow furrowing. Another fleck landed on your wrist, just above your glove. You glanced down automatically. Cold. Not imagined or theatrical, but the sensation was sharp enough so your senses could register it.
“Oh,” you said softly. He followed your gaze, confusion flickering across his face just before he looked up.
The sky had shifted almost imperceptibly—clouds thicker now, the air heavier. Snow fell in earnest, light but steady, real flakes catching in your hair, dotting his coat, melting the second they touched skin.
You laughed, startled and breathless. “Wait—this isn’t you.”
“No,” he said, stunned amusement adorning his voice. “I swear this one isn’t me.”
You held your hand out instinctively, palm up. A flake landed there, delicate and fleeting, gone almost as soon as it arrived.
“It’s cold,” you murmured, half to yourself. “It’s actually cold.”
He watched you watch it, something unguarded passing over his face—like he was seeing you see something for the first time and didn’t want to interrupt it.
“Well,” you said finally, looking back at him, snow clinging briefly to your lashes, “that’s unfair.”
He smiled. “What is?”
“I was ready to make fun of you for overengineering the experience,” you said. “And now the weather’s showing off.”
He laughed quietly. “I feel upstaged.”
The snow fell thicker now, softening everything—the lights, the shoreline, the space between you. You didn’t step closer, but somehow the distance felt smaller anyway.
“You were about to say something,” you said again, gentler this time. He hesitated. Just long enough for the moment to stretch thin. “I was,” he admitted.
“And now?” you asked, glancing back up at the sky as another flake landed on your cheek, cold and real and impossible to ignore.
He exhaled, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Now I think the timing’s been stolen.”
You smiled back, something warm settling in your chest. “Happens to the best of us.”
You both stood there, letting the snow fall over fake snow and sand and everything you hadn’t planned for. The ocean rolled on, indifferent and endless, and between the cold on your skin and the warmth beside you, the truth pressed closer to the surface: This wasn’t something either of you had orchestrated anymore. And neither of you was trying to stop it.
You laughed, and the sound felt different here—carried by the wind, swallowed by the waves, returned quieter and truer. You started walking again, closer to the shoreline now, and he followed without question. At some point your gloves came off. At some point his hand found yours. There was no moment worth marking—just the quiet understanding that neither of you pulled away.
“This really does feel like the movie,” you murmured.
“I watched it,” he said with a soft smile. “Yesterday.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Wow. That’s compromise.”
You chuckled, and he didn't answer right away. The snow dusted his hair, clung to the dark fabric of his coat. You brushed it off his shoulder without thinking, fingers lingering longer than necessary.
“Would you ever do that?” he asked suddenly.
“Do what?” You asked confused. “Erase someone.” He answered before you could say anything else.
You considered it, staring out at the ocean. “I don’t know. Depends on why you’re asking.”
The snow fell thicker now, the world narrowing to white and dark blue and his breath through the cold air. He squeezed your hand once.
“Would you erase me?” he asked.
You stopped for a second before turning to him fully, the question settling between you like something fragile and honest. Snow caught in your lashes. The ocean roared behind you, steady and endless. “Why would I erase you?” you asked, scared of what his answer might have been.
“Because I think after all of this I’m not sure how long I will be able to pretend that I don’t like you—” he interrupted himself before you could say something else. “And I don’t mean it as in spending time with you. I like you.”
You couldn’t answer and you definitely couldn’t deny it anymore. You might’ve been unable to call it love, but you couldn’t continue lying to yourself saying you didn’t like him. Because you did. You liked the way his eyes looked under low-light, you liked the way he laughed, you liked his sense of humor and the way he dressed. You liked how he teased you and how you teased him. You liked him flustered and you liked him when he was the one making you flustered.
You liked Harry Castillo. You liked him the same way you liked coffee, and writing, and talking—if someone were to ask you when the acquired taste appeared you wouldn’t have a date to attribute the phenomenon—it felt as if there was no moment before you had begun to like them.
You turned to see the night snow falling over the fake one. The scene felt surreal and unthinkable. If this were one of the books you had written, you would’ve said something like: ‘his desire to make her laugh had been so strong even the nature had heard and granted them the wish both of their hearts had been thinking of, for him her happiness, for her the snow’ and you wondered, as everything unfolded in front of you, if the kind of stories you wrote about could become true.
You took a step closer to him, no words exchanged—everyhting could be heard in the echo of the silence after the waves flooded the ocean—somehow that was enough to quiet your fears, grounding you into the depths of his eyes.
Your arm reached for his neck, stopping midway to caress his cheek, the weight of his head falling over your hand like gravity pulling him in. And before you could second-guess it, your lips clashed against his like the ocean waves against the snowy beach—reckless and without control, maroon lipstick falling into place over his skin like a magnificent prophecy finally fulfilled.
And unlike the ocean foam, once your lips met his—like the water caressed the sand—you weren't able to go back to a moment where that divine feeling was non-existent.
summary: you don’t believe in love, you just write about it convincingly enough to get paid for it. You agreed to go on these blind dates instead of your heartbroken friend and for the column content and free dinners, never expecting anyone to see through it. But then Harry does, and instead of walking away, he makes you another deal.
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wc: 15.5k
chapter warnings: indirect mentions of childhood trauma, indirect mentions of toxic family dynamics, mentions of death of a loved one, implied financial problems, some drinking, vulgar language, miscommunication, angst, fluff, Harry is literally whipped, rich people issues, overconsumption, reader eats meat, internalization, a lot of internal monologue, some progress if you squint your eyes.
You had called Mia to make you company while you packed for the week and also for the moment where you went back to your 'shoebox' apartment in Brooklyn. She brought wine, as always, and a bottle of sparkling water that she had already turned into a lemonade.
“You know, for someone you swore you wouldn’t see anymore you sure are spending a lot of time with him,” she began, sipping on her own drink while opening her eyes towards you
“Oh don’t start,” you complained, putting your drink on the furniture as you closed one of the last cardboard boxes full of your belongings.
“I’m not starting!" She said, as she was in fact starting, "you said you liked him,”
You turned to look at her, proving your need to not be mistaken was way too high to insist everything was casual, “I said I liked spending time with him”
“What’s the difference?” she asked, rolling her eyes and raising up her shoulders.
You moved to walk towards your bedroom, “I like spending time with you and I don’t want to date you.” You said, half-closing the door as if you were actually planning to leave her out.
She disruptively opened it and found her way inside, “okay, rude.”
She stared at you for a few seconds as she sipped on her drink. “I think he likes you”
You nodded, the words slipping through your mind as some quiet unfathomable confession before, then your head turned sideways in utter resignation.
“He’s just friendly,” you insisted.
“He bought you like three-thousand dollars worth of lingerie, and an eighty-dollar candle. He cooks for you, he thought you were dying and he almost died himself—”
“He's rich," you interrupted, "I think money means nothing to him.” You didn’t have much of an excuse for the rest of the things she said, those were still unexplainable through your worldview.
You grabbed the bag of lingerie and thew all of it inside the last cardboard box you had.
“Are you packing any of those?” Mia asked teasingly, grabbing a thong and it's matching babydoll as if those could tempt you into grabbing them for the week.
You took the fabric from her hands and carefully put it back inside the cardboard box as you moved your head sideways.
“He’ll think I want to fuck him”
“Will he? I recall that underwear wasn’t very much of an incentive when you went to that wedding.”
You hadn’t told anyone about the fact Harry and you hadn’t slept together, not because you thought they wouldn’t believe you, but because confessing that your brain was able to make up those images meant recognizing your body hadn’t operated on momentaneous adrenaline and therefore, your logic wasn't as foolproof as you insisted it was.
“Either way, I don’t think I’m packing a thong while I’m babysitting,” you chuckled.
“So what, full business?” Mia asked, grabbing a coat you had left by the chair next to your bed before throwing it your way.
“No,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I’ll just pack, normal clothes”
“And what about here?” she continued, pointing her fingers at the walls of the apartment.
You shrugged, “there’s only a couple staying for the entire December, until then I'll just have to come over and clean and take these back home, where they belong.”
Mia nodded understanding before sitting on the chair by the desk. “I don’t get travelling during holiday season, why not spend it with your family?”
You laughed, pausing for a second what your hands were doing with the clothes. “I don’t spend holidays with my family, besides they can spend the holidays in family, just out of town”
“Yeah but like, your case is specific,” she insisted and you rolled your eyes at her words.
“I don’t think bitchy parents are that uncommon.”
“No. But your case is specific”
“I mean, I don’t think there’s an actual unique experience—maybe there’s some other girl out there whose parents were too proud to get divorced and divorced when she was already having some peace of mind, just to fuck her up more.” you said it as if you were describing every other Wednesday.
Mia stared at you with a sigh, “you make it sound as if it’s not intense.”
“I already lived through it I don’t want to cry every time I say it.”
She nodded, understanding you as only she could do. “Does Harry know?”
You chuckled with disbelief, “why would he know?”
“Well, you kind of know about his family, I just thought he might know about you”
You moved towards the cubes of clothing under your bed, grabbing underwear and thermal socks so the weather wouldn't kill you.
“He knows fragments. He kind of knows about my parents because he overheard, but he has never mentioned it; he might’ve gotten an idea onto Mac’s dead and, well, he read The Quiet Hours”
Mia paused, not believing anything she was hearing. “He read that?”
“I’m assuming he bought some copy online or found a pdf. What I don’t know is when he read it.”
“Does it matter?”
“It’s like a thousand pages long, it’s not something you just grab as a bedside-table book," you said, grabbing a duffel bag for your weekend's luggage. "He also knows about Ann’s play”
“The mother one?”
You nodded and continued packing. Your hands caressing the racks of clothing, somehow enjoying the last few days before every item you owned was ice-cold in the morning —and then: Harry’s shirt. You tried to ignore it but not even a full second went by before your hands scattered back for the shirt.
“It’s weird,” you murmured, deciding not to hold onto the item and going back to the rest of the shirts you had.
”Harry’s weird?” Mia asked, scrolling through the checklist you had sent her.
”No, well, not him, but how he makes me feel,” you paused, folding a beige knit sweater. “It’s just, it hasn’t been long since I met him.”
”You met him in July; that’s six months ago,” she laughed, folding a grey scarf right into your bag.
”Yeah and I don’t have the apartment keys of someone I met six months ago, neither do I visit or call, that’s not like me,” you complained, moving to the bed to put the rest of your clothes somewhere other than your arm.
“You took less time to befriend me,” she laughed, already folding a long-sleeve shirt.
“We were in college, I was different back then,” you said, putting the hanger away.
She clicked her tongue in denial, or defiance, with her there was no difference. ”Were you?”
Mia had a unique way of looking at people that she claimed came from staring at portraits for a long time. But she had a habit of staring at someone and somehow understanding everything from a single glimpse of the individual’s face, and she had somehow perfected that ability since you came into her life, she needed no words to know you were lying and even when you knew that, you kept trying to perform the act; not for her, for yourself.
”Yeah, besides… even if hypothetically I liked him, he’d eventually fall out of love.” You folded a pair of jeans as if that could stop you from talking, it didn’t—the silence fueled your mind to conspire even more. “It’s not real. Whatever dopamine rush he has now will eventually wear out and rewind and get conditioned to other factors that aren’t me.”
Mia stood in silence, and once again, silence was your biggest traitor.
“He wouldn’t want to be with someone who’s clearly fucked up.” You muttered, “He could do better”
”Sometimes people don’t want better”
”Everyone wants to do better, whoever says otherwise is lying.”
”What would you tell me if I say I’m marrying the philosophy teacher?”
You paused, seeking for an answer, for some babbling you could shield yourself with—there were none.
”I mean, if that’s what you want, you do you.”
“So, if Harry wanted you why would you think he wants better?” She asked, walking towards you trying to defy your logic with your own words—worst part was that it was working.
”He doesn’t want me," you laughed, voice pitching higher. "He barely knows me—if he knew me, he’d have left ages ago.”
”I think you’re underestimating it”
”What? Harry?” you continued, a soft laugh escaping your lips in relief. “He’s easy to read, a simple man, with simple thoughts.”
Of course, to the exception that every time you thought you had him figured out you had it wrong. He was not who you thought he was and that was the worst part, the real Harry scared you because he wasn’t what you predicted he was and therefore, he didn’t see you like what you projected yourself as.
“When is he picking you up?” Mia asked, changing the topic.
”I don’t know, he said he'd wait for me in the Southampton station and we’d drive from there to Andrew’s home"
”Isn’t it easier that he’d pick you up here?”
”Probably but I just need some time to calibrate myself, I’m faking it for a week.”
She laughed, not believing your professionalism for any second, ”she’s a kid”
“Yeah, exactly for that! Kids are nosy and for some reason; they’re deeply invested in your love life and simultaneously think it’s gross.”
“Is it really that hard?”
“Babysitting? No, you just give them some ice-cream, help them finish the homework…”
“No, I meant faking it.” Mia interrupted.
The clothes were already packed inside the navy blue bag, along with your toiletries, a pair of boots and the chargers of your laptop, phone and headphones.
“It’s difficult to fake it now.” You laid on the pillow, staring at the ceiling to evade her deciphering gaze. “When we were at the wedding I was by his arm or dancing or something because he was a stranger, and he’d go back to being a stranger in the morning. Now he’s my friend as well, and I’m supposed to play my part but I think I’m just losing it.”
“How are you losing it?” she whispered next to you.
“Last Friday he told me he liked spending time with me, and I turned the whole thing into a debate about dating-culture—he was just being nice”
“Okay, haven’t you thought about getting back to therapy?”
“Way to tell me I’m fucked up,” you chuckled, hiding your face by looking at the opposite side.
“All of us are, whoever says otherwise is on top of the list believe me. And not even because of him, fuck Harry,” Mia laughed. “But you came to New York to live your life to the fullest and if you keep getting scared when you meet someone new…”
“I’m not scared he’s new, he’s just… He’s him and for him to be with someone like me—even as friends—it would only make sense in the movies”
“Maybe this is a movie,” she said with an eye-roll.
“Now you sound like Sonia,” you laughed.
She tried to sit better by holding herself on her shoulders and being a bit higher than how you were laid, “It doesn’t make sense because he’s rich?”
“No, it’s just well, when you’re rich you are an asshole or some red-pill adjacent, he’s neither I already checked. Or you’re ugly, or stupid or something that takes points off from being a millionaire, but he’s clean.” your hands dropped to your sideways as you sighed. “He’s good-looking, he’s smart, hardworking, kind, has a good sense of humor and doesn’t have any addictions… men like him are fantasies.”
“Well Lucy did have a way to describe him,” she turned to look at you. “She called him a unicorn.”
“A unicorn?” you chuckled.
“Well, it is a fantastical creature after all.” She said with all seriousness.
“And what would I be?” you asked, turning to look at her.
“The enchantress or something,” she laughed and so did you.
She turned to grab her phone, checking if she had any calls or messages, even the ones she had she ignored before looking at you again.
“Well, it’s close to midnight, you want me to stay?”
“Yeah.” you laughed, rolling your eyes so they landed back to hers. “But don’t you have better things to do?”
“And what if I have? I want to be with you.”
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
You arrived right on time to the train station, and despite damning yourself for not getting an online ticket beforehand, the line inside the station wasn’t long, and before you even knew it, you were inside the wagon.
Headphones on playing your favorite songs as you kept the ticket close, waiting for someone to scan it. Your eyes read over the small numbers, the little texture of heat over the thermal paper, the fading digits at the end: 86.
You could only hope that the scanner could still read it, and before you knew the train began moving and your eyes began closing, drifting into sleep as music blasted through your ears.
The sound of a loud buzzing woke you up to see half of the people in your wagon dropping off, the bold letters reading “Jamaica” meeting you through the window. You poised your head next to the window and went to fall asleep once again, hoping to arrive on time or to arrive at all.
There was a Stevie Nicks song playing on your headphones when an old man touched your shoulder, you handed the ticket to him and yet, what he truly meant was that you had arrived at your destination.
Your eyes opened and you quickly moved to grab the bag above your seat as you smiled and apologized to him, checking your lockscreen every three seconds in case Harry had called already—but he hadn’t, and somehow absence made you even more nervous.
What if he had bailed? You’d had given him the exact way to do so, but even if he had, you could take care of Phoebe, you took care of yourself by yourself when you were her age—you didn’t need him.
Your phone rang only once before you picked up the call—it wasn't him. It was some healthcare insurance trying to pry you into its claws.
So you kept your head high, held yourself together and walked through the station until you found a seat close to the exit, placed the headphones over your ears once again and waited.
You waited for a call for ten minutes, drifting away into the time and the rain, and thinking if maybe you should head out or be the bigger person and call him.
So you pulled out your phone again; there still was no sign of Harry and yet, you called him.
The phone rang and silence was the only thing you could hear from the other side of the line, you stared at your bag next to you, you stared at the crystal door in front, but it seemed as time was frozen in place and yet outside you could see the smallest of droplets begin threatening to fall.
At least it was just rain until now, and no broadcast news have reported any type of thunderstorms, so you would be fine, you had to be fine—If not for yourself, at least for Phoebe.
And then, finally, the doors opened, and an umbrella-covered figure walked through them. You knew it was Harry even when you hadn't seen the man’s face. You remembered the way he limped with the cold-weater rain in July, and you surely recognized the few jeans he usually rotated, now stained with the sky’s weeping.
You quickly grabbed your bag and pulled your headphones off walking towards him. You wanted to punch him and to hug him, and to curse him and also tell him how nervous he had made you all at once. You wanted to ask if he was okay and tell him that no pain on his knees could equate the amount of stress he had put you under—even when you knew you were asleep the whole trainride—then you mentally cursed yourself for not staying awake, you should’ve done something and you should’ve said something to him in the moment. But as always, you knew your temperament had a way to do it’s will when your blood boiled hot rage that not even your self-proclaimed cold heart could compete with.
“Why didn’t you call?” You said, already hiding under the umbrella as he walked you out.
“I did call, why didn’t you pick up?” he answered, kind of upset about the tone of your voice.
“I have no calls from you,” you reprimanded, throwing the bag on the trunk of his car.
“Well, phones usually work both ways, you could’ve called,” he insisted, closing it already.
“I did call!” You didn’t mean your voice to raise, or to get an octave higher. Neither for your eyes to get teary—but you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t blame him either, for using the same words your parents used to say when you complained the first years why they never called.
“Once.” He stated, and you felt as if you were already on thin-ice. Or as if you were fifteen trying to hold onto your vanishing sanity.
“Why didn’t you pick up?” You replied, rage already simmering under your skin as thousand different insults boiled in the back of your mind.
“The signal by Queens was already bad because of the weather. When I integrated to the 42nd, my phone was completely useless.” He explained, and it was the first time you heard him actually upset about something—not angry-upset, just upset about the mishappenstances. “By the time the notification appeared I had arrived already.”
You wanted to curse him, but somehow there were no words to do so. You wanted to hug him as well and tell him it wasn’t his fault and yet, your body was frozen in place.
“Andrew called me in the morning, they usually do their shopping on Thursday, so we’ll go to the supermarket tomorrow with Phoebe.”
“Okay,” you breathed, and maybe this was better, if you disliked him for a little the small fantasy would dissolve and he would just go back to being a stranger, a stranger whose walking you recognized, a stranger whose smile you knew and whose eyes had caught you mesmerized once or twice, but a stranger nevertheless.
The drive to Andrew’s place was quiet, none of you talked or said an apology whatsoever, maybe that was his fault, he was just as prideful and ill-characted as you. Or maybe he was merely human and allowed to have a wide-variety of emotions, just like you.
You didn’t want to circle over it any longer, mostly because you were about to have an audience with the small girl who was already waiting for her family to arrive and take care of her.
Harry opened up your door and grabbed your bag for you, despite the fact he was still limping, you didn’t have it in you to fight him, so you tried to practice your smile in front of the window and join him seconds later, as he was already knocking on the door.
He had keys, both of you had keys actually, you had gotten a pair after you babysat Phoebe for the 25th time, and he, being family, had had them for what you believed was his entire life.
“I’m going!” you heard the tiny voice from the other side of the door scream. The door finally unlocked and the kid’s hands went straight to cover you in a warm hug. “I missed you,”
“I missed you too bud,” you whispered at her, grabbing her hair for a few seconds.
“Hey Pheebs,” Harry said seconds later, already putting the umbrella away and discarding the heavy coat he was wearing.
“Uncle Harry!” she screamed, practically jumping at him. “Why haven’t you come over?”
“I’ve just been busy,” he said with a bittersweet smile.
“Mom told me she was your girlfriend,” she said, pointing at you
“Oh yeah,” Harry said with a smile, closing the door behind him.
“And then she said that she probably only wanted you for your money because she never said you were her boyfriend,”
You laughed for a few seconds just to let the awkwardness out, then you leveled at her height. “What have we said about inner thoughts?”
“That it’s better to keep them secrets,” she whispered. “But mom said uncle Harry probably didn’t like you either because he never mentioned you. But you do love each other right”
You stood back and turned to look at Harry. For once in your life you weren’t sure how you could fake it, because there was a universal truth after all: kids rarely lied but could somehow tell when something was off; and worse, they’d make it known amongst everyone.
“So,” she said, drawing the word out and looking at her sparkly socks. “Are you really together?”
Harry crouched in front of her, patient now. “Yeah, Pheebs. We are.”
“But Mom said—she said that it’s weird you didn’t mention it before,” she added, squinting at you. “And that she never saw you kiss, which is how you know.”
That line you knew wasn’t a product of her mother’s words, Angie was a cold-head woman who knew better than fairytales; but you remembered that you did watch a princess movie with Phoebe last time you were there; and those exact words left the mouth of the protagonist.
You felt your stomach drop, because you weren’t sure what to do, or how to fake it.
After all, you did believe in evidence—in things that could be pointed at, heard, seen—call it journalistic rigor or trusting issues, it didn’t matter either way, it was true. And suddenly your brain, traitorous and loud, decided that maybe that was the only thing that could shut this down for the rest of the days. The only thing that could make this make sense to an eight-year-old and to yourself at the same time.
Your pulse picked up, hot and frantic. You opened your mouth before you could think better of it.
“Well—” you started, then stopped.
Harry turned his head slightly toward you. “Should we?” he warned, softly.
You got close to him, hand already traveling to the nape of his necks fanning over his hair; his arms found your waist quickly, pulling you closer until your lips were inches away from caressing each other.
Phoebe gasped suddenly and slapped her hands over her eyes. “Ew! But I don’t wanna see it!”
Relief hit you so fast it made you dizzy.
You didn’t move any closer to him. You didn’t look at him either. You just lifted your hand, pressed it flat against your mouth, and made the smallest sound you could manage, soft, rounded and completely fake for someone who knew what a kiss actually sounded like, for her? The proof was still proof. And the sound of a contact-less kiss was enough for her to determine the relationship as something undoubtedly true.
“There,” you said quickly. “See?”
Phoebe peeked between her fingers. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Yeah, we’re fast,” Harry murmured, quickly saving face and trying to get up.
“It’s a grown-up thing,” you replied, sure of yourself. “We’re efficient.”
You extended your hand towards him, so he could finally get up. While that happened, Phoebe was satisfied enough with the little ruse that she said a chirpy “okay,” already backing away. “I’m gonna go play.”
“Go on,” Harry said, too quickly.
She disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps light and unconcerned against the wooden floor, the door to her room closing with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.
You dropped your hand and were quick to take off your boots and leave them by the doorway. The space between you and Harry felt suddenly enormous.
“I guess none of us expected that,” he began, then stopped, as if losing all his ability to speak.
“I know,” you said, walking towards him, but once you met his stare there was nothing much you could add to the conversation. “It was just,” you paused, unable to continue.
“I know,” he repeated, but his voice sounded different now. More careful, more guarded.
You crossed your arms, unsure where else to put them. “I never thought she’d ask.”
“Well, she’s a kid,” he said.
“Well, it’s a good thing kids like simple answers.” you said.
He looked at you then, really looked at you, like he was trying to read something you hadn’t meant to show and something he hadn’t meant to pry in deeper. You held his gaze for half a second too long before looking away, shielding you from his eyes the way he had shielded his voice before.
Neither of you apologized for what happened in the train station. Neither of you laughed the moment off. The moment just sat there, unfinished and a little too close to something neither of you wanted to name.
“I’ll go check on her,” he said finally.
“Yeah,” you answered. “I’ll—uh—put my things down.”
You moved past each other in the narrow hallway, close enough to feel warmth, far enough not to touch. And somehow, that felt worse than if you had.
You walked towards the guest room, opening up the door and throwing your bag over the bed, taking off the scarf, the sweater and coat you were wearing to stay in a long-sleeve and jeans that you might change later, you weren’t sure at all.
Your heard the buzzing sound from your phone under the clothes and covers, and you quickly went to look for it, a few messages from colleagues asking how you were doing, one message from your friend group saying how Sonia had bought some fancy wine and broken the bottle the same night, a few messages from Mia asking if you had arrived already. It seemed as if the wifi inside the place had finally slumped your phone from silence and now was overloading it with information, and then you saw the notifications pop up one by one sixteen times:
You have one missed call from Harry C.
You were quick to open your phone app, and there you also saw that the voicemail tab had the same number of notifications; a part of you was already expecting your thumb grazed the screen so you could confirm it, the other wished you could throw the phone to the other side of the room.
Hopefully, rationality took a hold of you and made you press it, and then you pressed the voicemails one by one, some were glitchy with the interference from the rain, others were just him calling that there was lots of traffic and he’d be a little late, on others he’d just call to check up how your train was going.
Your chest tightened with the horrible feeling of embarrassment and guilt. Why did you even feel you had the nerve to say anything when he had called sixteen times and you had called only once?
You were quick to press the last voice note and put it on speaker, just so you could pace around the room trying to focus your mind on something other than the fact he had called and yet, you had still scolded him.
“Hey, I think I’m going to be fifteen minutes late, there’s an accident over here. I’m so sorry, I should’ve prepared with more time” He got interrupted by a car-honk in the distance. “It shouldn’t take much longer after this, call me back if you hear this,” the signal lagged for a few seconds cutting the next words until the next thing you heard was: “really excited to see you, Phoebe’s uhm, really excited to see you” he repeated, as if he knew as well the audio lagged. “Anyway…”
Suddenly the door opened, and you went straight to your phone to hang up.
“Hey, I’m sorry about earlier, you didn’t get the calls and I was—”
“It’s fine Harry, I’m sorry too. I only got the notifications until now if I had heard before I’d call you back,”
“You heard the voicemails?” he asked, closing the door, something similar to fear took hold of his expressions.
“Yeah, I’m sorry I made you worry. I should’ve known there’d be traffic on the highway and interference and all of that,” you rambled, standing up from the bed. “But you’re not here to apologize are you?”
“Uh yeah, actually I was,” he began and you looked at him as if he suddenly began speaking in another language. “We’ll be here for a week with a kid who already kind of suspected us so, yeah.” He laughed and you laughed with him.
“Way to prevent loose threads,” you chuckled. “So you wanted to apologize because you didn’t think I’d play my part right if I was mad at you,”
“Were you actually mad?” He asked, eyes full of some hidden sadness that regretted everything said and unsaid during the last hour or so.
“Not completely, I was anxious but not only for you for other reasons.” you said, too quickly as if the words would disappear if you kept inside your lips any longer. “I also thought for a second you had bailed me but it’s fine, I forgive you, you forgive me, we move on.”
“Who says I forgave you?” He asked playfully, as if suddenly whatever had happened was left behind once you entered through the front door.
You chuckled, “You wouldn’t dare”
“No, I wouldn't,” he agreed, smiling while he continued to stare through your eyes.
You don’t know exactly how long both of you spent staring into each other, but somewhere in that time he said he’d make something for lunch and both of you walked outside into the kitchen, leaving in the guests bedroom all that was left unspoken.
Phoebe had asked for your help for her english and biology homework just seconds before she said she needed to finish an art project for thanksgiving and had Harry and you in the living room cutting small leaves out of paper sheets.
“So it’s a gratitude tree?” you asked, your hand already cramping from using scissors way too small for you.
“Yes!” she exclaimed with excitement, “But I still need the tree,”
“We could use skewers maybe, or twist some paper into—” Harry began talking, already tired since clearly, crafts weren’t his area of expertise.
“No,” Phoebe exclaimed, cutting him off. “It needs to be real branches, like this,” she explained, showing both of you her ipad with the image of what she had to do.
“I’m not sure Pheebs, it hasn’t stopped raining,” Harry said. “When is this due again?”
“Next Thursday” she said sheepishly.
“Oh don’t worry then, you have much much time to do it,” Harry said, leaning back into the couch.
“So can I go outside and play?” the girl asked instead, as if she had found a loop-hole that excluded her from anything else.
“Absolutely not,” you said quickly.
At the same time Harry said: “Just wear your raincoat,”
Phoebe jumped and ran towards her bedroom to dress herself as you turned to look at Harry. He smiled obliviously, not catching onto the fact that an eight-year old probably shouldn’t be outside in the crippling rain with bad weather.
“She’ll be fine, you know how kids are, they rarely get sick,” He insisted.
“Yeah but she could still get sick, and do we even know where the closest hospital is? Or if she has any medicine allergies, or if she has insurance?”
Harry grabbed your hand in an attempt to make your words slow down, “What is it with you and rain?”
Your already lowered head turned back to stare at him, “What?”
“You’re trembling” he stated, looking down at your hands and then turning to see you once again.
“I’m not!” you protested, backing away from his touch to hide the fact you were shaking.
“I’m ready” Phoebe interrupted, covered in a silver jacket and soft pink rain boots.
“Just in the backyard,” you said, and thankfully she nodded, walking towards the backdoor with no protest.
You followed her steps until she walked into the grass and puddles and then you settled for observing through the kitchen window, everything seemed normal and after all, it wasn’t a thunderstorm, she should be fine, there was no danger in just a little water.
Still, that didn’t stop you from overthinking every single step she gave, there was a thousand different what-ifs creating in your mind.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Harry said, walking towards the kitchen to keep you company.
You didn’t turn your eyes from the little girl, and instead tried to stare at yourself through the glass to keep your composure unbreakable. “Some old guy killed Mac during a hit-and-run when I was sixteen during a thunderstorm.”
There was silence for a second, and still you felt him walk closer to you, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” he murmured, loud enough so you could understand him.
“It’s fine, it was years ago,” you said, even when the words still hurt.
“Did they catch the man?” Harry asked with intrigue.
“No, it didn’t even go further. My mom said I should forgive him since everyone makes mistakes and it was so rainy anyone could’ve done that,” you sighed, eyes still straight onto the window. “Mac had run that night from home because my mom’s lover left the backdoor open when he left, and he was always scared of thunder so he ran from my room and went through the backdoor, I yelled for my parents to help me but they were busy fighting and then I ran after him.”
You were surprised you had even said that much, and even when it felt liberating to confess your fear out loud, it didn’t make you less afraid from the storm dancing in the sky, as if somehow some thunder would suddenly appear and color your day into a blue and grey canvas.
“I’m sorry I just dropped everything like that” you murmured almost on automatic.
“No, it’s fine. I mean, thank you for telling me if I had any idea I would’ve been on your side.”
“It’s fine, she’s a kid after all, she’s entitled to her fun and her defenses are still good,”
Suddenly Harry changed the topic, you didn't understand why but something inside him thought taking your mind away from the sorrow was a better alternative than watching you turn into another puddle like those outside. —“Do you want something, tea, water?”
“Coffee,” you quickly enunciated.
Harry chuckled but opened the fridge for the milk and turned the espresso machine on. “Can you even sleep while drinking coffee after 5?”
You stared at him through the glass, still trying to observe Phoebe from your rearview. “Yeah, at this point what keeps me going during the mornings is the placebo”
“Well, if you keep drinking six-shots daily that won’t be surprising anymore.” He said, rolling his eyes as he opened one of the cabinets to pick the espresso cup.
You found your chance to bring him out of the shadows about secretly buying you coffee, and you didn’t want to lose it, so you turned around to look at him.
“How’d you know it’s six?” you asked,
He paused, a small smirk in his face that said he knew more than what he showed. “You told me”
“No, I’m pretty sure I had said it was a quad,” you said, and his smile turned smaller as he fought to keep it in place. “You’re the one behind the free coffees right?”
“What?” He asked, his voice giving him away completely.
“I know it’s you.” you insisted while a smile drew on your lips
“You asked?” Harry questioned, remembering the only condition the manager had given him.
“No, but you’re the only person I know who’d do that”
“Pff” he smiled, “I bet you have plenty of men lining up to get with you,”
“Yeah and I can assure you none of them would pay for my coffee order”
His smile was back again on his lips as he nodded. “Because they’re poor” he said, and you tried not to laugh—he wasn’t wrong at all, most of the men you hooked up with weren’t rich, but it wasn’t as if many men could compete with Harry.
But you wouldn’t say that, even if it was true and made you laugh, the answer that left your lips was somehow even more honest: “Because they don’t even know where I like my coffee from,”
He nodded before shifting the conversation. “They don’t have vanilla here,”
“Sugar will do,” you said quickly, “How long have you uhm, paid for them?
“Three months,” he said
“And it’s not like a lot?” you asked with a chuckle that was embarrassingly way louder than you intended.
“I mean it’s not like you’re ordering the whole store,” he shrugged.
“Yeah, but I think the coffee alone costs like 10 dollars, and one for five days is 50 in a month that’s 200 and in three months that’s 600,”
“You told me you weren’t good in math”
“I said I didn't like it back in school, beside I meant like logarithms, derivatives and all that weird stuff,” you explained, sipping on your coffee.
“All that weird stuff is what I use on my job,” he answered almost as if he was offended.
“Because you’re a weird man,” you said matter-of-factly
He laughed, “there’s thousands of people in finance, are all of them weird?”
“Yeah, why would you want to see numbers all day?”
“Why would you want to see words all day?”
“Because words say more than numbers,”
“That’s only if you don’t see numbers as the people behind them”
“So now they have history too?”
“Didn’t you say how everything has a story behind it”
“Don’t quote me,” you said, rolling your eyes yet your lips quivered into a smile.
Harry raised his shoulders in defeat. “It’s not my fault you have quotable lines,” he pointed the portafilter towards you.
“Well, it’s either that or losing my job,” you chuckled with bittersweet nostalgia for everything you had written and everything you hadn't in order to keep your job.
Suddenly the coffee making turned into a conversation of its own until Phoebe knocked on the window, signaling she had tired herself out already, you opened up the door for her and asked her to leave her boots outside to not get the house dirty. Harry quickly brought her a towel so she could dry herself in before going to her room to take a shower.
“Hey bud, what would you like for dinner?” you asked through the door.
“Could we have chili dogs?” she asked, drying her hair a little.
“I don’t see why not but let me ask, you can go downstairs or I’ll come to call you when it's ready”
“Okie” she answered
You walked back into the kitchen, Harry was already washing his hands in anticipation.
“She wants chili dogs”
“Okay,” he said with a smile before turning to look at you, “could you search for a recipe?”
“You don’t know how to make chili dogs?” you asked, shrugging for a second because of your disbelief.
Harry turned his head from side to side. “No, I don’t even think I’ve had one in the last thirty years”
“Are you being for real?”
“Yeah,” he said, a little bit quieter than before.
You laughed in spite of yourself, because how in the world the same man who could make a three-course meal, and a dish consisting of protein and two entrees could not make amateur cooking, yet, luckily for both of you, you made chili for you and your friends every july, so making a hot dog and adding it to it didn’t seem a hard challenge.
“Can you make a hot dog?” you asked,
“You just boil the sausage, right?” he asked back, waiting for your approval.
“Yeah and you could grill it after, maybe not on a grill but on on a pan should do,”
“You’ll make the chili?” He asked, concerned because he was making you do something that he had mentally written of as a task for him.
“Yeah,” you insisted, opening up the fridge in search of ketchup, onions, ground beef and barbecue sauce, grabbing as well a pack of oscar meyer sausages which you gave Harry.
Harry finished with the sausages in no time, which led to him grabbing a pan and buttering and toasting the buns, as you finished mixing the beef with the rest of condiments.
“Could you call Phoebe?" you asked.
“Sure,” he said, cleaning up his hands in the towel over the oven handle, “Just make sure to watch that bread so it doesn’t burn”
“If it burns I’m giving it to you,” you said with a quiet laugh.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he said with a laugh, eyes rolling at your comment.
That just made you turn and look at him with defiance, “wouldn’t I?”
He took a deep breath looking at you once last time before losing himself in the hallway. "No, you’re too careful”
You didn’t say anything else, lowered the fire on the stove and waited for him and Phoebe to come to eat.
Phoebe watched you and Harry eat carefully, he was seated in front of you while she took the host’s chair.
“Why didn’t you sit together?” she asked, eating a chip with the chilli that fell to her plate.
“Because I wanted to look at her,” Harry explained, and thankfully that was enough of an answer for the little girl to continue her dinner with no more objections or prying questions.
Harry was the one to accompany her to bed, telling her a night-time story and waiting until she fell asleep while you put the cutlery away into the dishwasher and sat in the living room to scroll at your phone for a few minutes or until sleep took hold of you.
“Hey,” he whispered, seemingly tired as he walked towards you.
You shifted in your seat to give him more space so he could sit as well, “Hey,” you said, pulling your phone downwards on the coffee table to look at him.
“Is she asleep already?” you asked as he picked up the TV remote, not turning it on but fidgeting with it for a few seconds.
“Yeah, I think all that moment in the rain really tired her.”
“Well, as long as she doesn’t get sick,” you got up from the couch and walked towards the kitchen to grab some water, “Harry, you want anything?”
“A kiss,” he asked, eyes drifting from whatever he was staring at to look at you.
You rolled your eyes, remembering the wedding day and deciding to play the words just as you had that time: “Right, and from the kitchen?”
“No, I’m good,” he said almost instantly.
You nodded and walked into the kitchen, seconds before you walked back into the living room, “Harry,” you began, walking towards him a little bit more, “I’m not kissing you this time,” you said, drifting back into the kitchen finally.
“Way to break a man’s heart,” He said loudly, not screaming but not keeping the thought to himself either.
“Try and harden it up a little bit then,” you said, handing him a glass of water as well.
“Do you actually keep it hardened like that?”
“Well yeah, New York feeds on the heartbroken—If I get to avoid being its food I’ll turn my heart ice-cold.”
You said those words with cynicism despite the fact you had arrived wounded into the city years ago, and the streets that you now mindlessly walked, were the same ones that put together every broken part into the mosaic statue you were now. It was ironic, but it was true after all, the city fed on the heartbroken to eventually remake you or heal you, only time would tell which fool it would make of you.
“And is it worth it?” He asked, as if he was actually considering it.
“Yeah, you get things done and you try to have a good life quality, hang out with your friends, live your life normally just without love”
“Without love you mean without relationships or without feelings?”
You had never questioned it a lot, and just to buy yourself time from answering you picked your glass of water and took a sip, because you were sure of your answer already.
“Without feelings,” you said sure of yourself, “I mean I have relationships with others, I’m not alone and I feel—momentarily—but once the moment’s over everything goes back to normal”
Harry tilted his head, studying you. “That sounds tiring.”
“It’s not,” you replied. “I can still control it. I never give one hundred percent because I never expect anyone to give me that.” You shrugged, like you were talking about budgeting instead of shared intimacy. “People think love is about going all in. I think it’s about not losing yourself.”
“And you think loving someone means losing yourself?” he asked gently.
“I think letting someone love you does,” you corrected.
That landed heavier than you intended. You felt it the moment it left your mouth, like a glass set down too hard on a table. You took another sip of water and hoped he could just forget whatever you said. Instead, Harry didn’t interrupt—he rarely did when things mattered.
“I mean I like people,” you went on, quieter now. “I care. I will show up but that’s being a functioning empathetic human being. I don’t let people that close to me on purpose. If you don’t expect anything there’s nothing you can lose hope in.”
He looked at you for a long second, then leaned back against the couch, arms crossed—not closed off, just thinking as if he was projecting himself in your own description.
“That sounds exhausting.” He repeated before looking at you for the smallest of seconds.
“It’s efficient,” you replied.
A beat, you grabbed the TV remote from his hands then, if he didn’t turn it on then you would, drowning the moment in some reality show noise that throbbed louder than your own heart beating.
“You’re very good at convincing yourself of that.” He said after a few seconds of silence, no mediatic intervention was needed after all.
You scoffed. “You asked.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m just… trying to understand.”
“Well,” you said, pushing yourself up from the couch, suddenly restless, “understanding isn’t required for this deal.”
He smiled faintly. “This deal?”
“Yes. Babysitting. Fake couple. Emotional conversations weren't in the contract.” You complained, trying to drift away from him to compensate from how close he had read you emotionally speaking.
“Well, the contract is only efficient if you name your part of it,”
“I thought we had agreed my part of it would come after all of this,”
“Technically it was after the date,”
“This is technically an extended version of it—a consequence if you will,” You complained, suddenly turning the whole conversation into a whisper-based debate.
“No, the clause said for another fake date, that event was over and I’m still waiting for the part I’m yet to give.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t give anything? Keep all the wins for yourself and go full capitalist-financier on me.”
“Not if what I expect to give assures me to have a better outcome,” Harry said smoothly, like the words had been sitting on his tongue the whole time.
“Now you’re going to explain finance to me?” you asked with a small laugh.
“You say it like I’m going to murder you,”
“I’m going to be mentally murdered by the end of this explanation, believe me.”
“It’s just words,”
You sighed theatrically and dropped back onto the couch, kicking your feet up just to nudge with his legs. “Fine. Enlighten me, Mr. CIO. But if you say something like ‘math is pure and it never lies’ I’ll punch you.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Deal.”
“In private equity,” he began, “a deal isn’t about squeezing maximum value out of the other party. That’s amateur hour.” He glanced at you, checking you were still with him. You were—annoyingly so. “It’s about structuring incentives so the outcome is better than if you’d done nothing at all.”
You made a face but said nothing—whatever he kept on explaining was absolutely making sense to you.
“You agreed to this because,” he continued, “the cost to you was low. Another fake date—easy as that.”
“Mhm,” you said. “What can I say, I’m a good performer”
“Not sure all of it was performance but anyway, variables changed,” he said calmly. “Scope creep. Extended timeline. New stakeholders.” A beat. “ Like Phoebe.”
You rolled your eyes. “She’s not a stakeholder.”
“She absolutely is,” he replied. “She's been very vocal about her interest.”
You laughed louder than you should have and despite yourself.
“So,” he went on, “now we’re no longer talking about a one-off transaction. We’re talking about an amended agreement that has extended into a seven-day period.”
You crossed your arms. “Well I didn’t sign anything.”
“You don’t need to,” he said. “This is a handshake deal. High trust environment.”
“That’s not comforting.”
He smiled. “It shouldn’t be—if someone ever makes you a deal like this you call a lawyer. But in between us, it just means it’s a little more honest and less planned”
You were quiet for a second, then: “And where does my part come in, exactly?”
He tilted his head. “That’s the thing. You keep treating your side like deferred compensation.”
“Because it is, you said it yourself.”
“Yeah,” he said gently. “but deferred compensation still assumes payout.”
You frowned. “So what, you think I’m defaulting or something?”
“I think,” he said carefully, “you’re assuming the safest move is to never name the price.”
“And it is,” you replied. “If I don’t name it, you won’t underpay me for it until I say,”
He nodded. “True. But I won’t be able to top it off—which is my plan.”
That one slipped past your defenses before you could stop it, your heart skipped a beat because of the confidence he wielded in one simple sentence.
You shifted, uncrossing your arms. “You’re implying I want something.”
“I’m saying,” he corrected, “that the deal only feels risky because you stopped seeing it as transactional as before.”
“And whose fault is that?” you shot back.
“Ours,” he said easily. “Markets change.”
You stared at him. “God, do you really talk like this ninety percent of the time?”
“Maybe, what surprises me is you really don’t,” he replied. “and yet you're still listening.”
You hated that he noticed your interest in what he was saying, despite you were just as lost in whatever he was saying as he was when you suddenly spoke in full anthropology crypticness.
“So what,” you said, trying to regain ground, “you’re saying I should just… name a want?”
“I’m saying,” he replied, voice steady, “that whatever you ask for should reflect current conditions, not initial projections.”
“And if I don’t want anything?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“In my job,” he said finally, “when someone says they don’t want anything, it usually means one of two things.”
“Oh no. Should I be scared?” you murmured with sarcasm and an eye-roll.
“They either don’t trust the counterparty,” he continued, “or the asset is appreciated so much that the other party is afraid of mispricing it.”
You laughed, short and disbelieving. “You’re insane.”
“Possibly,” he agreed. “But you’re still here.”
You looked at him then—really looked—and realized you were leaning slightly toward him without noticing.
“This is why I don’t like finance,” you muttered. “You turn everything into meaning.”
“No,” he said softly. “Just incentives.”
You stood abruptly, breaking the moment. “Well, I’m not renegotiating anything tonight.”
He didn’t stop you. Just watched, calm as ever.
“Fair,” he said. “We can leave the clause open.”
You paused in the doorway. “For the record, if I ever do name my part—”
“Yes?”
“It won’t be because I expect a return.”
He met your eyes. “Those are usually the most valuable investments.”
You rolled your eyes hard enough they almost hurt, and after that you threw a pillow at him. “Go to bed, Harry.”
He smiled, unbothered. “After you.”
And somehow, that felt like a concession neither of you had formally agreed to—but both of you had already made, and that small fact continued to nab over your mind even when the door closed.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Sleep didn’t come gently, your mind never took a single second to stop thinking over his words or his actions or the full day at all. You stared at the ceiling for a while—long enough to count the faint cracks near the corner—before giving up and realizing it was merely a shadow; you should’ve known a perfect home doesn’t have cracks that show.
Your throat felt dry, your stomach felt empty and yet full of everything unsaid that you swallowed to not confess it. Your mind was on autopilot and suddenly the bedsheets were the only thing keeping you aligned with reality, you were scared your mind would suddenly scream louder than it had any right to be, so you decided to wake up, slipping out of bed quietly and waltzing into the hallway.
The house was dark in that way only big houses got at night—too much space, too much silence, the sound of wind and smell of wet soil sneaking through the window cracks. You moved toward the kitchen, searching for a glass of water you could dilute some CBD sleep helper that you know thanked the universe Mia insisted you packed.
At first you thought it was just a misplaced blanket, or some strange shadow the night conjured, but once the faint light of the open fridge hit him, you could make-shift the shivering of his legs and the way his hair fell over the sofa arm.
Harry was on the couch. And he clearly wasn’t comfortable there, instead he was curled awkwardly, one leg bent wrong, one arm draped over his eyes like he was trying to negotiate sleep with the night. The blanket barely covered him, his coat folded neatly on the chair nearby as a proof of his decision.
For a second you just watched him breathe, glass of water still in your hand, and despite you knowing it was him, there was also something in his frame that made it hard for you to look away.
Then you frowned, sitting on the opposite arm of the couch, noticing his legs were still trembling.
“Harry,” you whispered, your hand whispering over the silhouette of his knee.
His leg shifted for a second, his arm fell and he turned to look at you, eyes blinking, unfocused until they squinted at you through the dim light from the moon.
Harry got up, as if he was scared, folding his legs towards him and turning to look at you.
“—what time is it?” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
“Late,” you said. “Why are you on the couch?”
He exhaled slowly, like he’d been waiting to be asked and at the same time he didn’t want to confess anything. “Didn’t want the main bedroom.”
You tilted your head. “Because…?”
“That’s Andrew and Angie’s room,” he said, rubbing his face. “And I don’t want to sleep in the bed Phoebe was conceived in.”
You stared at him before quietly laughing, “that is the weirdest moral line you could’ve drawn.”
He shrugged slightly. “Still feels wrong.”
You laughed for another second and shrugged towards both of your reflections on the TV.
“You know they’ve probably used every surface in this house at least once, right?” You said, eyes widening for emphasis.
He rolled his eyes, regretting having a vivid mind. “Don’t ruin it for me.”
You sighed, standing up. “The couch is terrible.”
“Yes,” he agreed immediately.
“And it’s freezing in here,” you added.
“Yes.”
“And you were shivering.”
He paused. “That’s debatable,” he said, raising his hand standing on his side of the story in order to keep a hold of his pride.
“It’s not,” you said flatly. “It’s visible.”
He shifted, a small hiss escaping him before he could stop it.
Your jaw tightened. “Your knees hurt?”
He didn’t deny your question, instead he simply replied: “Cold does that.”
You crossed your arms. “You’re coming to the bed.”
He blinked. “I’m what?”
“The bed,” you repeated. “Mine, well, guest room’s. It’s big, like bigger than the one in the hotel. Both of us can sleep like civilized adults.”
He hesitated. “I don’t—”
“I don’t mind,” you cut in quickly, before your brain could sabotage you. “And before you start making it weird, this is purely practical.”
He huffed a tired laugh. “You say that like you’re convincing yourself.”
You rolled your eyes. “Get up,” you said instead.
He pushed himself upright slowly, winced, then stood. “If this is a trap—”
“I don’t need a trap for you,” you said with a soft laugh, still trying to keep your voice down so Phoebe wouldn’t wake up with the noise.
“You’re very insistent for someone who doesn’t like feelings.” Harry whispered with a soft laugh as both of you walked down the hallway
“This isn’t feelings,” you said. “This is me making sure you’re fit to drive tomorrow to the supermarket.”
He smiled faintly, limping after you down the hallway until you grabbed his wrist and placed his arm over your shoulder for the few steps missing until you opened up the door to the guest room.
Once inside the room, you placed the glass on the bedside table and then rummaged through your bag on the chair. You pulled out a small amber bottle and shook it once.
Harry watched you warily. “What’s that?”
“CBD drops,” you said quickly, placing the dropper over your open mouth and taking a gulp of water after.
He froze. “Like… weed?”
You snorted, turning to look at him, “no.”
“It’s literally called CBD,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“It’s hemp extract,” you said. “No THC. No high. It’s basically melatonin but more effective.”
He eyed the bottle like it might bite him. “I’ve never taken anything like this.”
“You drink tequila on a daily basis”
“Not daily, and that’s different,” he said with a soft smile. “That’s regulated.”
“This helps me sleep,” you defended. “Actually, I think it helps with inflammation too.”
He shifted his weight again, unconsciously. “Inflammation.”
“Yes, like your knees,” you suggested, trying to see if he'd bite the bait.
He frowned. “Are you trying to medicate me?”
“I’m trying to stop you from pretending you’re not hurting,”
He hesitated, then said quietly, “I don’t like not knowing what something does.”
You softened without meaning to. “You can google it if you want too, I can promise you it won't do you harm.”
He studied your face, searching for something—mischief, maybe, or recklessness—and found none. Of course, he knew you could be serious and mess with him the next second, but over the months he had learned to discern between your jokes and what you truly meant, and that moment you did mean.
“How much should I take?” he asked.
“Twenty drops,”
He nodded as if rethinking his life choices before agreeing, “and you’ve taken it before?”
“I took it just now, but, yes.”
“And you trust it?”
“Yeah,”
Another pause flew through the air, and finally he agreed, holding out his hand so you could place the glass of water.
You smiled, small and almost fond that he had trusted you enough to do this.
“It tastes really bad so just take the drops quick and then drink the water,”
“How quickly?”
“Like instantly quick, it’s like if you were taking shots,”
He nodded, as if he was forcing himself to believe he could do it, and then he unscrewed the dropper and opened his mouth letting the drops fall quickly and unfortunately he took a second too long in drinking the water.
Then he grimaced, “that tastes terrible.”
“I told you.”
He laid back on the bed carefully, shoes kicked off, dressed in sweatpants and a thermic shirt. You slid in on your side, keeping space between you without needing to think about it.
The room was quiet again.
“Thank you,” he said after a moment.
“For what?”
“For this,” he gestured vaguely.
You stared at the ceiling. “Don’t read into it.”
“I won’t,” he said. Then, softer, “But I appreciate it anyway.”
You closed your eyes and minutes passed by.
“You still awake?” he murmured.
“Yes.” you whispered at him
“Me too, your drops don’t work after all.”
You laughed and so did he, but then both of you yawned and noticed that they had just kicked late.
“This doesn’t count as renegotiating the deal,” you said, already more asleep than awake.
He smiled into the darkness. “Of course not.”
And somehow, with his breathing evening out beside you and the house finally still, sleep came—not because you’d forced it, but because for once, you hadn’t been alone with your thoughts to brace the night.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
By 8am Harry and you were cleaning the kitchen and eating the leftovers of breakfast as Phoebe took the bus to her school. You made sure to give her two vitamin C gummies before she left and refilled her water bottle.
Then, you went back to your room and answered your friends texts for a few minutes before opening your laptop and trying to think about what the next article you’d write would be about, now that you knew that finally and for good Holly had left the job and there was a vacant open.
You hadn’t told anyone, partially because the news were fresh and Gabi had told you everything on Monday over coffee, but also because you weren’t even sure what to write about or if you’d dare applying for the position again, considering you didn’t have any luck in the past and that you didn’t have any articles worthy of getting you into that position yet.
So you stared at your computer screen, then opened up every social media you thought of and went straight to stare at your old friends posts, the ones that had stayed in Pennsylvania were already engaged or fiancees of some guy with a ranch, the ones from college who had moved on were travelling the world and single, the rest of the people you knew were either running every weekend to solvent their mid-life crisis or posting how much alcohol they could chug in one night—there wasn’t any inspiration you could borrow to write.
So you went back to see your unfinished articles, of course those were the ones that you couldn’t just go straight into sending to your editor, but perhaps, with Holly gone you could.
You scrolled past the titles, “Everyone’s hot but no one is a ten”, “Should you swipe right, left or uninstall?”, “Is good sex a question of timing or technique”, “The third person in the relationship: loneliness”. You could’ve gone for hours through the thousands of unfinished articles that you worked on before the “revival” of the Eros section arrived with Holly’s entrance; back when the magazine was still some high-budget not-so-independent-anymore enterprise and the freedom to write about love with some truth-colored lenses was still an option.
You continued scrolling, you had found one that you could work your way around: “When romance becomes a deadline: urgency, measurement and the pressure of finding love”. If somehow you had gotten your freedom back, that was something you could publish, if not, well you were fucked.
And then, next to that document, there was your untitled work; the cursor moved almost mindlessly over it and then, you clicked.
When I was small, I used to tell myself there were no monsters in my room so I could fall asleep peacefully, convinced that something that didn’t exist couldn’t hurt me. As an adult, I applied the same strategy to love. If I insisted it wasn’t real, then any absence of it in my life became irrelevant, and any potential loss couldn’t possibly matter. Heartbreak was just an hypothetical ten-letter word that would only exist while I played scrabble all alone.
You closed the laptop before you could think about it any longer and decided to unwind for the day, walking to the living room and seeing Harry working on his laptop as well, you only smiled, asked if you could sit next to him and borrowed a book from the table about New American Cinema. And that’s how you spent the entire Thursday morning before Phoebe came back from school.
When she arrived, she claimed she had finished all her homework during school hours and the bus, and asked if the three of you could go to eat out and then go to the supermarket, claiming it was actually a super scientific reason for picking up the branches for her grateful tree.
Since Harry and you had nothing better to do, and arguably, the Hamptons was practically a boring place that was only magical for tourists or families, you didn’t see any problem with taking her outside, after all, the rain had stopped, replaced only by an almost imperceptible drizzle.
The three of you walked towards Harry’s car and Phoebe was quick to demand where she wanted to eat, a place neither Harry or you knew about but seemed to be fit for her age, you didn’t question much and once the gps began talking, you only went to stare through the rearview at the girl playing races with the droplets on the window.
By the time both of you arrived at the restaurant, found a chair and finished your food, which consisted of chicken tenders and a strawberry milkshake for Phoebe, a cheeseburger and a diet coke for Harry and a gyro and an iced tea for you, the three of you jumped back in the car and searched for which supermarket to go.
Harry found one that promised to be amazing and gourmet and more buzzwords that indicated it was probably just expensive, then Phoebe interrupted and said that was where her parents did their shopping as well so it was practically decided.
“Why don’t you have kids?” the voice in the back suddenly burped while Harry took a right.
It wasn’t an exaggeration to say your reactions practically became synchronized, because of course, there’s never some class when you are a grown-up that can prepare you for the honesty and ingenuity only a child could phantom to create.
“We haven’t been together that long and having a kid is so much responsibility,” you tried to explain the best you could do.
“Why?” Phoebe asked again, because of course, she needed more explanations.
“Well, if they get sick you have to care for them, they need attention and play-time, and schooling and—”
“But you’re doing that with me, why don’t you have kids?” the girl interrupted you again, and you tried your best not to combust.
There were plenty of things you disliked about babysitting from time to time, but the questions, those you hadn’t remembered how much you despised them, so you tried to take a deep breath and turned to look at the man next to you whose silence had been excruciatingly tiring over the last minutes.
“Honey, why don’t you help me a little?” you said, your hand travelling to caress his arm, action you regretted seconds later when your mind couldn’t stop thinking about the way his muscles had felt under your palm.
“What?” Harry asked, looking first at your hand then at your arm until his eyes finally arrived to your confused face. He had been lost in his thoughts from the moment he began driving, and he actually didn’t have any clue about the unfolding conversation between you.
“What your niece just asked you: why don’t we have kids?” you answered quickly, trying to get the responsibility of a sane answer off your shoulders.
“Because we don’t want kids now,” Harry said with no second-thought or doubt in his words, looking through the rearview with a kind smile.
Of course, he wasn’t prepared to hear Phoebe’s answer, and thought that by entering already to the parking lot her questions would die and be replaced by anticipation; of course, the first mistake grown-ups make is underestimating kids.
The echo of her voice could be seen from miles away, and the second you saw her childish smile quiver up a little bit more you knew it was a matter of time before she asked “Why?” once again.
Harry took a deep breath, trying to keep his composure and fabricating a good-enough answer.
“Because we’re focused on other areas of our lives,” Harry replied, eyes still scanning for some open cabinet where to park, “Hey Pheebs, why don’t we leave the questions and play a fun little game where the first one to spot a free-spot wins, huh?”
Phoebe cheered, although she was still unsatisfied with the answer both of you gave her, the game didn’t sound bad, and after all, she did want to play because otherwise she’d be bored to death while she waited.
“Why are there so many people over here?” you asked, after Harry had given around three or four turns and still there was no space available.
“I’m guessing they’re stocking up for the holidays,” Harry replied, already stressed on the wheel.
“On November?” you asked, rolling your eyes.
“Thanksgiving’s practically around the corner, and well, families here are kind of bougie”
“Of course,” you sighed.
And finally, the long awaited answer appeared: “I see one!” Phoebe screamed, her hand making its way down to your sides as she pointed towards a car leaving and therefore an empty spot.
The white-gravel on the ground covered with a 31 was quickly occupied by Harry, who after a few minutes of not being able to parallel park correctly since the spot was reduced, had finally given up and decided that a little crooked was better than no-parking spot at all.
He made his way to open up Phoebe’s seat, since he had placed the security lock onto the backseats, and then walked to open up your door.
“Thank you,” you murmured in a sing-song as you got down.
Harry only smiled at you, and extended his hand so you didn’t lose your balance while walking through the narrow exit.
“I made a list about the things we need to stock up, Andrew gave me like eight-hundred for those and whatever I saw fit for Pheebs. If you want something else then you tell me, so I can give you my card,”
“I don’t think they take black amexes here,” you whispered while walking next to him. Phoebe grabbing your wrist to keep close.
“Well, then you tell me and I go to the ATM and give you the money,” Harry replied with a smug smile.
Both of you finally arrived at the entry and Phoebe let go of you to walk with Harry for a few seconds.
“I have cards as well, you know?” you said, waiting for him by the main entrance as he walked with Phoebe for a shopping car.
“Of course you do, but do you really want to pay?” He asked, and of course you knew the answer was no, but saying otherwise made you feel way too vulnerable to admit it.
Phoebe jumped inside the car before any of you could have any say in the matter, but considering not even the security guard batted an eye in your direction you didn’t make a bigger scene.
Harry opened up his cellphone and showed you the list of groceries to be bought, seemingly moving on from whatever topic both of you had discussed before.
“Well, I pay every other day,” you said, already walking to the fruits and vegetables and grabbing a box of strawberries, blueberries, blackberries and raspberries—all individually, because they didn’t have the need to buy a mixed frozen package.
“You’ve never been in one of these stores,” Harry replied with a soft smile, pointing towards the price-tags: the strawberries were seventeen dollars, each of the boxed-berries: fifteen.
“So what? You think I’m ignorant,” you murmured, rolling your eyes and making sure to be far enough from the cart so Phoebe didn’t hear a thing.
He grabbed a plate of stuffed mushrooms, and a pack of cherry tomatoes: both of those items twenty dollars each.
“No, on the contrary—I think you know more than what you say you do—but I’ve never met someone who enjoys spending five-grand on some groceries that will disappear or rot by next week”
“I don’t think that’s a rich-person problem, I used to spend around that much when I did my shopping in supermarkets,” you replied, noticing the conversation was watering down into smiles and jokes; you grabbed scallions and placed them in the front of the car. “That’s why I go local now; it’s cheaper”
“Well yeah, inflation’s an everybody problem,” Harry replied, already pushing the car further from the section.
You noticed a box of pomegranate seeds and before eyeing the price-tag too much you placed them with the rest of the items.
“And who set those prices up?” you asked, walking towards to grab two egg-caps, the price adding up to twenty-eight dollars, maybe up to thirty something with the taxes. Somehow you were glad this wasn’t your shopping cart; you doubted there was any difference between these and the ones you bought for two dollars less.
“I can promise you that my business has better things to do than making eggs more expensive,” Harry said with an eye-roll and a smile that promised to be sure of everything, even when he wasn’t.
“I don’t think you even know how much eggs cost and don’t flatter yourself, I meant millionaires not your family business,” you smiled teasingly and walked to grab a diced green melon worth fourtyseven dollars; a set of diced cucumbers, carrots and peppers and a broccoli.
“Wait you think we’re bad,” Harry asked, voice more concerned than what you thought he should be, because after all when you meant millionaires, you meant politics and aristocrats who were so out of touch with reality that you couldn’t even understand how they kept breathing the same air you did for free.
“I don’t think you specifically are bad, but you said it yourself, you’re probably the only rich man in the city I can stand,” You said with a laugh, placing the rest of the items in the cart. Phoebe was joyfully arranging them by color, saying which ones she liked and which ones she despised.
“Now I’m not so sure that’s a compliment,” Harry murmured, pushing the car so you could finally leave the fruits and vegetables behind and search for the meats that Phoebe’s parents had written down for you.
You walked to grab a pack of prosciutto, smoked ham and honeyed turkey while Harry grabbed a pack of american cheese and mozzarella.
You walked close to him to finally give him your answer, “I dislike wealth in general, that’s common knowledge for anyone who knows me—Of course I’m not going to be saying ‘no’ to everything and I’m human, I like nice fancy things as well but, I also know that wealth is meaningless in many aspects and the small percentage who grew into it will never let no one outside their circle to join the cult,”
Harry nodded, pouting his lips as if he wasn’t totally agreeing; for a second you thought he might begin quoting some meritocratic ‘everyone can be rich’ speech, but something told you he was more down to earth than others.
“So you’re one of those ‘eat the rich’ persons, huh?” He asked, grabbing a pack of minced meat, since you finished the remainder on Wednesday's dinner.
“I mean there’s levels of wealth, and, you don’t have to worry about that I don’t think you’re close to it,” you replied, grabbing a pack of chicken breasts and chicken cutlets. Harry grabbed trout and smoked salmon—those you knew weren’t in the list, and you wondered if he’d mind sharing them, of course after your ‘marxist’ speech the answer might’ve been a no.
“If you were, I don't think I would’ve liked you in the first place,” you said while leaving the rest of the items in the car, you didn’t even acknowledge what you said for staring at Phoebe’s disgust-filled reaction when looking at the trout.
“You like me?” Harry asked, your hand caressing his as he placed a pack of salmon fillets in the cart.
“Correction, I like spending time with you,” you decided to say almost instantly, trying to fix it, but somehow you couldn’t control the pitch of your voice and you noticed the soft smile in his lips when that happened.
“You’re still a very bad liar,” he said with a soft smile,
“Said the financier,” you answered, rolling your eyes.
Phoebe only stared at both of you, never doubting for a second the teasing going on, maybe because she didn’t understand half of the words you were saying and through her eyes you were just a talkative couple deeply passionate about whatever you were talking.
“If you continue with that Phoebe’s going to think I’m a villain or something,” Harry said, already pushing the cart towards the bakery section to grab a loaf of sourdough and a bag of everything bagels.
“Well, you kind of are.” you joked, this time you stayed over in the car, chatting with Phoebe about the vegetables and the chicken. “What would you do if uncle Harry was a villain?” you asked,
“I’d kick him and save you,” she quickly said, standing on her feet.
“And what would you do if she was the villain,” Harry asked, eyes opening and looking into your direction.
Phoebe stood in silence, of course at that age hypothetical scenarios like that didn’t get answered in short-time, so you waved your hand towards her so you could whisper in her ear.
“I’d help her!” she exclaimed triumphantly, and Harry only raised his hands in surrender and rolled his eyes at you with a faux defeated face that disappeared the moment he saw you smiling.
“What would I need to do in order to have your good graces then?” he said, grabbing your hand as if he was some noble asking for permission to even be in the same room as you.
You grabbed a slice of red-velvet cake with your free hand but once your eyes were back on him they didn’t leave any other second, his eyes were once again a hidden compulsion that forbade you from looking to any other place, because, for a moment there was no other place beside him.
You forced yourself to let go of his hand around yours, “I don’t think you need my good graces nor I would change anything from you but maybe giving money to some food centers wouldn’t hurt,”
“Do you give money to any?” He asked, not even chastising but merely curious.
You didn’t answer yet because you were grabbing two cartons of lactose-free milk and vanilla creamer. Then, both of you walked into the second hall of the store.
“Nope—I’m poor, remember?” you said with a harsh laugh, “But I volunteer in two places down in Brooklyn and another one in midtown during the holidays and winter-weekends. I wouldn’t be suggesting things that I don’t do, then I’d just be some performative hypocrite like those on the internet.”
“Every time you talk I feel like a caveman,” he said with a laugh, putting into the cart what seemed like a can of paint but ended up being fancy chips.
“Sorry, that’s not my intention,” you replied, grabbing a pack of granola bars and apple puree on the opposite shelf.
“No, I like it—I mean of course I don’t hear it on a daily basis but that’s what makes it refreshing.” he insisted, looking at you.
“Refreshing?” you asked, the word heard so foreign in his lips.
“Enlightening if you will,” he said, head bobbing lightly as he used a fancier word.
“Oh my god, you do start sounding like me—does that mean I’ll be talking about the stock market in the next few hours?”
“Don’t sound so alarmed,” he laughed, walking towards the next hall,
“I am—I think I’m going to get a panic attack in the middle of this store,” you laughed, grabbing his arm and arching as if you were about to pass away, his hand lowered to grab your back and prevent anything from hitting you or you falling into the ground.
You straightened yourself after a few seconds and clapped your hands. “Well, are we missing anything?”
“Not from the list, do you want something Pheebs?”
“Nope,” she insisted, and Harry and you looked at each other for a few seconds before drifting into the registers.
There was only one open register and four carts in front of you that were just as or maybe even more full than yours that Phoebe begged to be taken out of the cart and walk around the area for a bit.
You grabbed her by her hand and walked with her through the rest of the sections until she found a fridge full of bouquets,
“Does uncle Harry give you flowers?” she asked, both of you stopping for a second to stare at them.
You remembered the first time you met him, he was already waiting in that dim-light restaurant with a bouquet on his side. Back then, if someone were to tell you six months after you’d be with that same man doing grocery-shopping for his niece’s family who you were babysitting for a week, you’d laugh. Now, you only smiled for a second because it wasn’t something you had to imagine and instead something you were living. You also remembered the day of the NYU talk, the flower bouquet he brought you even when you didn’t know it was him and even if he didn’t take the credit for it—because he didn’t want the credit, he just wanted to give you flowers, not even knowing that small gesture could beam the silence of your night into something else than bruised black and blue.
“Yeah,” you whispered with a smile that wasn't rehearsed.
“Which ones are your favorites?” she asked after.
“Well, I can't choose actually—I like carnations and peonies, and uhm, any kind,” you chuckled, your hand caressing the paper in which a light-pink bouquet was covered.
“Why doesn’t he buy you flowers now?”
“Well, because we came for groceries and—” it didn’t matter you began explaining, she had already loosened her grip.
“Uncle Harry!” she already began screaming, running towards him. “You are a bad boyfriend,”
Harry looked from the front towards the girl and then towards you, his face a depiction of utter confusion.
“Why am I a bad boyfriend?” He asked concerned.
“Because you’re not buying her flowers,” she said with all her wisdom.
“Of course, I knew there was something missing.” Harry replied, as if suddenly the universe’s secrets had been revealed to him, “Could you guard the cart while we choose some?”
“Yes!” She replied quickly.
Harry walked towards you, “Bad boyfriend huh?”
“It was her idea,” you replied, “you can get me like margaritas or something cheap I don’t mind,”
“No, no, no,” he began, chanting a series of the syllables, “If I’m getting you a bouquet, I’m getting you a pretty one at least. We want to make her believe I love you, don’t we?”
“Of course, and nothing says ‘I love you’ more than a bouquet of fancy flowers”
“See, I knew you’d get it” he said with a smirk, “Which one do you like—and don’t get smart on me and say you like one just so I don’t spend much, I know you.”
“Okay Mr. know-it-all, if you know me that much, which one would I pick?” you asked, trying to catch him red-handed in a lie you knew too well wasn’t a lie.
Harry didn’t hesitate, and with a simple look at the bouquets, he grabbed one from the top, one of the expensive ones. There were calla lilies, peonies, a few lilies and carnations, some tulips as well, every flower in different shades of pink—saying it was beautiful would be an understatement, and saying you didn’t like it was too big of a lie for you to commit.
“Did I do good?” Harry asked, handing the bouquet towards you as if you were to inspect it.
“How’d you know?” you asked, grabbing the bouquet already as both of you made your way back into the line, where Phoebe was waiting, thinking she’d be next in any minute.
“I just knew,” Harry replied, and for a moment the world stopped for both of you.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Friday had settled into the same routine Thursday had established, Harry made bagels and scrambled eggs for both of you while Phoebe had a plate of cereal and a ham and cheese omelette, the bus came and Harry and you settled in the living room couch, him on the laptop, you scrolling on your phone.
The bouquet of flowers he had bought you were staring right from the kitchen, in the fancy vase he had picked for them.
“What are you doing?” you asked, boredom finally taking hold of you.
“Just some e-emails, financial check-ups, some background information and I’m waiting for my secretary to send a pitch for a health-company down in Texas,” he replied.
“Huh, sounds difficult,”
“No, it’s just stressing,” he added, “Why aren’t you writing?”
“Well, technically I’m still on my rest, but uhm—” you debated if you should tell him, then you realized, you’d end up revealing it sooner or later, “Holly left.”
Harry paused, stared at his computer for a few seconds and then turned it off and shifted to look at you, “And? Are you applying for the position?”
“I don’t know, I mean, I probably will but I just don’t think any of my articles are good right now. With Holly, all of them were curated in a certain way and I want to write like I did before that time but at the same time I don’t think anyone’s buying that kind of writing anymore—Holly might’ve been a terrible boss but the numbers don’t lie, times changed.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry asked, cautious as a person is when a grumpy cat finally seats on their lap, careful not to cast them away.
“That was me talking about it,” you said with a chuckle, turning to look at him, then back at nothing, “I haven’t told anyone actually, I feel like everyone will tell me that I should apply and that I’m going to get the position because I’m amazing, and I want it but at the same time, I don’t know—I’m not that writer anymore.”
“You wouldn’t be thinking that if you had changed,” Harry began, “Besides you’re an amazing writer, and one of the smartest women I’ve ever met—if you get the promotion then maybe the world’s finally noticing that as well, if you don’t then that doesn’t disprove anything.”
“That’s easy for you to say, I bet you’ve never been rejected before.” You said quickly, not even thinking your words much.
“I got told ‘no’ to a wedding proposal before it happened,” he said with a chuckle, dismantling your theory.
“Right, sorry.” You quickly apologized, not even looking at him anymore either from the truth of your words or for the embarrassment you felt.
“It's fine. Besides if it weren’t for the joke you’d be even more stressed,” he said simply.
“Oh now you’re a therapist,” you chuckled, the joke giving you enough strength to finally face him.
“No, they’d charge you by the minute, I’m just annoying for free.”
“You’re not annoying,” you said with a smile, wondering if you had ever made him think otherwise.
“And you’re not a bad writer,” he added to your statement.
You chuckled under your breathe, “I still don’t have any inspiration for some award-winning article,”
“Okay. Do you want to watch TV with me then?”
“I thought you had a lot of things to do,”
“No, those can wait, the key for the liquor cabinet is over the fridge,”
“This is why I can’t fix the alcoholic allegations,” you murmured but still obliged hearing the faint sound of the TV from the distance—despite having plenty of money, Andrew didn’t have any streaming services, mainly because they weren’t enough time in the house to actually use them, so they made-do with the open cable.
“What do you want to watch?”
“I don’t know, search the twenties, sometimes there’s movies in there,”
Harry followed your instructions, and the shifting sound between the different channels made its way towards the kitchen—you weren’t even going to say anything, until you heard a familiar song through the speakers.
“Wait, leave it there,” you said, rushing back from the kitchen to see if you were right and there it was,
“Here?” he asked, the into music already over.
“Yeah, you’ve never watched How I met your mother?”
“No,” Harry replied before taking a sip of the wine, “I don’t watch many sit-coms,”
“Of course, you probably watch what, Succession?” you asked, rolling your eyes at him.
“I’m just not a big TV guy,”
“Right, well Mia wrote a paper back in college about how every friend group in the city belongs to either Friends, Seinfeld or this,” you said, waving your hand in the direction of the screen.
“By that reaction, I’m guessing you’re this one, right?”
“Yeah, according to all of them I’m that one,” you pointed out towards Robin, drinking a whisky while the entire friend group was sitting in their booth.
“Which one would I be?” Harry asked, leaning into the couch and trying to be invested in the show.
“I don’t think you fit any of them, maybe Barney if any.”
Harry nodded, didn’t ask or add anything and went back to his drink while both of you stared at the screen, whether to laugh or point out how outdated some joke seemed to be. By the moment the first episode finished there was already the next one beginning, somehow you had stumbled through a rerun of it on the 24.
“I don’t get why they said you’re Robin,” Harry said during an ad break.
“Because I’m a journalist,” you replied, even when you knew that wasn’t the answer. “And because I don’t like love,”
“That tracks a bit more,” Harry paused, “But then why am I the blonde one? you think I’d be having a different girl every night?”
“Well, who do you think you are?” you asked him.
“I don’t know, but I’m not that one, he’s dumb.”
“What a bummer, he’s the one who gets the best development,” you said, sipping on your drink.
“Really?” he asked, eyes squinting
“Yep,” you agreed,
He pointed at the screen while Barney was at a strip-club, eyes full of disbelief—“That gets development?”
“Well, you do need to watch the rest of the seasons,”
“And who does he end up with?”
“No one, they blow the whole ending,” you sighed, “but you don’t have to worry about that. I didn’t even ask, do you actually want to watch this? We can watch something else, I don’t mind.”
“No, it’s fine, I like it.” He insisted, getting even more invested in the next episode. “I want to see why you like it,”
“Pff, it’s not that philosophical,” you chuckled.
“No, but I still want to watch it.” He defended and you laughed once again.
The rest of the morning and half of the afternoon went by with both of you watching the TV until Phoebe came back from school and her soccer-practice, Harry decided to be ‘lazy’ and placed two pizzas in the oven before calling it a day, of course, none of you complained because they were actually good.
Then, Phoebe decided to explore the backyard and hunt for the branches she forgot to look for while the three of you went to the supermarket the day before.
After a few minutes she came back inside with around forty different branches, all carefully selected to be part of her art project. Then, she insisted that both Harry and you should write a few things down so the tree could be full of leaves.
None of you lost time or waited for a second time for the girl to tell you something else, you were quick to grab a yellow leaf and a black marker even when you hadn’t written down anything just yet; Harry followed your steps.
Except, he already knew what he’d write—he wrote down your name in the same cursive he only reserved for his signature, and above it the inscription: “My precious,” with a comma after precious. You had decided to follow his steps, changing the precious for a “beloved”.
“You have pretty handwriting,” you said after a few seconds as you stared into his leaf.
“Only the best for my best,” He said and grabbed your hand for a second, as he got it closer to his lips, his eyes still focused over yours as if asking for permission despite knowing the answer.
He kissed your knuckles and you got closer to him, “What do you think?” you asked, showing him your rendition, he smiled in response.
“See, I told you: you have a way with words.” He said, and despite you knowing that already, it was the first time someone said it thinking of you as an unbeliever or as if you deserved pity; he just said with the same certainty the weather man says when the weather will be full of sky or of rain, and for you that was enough.
The rest of the afternoon went by with the four of you writing down on the leaves and then pasting them over the branches until night time fell and Phoebe decided to claim she wanted to have her time to watch something on her iPad while Harry and you took care of the dinner.
“Pasta?” you offered, staring at the pantry and the fridge.
“She needs to eat vegetables,” Harry said, already searching for some recipe online.
“I know, but I can put them in the sauce,” you offered.
“She’ll taste them,”
“Harry, I don’t think she has ever tried a pepper before, she won’t know.”
“Okay, but that can’t be a full meal, where’s the protein?”
“What’s the obsession with guys and protein?” you asked with a laugh.
“It has to be balanced, besides, carbohydrates will give her way too much energy and considering she probably ate sugar in school…”
“Okay, what pairs well with pasta, chicken?”
“Yeah, I can make that while you make the pasta, sounds good?”
“Sure, but I still don’t get the obsession with protein,” you sighed, opening the pantry and taking a tin-can of bow-shaped pasta.
You grabbed the white stockpot and filled it with water before adding salt and the pasta. Harry walked towards the freezer, picking the chicken cutlets you had bought and also taking out the tomatoes and vegetables he guessed you’d need for the sauce.
“Who taught you how to cook?” Harry asked after a few seconds.
“I did, well—my aunt taught me how to turn on the oven—but TV taught me the rest,” you laughed before turning to look at him, “Who taught you?”
“My dad,” he said, turning up the stove on his side and also the one where you had begun boiling the water. “He loves his kitchen, last Christmas I gave him this grey Le Creuset cassadou and he loved it,"
“So he’s the chef from the family?”
“Depends on the occasion,” he chuckled, seasoning the chicken before pressing it with the spatula, “My dad’s amazing with the white-meat; fish, chicken, turkey, I think he even made duck once. Every salad you can think of, charcuterie boards—that’s him. But when it comes to meat or something that has to do with pasta or potatoes then that’s my mom.”
You chuckled, “Sounds like dinners are always fun over there,”
“They are,” he insisted, finally sealing the kitchen on a smaller grill skillet. “And you?”
“I mean, both of them know how to cook, but they are just adults trying to not die of hunger. Not something they actually enjoy,” you said while adding some diced peppers to the sauce pan. “They used to make gifts so difficult, none of them liked cooking, my mom didn’t like dresses or perfumes or jewelry, my dad wasn’t a big sports fan or like a nature lover—I used to get them anything that seemed like they wouldn’t throw it away the moment I left,”
“And now?” he asked intrigued.
“Now I just don’t go,” you sighed with a tired smile, because no matter what the downfall felt you knew just like everyone who knew you that was the good decision to make, and you were glad Harry hadn’t pushed any further.
You searched for a spoon and dipped it inside the red sauce before placing a small drop on the back of your hand, trying it once. “Could you try it for me? I’m not sure if there’s enough tomato in there,”
“Sure,” He replied, dipping the same spoon and following your steps, “I don’t feel the peppers so, I think it’s good.”
“Okay then, could you call Phoebe and tell her—”
The little girl ran inside the kitchen as if she was summoned by a spell, “Can we please go? Can we please?” she began chanting, pushing the screen towards both of you.
Harry finally grabbed it, asking her to wait by the table so you could plate the pasta and wait for it to cool down a little.
“What's that?” you asked, serving the portions of the pasta on each plate.
“An amusement park,” Harry answered, reading the description of the post.
“On November?” you asked in disbelief.
“It says it’ll be only open for a special occasion for tomorrow,” He continued while he grabbed his plate and a jug of water before walking to the table.
“Can we go? please, please, please” Phoebe begged, putting her hands together before the dish was served right in front of her.
Harry turned to look at you, and you sternly nodded a ‘yes’ then he said the news to the girl, who almost jumped from her seat to hug him before running towards the other side and hugging you, muttering endless thank you’s to both.
After Phoebe went to sleep, Harry and you cleaned the kitchen and the couch, he turned on the TV, the rerun of the sit-com was already on the ninth season, when Barney and Robin are getting married.
“Oh he is marrying her?” He asked, pausing in the middle of the hallway to stare at the screen.
You walked next to him, before muttering a quiet “yes,”
“So, if I’m him and you’re her, does that mean?”
“Please,” you chuckled, “I wouldn’t get married unless you were the last man on earth.”
There was a pause, on-screen both of the characters had finally kissed and the cheers and laughter filled the speakers, then there was an ad-break, Harry turned to look at you—the silence was infinite just like the depth of his eyes.
“Did you say ‘if’ or ‘unless’?” he asked, getting just an inch closer to you as if both of you were sharing a secret.
You sighed, because you had somehow forgotten which word you used, but you knew which one you should have used.
“I think I said if,” you paused, trying to rewire your words back into the moment before. “Why?”
“Nothing, I must’ve misheard,” He said, eyes drifting back into the screen.
summary: you don’t believe in love, you just write about it convincingly enough to get paid for it. You agreed to go on these blind dates instead of your heartbroken friend and for the column content and free dinners, never expecting anyone to see through it. But then Harry does, and instead of walking away, he makes you another deal.
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wc: 15.5k
chapter warnings: drunk flirting, alcohol, fancy food, some slight comment about body-weight, they're so into each other and in denial they're stressing, implied childhood trauma, implied financial problems, Harry is literally whipped, rich people issues, overconsumption, reader has mustard seed allergies besides that no description (I think), internalization, kind of a lot of internal monologue, some “kill yourself” jokes.
Once you had left the nail salon, after Ann had packed probably weeks worth of food into plastic containers and forced two extra fortune cookies into your bag “for good luck". And Harry had discovered a place where he could spend less than thirty dollars and still eat something good —after finally someone took him out of his upper west side bubble. Both of you drove back toward Fifth Avenue to meet Charlotte and Peter at The Modern.
The car was quiet, not only because there wasn’t much to talk about but because everything had already been said.
You tried to ignore the words you had said as much as the ones he had said. You tried to ignore the feelings they caused in your body.
You tried to find some kind of loophole where you could say that you weren’t avoidant when you don't want to see him as more as a friend. But you couldn’t deny either that sometimes you didn’t even feel like running from him and instead felt a pull towards his body you couldn’t ignore.
But feelings were as difficult to explain as relationships were difficult to maintain, and you couldn’t just understand how two negatives could have a positive outcome like simple, real, truthful love.
That was only a fantasy. Some literary device you had used in some fiction novel a long time ago, in real life shit like that never happened. The rich man wouldn’t look at the average girl, and even if he did, there’d be something he’d do to lose her, or maybe no —maybe the rich man would actually look at the average girl, but the average girl would be too scared from social-class stereotypes and a troubled upbringing that, when somebody held her with lukewarm hands, her body had been cold for so long that even the warmest touches burned her. And she’d end up running away over and over again until she found gloves she could cover herself in, and create distance and call it affection, and have sex and call it connection, and create lust just to feel desired for the smallest of seconds.
You had found plenty of loopholes since you had moved to the city and taken the decision that love wasn’t real. But how come you couldn’t find a loophole that explained the way Harry looked at you?
He turned right into a garage near the museum without even slowing down at the sign that screamed TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS PER HOUR. You watched him pull the ticket from the machine as if the price was as low as two fifty, casual and unbothered.
You still didn’t know where the line between rich and nihilistic lived for him. Maybe it was the way he acted like money didn’t matter but was stubborn as hell about buying you new clothes every time you were going out. Why was he so insistent on you wearing expensive clothes? Was it blueblood guilt? Or, more realistically:
Was it the fact that Harry Castillo would never date someone like you. He was born from black cards and private schools, you were you. Whoever he dated, wouldn’t look like you at all, it would have expensive dresses and thousand-dollar jewelry.
If this were a fairytale, you’d be the commoner in the background of the city scene, some blurry extra while the prince kissed the girl in a ballgown on a balcony. Of course he wouldn’t look at you like that. He never would. That's why staying friends was safer.
You turned toward him anyway.
“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” you blurted, probably you shouldn’t have. “I probably should’ve just said yes and we could’ve moved on.”
His fingers went still on the steering wheel. He glanced at you once, quick enough to be polite and long enough that you could feel his eyes move over your face.
“Yes to what?” he asked, tone soft, genuinely curious, not fishing.
You shrugged, staring at your hands. “To the… thing you said. About liking being around me.” Your voice stayed steady —marvelously. You’d trained it not to jump every time you lied. “I should’ve just said ‘okay’ instead of turning it into a dissertation.”
That pulled a tiny breath of laughter from him —almost shy. “You didn’t turn it into a dissertation.”
You raised an eyebrow, turning to look at him with an expression of utter unbelief. “Harry, I used the word liminal.”
He huffed another small laugh. “Okay, fine. Maybe an extended essay.”
You rolled your eyes, but your throat felt tight. “The point is… I overthought it. I do that a lot. And I shouldn’t have.”
He didn’t answer right away, only allowing the low hum of the ventilation fill the car as he pulled into a spot and shifted into park. Neither of you reached for the door yet.
Then, quietly, he turned back to look at you: “You didn’t make anything weird.”
You shook your head too fast, so fast that you might’ve gotten whiplash. “I did.” you insisted.
“No,” he said, even softer this time, like he was handling something fragile. “You just… explained it in your way.”
You let out a tiny, self-conscious laugh, not daring to look at him yet, “my way is very complicated then.”
There was a pause once again. A pause where he should have agreed.
“Not really,” he said simply, dismantling your theory all at once.
That tugged your gaze back to his. He was looking at you with calmness that felt out of place, almost strange to receive —more after everything you had said.
It made you feel naked. Actually, being naked might’ve been better —you’d know what to do then. Cover yourself, turn it into a game, undress him first, whatever. But this? You didn’t know what to do with it. Where are you supposed to shelter yourself when both of you are clothed? What are you supposed to do when you can’t control the narrative?
“You say what you mean,” he added, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You just take the scenic route sometimes.”
You snorted. “That’s generous.”
“I’m just being honest.”
You tapped the window lightly with your knuckle. “Well… either way. I should’ve just agreed. Made it simpler.”
His jaw flexed once, subtle, before he spoke. “You don’t have to agree with me just to make things simple. If I wanted simple I would’ve asked my secretary.”
“I wasn’t—” you started, then stopped, because yeah, you were. That was kind of your whole thing. Sanding your edges down so no one cut themselves on you and left when they bled, even if you didn’t mean to, even if that meant you trimmed yourself.
“I just didn’t want you to think I was— I don’t know.” You gestured between you, uselessly. “Making it a bigger thing than it was.”
“I didn’t think that,” he said.
You glanced at him, searching for sarcasm and found none. It made you shiver.
Then, even quieter, like it wasn’t meant for the air between you at all, his voice appeared once again, breaking the tight silence in between you both: “I just thought maybe I’d said too much.”
Your stomach flipped when he said it, because suddenly you understood the shift in his eyes before —it wasn’t a consequence of your words, but of his own.
“You didn’t.” you murmured, barely audible.
“Good.” His words, almost a whisper.
You looked away quickly, heat climbing up the back of your neck. Despite that outside, the streetlights threw cold light against the windshield, your eyes drifted towards the artificial gleam, somehow that felt safer to stare at than him.
You opened the door, gulped the cold air like it could cool your skin, and took one steadying breath. Then you pulled the mask on —the one that smiled, tilted its head just so and pretended she had been born into the silver spoon world just as every other person on the table.
“Let’s just forget about it, yeah?” you said, forcing your tone light. “And try to enjoy this fancy date.”
He smiled, easily stepping into the performance with you. Even if neither of you were really faking anymore.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
The light inside The Modern was almost surgical in how clean and white it was, reflecting off glass and silverware and people who could probably pay off your student loans in a single lunch if you arranged your cards well, it was the kind of spaces that you had only seen on movies and magazine-pages, and now you were walking through the tight seating arrangement as if your feet had already memorized it.
You followed Harry to the host stand. The hostess barely glanced at the screen before smiling.
“Your party is already here, Mr. Castillo. Right this way.” she announced, pressing her earpiece just once before murmuring something through the small microphone.
Of course they were. Charlotte waved the second she saw you approaching, her excitement visible even in the flattering dim.
“Oh, there you are,” she exclaimed, standing from the plush bench. She was in a black dress similar to yours and a beige jacket that probably cost more than your rent. “Wow, you look beautiful,” she babbled, pressing her hands over your own. Then she turned to look behind you. “Doesn’t she, Harry?”
“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. No teasing. Completely disarmed, like the word had slipped out as natural as the air left his lungs when breathing.
He pulled your chair out for you. You leaned in just enough that your “Thank you,” was meant for him, and for him alone.
Charlotte clapped her hands once. “Well, we already ordered for the four of us—”
“Do any of the dishes have mustard?” Harry cut in, not even letting her finish.
You pressed your lips together, faking a smile. “Harry, it’s fine.”
“You’re allergic to mustard, honey,” he said calmly. “I don’t want you getting sick.”
The word hit you as if he had actually kissed you. Honey. No one, no night-stand or bar-flick had ever called Honey. Had ever called you anything at all. Now, you tried not to react.
Why was he just adding more nicknames to his repertoire? Was sweetheart not enough?
“I… don’t know,” Charlotte admitted, looking helplessly at the menu. “I just picked the ‘abstractions’ selection with its respective wine pairing.”
“Let me check with them,” Harry said, already half-standing.
He misjudged the distance and his knee clipped the edge of the table. You winced for him —it sounded painful, even when the impact was muffled by the tablecloth.
You caught his wrist before he could get far. “Are you okay?” you asked, keeping your voice casual for the audience but your hand tight.
He squeezed back once. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
You gave him a tiny smile. “Don’t take long.”
It came out soft, more genuine than you intended. His eyes warmed before he turned away, and when he was gone you noticed you wanted him back in the table already, Charlotte filled the space the way Charlotte always did —pulling out her phone to show you photos of their last trip to the Maldives, the beach house Peter had bought in Guadeloupe, the resort’s breakfast buffet that looked like a social media post.
Your mind could only think of what type of work the woman could have to give herself and her husband those luxuries almost every month. Peter occasionally chimed in with contributions like, “That was a good omelette,” or “Wifi was terrible,” which did nothing to endear him to you.
Your attention kept sliding toward the direction Harry had gone until a hand landed gently on your shoulder, when that happened you didn’t even startle. You just knew it was him and when he took his seat beside you again you did nothing but smile softly, more to yourself than to any other person at the table.
“I didn’t take long, did I?” he asked.
“Nope.” You replied, turning to look at him. “Quick as always.”
Harry nodded, satisfied.
"Are you okay?" you mouthed at him, nodding towards his knee.
And despite the small hiss he let go of before taking his seat, he gave you a quick charming smile and politely nodded.
“Okay. Before we start,” Peter added, glancing at his brother and you, “we thought it’d be better to get this out of the way first.”
“There’s another reason why we wanted this double date,” Charlotte announced, practically vibrating. “It’s a tiny favor. Teeny-tiny. You won’t even notice.”
You doubted that, by the way her voice sounded she was about to ask for the royal jewels.
“Well,” Peter began, “next Monday we’re getting out of town for our anniversary. I booked us two weeks in Cancún, but… Andrew—” he looked at you like you knew which Andrew he meant; you only knew one but it wouldn’t make sense in the current situation. “—asked us to babysit his daughter for a week starting Wednesday. And obviously, we can’t!”
“And then I was talking with Peter,” Charlotte cut in, “and I was like, ‘Why don’t we ask them? She’s babysat Phoebe before.’ And she practically adores you!”
Oh. That Andrew and That Phoebe.
You turned to look at Harry, utterly confused, “Our cousin” he murmured just before sipping on his wine again. Silence taking a hold of him.
“Yeah, you practically saved their life with Harry’s recommendation” Charlotte continued, practically unaware of your unawareness of the situation.
Your gaze remained slightly fixed on Harry, “Oh really?”
So apparently Harry had been casually recommending you as childcare to his relatives. Stunning. Alarming. Weird. Weirdly… nice, since thanks to that job you'd been subsisting.
And yet, the man was quiet beside you, his gaze somewhere over Charlotte’s shoulder. His expression carefully neutral as if trying to control his every and total microexpression.
“So… what do you think?” Charlotte asked, leaning forward, eyes wide and hopeful.
You probably should’ve taken more time to think about it. To ask why Harry was handing your services out like a limited-edition coupon. To remember that you were supposed to be focusing on your writing, on your own life, not on someone else’s child.
But you also knew: You didn’t have work to be done, your brain was fried and you could barely write more than a few words, and Andrew’s house was a lot nicer than your Brooklyn department where you would be going back in less than a week.
And this was kind of Harry’s fault, anyway, so it’d be only fair you returned the favour somehow.
“Harry, honey…” you said, turning to him, letting the nickname roll off your tongue like it was perfectly normal. His lips twitched upward almost involuntarily. “What do you think?”
His eyes met yours, something soft sparking in them.
“Well,” he said, thoughtful, “I should probably check my calendar… but if you want to do it, I can manage.”
You nodded. “Then I think we should do it.”
His gaze lingered for a beat longer than necessary, like he was trying to decode your answer, then he gave a tiny nod back.
“Then it’s settled!” Charlotte declared triumphantly. “See, babe? I told you—business first.”
Peter didn’t bother arguing. The waiter arrived with wine, and the conversation veered toward vacation plans and holiday flights and the way New York was impossible in December, as if half of the charm of the statement wasn’t the fact they’d be going to Italy for New Year’s.
“Oh, you know,” Charlotte said suddenly, eyes brightening as the first plates arrived, “I read an article you wrote a few weeks ago.”
You smiled, nervous. “Really? Which one?”
Her grin told you everything before her mouth did.
“You know which one,” she said, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial way. As if the wine could get offended by the vulgar language she was about to use, “The… kinky one.”
Of course. You tried to eat your tiny portion of crab with a straight face. “Right. That one.”
“I guess Harry must be having a splendid time,” she added, eyes sparkling.
You snapped your gaze to Harry, feeling heat rush to your face. Harry tried to not choke on his food and even worse, to look at you straight in your eyes as if he hadn’t allowed his mind to wander through scenarios, an action he scolded himself for later.
“A splendid time in which way?” He asked, trying to remain unaffected despite his cheeks reddening.
“Oh, don’t be prudish,” Peter chimed in, clearly just trying to be part of the conversation.
“Well, I try to keep my personal life out of my writing most of the time,” you said primly. True, mostly, after all you did write about love despite not believing in it at all. “And I don’t think dinner is the best place to talk about this, don’t you agree?”
“Oh, yeah, totally,” Charlotte said. Then she leaned in and whispered only for you to hear, “It got me curling my toes.”
You laughed despite yourself, and before you overthought it, “Well,” you murmured, “whenever you want, I do have more where that came from.”
“Really?” she asked, delighted.
“Yeah. I used to write books when I first moved here. Most of them are probably discontinued now, but there have to be some copies floating around.”
“Have you read them?” Peter asked Harry, desperate to contribute.
“All of them,” Harry said smoothly.
You almost choked on your wine. The way he lied so confidently now —you were rubbing off on him indeed, and you didn’t know if that was something good or bad, maybe both, because at least something so primal would make him think about you.
“And which one would you recommend?” Charlotte prompted, already topping off her own glass.
You sat back, ready for him to pick the easiest title, say something flattering but vague, and move on. Something you could explain away later with “oh, he’s just being nice.”
You grabbed the wine bottle, ready to top your glass after Charlotte, but instead of listening to empty words you heard him,
“There’s this one I like,” he began, leaning back slightly, eyes narrowing with memory. “About a wannabe screenwriter in Manhattan in the mid-seventies. She hangs around this bar downtown…”
Your pulse stuttered, and for a second you were sure that the white-cloth would end up stained in maroon liquid.
No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
“She’s trying to make it in film,” he went on, oblivious to the way your chest constricted, “but she keeps getting stuck. And she spends her weekends working at this bar in SoHo, listening to a piano player who used to be a prodigy but washed out before he got big.”
Charlotte sighed happily. “Wow. Sounds tragic already.”
“It is,” Harry said, “but not in a melodramatic way. The war is happening in the background, but it’s not really a war novel. It’s about two people trying to hold onto something real when everything around them is shaking loose.”
You stared at him. He wasn’t reciting the blurb. He wasn’t guessing. He’d read it.
He kept going, almost gentle now.
“The writer’s young, smart, but she doesn’t trust herself. And the pianist… he sees something in her she’s too scared to look at straight-on. Their whole relationship is tiny things. Missed buses. Half-finished conversations. The way he plays differently when he knows she’s listening.”
He smiled into his glass before looking over at you.
“You never told me you’d read The Quiet Hours,” you managed to say, almost as if it was a delightful surprise, which it was, while also killing you in the most tender of ways.
“Twice, actually.” His voice was steady; yours wasn’t. “Always thought it was your best one. Simple, but it hits harder than the others. It's so simple and it's still so romantic and heartwarming”
You didn’t trust yourself to say anything.
Because that book had cost you your contract. Because critics had said it was too raw, too cynical, too… unmarketable. Because it was based on your aunt and her lover who never came back, and you’d poured that grief into pages you thought nobody would really read, you had considered it your worst work despite being your favorite to write.
But Harry had read it. Twice.
And somehow he understood it, somehow he had read the way the story had poured from your aunt’s stories into your mind and eventually bled into the pages. The story you grew up listening to every time you drifted to Manhattan as an escape route for the weekends your parents met up with their lawyers, as if the city and your aunt's words tried feeding you some hope in everlasting love that only turned more sour each time.
Dinner blurred after that. The rest of the food was as absurd as you’d expected —tiny portions with dramatic foams, sauces the size of raindrops, caviar presented like having portions of it in the plate could justify the elevated cost. You ate it with no complaints either way, it didn’t matter that the taste was good when in two bites it was gone.
When the bill came and the number casually crossed four thousand, you were profoundly grateful Ann had fed you before, and even more that you didn’t inhabit a mindset where status was worth more than a well-fed stomach.
“We should go shopping now!” Charlotte declared as you stepped back out into the night.
You checked your phone. 9:30 p.m. In most cities that would’ve been bedtime, or at least a sign from the universe to go back home and unwind for the rest of the day. In New York, the self-proclaimed city that never sleeps, it was basically an aperitivo.
You turned to Harry, the tiniest of smirks in your lips. “Should we?”
“I think we should,” he said, and that was that.
Charlotte and Peter drifted ahead, Charlotte already pointing at window displays like she was giving a video essay on the importance of retail therapy for the modern 21st century woman, Peter pretending not to look where she pointed while absolutely noting every item to be under the tree for Christmas morning.
You and Harry hung back.
Walking side by side, just close enough that the hem of your dress brushed his coat every few steps.
The air was sharp, the city humming, Fifth Avenue glowing like it was dressed up for someone important. You’d lived in New York for years and somehow never spent your nights here, because you inhabited the avenue for work not for luxury shopping and retail therapy, walking through it when the lights were out and the music loud felt like some trap you weren’t ready to fall into. It always felt like someone else’s version of the city.
You exhaled, tilting your head upwards to look at the skyscrapers, feeling for a second as if the whole world could be just a tiny needle and you were just another needle in the neverending pile.
Your eyes wandered back towards Harry. “Hey… can I ask you something?”
Harry eased his pace, as if you’d tugged an invisible cord in between both of you that forced him, almost hypnotically to look back. “Of course.”
You kept your eyes forward. Looking at him felt too dangerous for the question you were about to ask.
“Did you actually read it?” you asked. “The book?”
He didn’t pretend not to know which one, although he had truly read each and every of them.
“Yeah,” he said.
“You didn’t just skim?” Your voice was too light, too careful. “Read the first chapter for, I don’t know, research?”
He let out a quiet laugh, breath misting in the air. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I hadn’t read it.”
Your chest tightened.
“And I don’t pretend with you,” he added, then a beat passed in between you both. “You’re practically my best friend.”
You stared at the sidewalk, at the cracks in the concrete that seemed to match the ones on your own act.
“I feel like I’m your only friend,” you muttered with a laugh.
“Well,” he said, “I’m the only rich man in the city you can stand for longer than half an hour, so, I guess we’re even.”
You snorted for half a second before the city’s noise felt in between you both again, loud as silence.
“It was based on my aunt,” you murmured. “The writer in the book. That was her.”
He didn’t look surprised. His expressions only softened under the neon-lights.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured.”
Your steps faltered for a second. “You figured?”
“The details,” he shrugged. “The apartment in Tribeca. The bar in SoHo. You don’t pick all of that by accident. I remember someone mentioned that your favorite bar was there.”
Your heart thudded hard against your ribs. He was right. Your favorite bar was indeed on SoHo, only your friends knew that information.
“She loved that damned pianist,” you said. “For a year he didn’t love her back.”
Harry’s jaw flexed. “Or maybe he didn’t know how to say it.”
You shook your head, staring at the blur of headlights. “Doesn’t matter. When they were finally ready to try, he went to war. Vietnam. Didn’t come back.” You exhaled. “The book’s just the ‘what if’ of their love affair.”
Harry looked at you then, really looked. “It doesn’t always have to end that way,” he said.
Your pulse stuttered, because you knew, you weren’t a fool, despite that’s why you hadn’t fallen in love you were too realistic for it. But before your brain could tip into the hole that sentence opened, you grabbed for the nearest deflection.
“It doesn’t matter,” you said a little too quickly. “Also, why did you tell Andrew I babysit?”
He blinked, thrown for just a second, then recovered. “Oh. That.”
“Yes,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “That.”
He huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “It wasn’t a scheme, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It was suspicious,” you insisted. “At best.”
“You mentioned it once, on the way to the wedding,” he said. “That you babysat sometimes.”
You laughed, not even loud, but either way a dog barked at you.
“Literally one time.” You clarified.
“And I remembered.” He shrugged again, like it was nothing. “Andrew called me weeks before that. Angie’s new job was eating her alive. They needed someone they could trust. I just… thought of you.”
“That’s not an explanation,” you muttered.
“Sure it is,” he said, like it was the simplest equation in the world. “You’re responsible. Easy to trust.”
You shot him a look. “You thought that while I was fake-dating you?” You tried to hide a laugh that came too loud either way “That’s bold.”
“It doesn’t matter what you were doing,” he said. “I was right.”
“How do you know you’re right? You haven’t seen me with Phoebe. I could be the worst sitter in the world.”
“If you were, they wouldn’t keep hiring you.”
Your steps faltered, just for a second. “Why did you think I’d be good at it? Specifically.”
He didn’t even pause.
“You remember everything about everyone else,” he said. “You listen. You don’t talk down to people. You care, even when you act like you don’t.”
Your throat tightened.
“And,” he added quietly, “I knew you wouldn’t flake on them. Andrew needed someone solid. That’s you.”
Your breath caught. “I’m not always solid.”
“You are,” he said, eyes ahead, voice steady. “You’re more solid than you think.”
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag.
Up ahead, Charlotte flung an arm in the air. “There it is! Come on!”
Harry leaned in just enough that his shoulder brushed yours. “We can still ditch them,” he murmured.
You almost smiled. “Tempting.”
Together, you stepped into the mall entrance —Charlotte and Peter moving ahead, already drawn toward the glowing storefronts, Harry matching your pace like he’d been doing it his whole life.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Warm, recycled air hit you first, tinged with perfume, popcorn, and money. Glass ceilings arched above, fairy lights still clinging to the railings like leftover holiday cheer that no one had bothered taking down. Everything was shiny enough that you could see your reflection a hundred different ways.
Charlotte inhaled like she had just entered her dream house.
“God, I love this mall,” she sighed.
“God, I don’t,” Peter muttered.
He wasn’t exaggerating. The man’s entire posture screamed “I was dragged here under duress” His shoulders sagged. His face settled into resigned neutrality. He walked like each step was a personal favor to his wife, which he honestly did love very much, but no amount of love could hide the fact that shopping was the most dreadful act he could be obligated to perform.
You recognized the look on his eyes. You’d seen it on multiple boyfriends in supermarkets, and in the streets, and honestly everywhere.
Charlotte looped her arm through yours. “Okay, where should we go first? I keep thinking of these sandals I saw online, a perfect pair really, and they were so for the beach, but I’m not sure they’ll be here.”
“So for the beach,” Peter repeated dryly.
“You didn’t even look at them,” she said.
“I did. From afar, really really far.” He said, stepping back already.
You tried not to laugh. Tried and failed. You hid your smile behind Harry's shoulder as he tried to hide his own by turning his face slightly towards yours.
In the middle of the corridor there was a seating area —plush benches, charging stations, a cluster of men guarding shopping bags like they’d been left in charge of sacred relics, all of them looked almost the same. One guy held about eight bags and scroll-checked his phone browsing videos of football players and cats with the determination of someone trying not to think about their credit card bill after they left the establishment.
The current dating market to whom you tried to sell your love columns just in front of you, and God helped you, apparently it was worse than what you remembered. But at least that meant they would read even the messiest of works.
Peter slowed his walking, then stopped, then veered. He beelined for an empty bench with the grim focus of a man who had finally found his calling.
“Perfect,” he said, already sinking down. “You three go. I’ll stay here. Guard the… bags and everything.”
Charlotte froze. Her heels clacking against the floor. “No.”
“Yes,” he said, pulling his phone out.
“Peter.”
“Babe.”
You bit your lip. Harry didn’t even try to hide his amusement.
Charlotte planted a hand on her hip. “You said —literally said— you would help me today.”
“I am helping,” Peter replied. “I’m giving you my card, and I approve all your decisions from here.”
“You’re practically abandoning me”
He stared at her with bored devotion. “You knew who I was when you married me.”
She laughed dryly before sardonically turning around to denounce her worries at Harry and you. “I married a man-child,” she announced.
Harry stepped a little closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours, voice dropping just enough.
“Give it thirty seconds,” he murmured.
“For what?” you whispered back.
“For me to fix it.”
Peter had already slumped satisfied, thumbs flying on his screen like he’d been waiting his whole life to say no.
Charlotte tugged on your arm. “Come on. Let’s just go. He’s impossible.”
You let her pull you a few steps, but your eyes stayed on Harry.
He didn’t follow. Instead, he turned toward the bench.
His body language shifted in a way you were starting to recognize —still casual, hands in pockets, but his focus sharpened like a lens snapping into place.
Peter felt it and glanced up. “What?”
Harry cocked his head slightly. “You know,” he said conversationally, “Mom still thinks you were at that charity brunch the day her antique vase mysteriously cracked.”
You watched Peter’s eyes widen a fraction. And you also noticed Harry's posture become slightly more comfortable.
He went on, voice smooth as always. “She told me she forgave Charlotte for it, actually. Since Charlotte admitted she bumped the table.”
From several feet away, Charlotte’s head whipped around. “I never bumped that table —wait. What?”
Harry’s gaze didn’t leave Peter.
He let the silence stretch just enough to tighten.
“You want me to tell her the truth?” he asked, softly.
Peter straightened so fast it was almost comical. “What truth?”
“The truth that you dropped your keys.” Harry’s mouth curved, just barely. “On the vase that broke...”
Peter looked personally betrayed. “You told me you’d never bring that up again.”
“Did I? Oh, I guess I might have forgotten.” Harry said calmly. “Get up, Pete.”
Peter held up a hand. “Five minutes.”
“Now,” Harry replied, light, but with the same steel you’d heard when he told the paramedics he’d pay.
Peter glanced around, as if an exit might materialize —none appeared to his pleas.
With the dramatic suffering of a man stepping into a cold shower, he stood, and even if he insisted on his ultimate despise towards shopping malls, his eyes lightened when he noticed the happiness beaming from Charlotte's smile.
She beamed to grab his hand. “Thank you.”
“You’re all monsters,” Peter muttered, but he moved to stand beside her anyway.
Harry gave the smallest nod, like a chess player who’d just made an obvious move.
Then he came back to you.
You looked up at him, eyes narrowed, a smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re scary making deals. Now I totally don't want to know what the hell you do on your negotiations”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not scary.”
Both of you began walking either way, the mannequins and neon lights beaming light at your faces from the peripherals.
“You blackmailed your own brother.” You said with a breathy laughter.
“Minimal blackmail, besides our mom knows already,” he corrected. “But I haven’t told him that, it still helps to keep some secrets sometimes.”
“And does that suddenly make everything better?”
“Well, he’ll be engaged for the rest of the night, so I’d say yes,” he said.
A faint flush had crept across the bridge of his nose, and he stared ahead like the tile had personal significance.
Your steps faltered. He kept his eyes forward, but the truth hung there between you anyway.
“And what would you have done,” you asked carefully, “if Peter had stayed on the bench?”
Harry’s jaw worked once. “I still wouldn't have stayed with Peter"
You blinked. “You wouldn’t?”
He finally looked down at you.
“I like being next to you,” he said quietly. “Even if it means pretending to enjoy shopping.”
Your heartbeat lurched in your chest like it had missed a step.
Up ahead, Charlotte’s voice cut through the noise. “We’re going to Jo Malone first!”
Harry smirked lightly. “Come on.”
He moved forward, hand hovering at the small of your back —not quite touching, just close enough that you could feel the suggestion of contact. The lingering warmth of his hovering hand.
And as you let him guide you across the polished floor, heels clicking in sync with his steps, you found yourself wondering when exactly the fake part of this fake date had stopped being acting.
Inside the store, everything smelled like clean elegance, things you could never afford and also never forget once you sampled them. Items that you’d end up regretting not buying months after you saw them online being limited time or discontinued.
Shelves displayed black-and-white jars with perfect labels, the lighting designed to make every product look like a relic from a private museum.
The sales associate glided forward. “Feel free to try anything,” she said with a soft smile.
Charlotte was already wrist-deep in testers, Peter had immediately located a chair, and somehow you and Harry wandered toward the rows of body butters independently, but not really apart.
Your fingers brushed a jar labeled Nectarine Blossom & Honey. You opened it and inhaled it, you liked that scent, you were already thinking of which perfume you could pair it with for a good night out.
Harry appeared next to you, leaning his elbows on the counter like he belonged there.
“That one’s nice,” he murmured, from another view, it might’ve appeared as if he was kissing your neck, but only both of you knew that the proximity was nothing beyond a line.
You raised a brow and turned to look at him. “Since when do you know anything about scented lotion?”
He shrugged. “Since about three seconds ago when you made that face.”
You rolled your eyes, “What face?”
He smirked. “Your ‘I would never buy this but I still want it’ face.”
Before you could protest, he dipped two fingertips into the body butter and —without warning— smudged a streak of it across the back of your hand.
The touch was warm, and the scent bloomed instantly, just another reason why the jar cost what it cost. Your breath caught so sharply you nearly sucked in perfume fumes.
“Harry!” you hissed, biting back a laugh.
“What?” He feigned innocence so poorly it almost qualified as sarcasm. “I’m helping you decide.”
“That’s not helping. I’m going to kill you”
He leaned closer, grabbing your wrist just so he could smell the lotion on you, voice low. “This one smell’s nice.”
You stared at the buttered streak on your skin, then at him. “This is the only one I’ve seen.”
He grinned wide and unguarded, the kind of smile that reached his eyes just before he grabbed a second scent: Wood Sage & Sea Salt, and made another smooth line on your wrist.
You gasped. “You didn’t—”
“You’re right,” he murmured, closer now, “I think I like that one better.”
“I’m going to kill you right now,” you said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, can’t you wait until after the date? I haven’t arranged my life insurance” he said with a playful manner, already reaching for the next jar, and surprisingly, that one he just smelled for a second.
You pushed the bottle towards his face, just enough so the lotion would smear onto his nose, seconds before your laughing bloomed.
“Oh, now you’re a comedian.” He murmured as you walked away from the section, smearing the body cream onto your hands and arms. You hated the fact that it was a nice texture as well, it made it harder to unjustify the fact that they were overpriced as hell.
You drifted away under the pretense of “looking around.” and ended up falling onto the candle wall, you told yourself it was just a strategic retreat after whatever stunt he just pulled, and totally not an excuse from the fact that your knees were still wobbling and that you pulse kept skipping beats every other second.
You stared at your reflection through the candle jars, because at least candles were safe and they didn’t try to smear lotion on you as if everything was just a game, and certainly your reflection through them didn’t look back at you with the glare Harry’s eyes did.
You lifted one labeled English Pear & Freesia, twisting the lid open with delicate care, as if trying not to take away its value with the touch of your skin against it. The scent met you instantly, it reminded you of your weekends away with your aunt, when the old locked room in her department was a studio, perhaps that was the candle she used to keep by her desk.
You barely realized you’d sighed at the memories, and you barely realized when Harry appeared beside you like he had been magnetized to follow you wherever you wandered through.
He leaned down just slightly, eyes flicking between you and the candle. “You like those?”
You blinked, almost not processing his information “Yes. I mean, I love candles. They’re… nice.”
He raised a brow. “Nice?”
You tried again. “They’re homely and they smell nice, so yeah”
There. Too honest. You cleared your throat and screwed the lid back on.
“But they’re overpriced as hell,” you added quickly, stepping aside as if that could also erase what you’d admitted. “Like, fifteen dollars for wax is already insane. This—” you gestured at the price tag, a number that made your stomach drop. “this is absurd.”
Harry huffed a soft, amused breath.“Which ones do you like?”
You froze completely. Your grip tightened around your bag strap just the same way your throat had tightened around thin air.
“No, Harry.” Your tone came out firm, clipped, defensive, everything and nothing all at the same time, because softness meant danger when it came to him. “Don’t even start.”
He tilted his head with a small, knowing smile, even if he denied it, those oblivious eyes that could almost make you excuse him from everything. “Start what?”
“You know what,” you muttered, turning so you wouldn’t have to see the sincerity in his face. “You already bought what I’m wearing, I’m not letting you buy me a eighty-dollar candle that I’d be too scared to ever light.”
He stepped even closer, not crowding, now the reflection of both you and him appeared through the candle jars, and you suddenly couldn’t look any other place to escape the sincerity in his gaze, warm enough that you could sense his presence like a quiet pull.
“It’s nothing,” he said softly. “Just tell me which ones you like.”
You shook your head again, backing up half an inch. “No. This is where I draw the line.”
“Why?”
“Because—"
Because letting someone spoil you meant letting someone care. And letting someone care meant letting someone close. And letting someone close meant something you weren’t ready to admit could be yours if you ever extended your arm just a little bit more.
You swallowed everything once again.
“I can’t accept something I don’t need,” you said simply. “It’s wasteful. And candles don’t fix anything.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—not mocking. Understanding, and you hated that even worse.
“Maybe they don’t fix things,” he said. “But they make things nicer, you said it yourself”
You shut your eyes briefly, of course he would use your words, of course he’d pretend whatever he was saying wasn’t practically disarming you.
“It’s just a candle,” you whispered.
“Maybe,” he replied, almost admitting your suppositions, for a second you believed you had won the argument. “But it’s also something that makes you happy. That’s enough for me.”
Your chest tightened painfully. “Harry,” you warned, softer this time. “I’m serious.”
He took another half-step closer, voice gentling even further.
“We’re friends,” he murmured. “Let me get them for you.”
Friends. The word knocked something loose inside you. Because that word was too light to be true and apply to both of you, and yet it was too heavy to dismiss all of a sudden. Your friends bought nice things for you from time to time, hell, Mia had given you a pair of heels just because. So maybe Harry was trying to give you a candle just because it was mere friendly etiquette. Yeah, it had to be so.
You opened your eyes and looked at him —really looked. At the softened expression, the ease in his posture, the quiet sincerity that made you feel like he wasn’t performing, or pretending, or doing any of this because he had to.
He was doing it because he cared. Which was the problem.
You forced a laugh, small and unsteady. “If you buy me candles, I’m going to feel like I owe you something.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said immediately.
“Still.”
He leaned forward just enough that his voice slipped into your ribs.
“Okay then, owe me your opinion,” he said. “Which scent do you want?”
Your heart thudded. You hated how good he was at this —how gently he cornered you into honesty until the only option you could seem to accept was the one you had been denying yourself all along.
You stared at the jars, fingers hovering.
You reached for one —the one you’d smelled first, you opened the lid and the scent rose up, soft and nostalgic, reminding you once again of simpler days when you were still just a teenage dirtbag trying to find her place in the world while she drifted to busy streets she would one day call home.
“This one,” you said quietly. “It reminds me of my aunt’s house—” You stopped before the memory could get too loud.
Harry nodded, almost reverently when your voice cracked and you stopped talking, he had gotten used to those little habits all too well to ask for more from you, he was in no position after all, you two were just friends.
Maybe he should try to make some mental tattoo about it: Just friends.
“Then that’s the one,” he said.
You looked up sharply. “Harry—”
But he was already reaching for the candle —and two more in matching scents.
You panicked. “Three? Why three?”
He shrugged lightly. “One for your place. One for Andrew’s when we babysit this week. One for my place so it doesn't smell like a Hospital and you don't act like that's an excuse to bail on homemade dinner by me.”
Your jaw dropped, Was he finding some ways of sending you into an early death?
He only smirked in response while you nearly choked. “Harry, tell me you’re joking.”
He wasn’t, you could tell, the softness in his eyes wasn’t disguised humor, it was something far more dangerous than sarcasm and teasing.
“Relax,” he said gently. “It’s just candles.”
No, suddenly the wax wasn’t just wax and therefore the candles weren’t just candles. It was care and attention and intimacy disguised in some fancy black-and-white packaging. You exhaled shakily, unable to look him in the eye.
“Fine,” you muttered, pretending your pulse wasn’t sprinting.
He gave you a look that said he was going to do exactly what he wanted anyway —but he would let you pretend you had won.
“Then it's a deal,” he lied.
And as he walked toward the counter, candle jars tucked under his arm, you realized:
This was exactly how people fell in love, of course, if you were to hypothetically fall in love.
Not over big gestures, not when they got asked about the credit card history of their partner, just about simple absurd matters, like a man buying candles just because they made you happy.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Peter, although he didn’t love shopping with the same enthusiasm his wife surely did, enjoyed seeing her happy and just because it made her happy, he grabbed her bags from the perfume she ended up purchasing and carried her purse as well, with no objections.
Just as when you were walking on the streets, Peter and Charlotte walked in front while Harry and you drifted behind,
“Thank you,” you murmured to him,
“It’s nothing,” he replied, tightening his grip over the bag.
“Babe, if we’re going to Aspen in January we should get matching jackets for there” Charlotte began talking, and once again you couldn’t help but wonder what her work was.
Peter agreed, walking next to his wife, it was also the first time you noticed the massive ring on her finger, if your calculations were correct it’d be around five carats maybe six, and honestly it was beautiful.
Inside of the store there were only jackets and blazers and winter-apparel that might not be extremely fashionable for the city’s standards, but either way, it sure was comfortable and warm for wherever they’d be drifting next year.
However, you also noticed that the whole store only catered to men, so while you tried to lose your time searching for something that you could actually try on, you noticed there wasn’t much, but you did end up finding something amusing, which was a long puffer jacket.
Matte black, surprisingly light considering its size, you reached out and pressed the sleeve, letting your fingers sink into the marshmallow-like padding. Of course the number written on the cardboard tag wasn’t as soft as the texture, but God, it was soft.
Harry appeared beside you without a word, hands tucked deeper into his coat pockets. His presence was warm, steady, and a little too close to ignore, and maybe just to toy with him, you took it off the racks and turned around to face him.
He followed your gaze and then drifted to what you were holding in your hands.
“No,” he muttered preemptively.
You sheepishly laughed, tightening your grip over the hanger, you weren’t even going to suggest for him to try it on, but now you wanted him to. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“That,” he said, nodding toward the jacket as if it was the sole origin of all his problems “would swallow me whole.”
You bit your lower lip, fighting a smile. “I think it would look great on you.” which honestly, wasn’t as much of a lie as you thought it’d be.
Harry stared at you like you’d just suggested he try on a clown suit. “It’s enormous.” he confessed, although his real concern lied accompanied with the comments his brother had done months ago,
“That’s the charm,” you said, barely holding back a laugh, still in your bubble. “You’d look like—”
“What?” he challenged, one brow lifting.
You wanted to say cute, but somehow the word died on the back of your throat, drowned by laughter and embarrassment.
“Warm.” you tried, but the image you actually had in your mind was different, “I don’t know, like that snoopy image.”
His jaw tensed, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a tiny twitch of amusement.
“It’s ridiculous,” he murmured.
“Try it.” you asked, faking a plea.
“No.”
“Please?” you tried, batting your eyelashes at him while simultaneously shoving the jacket closer to him.
He exhaled sharply, eyes lifting to the ceiling like he was asking for patience or some miracle that would make the world break and swallow him whole. Then he reached out —hesitant at first— and slid the jacket off the hanger.
The thing nearly engulfed his arms before it even touched his body.
You covered your mouth to stifle a laugh.
Harry shot you a warning look that was actually just hiding how scared he felt to look stupid. “Don’t.”
You definitely didn’t listen, but you did notice the shift in his eyes.
He pulled it on, struggling for a second to find the second sleeve, yet, once he was completely covered by the padding, it wasn’t as loose as both of you thought it’d look. It was big, but of course that was the point of it.
Either way, you lost it completely, not because he looked fun but because he had actually succumbed and worse than that, because he looked way too good for someone simply wearing a puffer jacket.
The only reason why it wasn’t pooling at his ankles was that he was tall as a tree, and instead the jacket only covered up to his knees.
A laugh burst from you—bright, unrestrained, shameless. It echoed off the marble floor and the mirror behind you, you moved sideways, trying to let him look at his reflection.
Harry went pink instantly. Not with the hue of embarrassment and shame but not with the light red tone that covered a madman’s face either. He was just blushing in that quiet way he tried to hide, that only appeared when he felt both ridiculous and somehow, pleased.
“You look…” You took a step back, eyes roaming the puffer before landing on his doubtful face. “Incredible.”
He turned to look at you, incapable of believing whatever you had just said. “That’s a lie.”
“It’s the truth,” you said, grinning. “Turn around.” you instructed, as if you were analyzing like some expert.
Yet, he did begrudgingly slow, but it didn’t matter, he didn’t even protest. He looked so absurd, so soft, so unintentionally adorable that you couldn’t stop yourself.
You moved closer, trying to swallow the chiming laughter that echoed your throat, you stared at him, but his eyes remained fixed on the mirror in front of him, you realized quickly that they weren’t even set on his face, or on the entirety of his body, they remained fixed on his stomach, that even when it was covered by the fabric, it didn’t stop his mind from roaming there, subconsciously maybe, but nevertheless present.
Before you could think twice, before you could rehearse the boundaries you’d sworn you wouldn’t break ever again, you stepped into him, and wrapped your arms around the puffed-up fabric.
He froze completely and somehow the newfound warmness pulled his eyes from the reflection into you.
Your cheek pressed against the padded chest, your hands sinking into the thick insulation. It was like hugging a human-sized pillow, however ridiculous that sentence might have sounded at first, that was the only way you could describe it.
You laughed into the jacket. “Oh my god, it’s so soft.”
Harry swallowed. You felt it, even through all the layers of fabric he was wearing.
His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist —not touching, but close enough that the air between you felt charged. He didn’t know what to do with them. Didn’t know if he could touch you back. And you hated how much you wanted him to.
You pulled away after a moment —slowly, reluctantly— your palms dragging along the sleeves until you stepped back into your own space.
Harry took a shallow inhale, eyes following you in a way that made your stomach twist.
“Charlotte and Peter were staring” you said, as if trying to justify your actions, even when none of them were near, even when both Harry and you knew it was a lie he nodded in response.
You smiled. “Okay, okay. You can take it off now. I’ve had my fun.”
He didn’t move. He looked at you for a beat too long—quiet, unreadable, something complicated flickering behind his eyes.
“Do you actually think it looks good?”
“Well yeah, it’s a puffer, it looks as good as any puffer can look” you said in a hushed laugh that quickly died when he slipped out of the jacket deliberately just to check the number on the tags.
He folded it over his arm, turned on his heel, and walked straight to the register.
Your eyebrows shot up. “Harry—”
He didn’t look back.
“Harry! What are you doing?!”
The cashier already greeted him by the time you reached him, breathless and bewildered.
“You do not need to buy that jacket,” you hissed mid-laugh.
“I want it,” he said simply.
“For what purpose?” you asked, “Are you flying to Aspen as well?”
He shrugged. “It’s warm and with the city’s weather it might come in handy.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You are absolutely lying.”
His expression didn’t shift. Not smug, not evasive—just steady.
He wasn’t going to tell you the truth. Because the truth was ridiculous and he hated being ridiculous, but the truth, no matter how ridiculous it felt was that the moment you hugged him—even through what felt like twelve inches of insulation—his chest had felt like it could split open from something he didn’t have a name for.
And every butterfly in his stomach simply came alive, not with nervousness but with some strange kind of anticipation. The truth was he’d never been hugged like that. Not recently or ever, not by any of the women he had tried luring into a relationship with him. Not softly or playfully or without expecting him to be something else, some strange thing that he couldn’t offer.
The truth was he wanted it again. And again. And again. And maybe if he were to wear it some other time, you’d do it again, and if his odds were even slightly favorable, he’d try his chances.
Which is why he said nothing, gave the cashier his black card, and let the receipt print.
You stared at him, stunned. He carried the bag like the decision had been made years ago and it was actually sane.
“You’re impossible,” you whispered to him, while both of you waited on Charlotte and Peter, who surprisingly didn’t buy the store’s entire catalogue.
Harry gave you a small, infuriatingly calm smile. “Good thing you’re used to me,” he said.
Waking towards the exit before your mind could fabricate some snappy answer, he didn’t say a word about the real reason.
He couldn’t afford to do it, because he was the man who wouldn’t bat an eye in paying or in flirting or in doing anything remotely from what you had just indistinguishlby classified as his demeanor, saying some truth like that was stupid, stupidly tender even. So he swallowed it away with the rest of hidden things he tried to keep from anyone.
A ridiculous secret, wrapped in black puffed nylon, bagged neatly at his side.
And you —you followed after him, pulse still quick, wondering why your own heartbeat was jumping from seemingly no reason at all.
“Oh, wait, I know exactly where we should go now!” Charlotte said, bubbly as always grabbing your arm and yanking you away from Harry.
You didn’t even walk far to be met with some lingerie store with a name two complicated to pronounce, Peter arrived with his brother next to him. Harry could only stare at the mannequins before staring at you, swallowing hard.
“Nope,” Peter said. “Not entering.”
Charlotte didn’t even argue, because she had never asked her husband to do something he surely didn’t enjoy, however she did expect him to be present in other ways, that’s why she just placed her palm out, expectant as a queen, waiting for the man to pull out the card from his wallert —even when she carried the extension everywhere, the optics helped.
“Do whatever you want,” he said. “I’ll be out here with the rest of the abandoned husbands.”
He retreated to the seating area outside like he was marching toward exile, you laughed at his determination, and more at his quiet expression of not-knowing how to react at all.
Harry’s eyes followed Peter’s frame, then flicked to Charlotte who was already waiting for you to move, then, finally, to you.
He didn’t ask or wait for anything that you could say. He took out his wallet and took his card out before placing it over your hand, nodding his head to your bag so you could keep it there, every action with the same practiced movements that could only mean he might have decided long before you realized what was happening.
“Why are you giving me this?” you whispered with a breathy laugh.
He lifted a shoulder. “Because you’re going in there. And I’m not letting Peter be the only one who supports his partner's indulgences” he said, sultry voice and smirk, you tried not to smile too much, to keep your demeanor from getting flustered at his words.
You snorted. “You think I need your card for lingerie?”
“No,” he said, so simply you faltered. “But think of it as insurance, in case you want to buy something nice.”
Your throat tightened in that dangerous place between gratitude and panic, and perhaps what you should’ve done was hand him the small piece of plastic back, but even before you could move, he closed your fingers around the card’s edge gently.
“Go,” he said, stepping back. “Have fun.”
And maybe that was the problem —you could have fun here. You always had when you came with Mia or Sonia or Amy or alone. Lingerie didn’t scare you, spending money on it much less. But emotional meaning did, and you weren’t sure if you could let it pass away.
Charlotte tugged your arm. “Come on, I need a second opinion!”
Charlotte led you into the store with triumph and pride, her eyes already scanning racks with the sharp eye of someone who had trained for this exact moment her whole life, she had made many friends, but sometimes her finance-world friends seemed to act prudish around her, and although she wouldn’t lie, you made a weird impression on her the wedding night, after reading your stuff she had mentally decided she had a friends-crush on you, and what better option for that friendship to flourish than through retail therapy.
“Okay,” she said, clapping once. “We’re committing to decadence tonight.”
You laughed. “You’ve been waiting your whole life to drag someone in here, haven’t you?”
“Absolutely,” she replied without shame, hands already moving through the racks.
Behind you, through the glass storefront, you could already see Peter sinking into a bench with the resigned solemnity of a man entering exile. Harry, however, lingered a few steps back, hands in his coat pockets, watching you—not the store—with a quiet, unreadable expression, you smiled at him, and for a second he smiled back, just before turning away, his cheeks burning.
You didn’t shy from any of the sets Charlotte showed you. Lingerie wasn’t a taboo for you —it was research, comfort, armor, sometimes a little thrill you gave into when black friday arrived and you still had some dollars left.
Still, there was something about tonight —the lighting, the company, the fact that Harry and his too-soft eyes were waiting outside— that made everything feel heavier. More… charged.
Charlotte was already flipping through a different rack of bodysuits.
“You know,” she said, not even looking at you as she kept browsing, “Harry is going to absolutely lose his mind with whatever you end up buying.”
You didn’t deny it. Why would you? As far as the world was concerned —and as far as Charlotte believed— you and Harry were a couple. Hand-holding, dinner-sharing, allergy-watching, coat-carrying, candle-buying couple. She’d seen the way his eyes followed you all night. She’d watched how he leaned toward you without thinking.
Denying it out loud now would feel like lying about gravity, you had made it way too obvious for everyone else that lying about how it was actually a lie felt treacherous.
So instead you smirked lightly, running your fingers across a line of classic black lace bralettes.
“He’ll survive,” you said, almost as if you were sure of it.
“Mmm,” she hummed, rolling her eyes. “Will he, though?”
You pretended to ignore her. But Charlotte had a talent for seeing things —It wasn’t a coincidence she had ended up with one of the most eligible bachelors of the city.
“Do you think this is too much?” She asked, showing you a bodysuit of beige lace and pearls, it might’ve been too much but it was honestly beautiful.
“Maybe, but I think it’s gorgeous.” You replied already moving toward the black lingerie wall, as always, it never disappointed.
You picked up a balconette bra —structured cups, delicate lace overlay, subtle scallop trim, a small crystal falling from the bow at the center. Just for the game you searched for your size, and to your luck or demise, they had it in the store. You held it up to the mirror in front of you.
Charlotte practically squealed, partially because the design was beautiful, partially because it was the first item you had shown interest in the whole night. “Oh, that one’s beautiful”
“Too much?” you asked, mostly teasing.
“Not enough,” she countered. “I think that design has garters and a matching thong with it”
You grabbed them without hesitation. “These?”
“Yes!” she replied, already picking them from your hands. “Please tell me you’re getting them”
You laughed in agreement just before another set caught your eye: black satin with a barely-there sheen. You lifted it off the rack, that one was pretty too.
“Oh, is there a certain kind of mood you want to find?” Charlotte teased.
“I’m literally just looking.” you replied but she didn’t mind and passed you a basket .
“Looking is step one. Buying is step two.” She nudged your basket. “Commit to the bit.”
You placed both sets inside, moments before you saw a black silk slip, delicate, authentic silk that seemed almost weightless. Moonlight would definitely reflect on it beautifully, the edges of it all covered in silk and embroidery. And next to it there was the same design with pure lace, completely see through.
And although you didn’t usually buy something so soft or romantic, because those type of designs ended up in your PR packages that you’d end up gifting to your friends who claimed they could give them a better use, and honestly, they might as well could.
You touched the edge of it carefully, like it might bruise under your fingers if you pressed too hard and you noticed you wanted it.
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Oooooh,” she whispered. “That’s dangerous.”
“It’s pretty,” you said.
She breathed, denying your words as an understatement. “It’s so fucking sexy. Harry is going to lose his mind.”
You didn’t flinch, and you tried your hardest to not blush, but either way you didn’t deny anything either, instead you lifted your chin with a practiced, easy confidence—the kind that fit the couple-face the two of you had spent weeks perfecting.
“He usually does,” you said smoothly, teasing with the same lightness Charlotte used.
Charlotte squealed like she’d been waiting her whole life for that line. “See? That’s exactly why you need this one.”
You plucked the slip from her hands before she could start imagining scenarios out loud. “Also because well, black's classic.”
“And because it’ll make him feral,” Charlotte added,
You gave her the kind of nonchalant smirk you’d learned to weaponize. “I’m not complaining.”
Inside, though—somewhere far quieter than your voice—you weren’t picturing anyone seeing you in those kinds of clothes, most times the men you got in bed didn’t even have the decency to admire the lingerie, other times you removed it even before they ended up arriving.
So when you picked both slips, you were thinking about how lace felt against your skin, how the satin straps looked elegant and soft, how the neckline sat in a way that made you feel like the real you.
Still, Charlotte’s persistent teasing did nudge up one uninvited image, light as a match sparking in the dark: Harry seeing you in that black lingerie, the slip over you —it didn’t matter which one, maybe the lace, he seemed more like a lace type of man.
Not touching or saying anything, not yet at least, in the quick image he was only there, only seeing you.
You shut the visual down instantly—not because it embarrassed you, but because it didn’t fit the narrative you needed to hold onto, because he had called his “best friend” moments ago. And best friends don’t end up pressed against a doorframe with messy kisses, friends don’t unravel each other in expensive lingerie… and you were not letting yourself drift there.
Somehow, while you were silently berating your imagination, your arms had filled with even more pieces —classic black bras, satin briefs, a mesh bralette with delicate scalloped edges. Things you normally admired but didn’t buy because practicality always won.
Tonight practicality could go to hell. Charlotte noticed your overflowing basket and frowned dramatically. “Babes, at this point it’s easier if you just ask them for one pair of each”
You scoffed. “You’re the one who told me to commit.”
“Oh, and now you listen to me?”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t put anything back.
Charlotte leaned in again, voice lower. “You know… he’s going to appreciate these.”
“He will,” you agreed easily, letting the game play out. Commit to the bit, just as she said before. “And I intend to make his life even more difficult until he gets on one knee.”
Charlotte loved that answer. She practically danced. You didn’t say that you didn’t believe in marriage, or in love, or in anything else that wasn’t tangible and plausible.
Charlotte dumped her choices on the counter: a champagne lace set, a satin emerald bra, a satin robe, and enough sets of lingerie to keep one for each day of the month. Peter’s card materialized like it had been summoned.
And the cashier barely blinked, as if she was already accustomed to this kind of routine.
When it was your turn, you paused for half a heartbeat. Your own wallet sat in your hand. It wouldn’t be a big deal to use it. You always paid for yourself. No one in your life had ever reached for the bill before you could grab it —except Mia, but she was the only exception.
Your default setting was self-contained, and fairly, your own credit card would survive the crazy indulgence you were partaking in. But Harry had handed you his card so casually.
Not to impress you, or limit you, or act as if you owned him something just because it was his money, he made it seem so normal and simple, almost expected.
You exhaled, your fingers dipped into your bag and quickly Harry’s card slid across the counter, the sleek unapologetic piece moved over the contactless before anything else could happen, and next thing you knew, the clothes were being packaged in paper bags and the ticket printed with the instant sound of the register.
Charlotte’s smile grew wicked. “You two are disgusting,” she whispered lovingly.
You gave her a saccharine smile. “You don’t even know”
The door chimed as you stepped out, and Harry’s reaction was immediate—silent but unmistakable.
He stood from the bench too fast, like he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting on his feet the whole time.
His gaze moved from your face, to the large bag swinging from your wrist and then back into your face again, and easy as that a faint flush crept up his throat, blooming into his ears, it wasn’t the same flush of embarrassment that covered his face earlier, and it surely wasn’t shock, and whatever it was he tried hiding it instantly, smoothing out his expression with the few self-control he had.
But you caught the flicker of his eyes when they moved almost too quickly reading your face and your body and then tracing the outline of the bag as if he could try guessing what you had just bought, that before he scolded himself for thinking of that, because it was clear you didn’t want a relationship.
So instead he swallowed hard and forced his eyes to far away just for a millisecond long enough that you caught it.
“All good?” he asked, voice lower than usual.
You nodded, lips tugging up. “Very good.”
He cleared his throat subtly. “Find… uh, things you liked?”
That “uh” nearly made you laugh. Harry Castillo, tripping over a vowel —tripping over you actually, if you were to be specific.
You lifted the heavy bag slightly, he didn’t see much, but it didn’t matter when you replied: “Let’s just say I found enough.”
He blinked once. “Right.” A beat went by in walkable silence. “That’s good. You should.”
You didn’t tease him, although you did want to, you didn’t comment on the pinkish color of his ears, you didn’t even acknowledge the tension winding quietly between you two in the cold air.
Charlotte walked ahead, loudly dissecting her purchases and explaining everything to her husband, who was almost thanking the detailed descriptions, even when he didn’t contribute to the choosing of the fabrics at all.
Harry stepped closer, subtly adjusting his pace so his shoulder aligned with yours. The bag swung between your fingers, weighty and warm, and as you walked beside him, your facade didn’t crack, not even once, until it did.
“Let me help,” Harry murmured quickly, his fingers already lingering over your own. Your body reacted before you did —tightening over the bag’s paper handle— until they softened. You turned to look at him for a second, and in order to keep the “couple” act, you told yourself you should probably let him grab the bag and finally, you agreed to let go.
You might have bought everything for yourself, for the way the lace made you feel and for the part of yourself that loved the softness and confidence that secret indulgences like such gave you, and maybe what Charlotte said wasn’t wrong, and maybe some man like Harry Castillo could enjoy it —even lose his mind over it.
You wouldn’t deny that, not aloud in order to keep the act. Not in your head, because denying things would only make you crave them even more. Still, these pieces belonged to you first.
He didn’t need to see them. He might never see them.
But the thought of him noticing the bag, and of you noticing the flush of his face, and the way he’d swallowed when he saw how full it was, was enough to keep your pulse a little too quick as the four of you walked on, enough to remind you that sometimes the “deal” wasn’t entirely acting anymore, not for either of you at least.
“Here” you said, while Charlotte was practically eye-shopping the Cartier store, passing Harry his card once again. “I’m sorry for the billing though.”
“Don’t worry.” He replied, grabbing the slender black piece and shoving it back on his wallet.
“Oh, that bar is so nice, should we go?” Charlotte said to Peter, words that even from afar you overheard, noticing as well how his arm draped over his wife’s
“Harry!” Peter screamed from a distance, “Care to join us?”
Harry turned to look at you, “We still have time” you muttered with a smile.
And the fourth of you walked straight into the bar.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
You were surprised it had taken Charlotte and Peter that long before they caved in and asked for someplace to go and get a drink. It was a matter of time considering both of them had spent the entire meal letting half of their food go cold by talking about their holiday plans instead.
But now, as the four of you entered the bar, the first question that left Peter’s lips was: “Don’t you feel hungry after all that shopping?”
Harry turned to look at you as if suddenly the whole master-plan that led you both to get food before the actual dinner suddenly made sudden sense.
“I’m fine either way, maybe some fries if anything.” You began saying.
“Yeah, same here” Harry joined in.
“Wow! Considering how you are I thought you'd be the first to cave in” Peter chuckled, and you didn’t know if he meant it as some weird way of mean-joking with his brother but seemingly you couldn’t just let the comment down your nose.
“Aren’t you the one suggesting food?” you said, dead-panned and simple seconds before both Charlotte and Harry drowned in laughter.
“Well, either way, I heard the sliders from here were to die for” Peter began, eyes drifting from your face to Charlotte’s.
“How do you want your manhattan?” Harry turned around to ask you, while the couple in front of you continued bickering about the food.
Of course, he had already learned that no matter the place you'd always pick a manhattan.
“Dry” you replied, “extra cherries”
He nodded, standing up and fading into the chairs and people. It only took for him to give three steps before you decided you didn’t want to be the one third-wheeling on the table.
So, you grabbed yourself, left your bag on the chair and with quick measured, hopefully unheard steps you disappeared into the rest of the bar joining Harry, who was already leaning against the bar.
“Tequila on the rocks again?” you asked, chirping into his quiet waiting.
He turned to look at you, not even asking why you decided to join him, he knew the reason already.
“No, a manhattan as well” he said with a breathy laugh, turning to look at you before looking at the busy bartenders, already crafting the drinks with expertise.
You rolled your eyes with a soft chuckle, already laying against the bar to keep him company.
“What?” he asked, getting closer to you the second he noticed your expression.
You huffed, “I don’t think you’ll like it”
He clicked his tongue with a half-smirk that ended up looking more like a shy smile. “Why not?”
Your eyes travelled from his lips to his eyes and then into nothingness. You laughed for a second before regaining your breath once again. “You just don’t strike me as a sweet-cocktails kind of man.”
He laughed in disbelief, “you’ve seen me eat half of the things you bake and think I don’t like sweet things?”
“Right. It’s just—” you chuckled, not even aware of what you wanted to say. “I don’t know, you look so financey”
“That’s always your motif, I look too financey for anything” He stated, voice softer than a complaint and yet, stronger than a simple phrase.
“I’ve never said that!” you protested, as if you didn’t know it was true.
“I look too financey to enjoy a movie. I look too financey to be fun and now I look too financey to enjoy a cocktail. What 's next? I look too financey to be in a relationship?”
You didn’t even know what to say, there was no dictionary definition to be able to say everything that you thought. No words had been invented yet to say how much you despised being wrong about him —because it reminded you how not everything you thought was meant to be true— and that your life philosophy could be erased in the blink of an eye. And change was scary. And tearing down your dogma was unfathomable.
Thankfully, the bartender arrived with the first drink granting you some seconds of silence where you could gather your thoughts and say something. But time wasn’t enough. And through the deafening silence, you took the glass between your hands and sipped on it first, as if the overpriced whiskey could give you newfound wisdom, what it gave you instead was blitz.
“Well, at least I´m right about you being financey enough to itemize everything I say.” An inebriated chuckle escaped your lips, for a second you thought you had won the argument.
But Harry just kept staring at you, as if your confession was the first thing you had guessed correctly of him. Not because he was smart to remember everything that ever happened, but because he did remember everything that happened when it came to you.
“I don’t like forgetting the things you say.” He said simply, eyes travelling back into your lips before going back into your eyes. There they stood for a second that felt almost eternal —as if the brown of his irises had engraved in the depth pits of your own vision.
You smiled quietly, hiding the fact that the simple phrase had dismantled you completely. “I guess that’s what makes me a good writer.” You answered, just before sheltering on the alcohol to have an excuse for your blushed cheeks.
“It’s what makes you important” he paused, the air shifted and suddenly third-wheeling wasn’t as bad as you thought. Why were you next to him once again? Neither you nor the whiskey knew the answer.
“Important to me, at least” he clarified, as if that fixed the statement somehow. Or if making you important only to him made it somehow lesser of an accomplishment.
You turned your eyes to the bartender for a second, praying to the fates he was on his way to interrupt the deafening emotional crescendo amidst your conversation.
You’re important to me as well. You would have liked to say so, but the dry drink left your mouth just as dry; and suddenly the woman who could speak and talk for hours was at a loss for words.
You stared at the cherry floating over the whiskey. Get it together, —you said to yourself— he just said three words. It’s not that big of a deal.
The glass was cold against your lips and yet you drowned in the whiskey. An attempt to ignore the newfound noise of the bar once his words faded into thin air —so loud it became silent when you merely stared at his eyes.
And for a moment, the world stopped spinning as if the big bang was occurring once again altogether in the pits of his eyes. For a second, there was only Harry and you, and the lingering smell of alcohol.
But as any delightful taste, before you could savor it the flavor had worn old. A loud thud next to you triggered the explosion of noise in your surroundings. The second manhattan appeared in front of Harry this time. You turned your head, evading his gaze all at once to focus your eyes on the small glass.
Harry shifted his weight beside you, the fabric of his coat brushing your arm for half a second.
He cleared his throat. “It’s not— I didn’t mean that in a weird way.” He hesitated.
You let out a tiny breath through your nose, a shudder climbing through your spine. “It’s fine.”
“It sounded—” he stopped himself, searching for the right word and when he noticed he would probably never find it, he went back to his drink. “I worded it wrong. That’s all.”
“Okay.” You nodded once, still looking at your drink, trying to appear normal when you were everything but. “I got your point.”
His silence told you he knew that was a lie. But he didn’t call you on it. Because if he did call you out, then he would have to dismantle his own lies as well, and the first one of all would be admitting out loud he didn’t want you to keep being just his friend.
“Alright.” He nodded back, turning his attention to the drink.
You sipped on your own quietly, smiling already at the expected results. Harry mirrored your movement, tasting his manhattan.
He winced a little at the sweetness and then at the taste of vermouth and alcohol, which tasted stronger than what he thought, and yet his expressions were ever-so-subtle that they were barely enough to notice by any other person that looked at him.
But you had spent time with him already, enough time to know he tilted his head to the left side every time something caught him off-guard, and that his brows quivered when he disliked the taste of something.
You smirked, sipping triumphantly. “You hate it.”
“I don’t hate it,” he said, giving back another sip to his drink. “It’s just… strong.”
“Well yeah, that’s kind of the point of alcohol” You muttered deadpanned, giving another quick sip to your drink.
“You said it was sweet.” He protested.
“Yeah, sweet not cloying.” You said back.
“You said it was good” He complained.
“It is good." You bit back.
He took another slow sip, bracing himself for the torturous aftertaste of the unexpected alcohol. “It tastes like furniture polish.”
You snorted into your glass. “And when exactly have you drunk furniture polish?”
“It just doesn’t make sense,” he said flatly.
“Neither does you drinking that.” you said, eyes opening for just a second as you finished your own drink. “And yet here we are”
He set the glass down with a soft click of his tongue. Pushing the drink towards you. “Okay, fine. I don’t like it.”
The thud of your glass still echoed faintly against the bar top. You kept your eyes on the manhattan, tracing the condensation with your fingertip like it mattered, like you weren’t seconds away from combusting.
“I did like the cherry,” he said.
You snorted. “Of course you did.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” you said, lifting your chin, “you’re predictable, and you like the only thing you have tried before.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tucked in between his face. “It’s a cherry.”
“Yeah, that’s my point.” you replied with a dry chuckle.
He didn’t answer—he just slipped the cherry between his teeth. The small beam of red became impossible not to follow and for longer than a second your eyes remained fixed on his lips.
“Is it good?” you asked, already grabbing his abandoned drink and swirling it to dissolve the melted ice into the alcohol.
“Well, it’s just a cherry,” he answered with a soft smile just before licking his reddened lips.
And then, without warning, he pushed the stem fully into his mouth.
You froze seconds before rolling your eyes. “Oh, you’re not—” you started,
He looked at you while he worked it, jaw shifting slightly, eyes flicking down in concentration. As if he was actually trying or doing some complicated spreadsheet and data arrangement —as if he didn’t already know exactly how to do it.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not fooling me.”
His brow lifted, innocent. Brown eyes staring at you in faux disbelief that seemed to plead for innocence “Hmm?”
“You know the trick. You’ve always known the trick.”
He made a muffled sound that was supposed to be denial.
You crossed your arms. “Harry. Please. You did not just magically pick that up after one time.”
He clasped the stem between his teeth and pulled it out —neatly knotted. Fucking Show-off.
You stared at the knot, then at him. “See? That’s not a beginner's outcome. That’s muscle memory.”
He shrugged one shoulder, feigning casual. “Nah, I’m just a quick learner.”
“Oh, shut up.” You said with a hushed laugh.
“What?” he laughed.
“That was totally rehearsed.” you complained, leaning into the bar even more.
“It was not rehearsed.” He defended. Placing the cherry stem over an engraved napkin laying on the table.
“Harry—”
He grinned, pleased with himself in that quiet, almost shy way he always got when he wanted to impress you but also pretended he didn’t want to impress you. As if you couldn’t tell.
“So?” he said, leaning an elbow on the bar. “Does the trick still apply?”
You blinked. “Apply to what?”
“The theory,” he said simply. “You told me people who can do it are good kissers.”
Your face heated instantly. God, why did you ever tell him anything?
“That was ages ago,” you muttered. It wasn't ages ago, in fact, it might have been two months ago if anything.
He tipped his head. “I'm still curious about my score.”
You stared straight ahead. “I don’t remember.”
Harry huffed a soft laugh—disbelieving. “That’s basically saying I’m horrible.”
“It’s not,” you insisted. “It’s just—”
“It was one kiss,” he said. “How do you not remember?”
You avoided his eyes. Yours were opening at the memories of the night. You picked his glass and drank, trying to gain the liquid courage needed to say: “It wasn’t one.”
That shut him up, at least for a whole two seconds.
Then: “Right,” he said quietly, stealing the glass from between your fingers because suddenly he couldn’t bear being sober while the memories of the night pictured in his mind.
You swallowed. “And it was… a long night. So forgive me if the details aren’t catalogued.”
“But you remembered enough to dream about it,” he murmured.
Your head snapped toward him. “You’re not bringing that up again.”
“You told me,” he reminded you, lips curving like he was trying not to laugh.
“You practically bullied it out of me,” you corrected.
“And I’m glad I did.”
“Harry.”
“What?” he asked, soft. “I just think—if you had that dream—maybe you can remember a bit of what happened before it.”
You hated him. You hated him so, so much. Not really. Not even a little. That was the problem. You could never make yourself hate him. Even disliking him was pushing it.
Your voice came out quieter than you meant. “I don’t think you should be doubting yourself.”
His eyes flicked to your mouth. Just for a second. Barely there.
But you felt it.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you said, focusing very intently on your drink. “We didn’t exactly hold back that night.”
He let out a breath —slow, through his nose— like he was remembering too.
Then he picked up his glass again, took a sip, and said casually: “Well. If you want a refresher—”
“Harry.” you said with a soft smile, not even estranged at the idea, almost reminiscing.
“—I’m just saying”
“Harry.” but you knew better than crossing a line, you couldn’t be the one to break his heart. —that’s why you were “just friends” after all.
“—it’s for science.”
You stared at him, horrified and flustered and very aware that your pulse had migrated somewhere stupid.
“You’re such a drunk flirt,” you whispered. “Just get yourself your tequila and let's get back to the table.”
He smirked, already pulling out his card to close the tab. “Yes, Honey”
And just like that —completely unfairly and in spite of your own mind— your entire body went warm.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
The rest of the night was predictable. Charlotte and Peter ordered their overpriced burgers and accompanied them with a cosmopolitan for Charlotte and a Tom Collins for Peter.
You remained sipping on your manhattan while Harry kept busy with his tequila.
The conversations shifted between holiday plans and thanksgiving announcements you weren’t interested in. The few things you did catch were something about the company funding a thanksgiving soup kitchen for the whole month, and then something about Peter and Charlotte not joining Harry’s family for Christmas. They had agreed one year with her family one with his —apparently it was time for her family to meet him.
Soon enough the conversation shifted into childhood memories of Christmas, with Charlotte begging Peter to tell you about his absolute favorite gift: some bike he received when he was twelve.
“What did you receive, Honey?” you turned to ask Harry.
“A super-soaker” Harry said with a smile.
You turned to look at the rest of them, you didn't know what the words that had left his mouth had meant. “And what’s that?”
“It’s a water gun!” Peter answered instead in a hushed laugh. “Santa bought him that because he couldn’t find what he actually wanted”
“What did you want?” you asked, truly invested.
“It’s dumb” Harry laughed, turning sideways.
“Tell me.” You whispered, almost smiling.
He stared at you with those piercing brown eyes and that sheepish smile that could ask for the entire world and should receive so. You weren't even thinking about which question you had asked.
“He wanted a beanie baby.” Peter began, drowning the table in ignorant laughter.
“And?” you chuckled, “I wanted a beanie baby as well when I was a kid”
“No, I just —it’s different”
“How?” you asked once again.
“It’s just different” he insisted.
“No yeah, I totally get that” you said before sipping, not getting anything at all but remaining silent for the sake of not begining a fight once again.
“What was your favorite gift on Christmas?” Charlotte asked you this time.
“I mean, it’s technically not a gift but my parents got me a dog when I was six”
“Mac?” Harry asked, despite knowing the answer.
“Yeah”
“Like the makeup brand?” Charlotte asked this time, sipping on her pink drink.
“Like Mac and cheese” Harry and you said in unison, laughing when the sentence was over.
“Oh, which breed?” Peter asked seconds later.
“Border Collie”
“You know, Harry and I always wanted a dog when we were kids, mom used to say that might’ve been why he wanted a beanie baby”
“Was it?” You asked him.
“No, I just liked the one from my birthday,” he laughed, sipping again. “I think it was a koala”
“And you, Char?” It was the first time you used a nickname, it sounded right and, Charlotte herself, found it quite endearing.
“Barbies,” she laughed, “Although, after fourteen I just began receiving money”
“Same,” Peter echoed and so did Harry.
“Same,” you added a bit later, turning to look at Harry just for a split second. The only one in the table who could track your lie.
Harry and you excused yourselves past midnight, exciting the bar and the shopping mall together. Once the breezy air caressed your bodies both of you walked silently towards the parking lot.
He paid his ticket even with the overnight fee, he didn’t even blink when he handed the green bill to the machine before grabbing his change.
“You do know how to make quite an impression, you know?” You began saying, walking besides him towards his car.
“I impressed you?” He asked, voice already a mix of chivalry and flirt.
“You’ve been spending money like it’s worth nothing,” you said with a chuckle, turning to see him. “I guess it’s true and black cards are truly limitless.”
He started the car as both of you began seating. “And you still haven’t told me what is it that you want.”
You buckled your seatbelt. “Well, I’ll have plenty of days in the Hamptons to think about it”
He laughed at that, remembering the impulsive decision both of you had agreed upon, and just like that he had begun driving.
The night was breezy and the condensation fogged through the windows as if winter had already begun.
Your forehead pressed against the window in an attempt to make your vision look past the haze at the fading neon signs and couples passing by.
For minutes everything was silent. And as a matter of fact, silence had never felt more meaningful. Everything unspoken lingering over the air and prickling over your bodies with the slow hum of the ventilation.
Until Harry stopped the car in front of your building, which was just a few streets away from his own. He turned to look at you with a smile.
“I guess this is your cue to leave.” He murmured, eyes lingering over yours as if he was memorizing you before letting go.
“Guess it is” you said, staring at him for a full second.
Until that pulse that made you want to close the space in between started to whisper at the back of your head.
You turned to grab the takeover food Ann had left.
“Do you want some?” You asked, voice neutral—or at least trying to be.
Harry’s eyes continued lost over your frame. His ears didn’t even process anything that you said, they sounded like a foreign language and in that moment, the only one he spoke was the one of your beauty.
He tried either way to make something out of his lips, that were useless until you kissed them again.
“No, you enjoy it” he said with a laugh.
“Well, thanks” you said with a smile, but you still wanted to share something with him. “But we do have to split the fortune cookies.”
He smiled, his brown eyes remained shining with the faint night light as he stared at you. “Of course”
You grabbed both of the cookies and placed them over your palms. “You pick”
He gravitated towards the left one and then ended up grabbing the right one, you rolled your eyes at his indecision just as the flimsy plastic package rustled under his fingers.
You did the same with the remaining cookie, already tearing the wrapper through the edge.
You broke it first, biting into the crispy edge of it while you unfolded the small piece of paper inside of it with your free hand.
Someone you aren’t looking for is looking for you. Lucky numbers: 7, 24, 31, 86
Harry did the same thing,
Someone you’ve been looking for will finally notice you. Lucky Numbers: 7, 24, 31, 42
The car drowned in silence. Besides the AC there wasn’t a single movement.
“What does yours say?” Harry asked, already biting into his own cookie.
“If I tell you now it won’t come true.” You answered, trusting that your answer would hide the fact you simply didn’t want to show him, because for once you had a wish worth continuing to wish for.
“And you want it to be true?” he asked either way.
You rolled your eyes, because somehow he had deciphered you already. “What does yours says?’”
He looked back into the small piece of paper, his thumb grazing over the blue ink and the numbers, debating if he should speak or keep his mouth quiet.
Then he made up his mind: “I can’t say either”
You scoffed and muttered a curse under your breath, turning back to the condensed windows next to you. Your hand grazed over the handle just before you turned back to him.
He remained looking at you.
“I’ll see you on Wednesday then?” you asked, hand tightening over the handle even when you didn’t want to leave.
“I’ll see you on Wednesday” he repeated, assuring you.
You took a deep breath and smiled even wider. “Okay then, you’ll text me the details?”
“Yes” he agreed, the words and the city a faint echo of the world. Every light seemed to shine over you and he couldn’t help but feel as if, for a moment, you were his entire world.
“Okay, okay then.” You said, voice cutting from the outside coldness as you stepped out, walking towards the trunk to pull out the bags, you walked back towards the passenger seat window.
You knocked on it twice before he lowered it. “Goodbye Harry. I actually had a really good time tonight.” Those words he did hear with utmost total clarity.
“So did I,” he agreed.
You walked into the stairs, turning on your heels to see him leaving, just like he had done after your past encounter. Except this time he hadn’t moved yet.
“What are you waiting for?” you screamed, joining to the probably ten angry drivers that were already behind him, insistent on him accelerating due the green light in front of him.
His shoulders raised for a second, as if protesting his lack of knowledge and awareness —both lies at the same time.
“I got distracted,” he objected, and you rolled your eyes before refocusing back into the stairs.
“Because you look absolutely beautiful!” he screamed once again, before he overthought it.
By the time you turned around to say something, he had already raised the window and accelerated, losing himself in the sea of angry vehicles and clumsy drivers.
Harry looked through the rear-view mirror and for once in his life he didn’t feel stupid after acting recklessly.
Because looking at you was enough of a reason to earn complaints from the other drivers. Perhaps, if they had seen you from his perspective, they would have lost track of time as well.
summary: you don’t believe in love, you just write about it convincingly enough to get paid for it. You agreed to go on these blind dates instead of your heartbroken friend and for the column content and free dinners, never expecting anyone to see through it. But then Harry does, and instead of walking away, he makes you another deal.
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wc: 15.1k
chapter warnings: angst, feelings, mentions of allergies, mentions of passing out, mentions of grief, fluff, kind of a halloween date in there, weird workplace drama, reader drinks coffee, and eats beef, reader gets mean then she gets sad, mentions of alcohol, mentions of age-gap between Harry and reader but not really a defined age-gap at all, some mentions of childhood trauma.
Harry and you kept talking from time to time —he became the one you went to when your friends' plans tanked at the busy scene of a dating-centered October. It was nice having a “single and not thinking about dating in the meantime” type of friend.
And it was also simple to rekindle with him; he was nice company after all, and a good listener that complimented your talkative self too well to let the opportunity go by.
And he also happened to live less than ten walking-minutes away from your “new” place, which was good-enough reason for why spending your Halloween at his place wasn’t so bad of an idea, not when most of your friends had halloween dates already planned, bars would be noise-polluted and the streets would be filled with thousands of people.
You didn’t even have to knock, he had insisted on giving you extra keys after the first few times you came by. “They might come in handy,” he had joked before. You wanted to complain, say that friends don’t do that. But you did have spare keys for Luna’s apartment and Sonia’s, and Mia’s and even Amy's and Hugo’s back when both of them weren’t married. So it couldn’t be that weird.
Yeah, it was definitely and exclusively casual.
Another perk to Harry’s newfound “friendship” was that at least, half of the things you baked or more likely, tried not to burn, wouldn’t go to waste to some fancy douchey neighbor’s trashcan because you hadn’t used fifty dollar flour, and instead picked up a cinnamon roll tube from the trader joes a few streets away from your office.
You had tried to keep the tray somewhat warm, because the plan was after all, watching a scary movie, maybe two or three if you were lucky, and having dinner.
You insisted on take-out but Harry had insisted that everyone would order take-out and suddenly a pizza from the place a few streets away would take three hours to arrive.
He'd make dinner for both of you that night.
You entered his building with ease, the woman at the reception already knew you from visiting so often, despite your insistence to everyone around you of how it was just sporadic.
You walked quickly with your bag hanging from your shoulder and an aluminum covered tray in your hands, sneakers and washed jeans, and the shirt he had given you, because unfortunately it was comfortable enough that you could understand why it was worth two-hundred dollars.
You sent him a message on the way up, telling him you were about to arrive, he didn’t reply, but he sent a thumbs up, which he continued to send despite your insistence it was such an “old-people thing” to do, you hadn’t even thought about the age difference between the both of you until that moment, not that you cared much or that it mattered, but it did make you laugh.
You had finally arrived at his floor, after excruciating minutes of people coming in and out, and despite having the most breath-taking view of the city’s skyline, it did take a long time to arrive at the top-floor of the building on a busy day.
You grabbed the keys from the pocket of your jacket and opened the door, entering already as if you had known the space your whole life.
You placed the keys on the small table at the entrance, and your bag at the rack with the jacket you were wearing, you walked towards the kitchen where you suspected he was, and your speculations were correct, when you found him, long-sleeves rolled upwards making the outline of his arms even more notorious through the thin fabric.
“Hey” you said, and he turned around to meet you, his eyes glinted for the quickest of moments and you felt yourself smile and your cheeks warming.
“‘s that my shirt?” he asked mid-laugh, cleaning his hands with a small grey towel.
“Yeah… kind of ran out of clean clothes” you said, despite having plenty, not sure if you could admit the real reason behind why you were wearing his instead. Maybe it was because it’s Halloween, and you could pretend to be whoever you wanted to be —or instead, stop pretending for a minute and take off the mask you wore every other day.
“But I can give it back” you clarified, mortified almost, because maybe you had overstepped and maybe he didn’t feel that way in the slightest.
“No, it’s fine…” his eyes ran from the bottom of your shoes until arriving at your eyes and then back into your mouth and then up your eyes. “Fits you well,” he said, his right hand running through his hair as his eyes continued to admire you.
“What are you making?” You asked, tray still in hand, walking past the white polished counter and seeing the messy pans and knives, the bottle of wine and the ceramic casseroles that cost more than a month of your rent.
“Filet mignon.” he replied, nodding towards the cuts of red-meat shining over the counter.
“Oh, fancy” you said with a small laugh, noticing the chaos and care he had mixed into the evening.
“And salad and mac and cheese as well” he added, nodding towards a bag of market’s produce vegetables, “No mustard in the vinaigrette” he added, jokingly.
“You’re having more people over?” you asked, stepping towards the bread crumbs, cheese blocks and ground smoked paprika.
“No,” he replied, sheepishly awkward with a boyish grin that didn’t seem so childish when it was drawn on his lips. “But I don’t usually get to cook much,” he clarified.
“So you wanted to show-off” you said with a playful eye-roll that landed back on his shoulders as you saw him whisk the butter with wine and broth with expertise.
He paused just for a second to turn and look at you, a cocky grin turned into a smirk that showed even in the glare of his eyes, “Maybe,”
“Well, I made cinnamon rolls” you said, taking off the aluminum foil from the top of the tray you had brought. “Nothing fancy, they’re trader joes”
“You’re lying,” he said, staring at the pastries arranged in front of him. Harry tried to take care of himself to a degree that some might call obsessive —he had a nutritionist, a private gym instructor and an endocrinologist, all of which gave him routines, diets and vitamins he followed to the margin, until you arrived to his department the first time with freshly-baked blueberry muffins, and suddenly Harry had the sweetest tooth known to mankind.
If the doctor were to ask him the reason behind his newfound addiction to the sugar rush, he’d say he didn’t know, that he wasn’t sure if the newfound sweetness in his life came from the baked goods or from your presence. But he actually did know, it was you.
“I’m not” you insisted, trying to prove that your small gift was small, belittling it. Because what are five dollar cinnamon rolls compared to a full meal with two side dishes.
There was no such thing as ‘it’s the intention what counts’ when your whole life had been measured onto the comments the neighbors made when you arrived at their house’s empty-handed to ask for a cup of flour after your parents had fought the whole day so hard that they forgot to make dinner.
“They look amazing,” Harry insisted, almost salivating at the sight of them.
“Yeah, I used to survive on these back in college, so I kind of learned some tricks around them”
“Like?”
“Like using heavy cream and pouring it over the buns and then you whisk butter, cinnamon and brown sugar and add it on top as well, and you make your own frosting, nothing fancy… just you know, cream cheese, sugar and cream”
He paused just for a second, turned to look at the tray then back to look at you. “Can I eat one already?”
“Yeah, I brought them for that,” you said in a breathy laugh, “be careful, the bottom might be a bit hot”
He picked it up with ease, eyes still staring at you while yours were deep on him, trying to see what his reaction would be. The frosting dripped from his lips and fingers, and he practically moaned at the taste of the cinnamon.
You hated yourself, because that sound went straight to the place between your thighs, but you were quick to force it away. Keeping a neutral expression while you tried to wait for his comments.
“It’s really good” he said, voice slightly hoarse from the sugar rush in his throat, he gave a quick grunt to try and fix it.
“It’s only a hobby though. I don’t usually do things from scratch.” you said, following the bad-habit of downplaying your every move.
“Even so, you made this, and it’s delicious” he insisted, and somehow you allowed that small compliment to get onto your skin.
“Thank you”
He moved sideways, giving the roll another bite before asking: “So, how’s that article going?”
You sighed, “It completely sucks”
“Why?” he asked, giving another bite to the roll in his hand.
“I’m not sure, I mean it’s my writing and everything, but it sounds off… I try to make it sellable but it sounds too raw.”
“What was it about again?”
“The ‘moving stage’ in a relationship, you know after the honeymoon phase which is just hormones and neurotransmitters.” you chuckled, awkwardly, “It just… it sounds like my old writing”
He stared at you, he hadn't confessed it just yet, but he might've skimmed through your old writing, after all it was through that where he met you. “And?”
“And the editor usually doesn’t like that because Holly doesn’t like that” you explained.
“Didn’t you say you’re planning to collect signs and throw her away?”
“Yes and no," you clarified, leaning on the kitchen island. "We are collecting proof and then we’re planning to take that to the superiors and if we’re lucky get HR involved”
“Huh… you know I could just try to find a way to invest and ask for her to be removed” he said, as always, everything for him had a solution.
You laughed it off. “Are magazines that profitable?”
“I could get an ETF and throw her out.” Once again, everything was simple.
“Or you could wait until we finally have evidence and follow our plan” you said, matter-of-factly.
He changed the subject. “And are you planning to apply… if Holly does end up leaving?”
“I’d apply but I don’t have any type of amazing articles right now… I don’t want to get my hopes up and then nothing” you confessed, staring at your reflection from the window next to the cabinet.
“And what about that one?” he said, his attention focused once again into the types of lettuces in the salad.
“Which one?” you asked, still not looking away.
“That one” he answered, and your attention finally shifted towards him.
Oh, that one. You hadn’t meant to tell him about the article you had been meaning to write for your whole career, it almost slipped while you talked with him a few nights ago. “The lies about Love” was the provisional title you had given it back when you were writing on it just for a few seconds before switching back to the tab you were actually meant to be working on.
It wasn’t rare for you to write personal essays, you often-times did back when you were engaging in the fake dates by pretending to be Mia… and to be honest, the titles made thousands of views because of the personal prose and the gossip-like reading that you often described as “like trying to talk to a friend you haven’t seen in time”. But that essay felt too personal to be even typed into a computer, it could barely be acknowledged by the depths of your mind.
“No” you said, staring at him, not even meaning to sound that scared. “That one’s unfinished and messy,” you confessed.
He nodded, pretending to actually understand when he didn’t. Not because he was stupid, but because he didn’t understand the self-deprecating nature of your way of talking about your writing habits —so he was quick to change the topic before you spiraled.
“Charlotte and Peter finally agreed on a date” Harry confessed.
“Finally” you murmured, almost protesting. Force of habit after they had changed and rescheduled for the last five times and after you told Harry that if they didn’t agree on a single day, you couldn’t imagine what their schedules would look like.
“But they changed the locations”
“Oh what a pity, I was desperate to get a lobster tail more expensive than my rent… really a bummer”
He turned to look at you with a soft laugh, delighted in the way you never tried to hide your humor and sarcasm around him, there was no intention to enchant him and therefore, no illusion of perfection willing to be maintained.
“Where are we going then?” you ventured to ask.
“The Modern”
You gave a dry-chuckle, “Oh, they’re insane”
This one it was Harry’s time to turn around and look at you with a quiet laugh full of sarcasm, as if trying to say “Really? I hadn’t noticed”
“And when’s this date happening?” you murmured, looking down at your shoes against his million-dollar waxed floors.
“November 7th”
You nodded, engraving the date on your mind, Harry moved towards the tray of pastries, grabbing another roll while he opened up the oven to take out the tray of aluminum-foiled mac and cheese.
“How do you like your steak?”
“Medium-well”
Most of the guys you faked-dated pretending to be Mia would've cursed you out as if you were committing murder, explaining why eating anything else rather than a rare steak was practically, not eating steak at all.
Harry chuckled, “Medium-rare?”
“Don’t even try lecturing me, my answer won’t change.”
“I would never,” he said instantly, and you believed him.
Because Harry might have teased you for breathing loudly if he thought he could make you smile, but he never ridiculed things that actually mattered to you. Not your work, not your decisions, not the times you complained about feeling not enough in your line of work or even small, strange, trivial things like how you liked your steak made.
He flipped your steak gently, careful and exact, thermometer in hand simmering over the oil and meat, “That’s fine. I’ll make it however you like it.”
When dinner was finished, plated beautifully over a white ceramic plate with the detail Harry always put in the things he cared for. He gestured for you to sit at the dining table, he sat across from you, and despite the table gathering space for more than 2 people, it felt as if it had never been any fitter or more intimate.
He poured you both red wine, and just because he remembered, he grabbed two glasses of sparkling water and placed them beside each of your glasses. You smiled at him and deliberately poured wine over the transparent liquid, both yours and his.
“Okay,” he said, the moment he handed you the spoon so you could try the mac and cheese. “Moment of truth.” he murmured.
You brought it to your mouth, looked at him and tried to hide the fact that it was delicious.
“So, how is it?”
“It could use some more salt maybe… or pepper” you tried to keep your face serious, until you noticed his mortified expression. You grabbed his wrist before he could grab the spoon and taste it for himself. “Harry, I’m joking. It’s amazing”
Harry rolled his eyes at your prank, barely, quietly, the way he always did when he wanted to look annoyed but was really just relieved.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured, picking up a piece of lettuce with his fork. “I almost believed you.”
“You almost cried.” you said, faking uninterest while your eyes kept fixed on his, trying to make sure he was alright.
“I don’t cry,” he said, tone flat.
You raised a brow. He huffed out a breath that counted as a laugh.
Both of you started to eat, you continued talking to him about work and articles and fancy anthropology concepts that you had reduced to buzzwords, he talked to you about stocks and market, some inversion he made, how his last deal had gone after he negotiated with the man for three hours straight.
Until both of your plates were clean, and you began to pile together the cutlery just before he refused your help with that same matter-of-fact authority he used when making deals with stubborn men.
“Sit,” he said, nodding at the couch. “I’ll clean.”
You sighed, faking discouragement. “You still think I’ll chip your fancy plates,”
He turned with a bureaucratic smile, “You’re my guest, I won’t let you wash my dishes”
You chuckled, but ended up agreeing and laying on the soft couch of his living room, not before walking past his wall-to-wall bookshelves.
He finished up quickly —much quicker than you would’ve done it. Before he joined you he walked towards one of his cabinets and pulled out a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc. You didn’t recognize the name on the label which probably meant it was far more expensive than what you could afford.
You watched him retrieve two clean glasses after placing the bottle of wine, you didn’t doubt him, despite the many outings where he picked tequila on the rocks —which was in your opinion, something that didn’t match his serious business-like persona— Harry liked wine, and not any kind, fancy, five-figure wine.
But then, he brought the cinnamon rolls, arranged already in a plate bigger than the ones you had used for dinner.
“White wine?” you asked suspiciously. “With cinnamon rolls? Are you unwell?”
He uncorked it with practiced ease, completely ignoring your tone yet with his lips quivering into a smirkish smile “It works,” he said simply, pouring already a glass for you, “Acidity cuts the sweetness.”
You squinted at him. “Now you’re playing sommelier?”
“I don’t need to, we both know I’m right”
“You always think you’re right.”
He paused long enough to give you a glance—sideways, dry, amused. “That’s because I usually am.”
“Of course,” you muttered, taking the glass he handed you. “Fine. Educate me,”
“It’s not education,” he said, handing you the cinnamon roll tray like it was some fancy dish from one of the restaurants he was more used to attending, “It’s pairing.”
You bit into a roll just as he lifted his glass to his mouth. You waited, tasting everything and the memories through the dough, then you grabbed the glass of wine, circling twice trying to air it, pretending to be some high-end connoisseur, when to be fair, sometimes the only thing you cared that concerned wine was that it got you drunk and less hungover than liquor.
He nodded once towards you, as if trying to wait for your verdict.
“See?” he said simply.
You didn’t want to tell him it was good, you didn’t want your words going to his head, but you didn’t want to joke about the things he tried to do being bad, because you had begun to feel bad as well since the joke about the mac and cheese.
“Okay, fine,” you said quietly. “It works.”
“Told you.”
“You’re annoying.” you pointed out, mid-laugh.
“You’re welcome.”
He sat next to you on the couch, not too close, not too far. Just at the distance people sit when they’re not dating but also definitely not not dating.
You picked up the remote and hit play on Scream.
“Only the first three,” you warned. Although you had told him already that the first three movies were the only enjoyable ones, after it just became more and more predictable who the killer was, Harry confessed he hadn’t watched them in a long time, you joked telling him how that was possible, considering he was already of-age when the movies came out.
“I know, I remember.”
And then: Twenty minutes in, your commentary started about how Sydner’s hair looked way too good, he just laughed. Thirty minutes in, your knee touched his just for a second, you drifted back and then unconsciously lingered once again next to him. Forty minutes in, the sauvignon blanc made you warm and loose and leaning slightly —barely— toward him.
He pretended he didn’t notice how your body drifted even closer to his, and you pretended you weren’t doing it. The wine softened your edges, enough that at some point your head drifted sideways without your permission and rested against the edge of his shoulder, you were too tired to adjust yourself, so you didn't complain and he didn’t move.
He didn’t even adjust.
Just exhaled quietly through his nose, a barely-there smile tugging one corner of his mouth —so faint you missed it completely staring at the bloodshed on the screen.
The second movie ended somewhere past midnight, he joked about why you should probably stop since Halloween was over, you said it didn’t matter as you stretched your legs out with a groan that you tried to disguise as a sigh. Harry glanced down, amused.
“You good?” he murmured, still letting the credits roll
“Yeah,” you said, forcing your spine straight. “I’m awake.”
You were not awake. As a matter of fact food and wine were making you fall asleep, so much that you blinked slow enough that it was a matter of time before your eyelids never opened up until the next morning.
Harry reached for the remote with the same patience he used when you argued about things you didn’t actually believe. He started Scream 3 before you could protest.
“See?” you said, triumphant for no reason as the movie began loading. “Halloween isn’t over”
He hummed, tilting his head and grabbing a throw pillow to put in between his shoulder and your head, “Sure.” he murmured.
“You don’t believe me,” you accused softly, narrowing your eyes.
“I believe you,” he said, voice warm, unconcerned. “I just also happen to know you.”
You opened your mouth to snap back, but the opening credits washed the room in blue light and your eyelids floated downward for a second too long.
You forced them open again, determined. “Harry.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m not tired.” you insisted, despite him not asking anything at all beforehand.
“Okay.” he murmured.
“I mean it—”
“You always mean it,” he murmured, not looking away from the screen.
You glared at him, though your face felt too relaxed to do it properly. “Stop…” your voice drifted as the dialogues overlapped. Stop figuring me out!
He let out a small laugh through his nose, barely audible. “What?”
You didn't answer, instead, you grabbed a blanket from the opposite edge of the sofa and covered yourself with it, fingers brushing his arm accidentally —except it wasn’t completely accidental. You leaned a little closer without even realizing it, chasing warmth and comfort and something else your brain was too wine-soft to name.
Fifteen minutes in, and you weren’t doing any type of comments about the movie, twenty minutes in, your head began drifting again onto his shoulder, twenty-two minutes in, you were gone.
Full-on, dead-weight asleep, breath soft and even against his shoulder, fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his shirt like you’d been holding on mid-sentence. Harry glanced down to see you, for the first time still, for the first time resting.
Finally quiet—not the kind of quiet that meant you were upset, because he had begun to read your silence, but you were still with the kind of quiet you fought tooth and nail because you never allowed yourself rest unless life physically knocked you out.
Your lips parted slightly, eyebrows relaxed, hair slipping across your cheek in a messy line, his chest tightened in a small, barely-there way he’d gotten very good at ignoring since the very first night he saw you… when his first thought was to invite you as his fake-date to deny the fact he thought you were the most beautiful, charming, intelligent woman he had ever met.
Of course, he thought, looking at you when another kill was happening, Of course you’d insist you weren't tired and then pass out exactly twenty minutes into the third movie.
He let out a slow breath through his nose, trying with every muscle fiber in his body to not move, to not breathe too harshly, to not move sideways and let you rest comfortable for more time.
But then he kept thinking, you were contorted and probably wake up with neck-pain if you continued to sleep like that, then you’d complain about it in the morning, then you’d deny about it claim you weren’t complaining, but if he moved too quickly in the moment you’d wake up, then claim you weren’t tired until you obnoxiously lose the debate and admit you’re tired, then you’d go home, but once you walk inside the department you wouldn’t sleep at all, because you confessed to him you couldn’t sleep at your aunt’s bed, he had brought you melatonin gummies that time, you insisted you had work to do, he tried to invite you over to his place more often. If you went home, you’d sleep on your couch or worse, not even sleep at all and you should sleep somewhere comfortable, and warm.
He looked at you again.
He thought for a second in accommodating the guest room; but the sheets were cold and so was the air, and despite you saying how much you love winter and autumn and cold weather, he knew that you hated being cold, you had never said it explicitly, but you always complained about shivering, and about getting sick.
He turned off the TV remote so quiet it didn’t even click.
Harry thanked the universe when you didn’t stir when he shifted carefully, then he brought one arm behind your back and the other under your knees. You made a tiny sound, a sigh that sounded so familiar to his name he stopped dead in his tracks, but you weren’t awake.
Your head fell naturally against his shoulder as he lifted you. Your body, that was almost on autopilot, curled into him instinctively, face tucked against the warm side of his neck.
Harry stopped breathing for half a second, cursing himself for feeling almost boyish at the sight of you, his knees faltering and he would deny it, but the butterflies in his stomach were flapping its wings. He adjusted his grip, steady and sure, carrying you through the hallway, the city lights painting the edges of his apartment in a soft neon haze.
Your weight against him wasn’t a burden, he tried to walk steadily, even when his knees failed him for some seconds when he lost his balance, not because of you, but in spite of himself —he’d carry twenty times as much without blinking if that meant having you near him.
He lowered you gently onto his bed, onto the left side, because it was always warmer being the farthest from the door, he pulled the blanket over you, smoothing it once along your shoulder, a gesture so familiar he didn’t question where he learned it.
Your face softened into the pillow, into the faint scent of him, of his shampoo and hairwash, of his perfume. You sighed, barely, and his throat tightened again.
Harry would never admit how the day of the hotel made him feel, because the truth was, he felt pathetic in the morning, hearing you talk about how the night had meant nothing but a deal when he had never felt any more happy in his life.
He felt stupid and he didn’t care, even when the ache continued to distress as an open wound… but then you admitted why you thought it had meant nothing, and Harry had to shelter himself when you began calling him from time to time, and suddenly, strangers became friends, and if that was what you wanted to call it, if that was the only way he could keep listening to you, talking to you and having you in his life. He didn’t care about feeling stupid.
Because the true stupid thing would have been losing you the first time because of the scared words that faltered from your mouth, stupidity would’ve been not trying to approach you from the fear of being rejected, stupidity might have been not trying to care for you just because you claimed love was nonexistent, or when he claimed it was stupid.
Because Harry had learned something as well in the last weeks he had spent with you, you might have never believed in love in the same way a butterfly is never able to see the beauty of its own wings, you didn’t believe in love because you were full of it, you were scared of love because you knew the weight it carried beyond a four-letter word that had begun to lose its meaning.
And maybe you were correct, and love didn’t exist in this new age, and relationships were transactionary and difficult and the simplicity of choosing someone was always summarized into which hormones affected the dopamine production… maybe love wasn’t real, but you were real, and despite the paradox —for him you were love itself.
He stepped back and turned off the light, spun once on his heel, indecisive quiet and tired, his knees were killing him for the whole day from the harsh weather, the metal inside had become a recurring pain during the winter days, and no matter how many prescriptions he tried to get, it was never better, but the only person he could talk about his surgery was the same brother who had turned into a husband.
He felt out of control, out of himself and alone. Harry had never hated being alone, he enjoyed the solitude and the quiet just as much he enjoyed the talking and the social events, he claimed he was an ambivert who once out in the world, turned into an extrovert to try and use all the words he had saved in the quietness of his own place.
The kitchen looked like a scene he could control, so he cleaned it, washing dishes and storing leftovers inside glass containers he stored inside the fridge, he poured out the remnant wine in the glasses that he wasn’t going to drink.
He needed to do something with his hands so he wouldn’t replay the moment your fingers brushed his collarbone, or turned his shirt into crumpled fabric.
When everything was spotless, he grabbed a blanket from the linen closet and dropped onto the couch, with no hesitation and no question.
Sleeping beside you would blur every line you had established, sleeping beside you would bring back the memories of the hotel that should’ve never happened in the first place. He wouldn’t let that happen, because if he did that meant he might lose you again, and he didn’t want to lose you.
He laid down, blanket slung half over him, arm behind his head, eyes tracing the ceiling until they landed back on the coffee table, your cellphone laying there, he thought of you once again before sleep found him.
And even in sleep, he dreamed of you.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
You woke up in the early morning, not bothering to open up your eyes. The sun hadn’t risen yet and the streets were empty after everyone had spent their nights busy, entertained in some other Halloween activity that didn’t concern you.
You moved your arm to grab your phone, but there was no phone next to you, matter of fact, on that side of the bed, there was no nightstand, and the bedsheets felt too silky. You were forced to open up your eyes after you felt estranged from your surroundings… you didn’t have a lamp, and your nightstand wasn’t that far away from your bed, you always kept it to arm-reach.
You turned to face the ceilings, those weren’t yours.
The bedsheets, not yours either.
The door, the mat, the pillows, the bedframe, the books… none of them were yours, that wasn’t the bedroom you had been sleeping in, that wasn’t your aunt’s old apartment.
It was Harry 's.
You covered your mouth trying to stop a gasp from knocking your chest, you turned and touched the other side of the bed, ice-cold and untouched. He hadn’t slept there.
You woke up, unsure if the dizziness came from the wine, the lack of sleep, the overcaffeination or from the fact you had woken up in his bed. Not even in the guest room. In. His. Bed.
You walked barefoot to the living room, everything was neat and you saw him, covered with the same blankets you had used before, hiding his face in a pillow as he was asleep on the couch with parted lips and disheveled hair, the sight of him reminded you of how he had fallen asleep back in your place while you were getting ready.
You walked towards him with careful steps, trying to sound as stealthy as a thieve, you couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t placed you in the guest room and kept the bed, or used the guest room himself if he was so chivalrous to give you the main suite of his hotel-like house.
Your hand worked before your mind could process, before your nerves were awake and the central nervous system could take full embodiment of its labour, you grabbed the blanket and moved it higher, covering his arm so the air didn’t hit him as much.
He opened up his eyes and you tried to look away.
“Hi,” he attempted to say, voice groggy at the morning drowsiness, his eyelids blinking in rapid motions adjusting to the light of day.
“I’m sorry, I’ll go so you sleep”
“You didn’t wake me up” he said, as if trying to not scare you away. “I’m a light-sleeper”
You didn’t believe it, because back in the hotel you had moved on multiple occasions and he had remained stoic as a rock, unless… Unless?
“Do you have somewhere to go?” he asked, grabbing your hand.
“I have a deadline in twelve hours” you clarified, trying to straighten your jeans.
“Well, it’ll only take me one to make you breakfast” he said with a smile.
“I’ll grab breakfast later” you tried to say.
“Where?”
“I don’t know, bluestone or something”
He hadn’t told you he was the one behind the paid coffee orders, and you hadn’t asked him because you already knew it had to be him.
“Coffee isn’t breakfast”
“And what is? according to you”
“Some scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, maybe some hashbrowns… pancakes if you want some, or waffles. A bagel. Some fresh fruit, maybe some yogurt, I also have oats, orange juice, mocha pot coffee which is way better than whatever espresso they’re selling you in there”
You laughed at his description of what you could only imagine as some fancy rendition of breakfast at Tiffany's or something like that. “You make all of that for breakfast?”
He chuckled, “People don’t say I make mean breakfast for no reason”
You rolled your eyes. “And are we sure they actually think the breakfast was good or something else?”
“Something like what?”
The man who made it. “You know, the night before the breakfast.” you teased, almost regretting how euphemistic it sounded.
His eyes opened accompanied by a dry chuckle. “Then I’m guessing you’ll enjoy it, last night was amazing”
“I fell asleep!” you complained, “Like some old lady”
“And thank god you did, I was barely awake by the second movie”
“God, we sound like old people. Well, no, that’s unfair… you’re actually old”
Harry rolled his eyes but allowed you to keep your puns about his life, because otherwise, if your jokes dried out then you’d probably be walking away already, not even daring to say a longer goodbye that nevertheless, would feel equally short as an arm's distance handshake.
Either way, for Harry that didn’t matter, he stood up and walked towards the kitchen, checking his disheveled hair over the microwave’s reflection and adjusting it, your eyes followed to the shape of his body against the windows, just for a second his eyes flickered on your direction, and for a moment, you had forgotten how scared you were from someone looking at you and actually seeing you.
But somehow, when his eyes intertwined with yours, it felt as if they had been engraved in your mind as well, and were part of you already.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Saturday had been packing away the orders you had gotten, going to Brooklyn to pick up more money and clothes before heading back to Tribeca and finishing up the article for next week’s online featurette.
Sunday had been brunch at Mia’s place, blueberry pancakes and gossiping until 3pm just before taking a stroll around central park with a puffer jacket and a hot chocolate in hand, joking about how it was time for the winter market to begin already.
Then Monday arrived, and while you usually complained about weeks feeling too excruciatingly fast, Monday felt eternal, there had been an organization session in the morning, and then came another thing that tolled not only your nerves but the whole team’s.
Holly had fired a writer, the reason? He wrote an article about engaging in relationships with AI. You had met the guy, talked with him once or twice during lunch breaks, he was nice, maybe a bit intense on the whole “humans are built to love and feel emotion” argument, but genuine after all.
To the rest of you she only told the usual, views were dropping, love has to become a wider trend to be consumed, that the articles need more “social media catalyst quotes”, buzzwords and trends. She brought a mercadologist who gave you an hour-long talk about why you should write shorter sentences with social media jargon, that to be fair, seemed that she didn’t want to give either.
Once you were free, you walked to the guy’s desk, Dave, you remembered now, you approached him with a smile, and just stealthy enough so it didn’t feel intruding you asked.
“Is she really firing you for that article?” you asked him.
“Apparently, but if you asked me, I think she felt triggered”
“Triggered? About an opinion article about AI relationships?” you said with a fake laugh, almost not believing how insane it sounded.
He nodded, still packing his things inside a cardboard box until he paused. “Do you know Tania?”
“HR Tania? Yeah, we studied together”
“Well, she’s going out with Bree from Finance and she told her that apparently the money that goes to the EROS section marketing team has been having anomalies”
“Anomalies?” your voice lowered, as if some spy-secrecy was exchanged.
“Yeah, apparently it was the section chief itself who has been managing those anomalies. 200 dollars disappear every 5th of the month”
You opened your mouth and tried to memorize the details, you tried telling yourself it wasn't gossip, it was information retrieval, and you were a journalist after all, this was a journalistic matter according to your terms.
Once the man had left through the elevator, you went back to your desk, forgetting about the typing and about the white screen staring at you, you turned to see Gabi.
“You won’t believe what I just learned”
Her eyes opened, and suddenly Monday stopped being boring after all.
On Tuesday, Gabi and you had arranged to talk to Trevor, after she had shown you a message he had sent to Dave weeks ago, since he clumsily left his cellphone connected to his computer screen, in which Dave confessed how all the money went to some guy named "Leo"
You were in the cafeteria, tray in hand, although the only thing both of you got were caesar salads because the pizza slices looked like unappetizing high-school food.
“Hey Trev” Gabi began, bubbly as always. “Do you mind if we sit?”
“Not at all,” the guy answered, moving his feet from the chair in front of him. Gabi and you sat down.
“You were close with Dave weren’t you? How are you holding up now?” she began.
Trevor sighed, “I mean… he’s smart, already landed a job in a philosophy magazine, he’ll do good. But he was so passionate about writing in here it makes me mad”
Not sad, most people would’ve said sad, or pity or any other emotion that highlights how bad they feel for the other, but Trevor didn’t pick any of those words, instead he picked mad.
“Mad?” you asked, nudging Gabi’s knee just for a second. “Because he’s gone?”
“It was so unfair, he wrote an opinion article, and it was amazingly good, I edited the layout and couldn’t stop reading it… have any of you read it? It was brilliant, it makes no sense he was fired for it”
“But what was the reason behind his dismissal? The controversy of the article?”
“Apparently Holly said it was disrespectful and that he should open his mind to actually understand it, and that he was antiquated”
“For saying an AI relationship isn’t a relationship at all? We write about human emotion, love and sex, how could we not say that AI relationships are harmful?”
“Right, well, Holly said she didn’t think so, and instead she said those type of relationships were going to be normalized in the near future, that he should write an article about navigating love with an AI partner instead”
“She’s losing it,” Gabi murmured.
You quickly sent him Hugo’s number, “Tell Dave to get in contact with him, he’s a friend of mine and a really good lawyer, she couldn’t have fired him under those things”
“Thank you, will do” he murmured, already picking on his salad once again. “But, I don’t get, why are you interested on this”
“I’m glad you asked,” Gabi said, flashing a smile, just before telling him everything you had been noticing on Holly’s attitude in the last month.
After the conversation ended, there was a group chat formed already, and by Wednesday morning, almost everyone in the Eros section was inside.
And by night you had also arranged everything in a document, screenshots, conversations, the things all the department had noticed and complained about, and while you were adding the email she had sent weeks ago, something seemed to click in you.
An article you had read months ago, maybe a year, about a woman who had engaged in a relationship with AI services, and had started paying an upgrade of the service to use it even more.
You typed the domain on your screen to search for the site, the panel log in or sign up appeared in front of you, you clicked the latter, although you had a feeling it didn’t matter.
You typed her domain with expertise, and then the red letters appeared.
This email is already linked to an account, log in instead.
You called Gabi, because sending a message might have been an under-reaction, you told her everything, and just before you hung up she decided to drop the biggest bomb of information. “Check the plan pricing”
The most advanced one: 200 dollars.
On Thursday you realized you had barely picked up on messages from your friends with the whole Holly situation, which you quickly arranged by typing a response to every update on their lives, but you also noticed you hadn’t answered Harry’s messages.
Harry: Hey, how are you doing? Are you free tomorrow? I thought it might be a good time so we can go and search for the date outfit.
You: Yes, I’m free after 4 today.
You typed quickly, before walking in line to order your usual coffee, on thursday’s like this, when your lunch break was long enough, you tried to spend the time outside, walking around the park or window-shopping just to not be seating all day long, but somehow, the world had other plans while you were reading a Bell Hook’s essay on your phone and listening to music, a notification popped on your screen of an incoming call from Gabi.
“Where are you, someone just snitched on everything to Holly and she just asked for all of us to have a meeting right now”
“Who snitched?” you asked, even when you knew it didn't matter.
After it, you ran as quick as you could afford to, sipping on your coffee as if it was the only rational anchor you could have and which soon enough would become the only food you’d have in your system for the next hours.
Once in the office, the tension in the air could be cut clean with a knife, everyone was staring at everyone as if trying to figure out who would have spoken about the mass crusade.
“Do you have any idea on who?” you were quick to ask Gabi, who was furiously typing on her screen some article on relationship advice.
“I have no fucking idea, everyone and their fucking mom wants her gone” she whispered, turning to you. “Do you think she might’ve put something in our computers?”
“I’ve no fucking clue” you muttered back.
And before you knew it, all of the team was gathered in the meetings room, and considering there were canapés and coffee you were sure it was about to be a long fucking session.
Just like you had thought it’d be, it was already 2:30pm and Holly couldn’t stop shutting up, explaining how all the money that wasn’t directed to the magazine was to pay some weird taxes and some other excuses that no one believed.
Finally Gabi stood up, “And are we sure the money’s going to the AI boyfriend you’re paying for?”
The room was beginning to simmer like boiling water in an already steaming pan… it was a matter of seconds before everything exploded. Holly confessed she had seen Trevor’s computer as well, and that she overheard bathroom conversations.
Good thing, none of you were snitches, but the bad news was that Holly needed someone to blame and everyone, in order to save their skins, turned to look at Gabi.
You wanted to take the blame as well, because after all it had been more your plan than it had been Gabi’s.
But before you could say something into the conversation, your friend continued to speak, explaining not only how unprofessional it was but how disrespectful it was to everyone working there.
Holly insisted her relationship was normal, and although every single mind was judging her for falling in love with some weird robot, her relationship couldn’t matter less, the only thing all of you wanted was to be treated with some respect and have the money directed to the team so the articles promotion and design could be better. But the thing with hefty bosses was, they never saw beyond their noses.
And suddenly 3pm morphed into 3:30 pm, some intern had tried going to the bathroom and Holly screamed at them how if they walked a step further they’d be fired.
And the only thought in your mind was that the conversation wouldn’t end at 4pm, but you needed a way out, soon.
It was 3:38 pm when Holly launched into her fifteenth rant about “team unity” and “future-forward affection models” and “AI partnerships redefining erotic love.”
You had been done, and to be fair, you had stopped paying attention hours ago, you turned your face to see Trevor eating one of the canapés, and then turned your face to the rest of them laying on the tray untouched, little crostinis topped with a too-yellow smear of something suspiciously familiar.
Mustard aioli.
Your aunt had often warned you about never taking decisions with an empty stomach or a sleep-deprived brain, but you couldn’t deny the fact that your brain sparked when you had finally found a way to get rid of the reunion, even though your stomach practically clenched at the very thought.
And the idea, the terrible, brilliant, desperate idea clicked into place.
You leaned ever so slightly toward Gabi, who was equally unfazed by Holly’s neverending rants.
“Do you think,” you whispered, “that’s mustard?”
She glanced at Trevor’s plate, then squinted. “That’s definitely mustard.”
Your pulse kicked, the plan becoming even more tangible by the second.
“I’m allergic,” you murmured.
Gabi’s eyes widened, she knew that, but she also knew that sometimes you didn’t even care. “You’re not that allergic—”
“No,” you admitted. “But Holly doesn’t know that.”
You glanced at her —at the woman pacing like a malfunctioning radio, ready to scream again when someone disapproved of her terrible conduct.
“No one does.” you reassured her,
Gabi stared at you slowly, her lips parted when she finally understood where your mind had drifted to.
“You’re thinking of faking—”
“I’m thinking of escaping,” you corrected. “And if someone calls an ambulance, everyone will be too busy panicking to notice I’m gone.”
Her expression softened into awe. “There’s something really fucked up with you.”
“Yeah, that I want to leave.”
You stood and walked toward the canapés, picking up the mustard crostini between two fingers like if it was some holy sacrament that you were ready to partake in, you sat back into your place and without hesitation, you popped it into your mouth.
You waited exactly three seconds. On the first one you felt your throat tingling at the taste, and your stomach knotting from what you had just thrown into it, then you tried to remember movies and tv shows and tried to hold your breath for a second before letting your face go slack.
Then, you allowed your breath to stutter, your hands shivering and your body spasming.
Trevor frowned. “Are you okay? You look—”
You clutched your throat.
“C— can’t— bre— breathe—”
The room practically erupted in thousands of sentences and screams, “Is she dying?” “What did she eat?” “Someone call an ambulance” “Oh my god, she’s turning blue!” “Holly do something!” “Holly can’t do anything!” “Oh. My. God”
You staggered sideways as if you were seconds away from meeting your creator, maybe you should’ve, you had plenty of complaints for him. Either way, your hand pressed dramatically to your chest, breath hitching, eyes watery.
Gabi gasped, leaping up, ready to play her part as well. “She’s allergic to mustard”
Perfect delivery worthy of every academy award there was to give.
“Where’s her epipen?” someone screamed.
“I— She— She never carries one, she insists on being careful” Gabi shouted, intentionally panicking.
And you saw in front of you with teary eyes and a sore throat the pure, beautiful chaos unfolding.
“I’m calling nine one one!” Trevor yelled, already dialing.
You sank to your knees for dramatic flair, gripping the edge of the conference table.
Holly went sheet-white.
“Oh my god, is she having aphaly— anypha— alyphan— The allergy reaction thing” she couldn’t even say it correctly, and you tried to keep up your performance because you wanted to completely laugh at her butchered pronunciation.
People stampeded toward you, a chair flipped and the table of canapes and coffee became the scenery for catastrophe, as everything suddenly became technicolor chaos as the entire EROS department became a screaming chorus of “Move!” and “Back up!” and “Give her some space!”
Someone grabbed your arm, at the same time Trevor continued to scream the direction at the phone through the chaos.
And thankfully the meeting was over, not without Gabi and Trevor carrying you towards the lobby so you could catch some air. Gabi, aware of your tactics, had been quick to grab your purse and cellphone before entering through the elevator.
You let your body sag against Trevor’s shoulder, breathing shallowly, milking every gasping inhale, the elevator finally dinged and the doors opened, and although your plan had been amazing and perfect in theory, it shattered the moment you heard
“What the hell happened?” Harry’s voice, standing in the lobby holding two coffees, looking up at the chaotic swarm barreling toward him.
His eyes landed on you when yours landed on him at the same time, and his entire expression broke open, panic —raw and unfiltered— detonated across his face.
He dropped the coffees, both of the cups hitting the ground and turning the marble white floor into broken ice, and spilled oatmilk. He didn’t care.
“Move,” he barked, stepping toward you with a force you’d never seen from him.
Trevor stammered, “She— she ate mustard— she’s— she can’t— she’s having a—”
Harry didn’t wait, he wanted to scream, to shout for a paramedic, to scold you for being careless, for insisting on not carrying an EpiPen… but instead, he reached you in two steps, his hands already catching your shoulders before anyone else could.
“Hey—” his voice shook in a way that made your heart lurch painfully. “Look at me.”
You forced your eyes half-focused, unfocused, trembling. It only scared him more. And you hated yourself for not stopping the ruse because there were still plenty of eyes in front of you, the only thing you wanted was to tell him none of it was real, and that you had done everything just to escape the torture it was to listen to Holly for another second.
“No, no, no—look at me,” he said louder, thumb brushing your cheek in a grounding, terrified sweep. “Keep your eyes open. That’s it. That’s—no—stay with me, sweetheart, stay—”
Sweetheart. That was knew. He didn’t even hear himself say it.
His breath was coming fast, and the beating of his heart could be seen through the vibrations of his throat. His hand steadying your back like he thought you were moments from collapsing entirely, like he was moments away from losing you when he hadn’t had you for enough time already.
“She doesn’t have an EpiPen,” Gabi said, guilty and frantic in the background, even when she knew why you never carried one. “She never carries one—”
Harry swore, loud and unfiltered. He wasn’t angry at you, he was scared and frustrated and trying not to lose his mind.
“Why are you so fucking careless?” He scooped his arm under your knees and lifted you like nothing. “I’m taking her outside. She needs air.”
Your brain stuttered. Because that part of the plan wasn’t even meant to happen, you were supposed to slip away quietly, not be swept into someone’s arms like you were one breath from dying.
Your heart pounded for entirely the wrong reasons, it started to panic because suddenly your body remembered the Halloween night he had carried you to his bed, except this time he was carrying you to the office garden, laying you comfortably on a bench so you could rest.
Then, he knelt beside you, grabbing your wrist to continue checking on your pulse.
“Breathe,” he commanded, voice tight, so afraid of losing you. “Just breathe. Slow. Slow. I’m right here.”
You blinked, dazed, because this was not the exit strategy you planned.
“Harry…” you whispered weakly, because you genuinely didn’t know what else to say.
His breath hitched.
“God,” he murmured, hand trembling as it brushed your hair away from your face. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Your throat closed, and for a second you thought you might begin having an allergic reaction, not to the mustard but to him.
You swallowed a breath and forced your voice thin. “I—I’m okay—”
“You’re not okay,” he said fiercely, eyes blazing. “You collapsed.”
“I—I’m fine, it’s… it’s passing…” you insisted, trying to fix everything.
“Passing?” he echoed, voice cracking. “You almost died.”
No you didn’t, you wouldn’t, not from the mustard at least, maybe from Holly’s screaming and from his closeness.
And perhaps everything you had orchestrated was a ruse and fake, but the look in his eyes wasn’t. It was him thinking he was seconds away from watching you give your last breath.
And it shook something in you, something deep and dangerous that coiled in the depths of your heart, the sirens were still faintly audible two blocks away when the whole lobby finally emptied.
Trevor and the interns followed the paramedics trying to fill them with every ounce of information before they could get to you, Gabi shot you one last conspiratorial look before slipping away toward the elevators. And then it was just you and Harry.
He was still kneeling beside you, one hand hovering near your arm like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he was allowed. His chest rose and fell too fast. His jaw was tight. His brown beautiful eyes were still stuck in panic mode like some scolded puppy when he didn't know if his owner was coming back.
If you believed in love, you thought for a second, you might’ve fallen for that glare in his eyes ages ago.
He swallowed. “You’re breathing better,” he murmured. “That’s good. That’s really… good.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
You looked down at your hands. They were still trembling —but for a completely different reason now, the visceral reaction of your body came from only one detonator that was the man knelt beside you.
“I need to tell you something,” you whispered.
He blinked, snapping into focus like your voice tugged him forward, his heartbeat raced, his pupils dilated, and he had never felt more stupid from desiring to hear three words and eight letters.
“Anything.” He said in a broken whisper. “No one is here anymore.”
“I know.” you whispered back, “You’re still kneeling,” you pointed out, as if saying with a breathy laugh meant your heart would stop stammering on how excited it appeared to be.
He let out a shaky laugh. Then he sat on the bench beside you instead, close enough that your knees almost touched. “Sorry. I just didn’t want you falling over.”
You breathed in, you gathered the courage in your lunges before speaking, he was going to hate you. But it was then or never.
“Harry… it wasn’t real.”
His entire body stilled and you continued before he could misunderstand.
“I’m not anaphylactic. I rechecked last month and my allergy keeps being mild.”
He stared at you, not in anger, or quiet betrayal or shock, or the feeling of wanting to scold you in that very moment, in his face there was only quiet, raw worry melting into some strange relief.
“So you faked it,” he said softly.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I faked it.”
He closed his eyes for one long, shaking breath.
And then —instead of pulling away, instead of calling you insane or saying there was something fucked up about you, an affirmation you wouldn’t even deny— he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you.
Not tight or crushing, just enough that your forehead fell against his shoulder before your brain could catch up and your arms covered his broad shoulders.
“I thought I was watching you die,” he murmured into your hair.
Your breath caught, you didn’t want to hurt him, you didn’t like hurting the people you cared about.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, guilt and warmth mixing in your chest. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He exhaled, a soft, disbelieving sound. His hold around you tightened just slightly —not in anger, but as if he was reassuring himself you were, in fact, breathing.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve never moved so fast in my life.”
Your throat constricted and you pulled back enough to see his face. His eyes weren’t hard. They were soft, searching, threaded with fear that was already fading into something gentler.
“Why would you fake something like that?” he asked with the same tone he used on that date when he still thought you were Mia, just trying to understand you.
You hesitated in saying the truth because you thought he’d judge, but it was Harry, he’d never judge you.
“Holly.”
His brows drew together. “What about her?”
You looked down at your hands, fingers knotting together. “She forced us into a meeting. She found out we were all talking about her spending the entire marketing budget on her fucking AI boyfriend. And she’s losing it, and the whole team is terrified, and she wouldn’t let anyone leave. Not even interns. And it was almost four, and I had to meet you, and everyone was miserable, and—”
You inhaled shakily. “I needed the meeting to end.”
Harry sat very still for a moment and then he nodded. Slow. Quietly understanding.
“That’s why you did it,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” you whispered.
He leaned back slightly, arms still resting around you, his thumb brushing absently over your sleeve, “Okay,” he said simply.
You blinked. “Okay?”
“You didn’t do it for fun,” he said. “You did it because you were trapped. And scared. And stressed. And… because you didn’t trust Holly not to ruin your job.”
Your eyes dropped. “You’re not… mad?”
He gave a soft, broken laugh.
“Mad?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, I’m just relieved you’re actually okay.”
The word slipped out again. Sweetheart. And it felt so soft, and unintentional and real, that you didn’t even want him to stop saying it. You didn’t call him out on it because your cheeks burned at the thought of it… but you didn’t want him, you couldn’t want him.
He reached up and gently placed a strand of hair beneath your ear, his fingers just lingering softly across your cheek for a second, you turned to look at him, really look at him.
“You don’t ever have to fake dying to get out of a meeting,” he said quietly. “Just call me. I’ll make up a reason to pull you out.”
You huffed a weak, breathy laugh. “You’d do that?”
He smiled, slow and warm, a little sad despite teeth flashing through his grin. “After today?” he murmured. “I’d pull the fire alarm for you.”
Your chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with allergies.
You swallowed. “You really were scared.”
He nodded once. “Terrified.”
You exhaled. “I’m really sorry.”
“I know you are.” he confessed, “Just don’t do it again. Or at least warn me next time so I don’t think I’m losing you before our fake date.”
You blinked with a soft smile.
“I need you alive for that,” he said softly. “Preferably would like a breathing girlfriend.”
You looked at him and for the first time since you met Harry Castillo, you realized he wasn’t just a deal or a transaction or a complication. He cared for you and he wasn’t afraid in hiding so, and you cared for him, even if it was silently.
The paramedics finally rushed through the crystal doors, two medics rushed over, equipment clattering, gloves snapping into place.
You stiffened. This part you hadn’t planned for.
“Ma’am, can you confirm your name?” one asked, kneeling in front of you.
You nodded, reciting it.
“Are you still having trouble breathing?”
Harry glanced at you sharply.
You hesitated —you had to play it safe enough that they wouldn’t force you inside the ambulance.
“Not… anymore,” you said. “It feels more like… pressure? But I’m okay. I swear, I’m not in anaphylaxis.”
The medics exchanged looks.
“Do you have insurance with allergy coverage?”
“We need your card.” the other interrupted
“Ambulance was dispatched automatically, we need signatures—”
“If you had airway involvement, we need to monitor—”
Your heartbeat spiked. You could barely think straight with ten laminated forms thrust at you, you didn’t even know what to fill them in, you might’ve not been in shock but you were still starving and unable to think straight with a starved brain.
But Harry saw the panic before you even inhaled.
He stepped forward, one hand coming to your back again, grounding you with a warm, steady pressure.
“She’s fine,” he told them. Calm but commanding. “She needs evaluation, not transport.”
“Sir, unless her insurance covers—”
“I’ll cover it.”
You froze. “What?”
He pulled out his card like it was nothing, as if it wasn't a life or death decision. Like it wasn’t hundreds of dollars, although, for a man like Harry who could have everything no matter how many thousands it costed, it was honestly, just another gesture.
“Bill it to me,” he said, handing it over. “Run whatever you need. Vitals, exam, antihistamines, whatever protocol requires. She’s not going to the hospital. She doesn’t need it.”
The medic hesitated. “Sir, that can be—”
“I said I’ll cover it.” His voice was steel, bureaucratic.
Your breath caught at the sound of it. The medic finally nodded and stepped aside, motioning for another colleague to take your vitals. Harry knelt beside you again while they clipped sensors to your finger and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around your arm.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I did,” he cut in, eyes flicking up to yours. “You’re trembling”
You bit your lip, looking down at your hands —he was right. They were trembling, slightly but visible. Not from actual breathing distress now.
From adrenaline and embarrassment and him.
“I can pay you back,” you whispered.
His jaw tightened —not angry, but emotional in a way that made your stomach twist.
“Don’t insult me,” he said quietly.
You blinked.
“It’s not—” he shook his head. “I didn’t do it for a favor or a ledger. I did it because you were scared and alone and you shouldn’t have been.”
Your chest loosened in a way that felt dangerous.
“Vitals are normal,” one medic said, glancing at the monitor. “Pulse is elevated —that’s adrenaline. The airway's clear. She should rest, drink water, and avoid allergens.”
You nodded, grateful.
They printed the paperwork. Harry signed everything.
You didn’t even see the total —he didn’t let you.
When the medics left and the ambulance pulled away, the two of you stood in the lingering quiet of an empty garden.
Harry turned to you.
“Can you stand?” he asked, grabbing your arm.
You nodded and he stepped closer anyway, hand hovering near your waist.
“Slowly,” he murmured.
You rose to your feet —a little wobbly at first— and he steadied you with one hand at the small of your back. Warm, firm, and too gentle for someone who had just watched you fake-die.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded again. “I’m sorry you had to deal with—”
“No,” he said softly. “No more apologies.”
You swallowed hard, trying to ignore every doubt. “What now?” you whispered.
He looked at you —long, searching, like he was checking you for fractures you didn’t have, and then: “We still have a shopping plan.”
Your brows lifted. “Harry—”
He shook his head.
“You’re not going back to the office. You’re not walking home. You’re not going anywhere alone.”
You stared at him. He slipped his hands into his pockets searching for his car keys, his voice gentler now.
“I promised we’d find something for tomorrow. And I’m keeping my promise.”
You swallowed. “So, we’re going back to SoHo?”
“We were,” he said. “But after what just happened, I think both of us could use some fresh air.”
You almost laughed and he smiled faintly as both of you walked past his car, he wasn’t driving, which meant whichever store you were finding your clothes in was on 5th Avenue.
“Come on,” he murmured.
Your heart stuttered. “You mean— we’re buying on this avenue”
“Yes.” he agreed in a small laugh.
“You mean like Saint Laurent–Gucci–Fendi– Fifth Avenue?”
“Yes.”
You blinked. “Harry, I—”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“You almost scared me into an early death today.” A beat. “Let me buy you a damn dress.”
You tried not to smile but you failed. “Fine,” you muttered.
He smirked, “Good,” he said. “Because I already asked the store to close down for the day so you can try everything you want with all the time in the world.”
“You— what?”
You stared at him. He shrugged with infuriating softness.
“I thought you nearly died,” he said. “I’m allowed to spoil you a little.”
You opened your mouth to protest, and then closed it.
Because the truth was: Your legs felt like jelly, your nerves were buzzing, and his concern was doing something to your breathing that had nothing to do with allergies.
“Fifth Avenue it is,” you whispered.
Not opposed to walking next to him down Fifth Avenue like a quiet promise, the city blurring past in glossy streaks of silver and crippling cold. Harry walked next to you, not behind or in front, just beside you to stay close.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked softly, his voice dipped in something warm.
You nodded. “Yeah. Just… embarrassed.”
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “I guess no next time of faking anaphylaxis, stick to the sprained ankle act”
You huffed a laugh. “Noted.”
Then Harry turned toward you fully as you finally reached your destination.
“Before we go in,” he said, “you need to tell me something.”
You blinked. “What?”
“What you actually like.” he said, as if it was the most important thing ever.
You frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
He smiled a little although his brown eyes remained warm and yet serious.
“You’ve dressed down for every date you ruined, and you dress for work, but what would you actually enjoy wearing to a date?”
You stared at him.
He waited, eyes open, genuinely curious at what you could say.
“Okay…” you said slowly. “I… I like dresses.”
His brows lifted slightly, inviting more.
“And skirts,” you added. “Feminine silhouettes. Things that move easily. Fabrics that feel… nice on the skin.”
“Colors?” he asked.
“Black. Deep colors. Some neutrals. Nothing too flashy.”
He nodded once, filing it away. “Textures?”
“Satin,” you murmured. “Wool. Knits. Clean lines. Minimal details. Metallics but not too flashy, because I won’t wear them as much”
“Accessories?”
“Tights… sometimes, always black. A nice bag, most times big. And I really love jewelry, everything, necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings…”
Harry remained studying you in a way that felt like he was recreating an entire blueprint of you in his mind, and somehow every sentence you said had already made sense in his head a long time ago.
“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Let’s get all of that.”
Your eyes widened. “Harry—”
“You told me what you like.” He walked even closer to the store, Saks. “Now let’s get in.”
Inside, the lighting was bright without being harsh, clothes arranged in perfect color gradients, textures in harmony.
Harry walked beside you with a calm confidence, like he was on familiar territory.
You wandered first toward the tights section —rows of black, sheer, opaque, patterned, matte.
“These?” you asked, holding up a classic opaque pair.
Harry looked once and nodded. “Get a few. You might need backups.”
You blinked, almost estranged at his words. “Backups?”
“You tore yours last week walking up the subway stairs, you complained when you came over for dinner.”
You froze. “You noticed that?”
He shrugged lightly. “I notice things, besides, it was a big line”
Your heart did something you chose to ignore.
He picked a second pair of shinier and slightly sheerer than the ones you had picked, also more expensive, not that it mattered to him.
Then came the accessories.
A bag, silver hardware and big, like the ones you enjoyed wearing.
He held it up and placed it against your face. “This looks like you.”
You swallowed. “It does.”
Then came jewelry —you picked thin silver hoops, a delicate necklace with a pattern of swarovski diamonds, a bracelet so fine it looked like a line of light against your skin, and you didn’t want to buy more things, but your eyes kept flashing towards a Zadig and Voltaire that Harry couldn’t help himself and decided to buy it for you.
He didn’t complain about the prices. Not even once. He kept pressing his black credit card over and over, and even when you knew it was technically limitless, you couldn’t help but wonder how he kept thinking you were worth every questionable financial decision he was taking.
“Now,” he said, nodding toward the elevators. “Dresses.”
That’s where you saw it.
Sleek. Black. Long sleeves and ruffles, minimal, elegant, worth more than any other dress you had bought —besides the blue one Harry bought for you, and somehow the piece in front of you was still something so you.
You reached for it with careful fingers.
Harry saw the way your expression shifted, softening and warming at the thought of the dress, and he smiled like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Try it,” he said.
In the dressing room, you slipped it on. It hugged in all the right places and fell in all the soft ones. It made you feel like a woman who had never once pretended to be smaller than she was, you loved it.
You stepped out.
Harry’s breath caught so subtly you almost missed it.
Almost. He looked you over once —slow, reverent, not like a man appraising a body, but like someone seeing a truth you had been hiding behind every lie.
His mouth dropped quietly, “It’s perfect for you” he said, and you swallowed hard.
His voice was steady, but his eyes were not.
You looked in the mirror again. It was indeed the one, you loved it instantly.
“I’ll take it,” you whispered.
He nodded like that was the only possible outcome, and he kept carrying the bags, despite feeling like a hundred, were only six.
And for the first time the entire day, you didn’t think about price tags and embarrassment and allowed your mind to drift into the quiet knowing of deserving nice things.
On your way out, you finally regained the courage to ask him, "You had sent three messages yesterday, didn't you?"
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
HR had given you a week so you could get better from your “allergies” and honestly, you were thankful, after the stunt you pulled, you might have not needed an EpiPen but you needed time to sleep and maybe, for a day, not caring about anything else beside yourself.
You made breakfast, despite it being 5pm, while watching a rerun of The Office, that episode where Dwight creates a fire, maybe next time you should try that instead of scaring a man so much he calls you sweetheart. Although, you did like hearing him call you sweetheart.
You tried to do yoga to calm yourself down, almost spraining your ankle for real because you didn’t understand how you could possibly twist your body like that.
Then you paced, and paced even more. And realized that no matter how much you claimed to get stressed from your job, you loved it too much to let go of it, and in your day off you pulled out your laptop and began writing.
But you couldn’t write either. Was it writer’s block? Was it stress? If only you fucking new.
You had thousands of messages, people asking how you were doing, others saying that the Holly situation was finally going to be evaluated, Mia asking if you had that video of Amy falling asleep, three missed calls from your mom.
You were tired and couldn’t feel like doing anything, so you decided that perhaps the best thing you could do for the day was to forget who you were supposed to be.
Leave the overcaffeinated, overworked, chronically stressed, columnist who has been disillusioned about love her whole life, and try to pretend to be some hopeless romantic who had found her soulmate in an airport months ago, be utterly and completely head over heels, but you'd soon discover that seemed to be impossible.
You took a bath and you did your makeup and hair, you got dressed, cutting off all the tags from the clothes and trying not to put importance into the numbers written on them.
Because from then until midnight, you could be worthy of a five-figure dress and bag and of wearing Louboutins without it being a special occasion.
Harry picked you up around six thirty pm, wearing black trousers, a white undershirt and a beige half zip-up under a charcoal coat.
“You look beautiful” he said, and your hands tightened around the bag.
“Well, for the price of everything I was hoping to be ravishing at least”
“More than that” he said, and it sounded so honest for a second you forgot the performance didn’t begin until his brother and sister-in-law were present.
“Thanks” you said either way, and he opened the door towards the passenger seat for you.
“They gave me a week off” you muttered, “I guess I scared them good”
He turned to look at you, “You scared me good”
You rolled your eyes, otherwise you'd end up apologizing again. “You ever been to that place?”
“Only once, back when it opened”
“Oh, so it’s like a vintage place” you said, he rolled his eyes and you chuckled even harder. “I’m kidding”
“I know” he answered, turning a right onto the next avenue. “You ate something already?”
“Only breakfast, why?”
He moved his head in a disapproving matter before looking at you during a red. “It’s a tasting menu”
You nodded your head with defeat, “Should’ve guessed, don’t worry I’ll pick something out when the date’s over”
“Or we could go now” he explained, “Peter and Charlotte never arrive early, and considering you almost fainted…”
You snorted, “For starters I didn’t faint” you pointed out matter-of-factly, “And also, where are you taking me then before I get fed expensive foam?”
“You can pick, I don’t mind”
“What I have in mind would probably make you pass out right now”
“Pff” he sighed, “After that dollar-pizza slice place nothing can be worse”
“You were the one who picked that place by the way”
“Yeah, exactly why you’re the one choosing now”
You laughed, and turned to see your reflection on the side-mirror, almost reassuring yourself that this wasn’t a dream.
“Take a left at 53rd” you said, and simple as that he complied.
He kept driving, fingers relaxed on the wheel, eyes flicking toward you every few blocks like he was checking your expression for clues, and you only told him simple instructions that rarely varied besides the typical “right then left”.
Traffic thickened when rush hour started to condense the streets, neon lights sharpened when the day faded into darkness. And the apparels and storefronts melted into midtown bodegas and self-owned restaurants that he definitely wasn’t familiar with, dry cleaners next to a fusion kitchen, a place that sold vape pens and lottery tickets just across a small baptist church.
Harry slowed the car, and you began to think maybe both of you were way overdressed for the side of the city you were currently in.
“Are we… close?” He asked, taking another right after you told him so.
“You’ll know,” you said, heartbeat picking up, the familiar facades and that old lamppost where you had painted your name with nail polish years ago on a drunk night.
And finally, there it was…
“That’s it.” you pointed out, and Harry followed your finger.
A small place, posters outside with badly edited images of nail-designs accompanied with red-background under white “SALE” letters, fluorescent lights and some customers.
Harry blinked slowly, as if everything was just some confusing joke that he couldn’t be a part of, he turned to look at you.
“I could’ve gotten you a manicure someplace in 5th” he said, already opening his car door.
“I know, it’s not what you think it is” you answered with a smile.
“It’s a nail salon!” he said once outside, dead-panned.
“It’s easier once you see it, come”
The second you pushed the door open, a bell chimed—a bright, cheerful ding! that clashed violently with Harry’s confusion-filled expression.
Inside, the air was warm with the scent of acetone, hair oil, and nail polish. The TV mounted in the corner played a Korean drama with the volume low. There was a girl around your age, sitting on a pedicure stool scrolling on her phone. An older lady was painting glitter moons on a client’s nails and a teenager was restocking cotton pads.
Your eyes drifted from one side to the other, there was no sight of the sole person you were searching for, Harry remained almost stoic next to you, like a fish outside of the water.
“Honey!” The warm voice practically chided and you turned around to search for it’s owner.
Ann appeared with the same warmth her voice had kept the entire time you had met her,
She quickly came and picked your hands, checking your nails, you knew she was judging the aspect of them, no matter how much you tried to keep them nice, there was always something that she knew that you didn’t.
“What took you so long?” She said, enunciating the last syllables of the words, “Why don’t you visit?”
You opened your mouth to defend yourself and explain, but as always, she was faster than you and her eyes quickly travelled from your face to the man behind you, whose expression remained equally confused as when he first entered.
“Ohhhhh, Honey you brought boyfriend!” she chimed, voice as excited as how you remembered it. “Is he paying? So I can use expensive products” she said, lowering her voice.
“No,” you blurted, trying to clarify everything. “He’s uhm, Harry. He’s a friend.”
“A friend?” she repeated, eyes glinting like she’d just been thrown a bucket of ice-cold water.
Behind her, Mei and Alexa appeared, almost as if they had been summoned by some strange force.
Mei squinted at Harry, and even before she acknowledged your presence, she whispered to Ann. “Mom, that is not a friend.”
Alexa joined almost instantly, walking towards you to hug you, just before she could whisper in your ear: “If you break up with him, can I have him?”
"Absolutely not!" you said in a laugh.
Harry glanced helplessly at you, throat bobbing, he didn’t know what to say and judging by the look on your phase, you didn’t know what to reply either.
You glared at the women in front of you and with a soft laugh you tried to plea for their silence.
“Stop.”
All of them ignored you, and instead Ann decided to stare at Harry with such strength you thought for a second she was goignt o cause him an aneurysm, until she finally walked towards him.
“Hmm, pretty face, pretty eyes, good-looking” he inspected him as if he was some kind of produce that you weren’t sure if you should feel embarrassed or laugh.
Harry didn’t know the difference either, instead his eyes continued to stare at you, still not understanding what you were doing in there instead of in the other hundreds of restaurants you had passed by.
“Ann” you said, finally grabbing her arm, “Is the kitchen still open?”
“Oh Honey! For you always!” she said, waving her hair and focusing once again on you after staring at Harry for a long time.
Harry leaned toward you as both of you followed Ann toward the beaded curtain.
“You didn’t warn me about any of this.” he whispered in your ear.
“You told me to pick” you threw at him with a bickering smile. “And I was craving food from here.”
He sighed, resigned, but quietly charmed at whatever place he had just stumbled in.
“Alright, Honey” he murmured, and despite you knew that the word was mere teasing, on his lips it sounded everything but. “Lead the way.”
You stepped through the curtain, and he stepped right behind you, and whatever he had expected it probably wasn’t the hidden restaurant behind the salon.
Sticky menus and warm yellow light in the ceilings, a poster on the side of the wall “The Chef” Ann in the middle of it, crying with a knife in hand.
“Is that her?” Harry asked you, but before you could answer, Mei appeared next to you, ready to take your orders.
“Mom asked if your boyfriend has any allergies?”
You turned to look at Harry, he simply moved his head sideways.
“Okay” she extended the vowel as she continuously wrote on her small notebook. “Your usual, right?”
“What’s the ‘usual’ if I can ask?” Harry asked, leaning closer to you.
“Pork buns, wonton soup and stir-fried chicken with sichuan sauce” Mei answered for you.
“We can check the menu” you added, but he quickly smiled and turned to look at you.
“No, it’s fine, I was just curious.” he insisted.
You smiled, and then turned yourself to see the poster once Mei had left, “My aunt wrote the play years ago I was maybe fifteen, we came here for my birthday, Ann did my nails, then they became friends and then when I was seventeen and came here again, she just took me to see Ann starring into her play”
“What’s the play about?” he asked, but you had already felt as if you had given too much of yourself already.
“You’ll think it’s crazy”
“I saw a play with two people sitting and talking for two hours staring at us." He confessed with a tiny laugh, "Try me”
“It’s about a woman whose daughter passes away when she gives birth, and the woman’s mourning process involves her feeding herself pieces of her daughter’s umbilical cord” you said it with the same fondness you remembered hearing about the story the first time, despite it being dark and twisted. “I know it’s crazy but…”
“So she ate her daughter because she was mourning her?”
“Yeah, it was supposed to be a metaphor of her wanting to get her back in her womb” you began explaining until you saw sideways an old couple eating while you were probably grossing him. “Sorry, we’re eating in a minute and I’m here just saying all of this”
“It’s fine.” he insisted, “I was actually thinking, I haven’t known much of you”
“We talked almost every week.” you said with a laugh.
“Yeah, but, you know, I know about your work and friends and…”
“Well, that’s part of me” you objected, turning sideways at the obvious matter of what he was trying to say.
“I know, and I like hearing you talk about it; you’re a very interesting person to talk with. It’s like conversations never end with you”
You chuckled, “Thanks” the muttered words fell from your lips.
“But, I like hearing about this kind of things as much as hearing you talk about everything else” he said it so sincerely you wanted to shout at him and give him reasons of why he was actually wrong.
“Well one of us has to keep the conversation interesting after all” you chuckled, and afterwards you hated yourself.
Why were you so mean sometimes? Take a fucking compliment for once. Take a fucking grip.
But Harry laughed, —he laughed at your stupid comment, as if he knew you weren’t saying it seriously. “Well, I would try to add more to the conversation if I knew what you were saying”
“Oh, so you think I’m so interesting but don’t understand anything I’m saying? That doesn’t make sense” you objected, already finding a loophole in everything.
“I think it’s interesting that you know so much about things I don’t even if sometimes I feel stupid for not understanding them,” he began explaining.
“I would feel stupid if you began talking about finance with me, I think I’d fall asleep,” you confessed.
“Why do you think I never talk about my work?” He replied, staring at you dead-panned.
“Now you’re making me feel like I’m the evil one" you said with a soft gasp, "Always talking about myself.”
“Where’s the evil in that?” he asked, back leaning against the chair as his brows rose for a second.
“Is this how all your negotiations go?” you asked, leaning closer to him, elbows setting against the table counter.
“Usually, but most times I know what I’m negotiating” he said, eyes closing just for a second to focus better on you.
“Oh you don’t right now?" you said, almost laughing before leaning back faking disinterest "I thought it was obvious”
“Enlighten me please” he answered, waving his hand at you to speak.
“You’re paying for the food” you replied,
“I thought that had been arranged since we walked in here” he said, brows joining together as a result of his confussion.
You rolled your eyes and kept staring at him, “You’re an annoying blue-blood, you know that, right?
He nodded, “Of course, so annoying you agreed to go on another date with me”
“Another fake date” you clarified.
“This isn’t fake as far as I’m concerned” he replied.
You chuckled, rolling your eyes in an obvious matter. “Yeah, this isn’t a date”
His expression shifted, for a second it appeared as if he was almost sad, “So what is it?” he asked.
“Two friends eating together, like all the times before we’ve eaten together before.”
“And that’s it?” he asked, not believing you at all.
“Yeah, dates are only dates…” you began, already hearing the way your own voice shifted, trying to sound as if you had the answers to the world’s best-kept secret, you didn’t, but if noone did, then whatever nonsense you rambled sounded smart enough.
“Dates are only dates when there’s a recognized framework. A shared expectation of romantic trajectory, which this doesn’t have because we’re…” you gestured vaguely between the two of you, “not operating within that paradigm.”
Harry blinked, silently laughing at your use of words. “The paradigm?”
“Yes,” you insisted, even as heat crawled up the back of your neck. “There are components. Ritualized intent, mutual performativity, symbolic gestures of courtship, all that. And,” You waved one hand as though trying to grab the words out of the air. “Anthropologically speaking, a date functions as a liminal encounter where two people renegotiate boundaries under the assumption of potential intimacy.”
Harry stared, not unkindly, he just stared at you as if you were talking in some other foreign language he had never ever heard of and yet, just because it was you, he could somehow understand whatever was hidden behind fancy words and definitions.
“So this isn’t that,” you said, crossing your arms like punctuation. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoed softly, though nothing in his tone agreed with you.
“And, uh, also intentionality matters. So does… romantic signaling. Which we’re not doing. Because we’re eating. As friends. Which is not a date. It’s just nourishment and social bonding and—”
“You’re wearing Louboutins,” he murmured.
You nearly choked on thin air “That is irrelevant data.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And besides,” you pushed on, mortified by your own momentum and yet unable to stop, “a date requires a certain level of emotional anticipation. A— a heightened awareness of the other person’s presence.”
Harry didn’t blink or look away, instead he tilted his head justslightly and asked quietly but impossible to ignore:
“And if I have that?”
Your breath snagged in your throat so fast you almost thought you’d stop breathing, because those weren’t the kind of questions you were usually prepared for, it wasn’t academic or theoretical or so painfully obvious that a simple rewording could fix it all, it was Harry in front of you, tearing away the theory you had tried to build for months.
“I—” you started, your voice cracking embarrassingly around the syllable, you might have had the answer to every question in the world and yet, sometimes you had to remind yourself noone knows shit about this. “Well, that’s irrelevant.”
He waited, and you hated how he was good at waiting, just staring until you finally worded the things correctly.
“Human perception is incredibly unreliable in social contexts,” you rambled, words coming too fast, too hot and also, too contradictory. “You could have anticipation or awareness or whatever because you’re in an unfamiliar place, or because your meeting up with your brother later, or because of external stimuli that have nothing to do with— with”
“With you?” he supplied gently.
Your pulse stuttered, you nodded. Both of you knew it was a lie, and yet, both of you said nothing.
“Or anything romantic,” you corrected sharply, as if saying it faster made it more true. “You’re probably just— I don’t know, hungry. Or overstimulated by neon signage.”
He smiled, small and devastating and as if he knew the answer before you did.
“Or,” he said, “I could have it because I like being with you.”
Your mouth opened, closed and opened again seconds later, heat rose up your neck like you were being lit from the inside. Your brain scrambled for data, theories, footnotes—anything that could save you from the simplicity of the moment. But no anthropological framework in the world could compete with the way he was looking at you now.
So you swallowed, pushed your shoulders back, and lied through your teeth:
“That doesn’t make this a date.”
“Didn’t say it did,” Harry murmured.
Your heart tried to claw its way out of your sternum, and god-only-knows what nonsense you would’ve spat, but thanks to whatever force of nature hid behind those walls, Mei came back with the food.
“You talk way too much, Mom said to wait so the food didn’t go cold”
“Thanks Mei” you said.
“And she also bet 50 bucks that you’re going to marry him” the girl replied, already walking away.
“I can bet other 50 that I won’t” you said with a soft laugh.
Harry’s eyes remained fixed on you, because he recognized that little jump in your voice every time that you lied to yourself.
“What? Do I have something?” you asked, once you looked back at him and his deep stare at you.
“No, no” He apologized, trying to look away but failing and instead chuckling lightly.
“Just eat your soup” you protested.
Harry obliged, his eyes spoke before he did, loving the taste and the texture and you could only stare at him when he did, satisfied that at least that petty argument you had won.
But you couldn't help but feel your stomach tightening at the things you had said to him, and despite that he remained there, which possible sane man could stay in front of you after you leashed out your worst?
Who had seen you mean and nice and crashing out and being helpful, who had sent flowers and bought coffee for you and who had also thought you'd die from faking a mustard allergy just so you could escape your horrid workplace, perhaps only Harry Castillo could.
"It's really good" he commented mid-bite, "Why hadn't we ordered from here before?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't share my secrets so often." you insisted, moving the wontons with expertise before eating them.
"Right, so I guess I'm doing good if I'm already here" he said with a smug smile, because despite your many words and sheepish truths he knew half of the time you cussed him off you were lying to yourself.
You paused, staring at him just for a second, the tiniest of smiles drawn in your face. "You know, most people don't ask the things they already know."
"I know," he agreed, "I just want to hear you say it"
Both of you laughed in silence, overdressed in the tiniest of kitchen's the city had to host. It didn't matter if the space was small, and his knees were cramped, or that the humidity in the air was seconds away from ruining your hair and the spice in the soup was minutes away from making you both cry, you continued to talk and laugh and bicker and for a moment you tried to remember your tiny promise to pretend to be some hopeless romantic for the night; you reframed it, don't pretend to be anything, just try to believe that he can enjoy spending time next to you no matter who you are.
And just from the look in his face, you could start believing it beyond tonight.
summary: you don’t believe in love, you just write about it convincingly enough to get paid for it. You agreed to go on these blind dates instead of your heartbroken friend and for the column content and free dinners, never expecting anyone to see through it. But then Harry does, and instead of walking away, he makes you another deal.
previous I masterlist I next
wc: 19.4k
chapter warnings: angst, mentions of alcohol, mentions of sex, reader has some some family trauma, Harry Castillo being Down Bad, Reader being a tad bit annoying (i'm sorry), euphemisms, creepy guys make appearences but they get what they deserve.
taglist: @sincerelywithheartt, @mxkhxx
Your friends and you met at the usual booth of the Lindenwood diner, just like you had done back when you were in college, when the only open place at 2am was that very place.
Mia had been with you all along, she had ordered a floating beer as she was showing you pictures of the marble busts that her parents had acquired for the gallery down in Soho.
Amy was the first one to arrive —as always— the golden girl in every aspect, perfect grades and straight As, majored in Political Science and worked at government for a few years until she rediscovered her love for cooking and her talent for it, only six months went by before she opened her first restaurant in Noho, fusing soul food and Colombian cuisines.
Her husband, Hugo, always arrived a few minutes later than she did, he was either busy seeking a parking spot or finishing a call outside. Both of them were the embodiment of high-school sweethearts, and the first ones to boo your neverending love-isn’t-real theories, because after all, love had worked for them.
Sonia was the last one to arrive, she had missed the bus once while she was talking with some girl whose name she wouldn’t remember anymore, a pack of espresso flavored lucy-breakers in her hand.
“I did eat something for breakfast don’t worry” she clarified as she was pulling another chair to sit on the side of the table, picking up a napkin to remove the nicotine pouch under her lips.
Your same college clique together all those years later, you could almost remember Mia’s investigation about archetypes of sit-com culture in real life that she told all of you years before that would make sense someday: “College friends in New York grow up to be the personification of either three New York based shows: Friends, Seinfeld or How I met your mother” this because to her experience, those were the three shows that accurately depicted NYC life, and that those were the friendgroups that actually acted like friendgroups.
”And for you, honey?” the waitress, a middle aged woman, asked you.
”Chocoalte milkshake and the texas burger with chicken, no mustard please, and a side of fries”
”Okay” she elongated the last syllable as she finished writing in her notebook, “I’ll be back in a second”
”What’s on your mind, Pennsylvania?” Amy asked, she had given you that nickname since college. At first you felt weird getting called by the name of the city you desperately wanted to run away from but once you started getting homesick it stopped mattering.
”Have you ever heard the answer to Mia’s college investigation?”
”The sitcoms one?” Mia asked,
“What was that one again?” Hugo asked.
“Her theory that all college friends from the city grow up to be sit-com’s archetypes, either friends, how I met your mother or Seinfeld”
”Oh we’re totally How I met your mother” Sonia interrupted, as the waitress handed her a dirty martini with more olive juice than vermouth.
“Elaborate” Mia said, “Because I thought we were friends”
Everyone got the pun, noone laughed longer than a second, then it was all playful dread and a chant of “Shut the fuck up”
“Okay, Hugo and Amy are totally Marshall and Lily, high-school sweethearts in love after all those years with a successful marriage that the rest of us can only envy in secret or hate. No offense”
”None taken” Hugo said, looking at his wife with a beautiful sparkle in his eyes,
Mia turned to look at you and made a fake gagging sign at how in love they looked, you only laughed in return.
“Well, I mean you are a lawyer after all” Amy said as she grabbed her drink for a quick sip.
“Yeah, and you’re mom’s really creepy” you pointed out.
“That’s just how latin moms operate” he defended himself, the rest of you laughed.
“Who am I?” Mia asked after laughing.
”Oh Mimi, you’re totally Ted” Amy objected, giving her strawberry milkshake a quick sip.
”I’m not Ted!” Mia protested back, voice pitching higher.
”You do say really bad jokes” you pointed out,
She sighed with sarcasm, “It’s not my fault none of you can match my elevated humor”
”Oh please” you sighed along with the table in a quiet laughter.
”I mean… you are obsessed with finding real love and ‘the one’ and you have a mean streak dating guys who are honestly such losers. You’re just going to end up telling all of this shit to your kids someday.”
”And you kind of got left in the altar… in a way” Hugo said, unaware of how insanely rude his comment sounded.
Amy punched her husband's chest with playful teasing, “Shut up, honey” she murmured in his ear,
”Too soon?”
”I’m Ted” Mia said slowly, as if it was the worst insult someone had given her.
“But at least he’s the main character, and he’s not that bad, he's just a hopeless romantic, nothing wrong with that” you defended, holding her hand for a second.
”Yeah, like you could’ve been Barney. Girl, you’re safe” Sonia elongated the last letter longer than she should to emphasize the importance of her message
”Sonia, you’re Barney” Hugo said, no doubt in mind.
”How the fuck I’m Barney?”
”Wasn’t there an analysis that ‘Barney on suits’ meant he was on coke” Mia pointed out.
”I don’t do coke, I just hooked with a guy who did, worst experience ever, he couldn’t get it up.” she shrugged almost remembering everything ”But I mean it does make kind of sense if you think about me not doing lots of relationships, besides I’m always the best dressed”
”So you’re Robin?” Hugo asked,
”Well, I guess” you replied, playing with the paper straw of your lemonade
”So since Barney and Robin are a couple, that means you will finally give me those PR sex toys they send you?” Sonia asked, voice casual as always as her floating rootbeer arrived.
”In your dreams” you answered back with a laugh, Amy and Hugo evidently regretting meeting you, acting as if you hadn’t given them one of those.
”Wait, I do see it” Mia paused, grabbing your wrist
”What, the dreams of Sonia using sex toys?” you retorted with a laugh.
”You being Robin” Mia continued, matter-of-factly.
“Is this because I’m a journalist? Because it’s totally different branches, you know?”
“No,” Mia said, eyes gleaming, that soft-smug, I know you better than you know yourself smile pulling at her mouth. “You’re Robin because you think you can outrun feelings.”
Sonia snapped her fingers at that. “Exactly. With all your avoidant tendencies. And you act like you dont give a fuck about anything but you’re the first to ask if anyone's okay.”
“I am not avoidant. I just don’t think love is something real and necessary for an individual's development.” you started.
The plates had barely settled when the teasing quieted into that rare, delicate stillness—the kind that happens only with friends who’ve seen you at your worst and earned the right to poke at your defenses.
Sonia swirled her dirty martini and pointed her olive skewer at you. “Anyway, the point is —you’re Robin.”
You scoffed.
“You get stubborn when feelings show up,” Amy said, as if listing a fact from your medical chart. “And you always are the first to leave the bed”
“I do not leave first, they just… take too long” you said, whispering lower, not even in embarrasment but because it was real.
All three of them groaned at the same time, “But what about the last guy?”
“The Finance guy?” Hugo objected, remembering everything Mia and you told them about him
“Harry” you corrected, the flashbacks of memories tainting your head just for a second, his lips over yours, the talks, the way you didn’t have to pretend about anything with him… not like you had to with the men you took to bed, or with strangers; but you knew Harry was different and he made you feel different, either way, those exact thoughts couldn’t condense into words, and instead you only said: “He was nice to be around”
“You wrote and I quote that was the nicest man I’ve ever fake-dated” Sonia said. “I thought for a second someone was impersonating you”
You froze. It was always Mia who could cut through your armor without raising her voice. But it had started to be a habit of your friends seeing the real you behind the mask, which meant it was the time to start reinforcing it, soldering every crack with molten silver until you were once again something they couldn’t decipher.
“Okay, but Robin wasn’t afraid of love,” you say defensively. “She just... didn’t need it.”
“Bull. Shit.” Sonia chirped, taking another sip. “She just didn’t trust it.”
“And neither do you,” Amy added softly. “Which is valid, by the way. But denying it doesn’t change anything, and the possibility still remains”
You poked at your fries like they were responsible for this intervention. “There’s no possibility for nonexistent things”
“Except, love’s not nonexistent” Hugo reminded you, giving his wife a quick high-five.
“Not for you maybe, but an exception doesn’t make the rule” you pointed with bitter sarcasm, Mia sighed, tired of hearing the same argument.
“You’re like emotionally gluten-free,” Sonia replied, although the rest of you didn’t even know where the comment came from nor where it was headed. “You say you’re fine but you bloat when feelings show up and everyone can tell.”
Amy choked on her water laughing. Mia didn’t laugh. She just looked at you in that way she had—steady, unblinking, the quiet friend truth. Then:
“It’s okay if you like someone, you know.”
Your throat tightened, but she continued, slow and certain, like a truth meant to land and stick with you:
“The world doesn’t end and you don’t become less interesting.”
The table went quiet. Even Sonia stopped stirring the ice in her glass.
Somewhere in your ribcage, something shifted. Annoyingly. Uncomfortably. A little bit like hope and a little bit like panic.
You coughed, staring very hard at the ketchup bottle. “I don’t like him. It was just momentum, biology, we got along and we are both attractive people who were drunk and clearly having some adrenaline rush.”
“A rush that lasted how long?” Sonia asked without mercy.
“Shut up,” you hissed, cheeks warming. Regretting yourself for even texting the details on the drive back to your place, you should have just ignored it, but you could never ignore your friends' messages.
Amy leaned her chin on her hand, smiling like she knew the next scene already. “You don’t have to marry him. You don’t have to pick baby names. You can just… like him. Without turning it into a crisis.”
“Also,” Sonia added, “no one said he’s your Ted. Relax. We all agreed Ted for Robin is like the worst thing in the world”
Hugo, who had been quietly fidgeting with his ring, raised a finger. “Objectively, no one besides Tracy should end up with Ted.”
“Thank you,” you breathed, relieved. “Because that ending sucks.”
“Exactly,” Mia said. “So don’t panic. This doesn’t mean you’re headed toward that. It just means someone made you feel something.”
“And that’s not the worst thing in the world,” Amy murmured. “It’s… part of being alive”
You stared at your milkshake like it held answers. Maybe it did, and that’s why just for a few seconds you began silently begging it to give you the answers to everything, like if it was a god.
Finally, you sighed. “Fine. Maybe I... enjoyed spending time with him” You pinched your fingers together. “A microscopic, medically irrelevant amount.”
Sonia gasped theatrically. “Everyone shut up, she admitted enjoying something different from alcohol or work. Write the date down. We’re all probably dead”
Mia nudged you under the table. “See? The world's still spinning.”
“Barely,” you grumbled, but a smile betrayed you.
Amy nudged her fork toward your burger. “Eat. I feel like you’re about to pass out from such a big revelation.”
You took a bite. Chewed. Avoided eye contact.
Mia squeezed your hand once more, soft and sure. “You know, even if you just like him like a friend, don’t just pretend he’s a stranger" she paused, gave a bite to her spaghetti and meatballs, “New York’s not that big and he doesn’t sound asshole-ish to me”
And damn her, but you felt it, the smallest, dangerous, sparking hum beneath your ribs. You swallowed your burger too forcefully, grabbed your milkshake, and muttered:
“If any of this leaves the table, I will fake my own death, leave a note implicating all of you and move to Saskatchewan."
Sonia opened her beer. “Very Robin of you.”
You flipped her off. But your smile didn’t fade, And for once, neither did the feeling.
When all of you finished with your food and you had already asked for the check, even when you were still sharing a side of fries, Hugo grabbed your wrist to catch your attention while you were talking about Sonia’s last presentation and her one-sided misunderstanding with the bassoon girl.
“How’s it going with the subletting thing? Do you still need help with that?” He asked,
The subletting thing. The easy thing that was supposed to never bug you again. After your aunt passed away she had left you her Tribeca apartment, a truly beautiful place with maintenance fees you could never afford under your salary. The perk of your aunt having her own niche public meant there were lots of artists interested in inhabiting her space for a few days, and that’s how you had decided to sublet it, all the money went back to the fees and you would get to hold onto it for a bit longer.
“Well, the board raised the maintenance prices and they started with a rule that in order to sublet, the owner has to live there for at least a month prior to six months of subletting.”
”Can they legally do that?” Amy asked, more to you than to your husband. Truth was you didn’t know, the limited knowledge you had of federal law came from watching Legally Blonde and Law and Order: SVU.
”If they’re a co-op, yeah,” Hugo said after a few seconds of thinking, ”Co-ops can easily fall into a grey area when it comes to it”
The waitress placed the bill over the table and you were quick to pull out your debit card over it, as you had promised, you would pay. The rest of the group left their dollars worth of tip and you went back to speaking.
”They’re pushing me to sell it. After all, they’re looking for people who can actually live there full time… but with twenty grand maintenance fees I’d have to search for another job to pay for a month. I think even now I need another job.”
”Don’t the prices rise until next year?” Amy asked, already invested.
“Yeah, but the Brooklyn apartment has a shit-ton of problems right now, I don’t know how long I can live there before I get frostbite.”
“What are you thinking about doing?” Sonia asked after.
“I’m already booked full time next week to babysit, and I think I’ll sell some shit on ebay or vinted” you confessed, almost bored at the vague options you had.
”How much do they pay you to babysit?” this time it was Mia asking.
“Transport and 60 dollars an hour” you said after a sigh
”60 dollars?” Amy almost jumped at that.
”20 extra to order ice cream, and I get to keep the change”
“They pay for your transport? Where are they located? New Jersey?” Hugo asked next.
”South Hamptons, I actually have never babysitted for them, but the woman said she heard great references from me”
”References from who?” Sonia asked, eyes narrowing.
“I didn’t ask” you confessed.
“By the way, Amy, Can you send me your recipes for like one-pan budget meals?”
“Yeah, but I think it’s better if I’m with you to help. You start working tomorrow?”
”Nope, this is my last free week”
”Come to my place then, I’ll teach you”
”Oh, can I go too?” Sonia asked, and Mia joined in asking, Amy and you ended up nodding in agreement.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
You were staring at a blank screen once again, August was about to end and the crisp air of autumn could already be felt in the air, the leaves falling down incessantly over the streets.
“Loving someone when Rent’s due” That was the title you were working on now, but you had corrected the first paragraph at least twenty times in the last hour, the current one had the spark of words but the lack of fantasy, the last one was all fantasy but confusing slang and once again you selected the hundred words and clicked the delete button.
You could clock your break and go and grab a drink before the words started stabbing your eyes, and after thinking it for longer than a minute, you turned your computer off and took your ID card before leaving the building.
Headphones on and walking as fast as you could with the last pair of low heels you hadn’t sold, the ivory sweater covering you whole as you tried avoiding as many street-interviewers as you could.
You walked up to Bluestone lane, quick to order as always, iced latte, quad-shot oat milk and vanilla, some cinnamon just to have variety, and a spiced chicken wrap.
You knew that spending twenty dollars on a “snack” was probably a bad choice, but considering that twenty dollars couldn’t buy anything else, you figured spending your money on a coffee that at least would keep you from exploding and getting in a bad mood, was worth it.
You were about to pass your car over the contactless terminal when the person behind the counter stopped you.
“Actually, your order is free” the words rang too loud in your head, for a second you thought you had heard wrong and the buzz from the music was making you mishear everything.
”What?”
”Yeah, uhm… we have this promotion, anyone who comes at… this time, their order is free”
”Oh, lucky me then” you laughed awkwardly, unsure of how to react.
You only walked to the bar area, so you could wait for your food to come out, the woman behind you in line, decided to try her luck but apparently the minute had passed and you were the only one to receive a free order.
With a soft smile you waited for the overpriced coffee and your food, walking away to cross over the engineers gate and walk through central park to arrive back to your building; just for a second you felt a familiar smell fill your lungs, you turned from your steps to see your surroundings, but there were only tourists and walking suits, you lowered your gaze once again.
From the opposite side of your view, Harry was looking, just like he had since the moment he saw you walking on the streets, something in him insisted on walking next to you, of casually bumping and initiating small-talk, but he was sure you wouldn’t be one to enjoy those sightseeings, so he made himself a promise in that very moment, if he ever saw you wearing something he had given you, he'd take it as a sign to approach you, but that morning wasn't the day.
That’s why instead, he ran as fast as his well-spent knees could allow him to, and arrived at the café before you did, he ordered his cortado and asked to cover for whatever you were to order, he went back in line to pay just when you were already far from his eyefield.
“Is she your girlfriend?” The barista asked from behind the bar, while typing quickly for the items of your order.
“No… not yet.” Harry laughed, already clicking the 15% tip button and pulling his black card. “Does she come here often?”
”Yeah, on weekdays mostly, ”
“Would it be possible for me to pay for her order from now on?”
They stood silent, looking at Harry as if they had just heard the most insane requirement ever, in their defense, it was a crazy requirement. ”Let me get my manager” was the only response.
The barista disappeared into the back, leaving Harry alone at the counter with his half-finished cortado and a pulse beating too fast in his throat.
He hadn’t meant to be impulsive, but he knew that you’d rather move to a different continent than accept him buying you coffee out of the blue.
And he sure as hell didn’t mean to sound like a man who had religiously walked to the fifth avenue almost everyday, if that meant the chances of seeing you were higher.
He just… didn’t want you paying for overpriced drinks with the tired little sigh you always gave when you heard the price of something that would completely alter your card’s balance.
The manager appeared —a woman in her mid-30s, clipboard tucked under one arm, expression politely wary.
“You want to do what, sir?” the woman asked, not fully understanding the request a man like Harry could make with the same ease he ordered dinner.
Harry straightened a little. “I’d like to cover her order. Any time she comes in.”
The manager blinked. “Every time?”
“Yes.”
“Is this, like… a stalking thing?”
“No, no, we’re friends” he sheepishly said, and the charming smile he gave was enough of an answer for the woman to trust him for a little longer.
“For… how long would you cover her expenses?”
“Until I say otherwise,” Harry replied, then added, “or until she asks me to stop.”
The manager tried very, very hard not to react. But her eyebrows twitched upward in that “ohhh it’s one of those situations” way.
“Is she aware of this arrangement?” the manager asked.
“No,” Harry admitted.
Silence filled the space, and as hard as the baristas and the manager tried to not judge, they silently did, partially because they were impressed and just a tad bit jealous.
“We can’t charge a card without the customer present,” the manager said carefully. “But… we could start a tab. We could send you the bill at the end of each week. And you’d need to describe her. We can’t just… guess.”
Harry nodded. “That’s fine.”
The manager retrieved an iPad from under the counter and handed it over. “Okay… name on the tab?”
“Harry Castillo.”
“And the limit of her orders?”
Harry hesitated. He thought of you ordering your coffee after being tired and staring into a screen. He thought of the wrap you bought today. He thought of how you rushed everywhere, always slightly frazzled, always running on caffeine and willpower.
“No limit,” he said.
The barista coughed. The manager blinked.
“Sir… you're aware this is a coffee shop.”
Harry shrugged. “Yeah, it’ll last a while.” he said, secure as always.
The manager typed it in slowly, as if making sure he wasn’t hallucinating or could back away at any moment.
“And of the customer?”
Harry exhaled, eyes flicking to the door you’d walked out of just minutes before.
“She’s about this tall—” he gestured with his hand, continuing to describe you with a foreign tenderness.
“We meant her name,” the manager said, tapping her nails over the screen.
He opened his mouth and then closed it. He finally said your name —your full name. The manager looked at him like he was either a saint or insane. Hard to tell which from her point of view.
“Alright. The tab is active,” she said. “Whenever she comes in, her total will be charged to you automatically.”
“Good,” Harry said, sliding the iPad back. Then, softer: “Thank you.”
He backed away from the counter, picked up his cortado, and didn’t drink it. Just stared at the foam turning cold.
Before leaving, the barista called out:
“You know we’re supposed to tell her, right? Like, legally.”
Harry scratched his jaw. “Right. Of course. If she asks you can tell her”
“And you want us to say… what exactly?” The barista asked this time, after making up a whole promotion and story so you didn’t get surprised.
Harry paused at the door.
“If she asks, tell her it comes from me. But only if she asks.”
And then he left back into the city’s noise.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
September arrived quicker than you expected, and despite fall being one of your favorite moments you couldn’t help but feel tired.
Everyday seemed to swallow you whole, you woke up in an apartment that seemed to be more expensive everyday, because despite the heating system getting better and you had attempted to insulate every part you could afford to insulate, your resting time didn’t get better.
You had been writing like crazy, if people were impressed at the federalist papers, that’s just because they hadn’t seen you write sleep-deprived and coffee driven on an early Thursday.
Your eyes went from an unfinished article, the one about loving when rent’s due, and travelled back to the coffee cup.
It had been two weeks of you having free coffee, food and pastries. Even when you tried doordashing it, or selecting pick-up. They never charged you, and deep down you wondered who was actually behind the ordeal.
Amy, Sonia and Mia continuously nabbed you, saying you had a secret admirer, Luna was the only voice of reason who last night, over fried dumplings and Jamaican take-out, said you should probably ask… “What if it’s a stalker?”
An e-mail notification arrived quickly:
Subject: Invitation to speak at NYU MCC Seminar — Q&A Roundtable on Contemporary Journalism and Media Studies.
I hope this email finds you well. My name is Alex Navarro, I coordinate events for NYU’s Department of Media, Culture, and Communication (MCC).
We’re hosting our annual MCC Professional Pathways Seminar for our students interested in combining a minor to their curriculum, and we would be thrilled to have you join us for a short Q&A roundtable with students. Your work as a full-time journalist at MUSE, along with your background in ANTH, aligns perfectly with the topics we’ll be discussing: contemporary journalism and the role of cultural insight in storytelling.
Details:
Date: Friday September 12th 2025
Time: 6:30 pm - 8:00pm
Location: NYU Steinhardt, MCC
Format: Moderated Q&A at a small discussion table
If you’re available, please answer this email, and I’ll send over the run-of-show and logistics.
Thank you for considering this —our students would greatly benefit from your perspective.
Warm regards,
Alex Navarro. Event Coordinator, MCC
New York University
[email protected], (646) 995-2834
You felt a rush of joy, you even gave a sheepish smile, Gabi, who you jokingly called your “work-wife” turned around from her own work to look at you, the purple logo on the email making her gasp as well.
”What happened?” she murmured,
“NYU wants me to participate at their annual seminar” you said, still not believing it.
”And? You’re going to say yes, aren’t you?”
”Yeah, I’ll just have to call Andrew,” you muttered the name quickly, noticing that Gabi in fact didn’t know who Andrew was, “Phoebe’s dad… you know, the girl I’ve been babysitting?”
”Oh, yeah, that one. I don’t think they can get mad for that”
”No, I hope not. They seem like rational people, so I just hope they don’t hold some grudge or something, their daughter is actually really sweet,”
“Well, then what are you waiting for, say yes to NYU’s email” she said the words in the same rhythm the late variety programs said yes to the dress
”That didn’t rhyme at all” you pointed out, mid-laugh
”Either way, you laughed, motherfucker” she chastised you.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
During the night you went to Amy’s place, bringing Luna so she could meet your friend group as well. Amy was talking about making some “super-simple fifteen minute” chickpea lasagna casserole when Sonia and Mia knocked on her door, joining you with wine and a cheeseboard while Hugo was still at work at some building in FiDi.
The night looked different for Harry, he was alone in his apartment, finishing an email to arrange a meeting with the owner of an ice-cream company when his cousin called.
The first time he let it go to voicemail, hands viciously typing over the black keyboard and yet his mind was elsewhere.
The second time his phone rang, he didn’t pay it any mind, turned it off with ease and went back to focus on the screen of his private office.
But as jokes always say, third time’s the charm, and the ringtone didn’t go for more than a second before he picked it up.
”By any chance do you have the contact of any other babysitter?” the man asked through the phone.
“What's wrong?” Harry wondered, leaning back in his chair.
“Nothing, but this one just told us that she’s going to have this NYU conference and it seems it’s really important for her, but it’s the same weekend Angie and I have her firm’s dinner.”
“You can bring Phoebe to my place, I can babysit”
“You? Babysitting? Harry, no offense, but you can barely keep a cactus alive”
”Well, I don’t have any suggestions. I don’t have a babysitting company if that’s what you think” Harry replied, dead-panned.
”I’m sorry, I’ll just… I’ll talk to Angie, and I’ll call you back to see what works”
”Okay, good. See you then, Andrew”
The man merely hung up on the phone, the screen got black with dread just like his insistence, and unexpectedly, Harry found himself googling “NYU future events”
Back in Amy’s way too polished and still, perfectly homely kitchen, Mia was passing you another wine glass,
”NYU invited you to a session?” Luna asked, “That’s amazing!”
”Yeah, it is… but I’m nervous, I mean there’s going to be more people there, and what if I just look like I don’t know, boring”
”You can never be boring, I could hear you talk for hours” Sonia said
You laughed sheepishly, “That’s just because you want me to give you the sex toys”
”Sex Toys?” Luna asked,
“Oh, yeah” Amy joined, “Hasn’t she told you the perk of her job?”
You sighed, “They are exaggerating… but yeah, when a company releases like a new collection they send me some to try them, I don’t have enough time to just see if the Lemon shape or the rose toy suck harder, so I just give some and hope my beautiful friends are kind enough to tell me how good they are.”
”Oh” Luna said
”Oh” Mia mimicked, “Let’s stop talking about sex for a second” she said, sipping on her wine. “Let’s talk about how Amy has a book on parenting on her coffee table”
”What?” the three of you said in unison,
“It was supposed to be a surprise!” Amy explained with a kind laugh, not even angry.
”Are you pregnant?” You asked, already excited for her, you remembered how since college she talked about wanting to have a family when she was older.
“What!? No! Do I look pregnant to you?”
“Well, you’re kind of moody” Sonia objected, rolling her eyes and sipping on her wine.
Amy raised her wooden spoon threatening Sonia, who sheepishly hid behind Luna for just a few seconds, both of them looking at each other with a smile.
“I’m not pregnant, not yet… just, Hugo and I were thinking of trying”
”You’d be an amazing mom, and you know that, he knows that” Mia said.
”Yeah, just, he read about men having to take care of themselves before getting the woman pregnant and well, he’s kind of following that rule to the book”
“Is that why he asked me for my Pilates routine?” Sonia asked
”Pilates routine?” you wondered, turning to face her completely.
Amy laughed, “Yeah”
The night went by in a blur for you, and for Harry, redacting an email to be able to finance an event of a university he didn’t even assist hadn’t ever been easier, if that meant a chance of hearing you once again, then it would’ve been worth it.
Because what had happened weeks ago for him never meant nothing, and even if you didn't want him like that, he'd try to at least get himself another chance, and only if he heard you say it, would he finally walk away.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
September 12th arrived faster than you had expected, and Mia insisted on doing your makeup, treating you to a pair of Louboutins and expensive dinner with the rest of your growing friendgroup.
Which explained why you were in the middle of her ginormous room at her loft in the Upper West Village, while she was finishing doing your eyeshadow, a sparkling-water lemonade next to you.
“So, what are you thinking is going to happen?” she asked, doing your eyes
“I have no idea, I actually don’t know who half of the other speakers are… besides Jude”
“Jude the one who said we were the worst in the whole city and threw a coffee milkshake at Amy when she found out Hugo was taken?” Mia asked, switching to the other eye.
“Yeah, that one” you licked your lips.
“What’s she up to these days?”
“I honestly have no idea, but she’s friends with Holly so I don’t think anything good”
“Have you talked to Harry?” she quickly switched topics.
“No” you said as she applied setting powder to your left cheek, opening your eyes, “Why?”
“Nothing, I just saw him at the gallery last weekend”
“Oh,”
“You really don’t like him?” she asked, not even worried about the man, but at your bad habits of trying to suppress everything no matter how much you secretly cared about it.
“Yeah, that’s why I had sex with him”
“You know better than I do, that’s not why you did it”
“Well, what do you want me to say? That actually it was nice to talk to a man whose first question isn't 'do you live alone'" you mimicked a douchey-man voice, making her laugh, then you got serious again.
"I don’t even know how to name whatever happened between us two”
“I’m not saying you have to name it, or matter of fact, you don’t even have to tell me if you figure it out. I just… I know you, and I know from the way you talked about him that it’s not just a sex thing”
“Does it matter?” you sighed
“What’s the worst case scenario, if you were to like him?”
“He doesn’t like me back, I guess”
“And I doubt that were to be true” she objected.
“But I don’t do love,”
She said your name loudly, voice soft but surgical, “That is the biggest lie you tell.”
You frowned. “It’s not a lie. I just, I function differently”
“That might be partially true,” she said immediately. “You do care, not how you think you should but—”
You felt your chest tighten, threatening to interrupt her. “Mia”
“No, listen.” She turned your face toward her fully, not letting you dodge. “You keep insisting you don’t ‘do love,’ but you’re one of the most loving people I know. You just hide it in places where you think it doesn’t count.”
You blinked, not believing for a second what she was saying. “Such as?”
“Such as,” she ticked off on her fingers, “showing up at 2 AM when Amy calls crying, even if you have a deadline the next morning. Or how you remember everyone’s favorite drink without trying. Or the way you check if Sonia made it home safe before you even unlock your door. You literally went on fake-dates in my name just so I could free myself from that”
“That’s just being considerate,” you argued weakly.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “that’s care. That’s love. You love your people with ridiculous intensity. You always have.”
You looked away, toward the window, toward anything that wasn’t the truth being pressed directly into your ribcage.
Mia sighed, softer this time. “You think not doing romance makes you safe.” Her voice dipped. “It doesn’t.”
Your throat closed a little. “I just—I don’t want to lose control.”
“There it is,” she whispered, almost relieved. “Not ‘love doesn’t exist’ not 'I don't need love' just ‘I’m terrified of what love turns me into.’”
Your eyes flicked back to hers.
Mia continued, gentler but unflinching. “You think if you start feeling something real, you’ll disappear into it. Or lose yourself. Or get hurt so badly you won’t recover.”
You swallowed.
“And because you don’t know how to love with anything other than your whole chest,” she added, “you pretend that caring isn’t your thing. But that’s fake. You feel deeply. You just compartmentalize your feelings like they’re… tax documents.”
You huffed. “Really? Tax documents?”
“I know, but it’s true, you know it,” she countered. “And listen, loving with intensity isn’t a flaw. I’m the same way you are, that’s why I know what I’m saying.”
“But you, you always fall in love even after you get heartbroken” you objected, blinking faster so the tears didn't fall and ruin the makeup.
“No one dies of a broken heart in New York” she said with a soft laugh,
Finally, you exhaled. “Even if that’s true. I don’t know how to do all that without getting swallowed.”
Mia softened immeasurably. “You won’t get swallowed. You’re too stubborn. You fight too much. You’ve survived too much.”
She brushed a stray hair from your forehead.
“And loving someone —even admitting you could like someone —doesn’t make you weak,” she said. “It just means you’re alive.”
Your voice came out smaller than you intended. “I don’t want to make my life messier”
Mia held your gaze. “You mess things up by pretending you don’t feel anything at all. You know how expensive therapists are? and at the rate you’re going… you’re needing one soon”
You laughed for a few seconds, she was always good at confronting you when needed, you closed your mouth and then opened it once again to reply, but she squeezed your hand instead, before you could say anything.
“You don’t have to call it love,” she said. “You don’t have to name anything. You just have to stop building walls and say that's who you have been your whole life”
Her thumb brushed your knuckles.
“And for the record,” she added, lifting the makeup brush again with a smirk, “the way you talked about him? The way you looked when you said his name? That wasn’t indifference. That was someone trying very hard not to notice they might actually care.”
You froze, your eyes and the soft smile drawing on your lips giving you away.
Mia grinned. “See? Terrifying, huh?”
You tried to form a sentence—anything—but all that came out was a quiet, shaky: “I don’t want to be stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” she said instantly. “You’re scared. And fear is not stupidity—it’s humanity.” Then, gently but decisively: “Just stop hiding behind cynicism. You don’t need it.”
She turned your face back toward the mirror, gave your cheek one last dusting of powder, then said:
“And for what it’s worth? Loving the way you do, if you finally let yourself? Someone is going to be very, very lucky.”
You stared at your reflection, unsure if you recognized the girl looking back. Not because of the makeup. Because for once, the armor had a crack that you weren't sure you wanted to cover again.
You pulled Mia from her shoulder, yanking her towards your direction before hugging her, resting your head on her shoulder.
“Don’t cry, I’m not redoing your lashes” she said as she felt your nose pressing softly at the nape of her neck, you laughed, your eyes opening before you nabbed your hair at her.
“I hate you” you murmured, she just held you tighter.
“I love you too”
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
The auditorium buzzed with early-semester nerves and loud voices. You walked towards your seat onstage, the lights made everything past row ten dissolve into a vague, pulsing shadow. You could barely distinguish silhouettes.
Which was exactly why you had no idea that in the last row, back against the wall, watching you with an unreadable stillness was Harry, who had a free Friday afternoon after his cousin insisted Peter and Charlotte were a better option for babysitting.
You focused on the front rows, specially on the third one, where your friends had spread out like they were attending a concert. Mia was the loudest when you finally took a seat, Sonia sent you a thumbs-up. Hugo whispered something that made Amy smack his shoulder and Luna was kindly clapping as the rest of the auditorium.
You breathed in slowly. Straightened your notes. Smiled, and before nerves could take a hold of you, picked up the water bottle they had laid in front of you to drown your emotions at the lowest parts of your belly.
The moderator began, “Welcome to MCC’s Professional Pathways Seminar. Tonight we’re discussing the intersections of media, journalism, and cultural work.”
Everyone erupted in laughter, the freshmen screaming as if they had never come to an auditorium before.
“Let’s start with introductions.” the man at the microphone said, stepping into the middle of the stage, behind the lectern.
On the opposite side from you was a Radio anchor, a podcaster, and a News Anchor, that was the only one you recognized, it was Jude, who if seeing her for years on campus wasn’t enough, now also appeared on the 5pm news of the local channel.
Jude went first —of course.
“I’m Jude Parker, anchor at NY1. Former investigations correspondent. Graduate of this very department.” Her smile suggested a plaque might be dedicated in her honor. The auditorium cheered as one cheers in front of presidents and elections, out of pure cordiality and obligation, either way, your friends didn’t and instead you could see Sonia quickly flipping her off, before Amy shut her down.
The rest of speakers took their turns, reporters and interviewers, some belonging to the soft news branches while others to the hard news counterpart. After almost ten minutes your turn finally arrived.
You introduced yourself with a smile, “I’m a full-time journalist at MUSE. I write about intimacy, relationships, and dating culture through anthropology’s influence on modern connection. Which probably means, that quote some of you tweeted a week ago, I was the one who wrote it.”
The applause was warm, just like the laughter, you noticed a few girls from the first row recognizing your work, another one even showing her friend her phone. Your friends cheered too loudly. Mia easily stole the show at that very moment.
The first few questions were softballs of routine and basics; career paths, unexpected turns, impostor syndrome, burnout, internships, workplace environment.
Each time you answered, Jude followed with a comment that was light, sugary… and pointed like a needle.
“So brave of you to talk about sex writing so openly,” “Different types of journalism serve different… needs,” “Of course, some of us cover news that impacts thousands daily,” she added casually.
You deflected when you could, with sarcasm and light-hearted jokes, it only took Amy’s laugh to turn the place into an echo of that same laughter, but even that couldn’t hide the fact that they stiffened each time. You tried not to, because in those walls there was people who could actually understand what your purpose was.
And because, after all, you were here for the students, not for her petty remarks.
A junior at the mic asked, “How do you cultivate trust when interviewing sources about personal topics like relationships or identity?”
You leaned in, the answer was one of the easiest you could think of. “By not treating people like content or views,” you said simply. “In order to earn the room’s attention you have to read where the room’s attention will be focused on. And then it’s a matter of shutting up and listening. Thinking of it as an extension of culture and not a different topic helps.”
Students nodded, a few teachers who had taught you that philosophy were nodding proudly in the back, pens scribbled and cameras flashed, and you could swear you could even hear some “Oh” and “Ah” from the audience.
Harry tried to remain stoic, and failed, he wanted to clap every time he heard you talk, he remembered back in the car, that was in his terms, the most interesting conversation he had ever had, you were always honest about the topics you investigated, and he could hear it now in your voice, you somehow seemed to be speaking in a different language to him, one that wasn’t coded in numbers but in emotions and sentiments, and no matter how dumb he felt for not understanding what “HRAF cross-cultural methodologies” meant.
Jude crossed her legs, ankle bouncing when the audience nodded at your answer, because how could the audience do that? they had to admit that her use of journalistic abilities was just better.
“Yes, although that’s much easier in soft-coverage fields,” she said breezily. “Hard news requires a different level of fact-checking and urgency…”
You inhaled. You exhaled. You didn’t respond. No one had asked for her opinion and yet, there she was, speaking too many words and saying nothing of importance.
A few students exchanged looks. Mia glared with pure hatred and rage, and you were already making mental bets on how fast she’d be to run onstage and slap her face.
Instead you kept your expression serene, just for a few more minutes.
The woman next to you, an entertainment journalist, only turned to see you with a pained expression that clearly said, “Can someone shut her up already?” you only accompanied her sentiment.
“Let’s shift to the role of interdisciplinary backgrounds—” The moderator announced, adjusting his glasses,
Jude interrupted with a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.
“I just think it’s interesting,” she said, “that anthropology is being used for… dating advice? I always imagined ethnography for fieldwork, not for… ‘five ways to text your crush.’”
A thin ripple of awkward amusement moved through the auditorium.
Your spine stayed straight.
“I imagine anthropology should be used wherever culture exists,” you replied softly. “Which includes relationships.”
The moderator nodded in agreement.
Jude’s smile tightened and Mia could swear she could see her eyes twitching, and that was enough to keep her on her seat just for a bit longer.
Thankfully, that was the last unasked for intervention of Jude, and before you knew it, you were sent off with a thundering applause and photos, a small trophy and a mug was given to all of you as a gift.
And that was when you saw it, engraved on the backside of the mug: Holly Lee, MUSE
You wanted the earth to swallow you whole.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
When you walked back into the dressing room they had assigned you so the team could remove the wires and microphones you were surprised to see a bouquet, peonies, orchids, alstroemerias, calla lilies… It was one of the most beautiful and biggest bouquets you had ever received in your entire life.
Which meant it was more expensive than any gift you’ve ever received but you couldn’t help but think that your participation was secondary, probably because Holly was away in some paid partnership. Were the flowers also aimed at her? It seemed like it, it must’ve been so.
There was an empty card on top of the bouquet, no sign of who could have possibly left it. Meant to be neutral, perhaps an apology after the mug they gave you was branded with a name you despised.
Nothing like that bouquet could ever be aimed at you, because you weren’t one to receive expensive flowers inside dressing rooms, that was only reserved for romantics and believers, you were none.
But it was a really pretty bouquet, and since you wouldn’t be able to keep the mug that was clearly not aimed at you, at least the flowers could suffice.
There were three loud knocks at the door, prevailing even with the rumbling echoes of laughter and loud chattering.
You dried your eyes from tears with a kleenex trying to keep the makeup intact, and then you walked towards the door, the red-sole heels clattering against the soft floor.
The handle had pressure over it and you were unable to open it for a second, you stepped back, the handle continued to move side to side until it stopped dryly. Your hand extended almost involuntarily to grab it once again, the metal handle opened easily, you took a deep breath but when meeting with the dim-light hallway.
There was no one. You stepped outside, seeing both of the sides, only a staff member was walking towards the opposite direction, you were about to walk back inside when Mia ambushed you from behind, hugging you and clapping as the rest of them cheered with enthusiasm.
You felt the man staring at you which led you to look into his direction just for a second, but his gaze was already far away, you only blinked, as if trying to commit to memory the mysterious figure… Could it be? No, why would he?
When suspicion died in the back of your mind, you looked back and laughed with the rest of your friends, just before you went back inside to grab the mug and your bouquet.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Mia decided to treat you to The Corner Store after Hugo and Amy apologized because they had to leave early, Saturday was a big day for them, first time in the morning they’d be going to the gynecologist and going to the doctor’s office meant she had to fast 12 hours prior, and that meant Hugo would join her in the preparations, as he always did.
Sonia, Luna, Mia and you got seated in a booth. First thing you ordered were a round of martinis, Espresso for you, Tomato for Sonia, Chamomile for Luna and for Mia the Sour cream and Onion.
She insisted on covering for whatever the three of you wanted, which made Luna joke how Mia was treating you all better than any man could ever… which was true, until you remembered your “secret coffee admirer” who had kept buying you coffee for almost a month and a half, the reason still unknown.
But that didn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter, it could have been a fan, or an old friend.
“Okay, so we’ll get the pizza rolls, the artichoke dip, four lobster and caviar rolls, the oysters, classic fries and the sauces” Mia said, still staring at the menu sheet.
“And for entrees, the mignon, french dip and the caesar as well” Sonia interrupted
The waiter stared at all of you for just a second, as if he was incapable of understanding that you had been starving for the last two hours of the session. “Anything else?”
“Oh yeah, could we also get the Samoa sundae?” Mia asked, the real thing you were there for.
“Sure thing” the waiter said before disappearing into thin air.
“Okay, so now, what really matters… you were incredible” Mia began complimenting you.
“You told me that already”
“But you seem off now, so what happened”
“I don’t think I was the first option, the custom mug they gave each of us didn’t have my name”
“What?” Sonia asked.
“It says Holly. Then they sent flowers to my dressing room as if that could make it any better”
“Flowers? No one received flowers besides you, wasn’t changing the mug’s name easier?” Luna added.
“I don’t know,” you said in a reverberating chuckle. playing with the rim of the martini glass
“Well Fuck NYU!” Sonia said before sipping on her martini, “I have just the plan to cure your mood… Let’s go to a club after this”
“I’m too old for that already” Luna confessed, “And I have an audition tomorrow”
“Oh wow, where?” Mia asked,
“The city’s philharmonic” the woman replied sheepishly, as if it was a long-time secret she wasn’t ready to confess just yet.
“Oh my God! Congratulations!” Mia began
“That’s amazing, I’m sure you’re going to be incredible” You continued,
“They’re going to love you so much! You’re going to impress those lame-ass bitches” Sonia said, sipping her martini once again.
“Didn’t you date a saxophonist from there?” Luna asked, remembering
“Yeah, but I was ready to give a first step for once and she just told me no, claimed she needed to ‘protect her peace’ and ghosted me”
“That’s fucked up” Mia said,
“That’s dating” Sonia objected.
“You really like doing it? Like despite it ending up like that?” you asked,
“Yeah, I mean not all relationships end in despair. It’s risky but if you end up like that, that’s just how you know that wasn’t the right one” Luna explained, as the fries and sauces got served along the pizza rolls.
“And how do you know the right one?” you asked, picking a fry and dipping it in the avocado ranch, because according to the menu the other dips might contain mustard.
“Aren’t you the anthropologist?” Sonia asked in a playful jab, finishing her tomato martini.
“Yeah, but if you asked me I’d tell you that the ‘right one’ doesn’t even exist… your brain just picks someone because of sight and smell and it tells you like ‘yeah that’s the one I want to reproduce with´ and then five years later you’re with lawyers fighting for the house and the kids.” you explained, cynic as always.
“Maybe, but that also applies with friends, there's a risk when befriending someone, years later they might switch up and call you a dumb-head slut behind your back.” Sonia said deadpanned, biting a fry.
So why do I take that risk in friendships but not in relationships?
“Who called you a dumb-head slut?” Luna asked, surprised at the words.
“My old roomie, but now she’s living in Iowa with her mom and I’m a pianist at Broadway. So I’m the real winner here”
“Okay, Miss Broadway Baby!” Mia laughed, picking up a pizza roll and dripping hot honey over it.
You hated yourself for that twang of jealousy that bloomed inside of your chest, that feeling of unconformity, of wanting to do something else, because you could be better, but you weren’t passionate to do something better, you had studied what you loved, but then what you loved stopped being what you worked on, and your friends were successful women who could have all, the job, the passion and the money.
And they could also get love.
You found the dangling charm of the necklace you were wearing, silently you played with it over and over, until the table in front of you was full of different dishes and embossed white polished plates.
The dinner went by with tranquility, soft chattering about everything and spiraling into nothing until every word you said turned into some deadpan punchline out of an out-of-print 2000s magazine, every jab and joke just another consequence of the vodka, and in your case, the tiredness came from the espresso shot in the martini.
“The french dip is amazing” Mia pointed out.
“Yeah? Does it have a lot of mustard?” you asked, wanting to try it, but knowing that it might give you a night of pain, so you had avoided it the same way you avoided the dressing salad and the in-house dip.
“We forgot to ask about the mustard allergy”
“It’s fine, I forgot it as well. Besides, it’s just a stomachache, not anaphylaxis. I’ll be fine”
“Maybe if you just add jus and not the sauce there’s not a lot of mustard there. What else could have mustard? The salad?”
“I still think you should get rechecked” Sonia objected, filling her plate with another piece of brisket.
“No, it’s fine, it tastes good and you enjoy it like this, I'm a minority here and it’s not that bad, I swear” you said, already dipping the sandwich piece in the brown beef juice.
The taste of mustard hit you first and foremost, and for a second you regretted everything, but you ended up biting it over and over as if trying to find some other taste to fixate your palette in, you felt your stomach sinking when the food finally hit.
“I think the bread already has mustard in it” you murmured, picking up the martini glass to drown the taste with the bittersweet coffee. “But it was a hell of a good bite,” you said in a laugh.
Then the sundae came, once the plates were empty, and they were once again cheering you up for an accomplishment that you felt undeserving of…
There was that saying, after all, wasn’t it? Two musicians, an art-curator, and a columnist all walk into a bar, and the one who writes about love for a living is the one who knows the least about it.
The night went by, and suddenly the bill was paid and everyone had left back home. You walked up to the closest subway station there was, the busy streets flooded with city lights while your mouth was still dry, a consequence of the aftertaste of vodka, which at the same time, functioned to warm up your body and refresh your mind.
You sat in the dustied seats, the one in the corner so you could enjoy the views and the silence, the flowers were over your lap, your hands covering them as if you were cradling them, and perhaps it was the alcohol in your system, or the fact the lights dimmed on the tunnel, or maybe it was the fact there was only an old couple seats away from you, that for just a tiny second, a tear fell down your cheek into a petal.
And when you pulled out your cellphone so you can scroll your sadness away, you got a notification of your gallery app,
Exploring Hudson Valley, there was a photo you had taken to send your friends, and then it shifted into a photo of the sunset you didn’t remember taking, and then it shifted into a screenshot of what a leg lengthening surgery entailed, and finally it shifted into a picture you hadn’t taken, the camera quality was even better than yours.
You were asleep, hugging your own hand to the side, a soft smile in your face and through the side mirror, there was Harry, phone in hand during a red light.
You clicked on the notifications, and then you met yourself with at least fifty pictures of that night, you couldn’t even remember half of those, you had been dazed and drunk and there was a video, one you hadn’t taken.
You clicked on it, took an earbud from your coat and placed it over your ear, Charlotte’s voice over the chorus of Can’t take my eyes off you, Harry and you were in the center of the video, your hands caressing his stubbled beard. You barely remembered doing that, but the video couldn’t lie. Harry’s hands were on your waist as he was leading the dance and trying not to lose his balance.
You scolded yourself for smiling, for remembering the night and not feeling as if it was a mere transactionary deal.
You arrived at your destination, stepped away from the subway doors and walked upstairs, and just for a second you went back to check the last message you sent to him, he was online, you turned the phone off.
You continued walking, just kept walking, you picked up a daisy from the bouquet, picking the petals in a steady rhythm.
”Should I call him?” you murmured to yourself, already picking at the white petal of the flower.
Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes.
You threw the stem at a trashcan, took a deep breath and began telling yourself the thousand existent reasons why you should never call him again, but of course, you didn’t know about the one reason why you should call him again.
Because he missed you, and deep down, you missed him too.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
October met you with the promise of everything changing, the air felt colder and the sun shone duller, the wind grew stronger twisting the branches of the naked trees from left to right since the evening occurred.
Everyone and their mother was trying hard not to succumb to the seasonal depression, the post-wedding depression and the fading process of the honeymoon phase… which meant, every single person in New York was trying hard to find someone they could match with so they could spend Halloween together.
And unfortunately, your friends were also victims of the seasonal awareness that October brought.
Sonia caved in and called her ex, Aubrey. When that didn’t work she called Theo, after he didn’t pick up, she tried calling Sam, and just like that… Sonia had a busy Friday to look forward to.
Mia, although sworn to celibacy after the wedding disaster, continued talking with the teacher, swearing they were trying to “take things slow”
Luna wasn’t trying to find a match, yet, the rigorous training that came with a chair at the philharmonic was rough to maintain, and every Friday after practice she arrived to her department drained, but claiming over and over how “worth it” everything was.
And somehow, the only friends you could hang with were Hugo and Amy. But becoming the third wheel of a couple that was preparing to become parents was awkward, more so when they had spent their entire free time reading “How to be a good parent 101” and they tried to apply their learnings onto your life.
And that’s how you ended up working 9 to 5 with ease, after it picking up the train and getting to the Hamptons, making dinner for Phoebe, playing a movie, talking about her day, memorizing her entire collection of plushies and remembering which Barbie had invisible powers and which one could turn everything into glitter.
During the late nights of insomnia you had succumbed to many passions you had once forgotten, you tuned in the old ukulele you swore you would learn to play —you couldn’t play it still, but at least you knew now how to play something else besides riptide.
You tried baking, even when half of the pastries ended up burnt, and the good ones ended up auctioned to your group-chat to see who could arrive quicker at your place.
You took more pictures of old-gifts your parents sent you for Christmas, they didn’t know half of the things you liked or disliked, or the size you wore, or anything about you since you moved to New York, they called of course, but they never visited you, and matter of fact, if they were ever in the city you were sure they might not even remember the sound of your laughter, because they had never heard it before.
You uploaded the pictures to every site you could think of, depop, vinted, ebay, etsy, facebook marketplace… whichever got you more dollars was the one to get the clothes, then in the morning you’d arrive at the post office during your lunch-breaks, after you picked up your free coffee, a small habit that you had begun appreciating even more every day.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
You weren’t superstitious, or more likely, you tried to dismantle your superstitions. But you couldn’t deny that moving into your aunt’s apartment on October 13th didn’t seem like a cruel omen, not only because of the date, but because it was a Monday, and Mondays meant board meetings and tight schedules, getting coffee with enough espresso shots that a cow could be knocked out for days, but at least that meant you’d be too high on the adrenaline and the caffeine to type at least 3,000 words per day for the rest of the week.
But there were a list of issues, once again you were working on a tight deadline, because Holly forgot telling the Eros team that the magazine issue would be Halloween themed, so you had to dispose of your article “10 ways to rekindle after a strong disagreement” which was once again the same things you wrote about half of the time: try a new position, schedule date nights every other week, leave a surprise note in the fridge.
Now it was titled, “5 spooky ways to heat up the bedroom” which was basically different roleplay scenarios couples could pretend to be for the night. You didn’t hate it at all, because the original article wasn't your favorite either, your original idea got discarded as soon as you suggested it to the editor, who at the same time was only following Holly's orders.
The document, “The myth of sexual confidence: how to feel yourself in your own skin” lingered untouched with the hundreds of disapproved topics you wanted to talk about.
But then, there was an issue Gabi pointed out when the details about content arrived to all of you through an email you didn’t even bother opening.
“Don’t you think it’s weird?” she asked, opening a kitkat bar.
“What’s weird?” you asked, sipping on your coffee, eyes fixed on the screen trying to figure out which one was sexier for a roleplay… royalty or primal.
“The tail of the email, since when does Holly use oxford commas?” Gaby sounded totally caught off-guard, as if she had just seen a ghost.
“Maybe she finally opened a book” joined a guy from the marketing area, equally done with the section chief as all of you.
“Let me see” you murmured towards your partner, opening up the email with the click of the mouse.
You skimmed through it, and then, it was worse than what you thought.
Oxford commas, em dashes… use of latin words that you hadn’t read since etymologies.
“Labyrinthine? This is the same woman who sent us a list of social media trends to use when writing, are we sure she even wrote this?”
“Have you gotten to the tail?” Gabi asked, exasperated that you were taking so long.
“No, give me a second” you mumbled, still unable to understand how she could afford to use Labyrinthine twice.
You finally arrived at the end of the excruciating and painfully odd-written email.
Without further ado [insert your name here]
“Is this supposed to be a joke?” you asked, shocked and to be fair, angry, because that was the woman who was supposed to go in your place at the NYU talk, and the one who had earned her ‘deserved’ spot in the company.
“Maybe she wrote it with like a bot or something,”
“And that’s supposed to be better?” you asked with a loud huff, “She’s the first one to critique any type of writing and now she’s using this shit? Can’t we just gather signs and make her leave?”
She looked at you for just a second, Gabi had worked longer than you, since she graduated from community college and came as an intern, and despite your best efforts to try and know everything, she always remembered clearer than you. “We actually could, but we need proof”
“The email should be enough proof!”
“HR is a pain in the ass, they’ll start saying it’s personal inquiries”
“Of course they will. So what? We just wait?”
“Yeah, we just wait”
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
The last tenant had left the department three days ago, and yet, when you entered, the place seemed intact.
Which could only mean two things in your experience of subletting an apartment, they fucked or they broke something.
Turns out it was the latter option, you found the vinyl player with a broken needle and a burnt cable, but as soon as you picked your phone to report it through the app so the price could be paid, you discovered that the tenant had already blocked you or deleted his profile.
Fucking dickhead!
You walked with the few belongings you knew you’d actually use and unlocked the private bedroom, the one that actually belonged to your aunt, you threw the small bag at the small couch opposed to the chair and then you decided to fall, head first, into the mattress, praying that the flowered sheets could just drown you into sleep, but as always your brain was hyper aware, and before you knew it you were in the living room, cleaning.
Mia knew even before that you went to the apartment from time to time to clean it before new guests got the chance to inhabit it, so you knew that this time it wouldn’t be different than before.
The whole group met up for drinks at Nancy Whiskey Pub. You talked about everything and nothing at all, like always, except this time you mentioned the Holly situation and filled Amy and Hugo into the NYU situation they hadn’t known about, you also filled Luna in on the apartment situation and then you talked, once again, about the never-ending MUSE situation.
But the chatter died quickly, with everyone concluding that you should probably just seek a different job, but somehow you couldn’t, you hoped for a miracle so you could publish what you really wanted to publish, hoping that every unfinished document on the computer could be read someday.
I’d love to read the real stuff, Harry’s words echoed through your skull ending up as a mere echo of the music reverberating against glass.
This time, Sonia was the first to leave, she had matinee shows to attend, Hugo and Amy caved in second, they still had work to do on Tuesday, “a big audience” and by that it meant an actual audience for Hugo, and for Amy an interview with People’s magazine, and Luna had her presentations.
Mia stuck with you like glue. Both of you left the bar at the closing hour, she walked you home despite it being less than a five-minute walk, she insisted the streets were busy and with your current state you’d get lost, you knew it was an excuse so both of you could spend your midnights talking drunk nonsense, but it didn’t matter.
You invited her to walk in, and as soon as you knew it, you were opening a five-dollar screw-top wine and mixing it with a zero sprite, because apparently the alcohol you had drank before wasn’t enough.
You asked her about the guy she was seeing, then the topic shifted into why boobs always hurt once you take off the bra, then it was about guys who say “pint” instead of “glass” are more pretentious than Irish, the bodega cat from the corner of her apartment was just baptized as “Takis”, she had been invited to a seminar of art curation in LA during the weekend, and you told her how the coffee thing continued happening.
“Don’t you think it’s him?” she asked, already putting her glass inside the dishwasher.
“Who? Harry?”
She nodded, persistent and completely believing her own theory.
“Pff. Why would it be him?” you deflected, staring at the blurry reflection of your face against the glass.
“Oh, I don’t know, why wouldn’t it be him?” she said sarcastically.
You stuck to drinking, and quickly changed the topic, thankfully she got sobered up quickly and left before you could stop asking all the questions haunting your head.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
You never actually believed that days went by quicker when you lived closer to everything, and as much as you wanted to disdain that theory, living in an apartment that was fifteen minutes from your office was better than taking almost an hour and a half each morning.
Work had been as easy as it could be, neither Gaby nor you had spoken about the “Holly situation” as you decided to name it, but you could already hear people in the hallways talk about it, whether it be interns or writers from both, the Eros section and the rest of them all.
It was the first Friday in a few weeks when you didn’t have to take care of Phoebe, and despite missing her company, you could also thank every atom to give you a weekend you could actually get out and try to be social.
You visited a jazz club on sixth avenue that some girls were talking about during lunch break, you sat on the bar and as soon as you skimmed through the menu, you realized that all the options were non-alcoholic, and as much as you wanted to tell yourself that you didn’t need alcohol for a good night-out, you couldn’t deny that you wanted to dance and unfortunately for you, sometimes a good beverage could make you lose your feet at the rhythm of the sax.
You ordered a non-alcoholic wine nevertheless, and hoped for the placebo to kick in.
The band stepped onto the stage to play some good old swing, and soon enough every couple flooded the dance floor
You remained stoic, already closing your tab, you were sure that there wasn’t any way you could actually afford to order another non-alcoholic wine for double the price of an alcoholic topscrew.
“Is this seat taken?” The voice was warm, pleasant in that well-trained way that made you often wonder if you were still in New York or in some fancy old-hollywood movie.
The guy had brown hair, a few highlights, glasses and a septum piercing, skin still red.
“No,” you answered, trying to match his casualty. “Go ahead.”
He slid onto the stool, smoothing his jacket. Up close, he was… actually charming. Nice jawline, soft laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, a calm presence that didn’t immediately scream danger or desperation.
“What’d you get?” he asked, nodding at your glass.
“Wine,” you said, raising the glass. “Well, wine without the wine.”
He chuckled, a real one, not forced. “Wow, bold choice I guess”
“Well, if you’re optimistic enough it tastes like a chianti,” you said despite only drinking chianti once not many weeks ago. “or maybe I’m just delusional .”
“Well, either way, you make it look… classy” He wasn’t leering or pushy, just smooth. Confident enough to pull it off.
You found yourself relaxing a little. Talking. He was quick-witted, attentive without hovering, and he kept glancing toward the stage like he actually liked jazz, not just the idea of liking jazz.
“You don’t dance?” he asked, nodding at the twirling couples.
“Not without liquid courage.”
“Then you’re missing out,” he said. “Dancing’s easier when you stop caring how you look.”
You laughed. “That sounds like something only good dancers say.”
“I’m terrible,” he admitted with a grin. “But enthusiastic. Makes up for a lot.”
It was nice. Comfortable. A conversation that felt like it could go somewhere, even if “somewhere” was just thirty minutes of pleasant banter in a dimly lit bar.
Then, subtle, like a hand sliding onto your shoulder without warning, the shift began.
“You know,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “I’m glad I came tonight. Would’ve missed meeting you.”
The words inside the compliment were mere words, polished and pretty and meant to sound good but you couldn’t help thinking how they sounded so precise. Like he’d picked them from a drawer, hidden them once again, and reused them as an old high school speech.
“Oh?” you said, keeping your tone neutral, despite your mind racing to create suppositions.
“Yeah,” he said. “There’s something about you. You’re… warm.” His eyes lingered on your face longer than they should’ve, his smile overstaying its welcome. “Rare to meet someone who feels like you had met them already.”
Your spine tightened. You hadn’t told him anything personal. You’d barely exchanged names. How could he claim he knew you? There were few people that truly knew you, and whichever bookish line he tried to pull of, you were afraid to tell him how it wouldn’t work on someone who was written them for years.
He kept talking. Too close, too soft, as if the room was suddenly intimate instead of crowded. But what was meant to be “romantic” started to feel rehearsed.
“We don’t have to stay here,” he murmured. “We could go somewhere quieter.”
You blinked, you tried to quiet the impulse of your face muscles making a disgusted face, you couldn’t. “Quieter?”
“Your place,” he said with a confident half-smile. Has that line ever worked? “You could make something simple. Pasta? I don’t mind helping.”
You stared at him. “You want me to cook for you?”
He shrugged like it was a cute joke. “I mean… it’d be nice.”
The charm was gone now. No, worse. It had never existed in the first place, for a second you thought you could talk to a man that could actually engage in a conversation without trying to get in between your thighs with such an obvious matter, but no, he was just another man searching for a way to get his dick wet.
And maybe if he hadn’t been so obvious you would’ve allowed a one-night pass, hoping that the sex wasn’t near as bad as their pick-up lines. But you knew that the guy in front of you was a lost case.
“What’s your name?” you asked, because suddenly it felt necessary to at least know who you were talking with.
He smiled like he was giving you a gift. “Rick. Rick Cross.”
The name slammed into you. Rick. Cross.
The tenant who’d stayed in your apartment and broke the needle from the vinyl player, who burnt the cable, who blocked you before you could report damages and the one you had called a “fucking dickhead” out loud in an empty room.
So even now, the universe couldn’t stop pulling at the strings of life to entertain herself.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you whispered.
Rick’s eyes sharpened in recognition. He tried to cover it with a shrug. “Oh. I think I know why you seemed so familiar”
“You broke my vinyl player”
He gave a soft, low laugh. “It was already, well, you know. Fragile.”
“You owe me money. It was a vintage piece, you have any idea how difficult it’ll be to repair it?”
He leaned closer—too close now, smile turning sly. “I can’t really know how bad the damage was unless I see it again. At your place. Tonight.”
There it was, that creepy smile and tone and voice, that indicated that the only thing the guy was searching for was a place to let his dick stretch, and unfortunately that place wasn't at yours. And for once you were grateful for your impulsiveness.
And before he could react your palm met his cheekbone. A crisp crack split the music, and several dancers froze mid-step. Rick jerked back, stunned, his cheek already reddening.
“You’re insane,” he hissed quietly.
“What?” you said, grabbing your bag and standing, “You’re the one who cheated on me with my sister! How could you?”
You walked away, letting him linger under the heat of the lights and the warm press of bodies dancing, everyone and their partner looking at the man with belittlement and curiosity, no matter how many times he tried to say that it wasn’t true, no person actually believed him, and despite losing your money you could at least be sure he’d pay another price.
And that was why stepping into the cold night air didn’t feel as bad.
You should’ve picked a cab, or at least the bus, but the heat of the moment still clung to your skin like a long-lasting cologne, and for a few minutes you thought maybe you could just walk around the city.
The “walking around” part lasted less than five minutes, when you quickly found a small bar on the corner, your feet walked towards the glass entrance before your mind debated if it was the right thing to do. It didn’t matter anymore, you were already at the bar, ordering a vodka diet coke, after you figured it would take less time than a perfect manhattan.
The couple in the back had spent the last ten minutes rendering the worst cover of Fleetwood Mac known to earth, but liquid courage indeed gave them some kind of delusional passion you almost envied. You snorted into your drink, scoffing at the guy saying how much he loves his girlfriend after singing The Chain.
The bartender, a girl maybe a year or two younger than you with heavy eyeliner and a ponytail that had lost the will to live, heard you, and turned around to look at you.
“They won’t break the chain but at least they’re breaking some eardrums tonight” you said, drink held high.
The woman laughed resourceful, “They’re breaking records” she said with sarcasm,
“Oh, yeah, maybe when someone finally makes the Razzie's version of the Grammys… we’ll see them there” you joked and she laughed even louder.
You had been the first client in the whole night that hadn’t tried hitting on her, at first she thought that women were kinder that way, but after several encounters with girls who wanted to date a woman after their heartbreak, she had completely given up on humanity.
“You want another of that? It’s on the house” she offered, already pulling the towel over her shoulder.
“Sure” you muttered, because maybe saying what you really wanted would make you come off as unkind.
“Cool, I’ll be right back”
You had finished your drink before she returned, you checked the tag-name in her shirt, Andy. When she came back, pouring the top-shelf vodka over the coke, she finally decided to ask. “Rough date?”
You let out a dry, humorless laugh, agreeing was easier than explaining whatever shithole you had just ran from. “You have absolutely no idea.”
“Yeah, the dating scene sucks,” she said with conviction, pouring your drink.
You barked another laugh. “Yeah, it fucking does.”
The karaoke couple launched into a bridge so off-key you nearly felt it in your blood. You rested your head briefly on your arms, laughing into the hardwood.
“What I wouldn’t give,” you murmured, “for one night going out drinking without some dude trying to get in my bed… even before, at least they tried taking you to their place, now that’s not even an option.”
“Want me to throw a coaster at that dude who keeps looking at your ass?” Andy whispered conspiratorially.
You perked up. “Which?”
She jerked her chin subtly toward a random guy by the dartboard, as soon as you caught him, he only smiled, blowing a kiss in your direction, and you turned around back to the blonde, a tired glinter in your eyes.
You groaned. “They don’t even try to hide it anymore, subtle flirting is becoming a dying art.”
“A dead art,” she corrected. “Buried six feet under with chivalry and straight men who actually think with their head and not the one on top of their dick."
You lifted your glass as if toasting for something good. “May they rest in peace.”
The vodka hit quickly —too quickly— but the relief was warm and fizzy and made the room feel less like the aftermath of a douchebag’s stupidity and more like a mediocre sit-com montage, and just for a second you thought that you might as well had been Robin, because as soon as everyone was happy and got a couple everything you had left to stand for was yourself and your job, and no one cared about shit like that.
You talked to Andy between her rounds, she said she was the owner of the place, about the old dudes that come in wanting to talk to the manager and shit their pants after she says she’s the boss, about her shitty ex girlfriend who called her homophobic after she said her djing skills weren’t good, you talked about Phoebe, about the article you were supposed to finish tomorrow but absolutely wouldn’t and about working at a job that everyone consumed and yet, everyone diminished.
“They’re the first ones to share those quirky phrases on their profiles, but as soon as they meet who wrote them, they act like we’re the weaker specimen from the journalistic chain” you complained and just for that, she poured you a vodka shot that you inhaled in less than a second.
At some point, between the sixth song massacre and your fourth drink, your limbs started to loosen, your words blurred around the edges, and a soft, velvety tiredness wrapped around you like a scarf.
“You good?” Andy asked after a few seconds, her tone shifting from playful to assessing.
“Great,” you murmured, head resting against the wall. “Just… resting my eyes.”
Then your eyes closed for longer than five seconds.
“Oh, honey,” she sighed. “No napping. I’m not good curing hangovers.”
You tried to lift your head. Failed.
Somewhere in the background, someone was shouting the wrong verse of “Don’t Stop Believin’.” five keys higher than what it was supposed to sound like.
You felt a gentle tap on your arm.
“Stay put” she coaxed you, “I’ll get you some food”
You forced yourself upright, blinking hard. The lights were too bright. Your stomach too empty and the room didn’t stop spinning and you reminded yourself why you only drank vodka when three other people were involved in the plan.
But then, the other bartender placed a glass in front of you, your eyes opened to meet the small drink.
A manhattan, you could almost recognize it from the pure smell, although the cherry garnish was also an obvious signal of it all.
You frowned at it.
“I didn’t order this,” you muttered, voice thick.
“I did.”
You froze.
Because that voice, that excruciatingly low, warm, slightly tired, slightly amused voice, lived somewhere in the part of your brain you pretended didn’t exist anymore, in some quiet part where you could pretend you didn’t even recognize it anymore, even when there wasn’t a day gone by where some small phrase hadn’t slivered through the remnants of the absurd day-by-day.
You turned to see him, trying to hide the smile on your face and totally failing.
Harry was standing there, dark coat over his left arm. Tie loose. Hair slightly messy like he’d been running his hand through it for the last forty minutes, the salt and pepper in his mustache and stubble. He looked like he’d been laughing, pupils slightly blown from the drinking, but the second his eyes landed on you, they shone brighter. Or maybe they sharpened. Or maybe both of those things happened at the same time.
“Hey,” he said simply.
You blinked at him, half-astonished, half unbelieving. You thought that after that awkward goodbye you’d never see him again. “What are you… how did you?”
He sat on the empty stool beside you, giving you a second to adjust, as if he knew you needed it.
“My office’s like two streets away, remember?,” he said, nodding toward the direction of the skyscrapers outside. “Team drinks. End of week. Saw you when I walked in.”
You stared, still foggy. “You… saw me?”
He nodded. “I wasn’t sure it was you at first, you look different since the last time.” He lied, he had seen you plenty of times before, never approaching, but tonight he finally did, because he had made himself a promise.
“But then” his gaze dropped to your shoes “you made it pretty obvious.”
You followed his gaze, over your black pair of tights you were wearing the Jimmy Choos he had given you. The ones that had been sitting in your closet ever since the wedding, because you hadn’t had a chance of wearing them again. You’d slipped them on tonight without thinking —because they were pretty, because you liked them, because they made you feel as if you could still deserve something nice despite being who you were.
“Oh,” you breathed, half-laughing, half-mortified. “Right. These.”
Harry’s lips twitched, a barely-there smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Hard to miss,” he said quietly.
You swallowed. The room spun, not drunkenly this time, but in the way the world does when something significant is happening and your brain hasn’t caught up yet.
You didn’t know he’d stood by the door for almost a minute when he saw you standing there. You didn’t know he’d told himself weeks ago that he wouldn’t talk to you again unless fate handed him a sign. And you didn’t know that the sign had arrived tonight in the form of glittering Jimmy Choo's resting against a bar foot-rail sticky with spilled beer.
Before any of you could add anything, Andy came back from the kitchen, “Okay, so the chef already left but I can make something for you… and you” she got suspicious looking at Harry.
But looking at your small smile she nodded, and decided to not ask many questions, “Right, right, uhm so it’s either beer-battered pigs in blankets, which are really good or onion rings, your choice”
“Onion rings sound good,” you said with a soft smile.
“Just make sure you use maybe a different fryer, she’s allergic to mustard seeds” Harry added, and you turned to look at him.
Andy thanked him for saying so and you continued to stare at him, because how did he remember that?
“You remembered my allergy?” you asked, picking the manhattan with ease,
“Easy on the alcohol” he muttered
You sighed, “Oh please, don’t tell me what to do”
“Fine then, chug the whole Jameson bottle” he joked.
“You’re not fun” you said, finishing with the last drops of the drink and picking up the cherry from the bottom of the glass, “But honestly, why did you remember?”
“Maybe because for a minute I thought you’d end up dead, and then I thought, 'well this will surely ruin the wedding' and then I thought of standing up and screaming ‘Is there any doctor in here?’ and hope for the best”
You bit the maraschino cherry and played with the stem for a few seconds, “I could’ve faked an anaphylaxis, you know? you could’ve just said so” you said with a fake laugh.
“Well, I guess we’ll have to wait for the next wedding to try that one,” he said with a smile, his eyes completely staring at yours.
“Have you ever heard the thing about the cherry stems?” you asked, changing the topic before you ended up telling him how weirdly comforting it felt that someone remembered something so banal from you.
He turned his head from side to side, despite knowing damn well what the trick entailed.
“That if you tie a knot on a cherry stem that means you’re a good kisser” you said, staring at the small red stem.
“And, is that true?” he asked, fingers grazing the glazed wood of the bar
“I don’t know, I’ve never actually tried it” you confessed, staring at the bottles arranged on the side-wall, even in their reflection you could see Harry’s eyes fixed over you.
His brows arched, the corners of his mouth curving. “Oh? And you call yourself a journalist. No curiosity?”
You rolled the cherry stem between your teeth, debating in giving it a try or asking him to try it although you already knew he was a really good kisser. “Not everything needs to be researched. Some things can stay hypothetical.”
“Hm.” He leaned his cheek against his fist, eyes still seeking for yours, you turned to look at him as well, he continued talking, voice slurred threatening to become a whisper. “That sounds like something someone says when they know the answer.”
You snorted, mimicking his posture, elbow over the stool, head against your hand. “I bed you’d love to know, wouldn’t you?” you asked, eyes narrowing, trying to focus better on his expression.
“Maybe,” he replied, eyes warm. “Depends on the answer.”
You took the stem inside of your mouth, cheeks warming when feeling his gaze so sternly aware over every microexpression, not with the hungry eyes other people gave you he was merely attentive. Not looking away even once.
You opened your mouth, letting the tip of your tongue, with the knot cherry stem peek, you picked it up with your free hand and showed it to him.
“So, that proves the theory right, doesn’t it?” He asked, taking the small knickknack in between his fingers.
Your eyes opened at his open flirtation but you could only laugh in response, wondering why it didn’t make you uncomfortable.
Andy dropped the onion rings between you. “Different fryer. No mustard contamination,” she said, throwing Harry a grateful look before disappearing.
You reached for one, and your hand—already a victim of the poor coordination skills alcohol brought, bumped the plate. Harry caught the onion ring mid-fall, before placing it over the top of the basket.
“Careful” he muttered,
“You want any?” you asked, moving the plate closer to his side,
“No, you eat” he insisted, pushing the basket closer to your side
You began eating, while he just watched you quietly, occasionally sipping onto what you thought at first was vodka, but noticing the small bubbles on the surface, you deduced it was actually club soda.
His shoulders relaxed, tie loose like he belonged in this dim little bar and not inside an office with chairs more expensive than the whole top-notch shelf.
“So,” he said lightly, “Am I driving you home tonight?”
Your stomach cinched, that was actually an offer you could take, you were too drunk to actually stay awake in the subway, and you didn’t want to spend your whole night trying to catch the correct line and stepping out in the correct station.
“That’d be nice” you replied, already cleaning your oil covered fingers with a napkin on the side.
“So… Brooklyn” he said, already grabbing her phone to find the time you sent him your address.
“Actually… no,” you mumbled.
Harry blinked. “…No?”
“I’m not staying in Brooklyn.” you confessed.
His brows knit, confusion flickering over his expression. “Did something happen? With the apartment?”
You exhaled, long and annoyed, mostly at the situation, partly at the universe, a little at him for asking so gently.
“No. Nothing dramatic.” You paused, “But you remember my aunt?”
“The sparkling water and wine one?” he asked, even such details he remembered.
“Yeah, that one” you agreed, “Uhm, she passed away a few years ago, I inherited her apartment in Tribeca, I don’t usually stay there, the maintenance fees are too high for my salary...” you began overexplaining, because for a second you felt that he couldn’t understand what that was like, and fairly, he didn’t.
He inhabited a world where money came and went with the wind, market’s stocks, value and worth were just complicated jargon. But he saw the anxiety hidden in your eyes, and the way your breath faltered in between words, and knew that it was difficult for you.
He didn’t interrupt.
“It’s just—” you sighed. “The board made this stupid rule. If I want to keep subletting it, I have to live there for at least a month before they allow six more months of subletting.”
Harry nodded slowly. “So you’re back there temporarily.”
“Exactly.” You took a deep breath, trying to not explode. “It’s expensive… but it’s what I have to do if I don’t want to lose it. ”
Something softened in his gaze when hearing you speak, not condescending or pitying, but something else that reminded you that he was actually listening to everything you were saying. Since the moment you met him, Harry always listened like you weren’t an inconvenience, or a talk he wanted to rush and spare the details from just to get to the climax part of getting into bed. He listened like he actually wanted every small detail.
And you couldn’t deny how that scared you, but with vodka’s inhibition, you couldn’t care any less.
“Tribeca, then,” he said simply.
“Okay, let me close my tab then,” you raised your hand trying to get the attention of someone.
“Your drink is already paid for.”
You scoffed for a second, a soft smile, trying to get him to back away, still not understanding that not every little gift was a way to pity you. “Harry.”
“Your tab's closed already.”
“Thank you, but you didn’t have to do that.” you said, flustered and at the same time, slightly scared of how real it was.
He chuckled. “Didn’t ‘have to.’ But my entire office is here, and I’m already paying for everyone’s tab.” He motioned toward a group of very drunk economists who were attempting karaoke near the dartboard. “One more won’t destabilize me.”
You huffed. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“I’m not.” he laughed and you stared at him with a disapproving glare, his laugh only grew louder. “I’m really not!” he insisted
“You definitely are.” you murmured, already standing, careful not to fall.
He tilted his head, a slow smile breaking, eyes never leaving yours.
“…Is it working?” he asked quietly,
“No.” you said, trying to sound genuine. But you knew It was working, not that you’d ever admit it.
You grabbed your bag with a wobble you hoped looked less obvious than it felt. Harry was behind you in an instant—not touching, he never tried hovering you, instead he was just near enough that your body registered the proximity and adjusted without you noticing.
“Car’s a few streets up,” he murmured. “You okay with walking?”
“Unless you want to carry me,” you teased, though it sounded more like a mutter that your brain didn’t have the courtesy of registering.
He huffed a laugh. “I don’t think you’d let me.”
He wasn’t wrong, but you wished he had taken your word for granted.
You stepped out onto the street, the cold air hitting your skin like an unexpected truth. He fell into step beside you, matching your pace, shortening his strides without making it obvious, and of course, walking on the outer side of the pavement while you walked in the inner, you remembered how many times you complained about that rule being stupid and yet, now it didn’t seem as stupid as before. Or maybe it was stupid, but it didn’t matter because it was equally thoughtful, even comforting and you hated that it made your chest warm.
Everything felt like a dreamy haze, the lights shone bright, the sounds were louder and the city seemed to adopt another kind of haze that only alcohol allowed to reveal. You turned to look at him, trying hard not to focus on the fact his leg was limping once again, because you knew now the reason behind that.
“You ever think,” you said after a moment, “that Manhattan feels different when you’re a little drunk?”
Harry glanced sideways. “Everything looks different when you’re a drunk.”
“Right,” you deadpanned. “How didn’t I think about that, you should call scientists, discovery of the century over here. You’d make millions with those wise words”
“That one’s free. You can quote me in your next article.”
“I’d rather not,” you muttered.
He laughed with ease, you could almost see how the echo of it reverberated through his ribs, and you deflected back your eyes because you knew you were staring at his chest.
You tried not to react to it, or think back into the night months ago where you tried to make it seem as if “nothing happened” and ended up changing everything trying to deny it.
You walked another block, heels clicking against the pavement, his coat brushing your arm occasionally. It was quiet, despite the many allegations of New York being the city that never sleeps, the world seemed to be shut down for the moment.
After a minute, he spoke again. “You really did do great, you know.”
You weren’t sure what he was talking about, “At… what?” You blinked.
“The seminar.” he said, matter-of-factly.
Your steps slowed a fraction. “How do you know about that?”
He shrugged, clearly noticing he just gave himself away but trying to keep his tone overly casual to save face. “Someone mentioned it online. I think.”
You squinted. “Uh-huh. Online?” you echoed, voice careful.
“Yeah,” he said smoothly. Too smoothly. “Also, well, we have some NYU interns. So corporate sponsorship stuff like the flowers come across my desk once or twice.”
You stopped walking, just for half-a second, because suddenly everything had ceased to exist. The flowers, How did he know about the flowers?
“Harry,” you said slowly, voice soft around the edges, “I didn’t tell anyone about the bouquet.”
He turned, brows knitting with the exact amount of polite confusion a good liar practices in the mirror.
“You didn’t?” he asked.
“No. I thought they came from the university, but no one else received them”
“Oh.” A beat. “Weird.”
You stared at him, just enough so you could notice the barely-twitch that haunted his lips just for the tiniest of moments.
“Harry,” you said again, quieter this time, “was that… you?”
He blinked, once, still silent, because he wasn't sure how you'd react, then he blinked once again, licking his lips before talking and his voice, normally unbothered and suave, dipped into something almost boyish.
“What makes you think that?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Your terrible poker face.”
He scoffed, looking forward again. “My poker face is excellent.”
“It’s excellently awful maybe.”
That made him laugh, head tipping back slightly —and if you weren’t drunk, you would’ve realized right then that he wasn’t denying it.
Not really.
He slid his hands into his coat pockets. “They looked nice, though, right?”
Your breath hitched.
You didn't know he handpicked every flower, spent hours at the store and probably annoyed the florist —who either way never complained and received the biggest tip she could ever imagine, when trying to help him choose which flowers were prettier, better, would fit your personality more, what they symbolized… not that he’d let you know that, although his admiration for you wasn’t a well kept secret either way.
“They were really beautiful,” you admitted, voice barely above the hum of the street.
Harry nodded once. “Good.”
You swallowed, pulse tripping. You wanted to ask why he had done it, you wanted to ask if he was the one paying for your coffee as well, but the answer poked at a place in your chest you weren’t ready to open yet. Because you tried to hide the fact that you did care and worse than that, that you already knew the answer.
So instead, you said nothing and you were glad he didn’t push.
You turned the corner toward a quieter street, lamp posts casting warm halos on the sidewalk. His car came into view, the familiar black Mercedes, you couldn’t help but stare at the passenger seat’s tire, the same one that got messed up and led to the hotel staying which led to sex which led to… whatever was happening after it.
He went ahead and opened your door.
“And before you argue again,” he said softly, “I’m driving you. Let me.”
You should’ve argued, or said something witty in an attempt to regain the emotional upper hand, but you didn’t want to fight, not with him.
“I wasn’t arguing” you said instead with a small chuckle, slipping inside the car before he shut the door gently behind you.
When he got in on the driver’s side, he didn’t start the engine right away. He just looked over you, your shoes, your flushed alcoholic cheeks, your hands fidgeting with the strap of your bag.
And then he turned the key. The soft hum of the engine filled the quiet, and as he pulled out onto the street, your chest tightened around a single, unwelcome truth:
You weren’t afraid of the drive. You weren’t afraid of feeling something besides disdain.
You were afraid of it being over and him going back to being a stranger, because as much as you tried dismantling it, you knew that he and you couldn’t just go back to being nothing.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
“You know… we never actually met to plan the breakup.” you said, already staring at the busy streets.
His brows pulled together as he kept his eyes on the road. “Our fake breakup?”
“Yeah,” you muttered, staring out the window. “We kind of… skipped that part.”
Harry hummed a soft acknowledgment. “Do you want to plan it now?”
You snorted, rolling your head toward him. “Right now? In your car? Drunk?”
He glanced over, amused. “I mean, we’re here. Unless you want a board meeting”
You scoffed and turned to look at him with a broken chuckle, silence drifted for a beat before you spoke again, quieter.
“I don’t even know what the breakup should even look like,” you admitted. “I mean… that depends on the kind of man you are.”
He flicked his eyes toward you, interested.
“So what kind of man am I?” Harry asked.
You studied him. Really studied him. His relaxed shoulders, the steady driving, the way he didn’t fidget or fill silence with noise. The way he never pushed you, even when he could. The way he looked at you like he’d already memorized the parts of your face you tried to hide.
You inhaled slowly.
“I don’t think you’d break up with me over something small,” you said finally. “I don’t think you’re the type to get annoyed and storm out.”
His jaw ticked —not in offense, but because you were right.
“So it’d have to be something big,” you continued, eyes fixed on him. “If I was a gold digger or something.”
Harry didn’t flinch. “I don’t care about money.”
“Right,” you muttered, smirking faintly. “Mr. Philanthropy.”
He turned to stare at you deadpan, like you were the most ridiculous person alive, and sometimes you thought you wear, but for him, you were the most interesting person that existed, and he actually believed he would never stop knowing more about you.
“You know that’s not what that means.” he objected, trying to defend his position.
“It’s what it sounds like,” you countered.
“It’s not,” he said firmly.
You opened your mouth to tease him more, but then you quieted. Because you’d hit the limit of small talk, and something inside you, the honest reckless part that arrived with being drunk, wanted to say something true.
“I can only think of two reasons then,” you said slowly.
“For what?” he whispered
“For our breakup” The word our hit the air heavy. Like something you should’ve never said that casually.
Harry swallowed. Subtly. Quietly. But you saw it.
“What two reasons?” he asked, voice low.
You looked down at your hands, then back at him.
“Either I cheated…” you said, already aware of how uncomfortable those words sounded
His knuckles tightened just barely on the wheel.
“…or I fell out of love. But...” you finished.
The silence thick enough it could suffocate both of you for the rest of the ride, and yet, outside, the city blurred by like it didn’t want to intrude in whatever discovery you were about to make.
Harry’s throat bobbed. “But?”
You turned your head and met his eyes —really met them— and it almost knocked the air out of you. Because he wasn’t pretending not to look. He wasn’t pretending not to care. He looked at you like your words mattered, and you didn’t want to be a pretender anymore but somehow that was the only thing you could afford to be.
“But,” you said softly, “I can’t think of a reason why someone would actually fall out of love with you"
“I can think of plenty of reasons. There has to be something really bad with me” He insisted with overly-coverted self-deprecation.
“I disagree” you muttered, and he turned to look at you. And for the first time, Harry Castillo —the man who had everything, couldn’t deny that those two words alone were the only thing that he had ever wanted to hear, and you said them so easily that he couldn’t help but believe them.
Harry slowed at a yellow light, glancing at you with that same quiet focus you’d become painfully aware of.
“I don't get one thing” he said softly. “Why are you the one to blame in our hypothetical breakup narrative?”
You chewed at the inside of your cheek. “It’s just more realistic that way.”
“For who?” he pressed. “For you?”
“For everyone,” you corrected. “Normal people get attached because of the sex. They think it means they're starting something. For me it’s just—” you exhaled. “—physical. Easier. Cleaner.”
Harry’s brow tightened, but he stayed silent.
“And when someone start expecting more after it,” you continued, “I shut down. I detach. I turn everything off. Because I don’t… know how to stay for anything else.”
He watched the road, but his voice came quiet,
“That doesn’t make you the 'bad one'.” he insisted, eyes flickering from the road to you,
“It makes me the common denominator.” you said, still afraid to meet his gaze, afraid of him seeing you.
“That's not how it works" He defended.
“Doesn't matter, it's the same thing.”
“No,” he said simply. “It’s not.”
You huffed, annoyed at how easily he dismantled things you’d used as armor for years.
“Either way,” you said, staring out the window. “If we were coming up with a breakup story, it’d be me. Obviously. I’d get distant or cold or, whatever. And you’d be smart to walk away.”
Harry turned his head, studying you in profile.
“What exactly are you using to justify this theory,” he murmured.
Your breath caught.
“What everyone says, and well, the Hotel night” you said, voice thinner than before. “does prove my point, doesn’t it?”
He didn’t blink.
“What point is that, exactly?”
“That I’m good in theory,” you muttered, “but when things get real? When someone starts actually wanting something from me? I disappear. I shut myself down. Like I did with you.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“And you think that’s what happened? That you shut down because you didn’t care about anything after the sex?”
“I don’t know,” you said defensively. “Maybe. The memory’s—blurred.”
Harry’s fingers stiffened around the wheel.
“You think we slept together?”
You stiffened, “…yeah,” you admitted, barely audible. “Don’t you?”
Harry inhaled sharply, then pulled into an empty stretch of curb and parked, because he had to actually see you for what he was about to say. “We didn’t,” he said gently.
Your stomach dropped. “What?”
“We didn’t have sex,” he repeated.
You stared at him, blinking, disbelieving, because if you hadn't had sex, then that meant you didn't shut off after the sex, you just ran away because you were afraid.
“But—my dress was off.”
“You took it off,” he said. “You kept saying you didn’t want to ruin the silk. You wouldn’t stop ranting about it costing more than your rent.”
Your cheeks burned.
“And your suit—”
“I took that off because you kept rolling around and I thought you were cold, so I tried covering you with it,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “But you —uh— kept kicking it off.”
Your lips parted in horror.
“Oh my god,” you whispered. “Then how—why—”
“You fell asleep,” he said softly. “Right after we kissed. You said it wasn’t right, I didn’t push. But yeah, nothing happened.”
The heat in your face climbed straight to your forehead, so when you were telling him how the night had meant nothing, he didn’t think you were talking about the sex, he thought you were talking about the whole evening, and when you went back to pretend to be the couple of the year that’s why he had looked so uncertain… you had been giving him mixed signals all along.
You groaned, burying your face in your hands, “This is so embarrassing.”
Harry’s voice dipped, warm and low:
“It’s not embarrassing.”
You peeked at him through your fingers, eyes narrow, unsure of what to say, or if you should say anything at all.
“You dreamt about me,” Harry said,
“…are we really doing this?” you murmured
He grinned helplessly. “I mean— I’m flattered, if anything.”
“I— that’s not—” You stopped yourself, moving to meet his eyes, but you couldn't, so you tried covering your face again.
Harry chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm, almost disarming.
“So,” he asked softly, “is that still your justification? That you're the problem because you think you pushed me away after something that didn’t even happen?”
You froze, your voice came out small and faintly broken,
“…I still shut down. That part was real.”
“Yeah,” he admitted, “that part was real.”
Your chest tightened.
“But,” he added, “you didn’t ruin anything. Not then. Not now.”
You looked at him, startled by the certainty in his tone.
“Whatever story you’ve been telling yourself,” he continued, “the one where you’re too closed off, too avoidant, too much of a flight risk,” He paused and held your gaze, you would’ve wished for him to hold your face and kiss you and then you hated yourself for letting that image flood your mind. “That’s not what I see”
Your breath caught. “What do you see?” you whispered.
He smiled slow, warm, steady, as if he had been waiting for that question all along.
“I saw you” he confessed, as if seeing you was the easiest thing someone could do, as if you were actually visible and people could understand you.
Your pulse thrummed loud in your ears.
“And for the record,” he said softly, “that’s not something you break up with someone for.”
Your heart was in your throat.
“Then what would you break up with someone for?” you asked, voice barely steady.
His eyes flicked to your mouth, barely, then they travelled back to your eyes.
“Nothing you’ve done,” he murmured.
You looked away, terrified by the weight of that.
“So,” Harry said quietly, breaking the silence but not the tension, “want to finish planning this terrible breakup?”
Your lips parted.
“No,” you said. “I want the night to end without me humiliating myself further.”
He smiled softly.
“Too late.”
You hit his arm and he laughed, and you felt it in your chest and the space fell back into a comfortable silence just before he started the engine once again.
He cut in, eyes glinting, “Was it good?”
Your face snapped toward him so fast the seatbelt tugged against your shoulder. “Excuse me?” you asked, as if you were offended.
His smirk curled impossibly slowly.
“The dream,” he clarified innocently. “Was it good?”
You nearly choked. “I’m not... I, That is absolutely none of your business.”
“Sounds like a yes to me” He joked with a hint of mischief.
“Sounds like you want me to open the door and tuck-and-roll out of this moving car.”
He barked a laugh —genuine, warm, the kind that curved into his shoulders, you missed that sound. When he looked at you again, his eyes weren’t sharp anymore. They were soft. Curious. A little undone.
“It’s just funny,” he murmured. “You spent half the ride talking about how emotionally unavailable you are… and now I find out you dreamt about me.”
More than once you'd add, except he didn't have to know about that just yet.
You scoffed. “Oh my God, can you drop it?”
“I’m just trying to understand,” he teased, tapping a finger on the wheel. “In the dream… did I at least behave?”
“Harry.”
He grinned wider. “What? Did I treat you nicely? Did I ruin your life? Was I… enthusiastic?”
“That’s enough,” you said, resisting the urge to cover your face. “I’m not telling you anything.”
“I figured,” he said, eyes flicking over you. “Avoidant types don’t disclose their dream material easily.”
You kicked the back of his seat lightly. “Do not profile me.”
“I already did,” he said. “You dreamt about me and then assumed you were the problem. ”
You glared at him so intensely he laughed again.
But underneath it, there was something else —something tender, wanting and real all at once that you didn't how to hold it with your bare hands without tainting it.
He slowed in front of your aunt’s building, headlights washing over the elegant stone.
He put the car in park but didn’t move to kill the engine yet.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he unbuckled his seatbelt.
“I’m walking you in,” he said, not asking.
You opened the door, the cool October air sobering your nerves.
Harry walked beside you, hands in his pockets, breathing out small clouds of warmth.
On the steps, you paused.
“So…” he said. “About the breakup story.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Yeah. I don’t think explaining a breakup is any good.”
“No,” he agreed. “The story sucks.”
“Terrible,” you said.
“You give terrible motives.” He insisted,
“You too.”
He smiled at that. And then: “Do you still like making deals?”
Your brows lifted, “…depends on what the deal entails.”
His tongue pressed briefly against his cheek before he spoke.
“Double date.” He paused. “Well—fake date in our case. Technically.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Peter and Charlotte?”
He nodded, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah. They insisted it was important.”
“And you told them…?”
“Nothing yet,” he swallowed. “But if you don’t want to go, I’ll tell them we broke up. No explanations given.”
You stared at him, waiting.
He met your gaze fully this time — no teasing, no jokes, just something open and earnest that made your ribs tighten.
“If you do want to go,” he said quietly, “name your part of the deal.”
Your lips parted.
“My part?”
He nodded once.
“Whatever makes it fair for you. Whatever makes you comfortable. I’ll take it.”
The night held still between you —the streetlamp humming, the city buzzing somewhere far below, and Harry looking at you like your answer mattered in a way he wasn’t ready to voice yet.
You inhaled once, slow, trying to maintain the voice of reason in the back of your head and then deciding that you didn’t want to be reasonable, and for the first time all night, you didn’t deflect.
You stepped one fraction closer.
“…and what exactly do you think I’m going to ask for, Harry?”
His smile was small, crooked, devastating.
“One million dollars” He said with a smile.
You laughed, because you knew from the sound of his voice that he also knew you wouldn’t ask that, truth be told, you weren’t sure if you wanted anything at all. “Wrong, but don’t give me ideas,” you said with a soft chuckle.
“So, what do you want?” Harry asked, already waiting for your answer.
That we can do whatever this means again. “I honestly don’t know, ask me again after the fake date”
“I usually don’t make deferred-terms deals”
“So am I going to be your first lost deal? Wow, should I be honored”
“I said usually. You’ll be my first exception”
“Then I’m definitely honored”
“I’ll take you shopping again”
“You still think I can’t dress myself, I think I made quite a good job today” You said, twirling in the black dress with little light blue polka dots you had picked, the black tights and the heels.
“I still don’t think you should stress about what to wear to a fake-date with someone like me," he defended himself, "and to clear things up I think you look beautiful with anything. Just let me treat you right”
“Or without anything” you muttered, once again, alcohol making it’s way to make you lose any type of inhibition.
Harry resorted to just stare at you, debating if he should laugh or simply step away.
“I’m so sorry, I’m just very drunk” You clarified with a laugh.
“I never doubted that” Harry said, raising his eyebrows as if they could point out your obvious current state.
“And here I thought the drive had sobered me up” you continued to rant
“I meant the other thing” Oh, Oh.
You smiled just for a second, but before you could answer with an even worse euphemism, you refrained yourself and gave a step towards him, grabbing his hand.
“Then I guess we’ve just made another deal” you said, making his fingers close around yours while you shook his hand with playful demeanor.
“Will you send me the details?” you asked.
“Yeah,” he said with a similar smile drawn on his lips.
“Okay then, good night Harry. It was nice to find you again”
“I agree”
You walked over the small stone stairs to finally open the door towards the lobby, but you stopped yourself and turned back towards him, his brown eyes shining with the moonlight glare, looking at you as if you were brighter than the moon above the city.
None of you said anything else, and that said more than any word or action ever could.
summary: you don’t believe in love, you just write about it convincingly enough to get paid for it. You agreed to go on these blind dates instead of your heartbroken friend and for the column content and free dinners, never expecting anyone to see through it. But then Harry does, and instead of walking away, he makes you another deal.
previous I masterlist I next
wc: 17.4K
chapter warnings: alcohol consumption, mentions of cheating, suggestive sexual themes, ANGST, drunk driving, car accidents, mentions of death, the worst type of avoidant attachment, light smut?, I swear they will have a happy ending.
a/n: I'm so so sorry because I'm so inconsistent updating this and then I feel like it's underwhelming (impostor syndrome who?) but either way, thanks to everyone who has read/interacted/enjoyed this, you have no idea how dear your words are to me :') and nothing, I hope I can write more this next weeks and hopefully finish this before NYD. love u <3
Five drinks later Harry was barely able to stay on his feet, and although a part of you couldn’t deny that seeing him try to continue dancing for your enjoyment was making you laugh and enjoy yourself, you knew he had to rest —and honestly so should you, dancing and jumping in heels you hadn’t broken out were starting to get you blisters and pain.
Trying to leave the circle of people dancing was difficult, even more when he had to lean on you just to not fold in half —you couldn’t blame him because it was you, after all, who had fetched him drink after drink in a quiet attempt to inhibit his senses and make him stop thinking for a second about the pretending, and the wedding and his family and his ex getting married and looking happy doing so.
It might’ve been immoral to wish misery onto a freshly-wed couple, but you had never been considered the fairest of the damned city, and neither was Harry. You had also never been one to enjoy tequila shots and yet, there you were on the side of the bar, doing a round with him just for fun's sake.
“To not being in love” you murmured over the music, your lips close enough to his ear so only he could hear you.
Then the edge of the glass closed over your lips, both of you looking at each other, then he passed you a lemon wedge and you licked the salt from your palm, he mimicked the same actions as both of you drowned in laughter.
To your luck, alcoholism worked, and Harry had never been so relaxed and easy-going in his whole life, euphoric like he had never been since college frat parties. You were sure you could even suggest him selling his soul and he’d do it gladly.
To your luck, it also made Harry forget about his small promise to ”keep flirting to a minimum” which explained why he had spent the last hour of the wedding subtly flirting with you, dancing with you and smiling like a little kid seeing presents under a christmas tree.
You were sitting alone at your table moments later, Harry still drunk next to you while Charlotte and Peter were still at the center, dancing to the beat of Miley Cyrus’s Party in the USA
”I know what you want” He said suddenly, voice steady enough for you to understand him through the sound of music.
”Really?” you asked, getting just a little closer to understand better what he was about to say, rolling your eyes just for a second.
“Really” he insisted, coherently smug as he was most of the time.
You nodded with an eye-roll, licked your lips just for a second before finding his eyes once again, voice low enough so the conversation remained between you two only, making sure no other voices could dissolve yours. ”What do I want?”
”You want someone who can give you comfort” he said, as if it was the simplest thing one human could offer to another.
You chuckled enthusiastically, turned your face from his but then ended up facing him again, trying to steady your face and voice. ”Really?” voice an incredulous whisper.
“Really” he said back, words full of the certainty only a man who has never lost any deal can possess.
”And who could that someone be?” you played into his game, getting closer to him, your eyes falling to his lips and to the soft stub beneath them and then back into his eyes.
”Well, me” the shift in his voice was subtle, his expression full of confidence cracked just slightly to let a hint of sincerity show.
”You?” the question left your mouth with a soft chuckle.
“Yeah; You want money? I can give you money. You want… respect? I can give it. Care, friendship, admiration… anything you want”
”Love?”
You had never seen in your life the phrase someone sobered up be brought to life with the raw edge Harry’s eyes had, when you mentioned the single word that every living person feared just as much as they feared death, perhaps because of how definitive it was.
”I thought you didn’t want that” he answered, skirmish as he could afford to appear after too many drinks, how could he keep forming coherent sentences? not even god could know.
”I don’t” you said back in all honesty. You actually didn’t, life was good enough with the emotional connections you had built, and romantic love was too big of a problem and too messy of an outcome to deal with.
But Harry didn’t understand why you asked for the very thing you insisted in not desiring, ”So?”
“It’s hypothetical” you said, voice turning into a squeak. You coughed once trying to bring it back to normal, then twice, acting as if the alcohol had dried up your throat. ”So, could you give that?”
There was silence then, he was smiling with that smugness that he carried around everywhere to give him strength, to shield him. You chuckled at the silence, unaware of the answer he was about to give you, you didn’t notice how his lips quivered in anticipation of his voice fluttering from his throat, if only you had let him talk.
”You have a unique way of flirting” you said sheepishly, playing with the folded napkin that was still laid in front of you, trying to not seem obvious when steering the conversation away.
“Do I?” he said, staring at the cutlery and empty dishes before meeting your eyes again.
”You make it sound like a business deal” you murmured
”I thought you liked deals” he said, his eyes doing an almost imperceptible eyeroll, his voice laced with just a tad bit of sarcasm.
”I do,” you pointed back.
”Then?”
”Nothing” you said, looking back, not even sure why you had mentioned it in the first place. ”Just wanted to point it out”
”Your voice pitches higher every time you lie”
You huffed, “No, it doesn’t” you said with your voice pitching almost into a whisper, that’s when you noticed he was right. No one had ever told you so, maybe people hadn't so they could see you beyond yourself. But Harry did.
”When did you notice?” you asked, voice steadier.
”I’m not sure, I think in the boutique” he replied, playing with the emerald ring adorning his thumb
”Hmm” you nodded, laying back into the chair, your head falling onto your elbow, resting quietly as you kept staring at him.
”You look really good in that dress” he pointed out, suddenly and blunt, like a matter of fact.
You chuckled, “I didn’t know you were one of those flirty drunks”
”I’m not drunk” he replied, eyes flinching with fake hurting.
”You could barely stand” you said with a laugh,
”Because I’m tired” once again, that matter-of-factly tone adorning his words.
”You drank like two bottles of tequila” you factually answered.
”I have high tolerance”
”Right” you nodded, not believing for the slightest of seconds in what he was saying, you turned away, glancing back at the dance floor.
”When do you want us to leave?” he asked, voice dilluded amidst the crowd
“After the cake?" you suggested, "I overheard Charlotte saying it’s from the same place they got their wedding one and now I’m curious. Was it good?”
“Yeah, it was good…”
He was looking at you like you were the only light in the place, you were staring at the dance floor, at the rest of people having fun while Harry and you were half-wasted sitting.
You turned to look at him, you were about to ask him something, something that you had forgotten already when you noticed how he was looking at you, with the same glint in his eyes that he had in the car, the kind of gaze you could melt into gladly, a brown similar to the oceans under sunset light before sirens sung at pirates to end their lives and they gladly obliged if that meant the last face they’d remember was the one of the creatures.
”Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked lightly,
He was laid against the chair's backrest, arms hanging from his sides, face completely and utterly focused on you, the tiniest of smiles over his lips.
“Like what?” he asked, pretending to be oblivious.
”Like this is real” you said, not even thinking of the words before they left your mouth.
”It 's not?” he asked, almost offended.
”You know the answer” you said, almost giving up on the banter.
”Do I?” he said, attempting to push your buttons, which was to be honest an easy task.
“Stop with the backfire questions. It’s getting annoying” you didn't even attempt rewriting the phrase into something kinder. You knew of your tendency of letting impulse win to deflect what you truly felt.
Harry merely nodded, not fighting back what you said and you were afraid of even turning to look at him, tell him you’re sorry and you don’t truly mean it, but it’s too late to fix your mistakes. It was always too small of an apology, too late to even dare to name it after the action was done.
”I heard what you said outside” Harry settled for saying, you raised your gaze to look at him once again, confussion never suited you well but you couldn't help but feel even embarrased that he had heard your confessions.
”What did you hear?” you asked, as if knowing could reverse it.
”Everything”
You nodded, tried to hide the flickering light over your pupils by looking away, suddenly the lights and the shadows had turned interesting.
”Was that a lie?” Harry asked, his finger back to playing with the ring.
”Which part?” you asked, well aware everything you said to Sophie was true.
“The part about the love you’ve known”
“No, that’s true”
”And the part of love being simple?”
You huffed, the eternal debate once again making itself present, you tried searching for the right words. “Simple yes, easy no”
Harry shrugged for a second, feeling the slightest bittersweet déjà vu, then everything went to silence, he went back to his drink and you remained emotionless facing the crowd at the center, still dancing under the disco ball.
”What’s the difference?” he asked then, confused as ever.
You exhaled slowly not finding enough correct words to answer his quest, turning around just to meet a pair of confused brown eyes, awaiting for an answer. “Simple to feel. To recognize. But then love turns into a relationship, romantic love in a relationship? that’s the hard part, where it dies, that if it had ever been alive, of course.”
Harry hummed, almost to himself, he gave a kind chuckle as a smirk drew in the left side of his face and he repeatedly nodded his head, the imaginary dominoes in his mind started to fall into place. “Makes sense. That’s why I don’t do it.”
Your head tilted, curiosity sparking. “You never said why.”
His jaw flexed once, and perhaps the excess of alcohol in his system, and the way you were looking at him as an unreadable foreign force helped him to make his mind and start talking. “I hate losing control. Love… it makes me feel like I’m a kid again. Weak. Foolish. Waiting for someone to tell me I’m enough. I can’t stand it.”
You studied him, the edges of his confidence softening in a way you weren’t used to seeing, not in him and of course, not in any man you had ever met.
Then, without meaning to, you spoke, as if trying to find a reason as good as his, because his disbelief in love came from a true fear of it, yours? yours came from superstitions turned into beliefs and eventually into a horrid religion you practiced rigorously without meaning to.
“I don’t do it because I decided a long time ago it wasn’t for me, it just doesn’t exist in my life. You remember what I said in the car, about my phase back in high school?” You asked, turned to look at him, he nodded, not even understanding, “Pulled a Five of Cups with my friends during a sleepover when we started asking about love-lives and that shit… which means basically I’m impossible to love.” you said with a chuckle, although it truly left your throat as a backfire response from your system to not let you cry. “No prom date. My parent's got divorced after both of them caught the other cheating and I figured I wouldn't let that happen to me. And honestly, I’m good. Life’s good. I don't need a partner to be happy. ”
For a long moment, the air sat heavy between you, both truths hanging there. His gaze searched yours, gentler than it had been all night, like he hadn’t expected you to say it out loud but you had lost the embarrassment to confess your bitter truths somewhere between your first one-night stand and the wedding you were sitting into.
And then you smiled, easing the weight of everything you had just confessed, maybe the fact you wouldn’t see him again made it easier to say everything you hadn’t dared to say all at once. You laughed to yourself just for a moment before he joined you as well. “So we’re both drunk-honests?” you asked
That made him smile—really smile, a smile that soon turned into a chuckle that rumbled through his chest. “Yeah,” he said, clinking his glass lightly against yours. “Drunk-honests.”
You both laughed, maybe louder than the joke deserved, the alcohol making everything feel lighter, easier.
Harry shook his head, still smiling. “You’re going to regret telling me that tomorrow.”
”You’ll be too drunk to remember,” you said with a chuckle, turning to find his eyes, “But if you do, you’re going to regret saying you feel like a twelve-year-old when you fall in love.”
“Maybe I do already.”
The DJ shifted into Sweet Caroline, the damned song that sent you back to high-school prom, drinking fruit punch as you talked with your ‘forever-single’ friends, you remembered how all of them were married now; and then your mind spiraled into a halloween party in Mia’s house on your first year in college, the first ‘one-night stand’ you had which happened in a bathroom with a stolen condom from her parents drawer that fitted to big in the guy’s dick, which he blamed then into why he couldn’t make you cum; and finally it sent you to your aunt’s last voicemail, the song playing faintly in the background since she always played the vinyl religiously every other day for the sake of feeling young, and now the damned song accompanied you as background noise as you quietly stared at the crowd dancing and jumping although you were truly observing Harry from your peripheral and how he bobbed his head to the rhythm of the drums.
You jabbed your feet to caress the side of his leg, trying to catch his attention as the music turned louder and the screams began to appear even more. “Dance with me.” you said with all your might
His brow arched as he finished his own glass of tequila, somewhat between his tenth in the night. “Now?”
“Just this last time.”
He sighed like it was a burden, but he was already standing with an annoyingly smooth grin, letting you pull him onto the dance floor. The bass thudded under your feet, lights spinning soft colors over the attendees. His hand settled at your waist with ease, practiced, as if this had been routine for years instead of minutes and you weren’t faking anymore.
You were laughing at nothing, the two of you swaying in rhythm when it happened—he bumped into someone as he was partially singing the second verse next to you.
“Watch it,” a voice snapped, sharp and familiar. You turned, stomach dropping. The blonde man. The vodka martini weird order guy. His blue eyes flicked from Harry to you, lingering far too long just like they had done previously while you played your facade.
“You’re with him?” he said, almost scoffing, leaning closer as if the music made his words private. You noticed then that he was taller but also drunker than Harry, and considering he was wearing red soles and a knock-off suit, he was trying to act better than he was. “That’s your boyfriend? He looks so plain for someone like you.”
It seemed as if he was trying to compliment you, saying you were too good for someone like Harry, if anything, Harry might’ve been way too good for anyone in that very ceremony, but the blonde stupid man only focused on the physic, on his brown eyes and hair, like most of the people, as if that could take away some of the ethereal beauty that surrounded him.
But you weren’t one to tolerate any kind of verbal harassment, and you wondered what a person like that was doing in a wedding instead of going back to the mid-century colony his mind-skills must have come from.
”If you were with someone like me… then our kids could look better, you’d look better next to a me than to an average blue-collar man who forgot to enroll in the gym as a new years resolution.” He mimicked towards his wrist, a fake Cartier that you could’ve easily spotted from seeing too many knock-offs in canal street. “You know, I’m a high value man… make more than six figures a year. Assuming you have the average female IQ you’d realize that you’d be doing better with me than with this guy”
Who did that awful excuse of a human-piece of shit think he was?
You froze, ready to fight back, not even to fight, because you knew stupidity would never listen to a better argument, but maybe it could fall victim to rye whiskey and angostura bitters, yet, when you were about to spit every other insult your mind could fathom of Harry’s grip on your waist tightened, not rough, not painful, just certain of what he was about to do.
He didn’t even look up right away. Just let out a quiet breath that sounded dangerously close to a laugh. “People stopped doing that kind of thinking long ago,” he said, tone calm, almost conversational. “Right around the same time they stopped wearing that awful haircut.”
The blonde froze, uncertain if it was an insult or an observation.
Harry turned then, eyes sharp and steady. “I make six figures in less than a day with just a handshake” he added, voice still smooth, the faintest of chuckles escaping his lips, his smile flashed money and class with just a sliver. “But well, when someone possesses money as their only valuable asset, swanning about it does make sense. Quite a pathetic habit if you asked me”
Silence dropped worse than shattering glass.
The man blinked once, jaw tight, and then did the smartest thing he’d done all night, perhaps his whole life: walked away.
You exhaled through your nose, fighting back a laugh that came out more like disbelief. “You didn’t have to do that,” you said, still watching the man’s retreat. “I had him right where I wanted him”
Harry tilted his head slightly. “Of course you did” he didn't even sound sarcastic.
You smirked. “I mean it, I had a whole list of insults prepared”
“Yeah,” he said, a faint grin tugging at his mouth, “I believe you.”
That pulled a quiet laugh out of you, the few times it had been real.
Harry looked down at his drink, swirling the last of it before glancing back at you. “Come on, let me get you a drink for the bad time” he murmured, nodding toward the bar.
You followed him through the crowd, still smiling—not because he’d defended his ideals, but because he’d done it like it was second nature. No theatrics. Just precision, there was no show to perform towards, no other person who would applaud his common sense when it came towards social groups, and you would certainly not applaud him for being a decent man, although you would recognize, those were rare amongst the many specimens of incels and eunuchs that had begun to abound.
”I never thought you'd actually talk back"
“Why?”
“I don’t know, you seem so curated most of the time… honestly, when I first met you I thought you were going to be more like that and less like ‘my favorite movie’s Her’” you tried mimicking his, completely failing at that
“I guess I just don’t like listening to bullshit.” he settled for saying.
“Huh, I thought it had to do with all the drinks you’ve had”
”Maybe the part about his receding hairline had to do with that, and the money part.”
“You know it’s not true either way, right?” you said, half-sheepishly, half joking. “You’re not plain or average or whatever he said”
He turned to look at you for a second, you could see in his eyes the glimmer of something else, something hidden that began to slowly dissipate in the quiet moment between one song and the proceeding one. “I know” he said, a smug grin appeared where the other emotions had once lingered, he turned his eyes back to his drink, he drank it before he could overthink it. “Don’t worry about it”
”You’re like… the best thing at this party” you said with a chuckle, looking at the rest of couples and mans, and to be fair, even to the groom.
Harry laughed, turned to look at you with a disbelieving look. ”Now you’re pushing it”
”Well, I did say we’d end up flirting three drinks later” you said with a smile.
”That’s your idea of flirting? Stroking my ego?” he asked with incredulity.
”Your idea of flirting was enlisting all the things you could give me—although maybe that has to do with the CIO in you”
He looked at you estranged for a few seconds, processing if he had heard it correctly, you simply chuckled.
“You’re crazy if you think I wouldn’t do some research, I had to make sure you were who you said you were, like imagine if you were some guy pretending to be Harry Castillo to protect the actual Harry” you said, making fun of your own predicament, turning sarcas, once again as your only shelter.
”Of course, forgot that was even a possibility” he answered back, faking seriousness.
”Yeah, you’d be surprised at the bunch of creeps out there… had to make sure” you continued, laughing sincerely one last time before a drop of silence fell louder than any words spoken. “I was curious, I wondered if you were related to the ’Castillo management and something’ building on sixth”
”Castillo: Management and capital partners” he sighed under his breath with a quiet chuckle, ”You could’ve asked me that over dinner”
”What if you thought I was a gold-digger?” you said, as if you weren't there to ruin a date, maybe you should've researched before going to meet him, but you thought it was unnecessary, most guys would've left the second you arrived late, but once again, Harry Castillo was not lke most guys.
”You asked me for a laptop first-day we met” he said instead, quiet smile of honesty and laughter intertwined.
”Because I needed a laptop and well, I saw my chances” you laughed, “But yeah, that’s also how I figured you arrived at fifth in no-time during rush hour.”
“To be fair, I was already close. There’s a really good coffee shop near your office.”
“Gregorys?” you asked, remembering the label on the coffee he brought you on friday.
”How’d you know?” he asked, surprised that you knew the answer once again.
“You brought me coffee from there last time,” you said with a smile, “I prefer Bluestone Lane, ’though you have to go all the way up to 90th for it, it’s worth the walk.”
“Bluestone Lane, will have to try it out next time” he repeated, more to himself than to you.
“If you do, try their banana bread. It’s amazing” you said, eyes already drifting.
He was about to ask something else, but the sound of clapping and the music dissipating shut your mouths, the sound of his words drowning in the hum of the crowd. Someone nearby started yelling for the newlyweds to kiss again so they could record it, and the room dissolved into cheers and camera flashes. You both turned toward the noise, watching as the couple obliged—merging into the kind of kiss that was too polished to be spontaneous, but everyone clapped anyway, proving your theory: polished sells, spontaneous doesn’t. pretty lies over hard-to-accept truths.
“Think they’ll last?” you asked, mostly to fill the silence reminiscent in between you both.
Harry tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, unsure of what to say. “I hope so,” he said finally. “We’ll see how it goes when rent’s due”
You blinked at him, the words echoing in your head once again. “Wait, that’s actually good.”
He frowned. “What is?”
“That line,” you said, already fishing your phone out of your bag. “The ‘when rent's due" yeah, I can write around that. Of the whole fighting for love, it overcomes everything, your life might be falling apart but 'hey at least you're not single' discourse.”
“You’re taking notes? Right now?”
“Of course I am.” You started typing furiously, thumbs flying. “Wedding season’s almost over, everyone’s sliding out of the honeymoon haze and back into buyer’s remorse. Selling them the pretty lies keeps their obnoxious hearts still buying.”
Harry huffed out a laugh, somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m self-aware.” You didn’t look up from your screen, already finishing to form a pitch sentence that you’d email in the early morning to your supervisor. “The world runs on stories people want to believe, not the ones that are true.”
“And you’re the supplier?”
“You could say,” you affirmed, flashing him a quick grin. “And business is good.”
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You realize that you sound like a sociopath right now.”
You paused only for a second, turning back to look at him. “Said the financier” you replied with an even wider smile.
The song changed again—slower now, nostalgic. He watched you tuck your phone away when you had finished typing everything to your supervisor.
“Come on,” he said, voice softening. “Take a break from selling lies, you wanted to dance, didn’t you?”
You squinted at him, almost not-believing what he was saying. “And to think you were complaining about your knees”
“What can I say?” he said with a chuckle and a smug grin, playing with the rim of his empty glass. “You’ve made me a different man” his head turned to face yours entirely, damningly good-looking and with his sultry voice and words, threatening to disarm your well-constructed pretense.
You hated how smooth he could act knowing that none of you were anything, and you were hours away from not seeing each other ever again. He hated that you had the capacity to keep your emotions and the way you expressed them at arm length.
So both of you said nothing and merely resorted to stare at each other's eyes like a spell that couldn’t be broken in a quiet attempt to decipher the other, unknowingly going back to the same gazethat had been building up since the car-ride.
That, until Charlotte grabbed your arm and you were forced to look away from him —jumping slightly since your eyes were fixed exclusively on Harry in that moment, so focused that you didn’t notice anyone approaching you. Either way, you turned to look at her with the fastest smile you could collect yourself to perform.
“Hey; they’re about to cut the cake” she said, ”Just thought you should know”
“Oh yeah, the cake —almost forgot it,” you glanced at Harry just for a second, he was still staring at you. “We’ll be there in a minute”
You turned towards him once again, “Come on” you murmured.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
While the cake began to be plated you had excused yourself to the bathroom to see if any guest had some type of painkiller to prevent the awaiting cramps your allergy would cause.
After a few minutes you finally found luck with an old woman who carried a small purse of medicines in her bag, she had given you two Advil that you swallowed with a courtesy water bottle in the room.
But before you could leave the bathroom you found yourself staring at the mirror, the dress and shoes that stared back at you—the earrings, the hair and makeup. You weren’t wearing clothes you would normally acquire, and at the same time, you hadn’t felt more comfortable in yourself since you couldn’t even remember when.
It felt foreign, but it was an enjoyable kind of estranged feeling —it felt peaceful.
The door opened before you could give another step, and inside came the bride, laughing with smudges of cake over her lips and cheek.
”Hey” she merely acknowledged you, looking sideways to you before she approached to grab a paper towel and some water.
“Hey” you reciprocated, a nervous chuckle escaped you.
“You’re Harry’s girlfriend, right?” she asked, giving you a friendly kind of side-eye.
”Yeah”
She nodded, “He’s a good man”
”Yeah, he is,” you agreed with a soft smile.
Your mind reminding you of his brown eyes piercing the space in between you both, of his words and his damned sultry smile, of his attitude. It felt comfortable to be with him, so comfortable that you wished you weren’t an unbeliever and he wasn’t a living fantasy.
Silence settled. You looked at her reflection, and it was strange—seeing the woman who once dated him, who was married now to a different person, standing in front of you like a relic of everything you had never believed in,
Lucy. The matchmaker. The one behind every person Mia might have been compatible with. The one who handed Harry your article and told him maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t so impossible after all, unknowingly she was the chessmaster of all of this, of all the mess, and yet here she was in front of you, wiping frosting from her face.
“Why did you break up?” you asked louder than you meant it to. Partially curious, partially accidental honesty.
She didn’t look surprised—didn’t even look away from her reflection. “We made sense,” she said. “You know, the kind of sense that looks great in wishlists and questionnaires.”
She paused to lick her lips just for a second, “We liked each other’s symmetry. That’s not the same as love.”
You stayed silent, pretending you didn’t already know, pretending Harry hadn’t told you his thoughts about not loving enough and then—of being afraid of it, of feeling reckless and stupid.
Lucy’s tone softened, “He liked who I was supposed to be,” she said, twisting the towel in her hands. “And I liked how he looked next to me. We didn’t know much beyond that.”
You nodded—a polite, understanding gesture. Because it sounded real,
“Still,” she continued, glancing at your reflection. “I’m glad he found someone who fits him better.”
You smiled—small, restrained. The phrase left your lips before you could stop it “You think we fit?”
She turned then, finally facing you, her veil ghosting against her shoulders. “I saw how he looked at you when you were dancing, he seemed happy.” she paused, throwing the paper towel inside of the bin. “And you look at him like you’re trying to figure him out,” she said. “That’s more than I ever did.”
Either she was a really bad matchmaker who couldn’t see the non-existent symmetry between you two; you and Harry were being excellent pretenders… or a third option that you weren’t ready to admit as a possibility just yet.
The faucet dripped again, a tiny metronome for your pulse. She walked past you, not even saying goodbye, and you stood in place just for a fraction of a second, staring into the hall of mirrors and sinks, paralyzed with the reflections of yourself, comfort had never felt so threatening so you ran away from it.
You hadn’t even given three steps into the hall, the faint echo of music muffled at the expense of brick layers and laughter.
You paused at the threshold of the reception hall, the faint sweetness of buttercream still drifting through the air. The newlyweds somewhere near the center of the room, surrounded by guests holding champagne and phones. A waiter passed you, balancing a tray of plated cake slices.
Across the room, Harry stood near one of the long tables, talking with Peter about some work-related nonsense. Still, perfectly polished as only him could remain, one hand holding a fork over an untouched slice of red-velvet cake. He looked composed enough to be part of the furniture, but the slight turn of his body toward the door gave him away.
He’d been waiting—He’d been waiting for you.
His eyes found yours before you could make up in your mind what their conversation might have been about, in his blown pupils laid the kind of stillness that comes before relief.
He excused himself mid-sentence, his brother following his gaze with an amused look before patting his shoulder and walking off toward the bar.
“There you are,” Harry said when he reached you, his voice lower than usual, quieter—but edged with something that you couldn’t decipher. “I was about to call Charlotte to check the bathroom.”
You smiled faintly, brushing it off. “Just needed a minute. I’m fine.”
“Fine as before?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly, to the times when he had asked you how you were and you gave him a bitter “fine” that didn’t go unnoticed.
“Fine as in… had to prevent the allergy cramps that would come later but I have some Advil now so I’m good”
He blinked once, then exhaled slowly — that quiet kind of relief that people like him tried to disguise as patience. “I still think you could’ve told me.”
You shrugged. “I didn’t think it mattered. Besides, it’s not fatal, just uncomfortable.”
“I’d still rather know if something’s wrong,” he said simply, not scolding, just stating it—the same way he might note a missing comma in a contract.
You hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Noted.”
He gestured toward the table. “Come on. You missed the cake-cutting. I saved you a piece.”
He led you back to your seats. You sat down as he placed down his platter and silver cutlery in front of you.
“I didn’t know saving cake was part of the job description,” you said.
He sat across from you, a half-smile ghosting across his mouth. “It’s not. I improvised.”
You looked down. His fork was clean.
“You’re not getting any?” you asked.
“I was waiting for you.”
“Since when are you sentimental?” you teased lightly, though your voice didn’t quite reach teasing.
He shrugged, eyes flicking toward the frosting. “Apparently, since today”
There was a pause then—the kind that stretches without permission.
You picked up your fork, took a small bite. The cake was exactly what you expected: light, sweet, beautiful, and completely impersonal. You didn’t have to give any other bite to know the ingredients were more expensive than every “fancy” meal you had in the last three months.
“It’s good,” you said finally.
“Yeah?” he asked, his head slightly tilted, pressing against his knuckles, his elbow resting on the table.
You nodded. “Try it.”
“I’m okay.”
You frowned slightly. “You saved it for me. It’d be rude not to share.”
“I’m sure you’ll represent both of us just fine.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “You don’t like cake?”
“I like cake,” he said. “I just don’t eat it much.”
“That’s the most finance-answer I’ve ever heard—” he chuckled at your words and the silent sentiment they carried. “Literally, it’s bureaucratic” you muttered, slicing another piece. “You have to at least pretend.”
“Pretend?”
You met his gaze, a faint spark of amusement between you. “Yes. For optics. We’re supposed to look like we enjoy each other, remember?”
His eyes glinted, just a hint of humor buried in warmth. “And feeding me cake helps that illusion?”
“Obviously,” you said, holding up the fork.
He leaned back slightly, one brow raised. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re ruining our performance,” you countered. “So come on, a little bite won’t hurt you”
That earned a quiet laugh, one that sounded like he didn’t mean to let it out. “You’re absurd.”
“You hadn’t noticed?,” you said, the corner of your mouth curving upward. “But I’m always committed to my part.”
He hesitated, then leaned forward — not much, just enough for the fork to reach him. You steadied it carefully, offered the smallest bite. He took it, slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours.
The silence afterward was short but palpable.
“Well?” you asked, lowering the fork.
”It’s cake” He swallowed, still watching you. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” you repeated. “That’s your professional opinion?”
He smirked faintly, cleaned the frosting off of his lips with the side of his thumb, staring into your eyes as he licked it clean. “I think it’s the company that helps.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes, but the motion didn’t hide your smile and his answer didn’t hide him from picking up his fork and stealing just another bite of cake.
“‘Not bad’ but you’re picking another piece?”
“As I said, the company helps” he whispered knowingly as he chuckled.
You hated yourself for mimicking his reaction, what right could he have to be fun? and worse than that, to be charismatic? You tried to convince yourself he wasn’t and you were just drunk but you body betrayed you when subconsciously both of you got closer to each other.
In a matter of a second, his breath was fanning over your lips, the weight of his gaze was pouring over your eyes, and before you could know it the feeling of his freshly trimmed beard was lingering against your chin. You knew what was coming, you knew where it would lead.
You pulled away. “I’m going to go and search for coffee to sober up”
“Coffee is going to sober you up? We practically raided the open bar”
“You raided the open bar. I only had like four drinks” you clarified, although Harry rolled his eyes with a chuckle, you would’ve too, who in their right mind calls four drinks a little bit? “three of which were wet manhattans with almost no whiskey” you clarified, “A little caffeine will sure do the trick”
“I’m sure it will” he finally agreed and soon enough you were back on your feet, drifting away from him, searching for a server who could bring you a tall americano with way too much soluble coffee that would soon turn into regret and bad decisions.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
After saying goodbye to noone and sneakingly grabbing three more slices of untouched cake to share with Mia and the rest of your friends who you’d religiously meet up for brunch at Mia’s house next morning like every other sunday, Harry and you left the celebration.
There was wind, and just the faintest droplets of rain that announced the storm that was probably to come, on the way towards the car Harry had covered you with his blazer, you noticed the label inside of it, some italian brand that you’d never heard of but was probably more expensive than the wedding you were just leaving.
Before you could give it any other thought, you opened the door to the driver’s seat, glanced at Harry, shirt barely wet against his skin. He sought in the pocket of his blazer, the one you were wearing now, his keys, before handing them to you. The only thought in the back of your mind was “Don’t fuck this up”
The first few miles were plain silence accompanied by the sound of the rain against the pavement and the windows, your eyes were set straight over the road, hands steady over the wheel and mind racing at the mere thought of a thunder appearing suddenly, of a lightning arriving unannounced like some late “speak now” moment at a ceremony.
“So… what do couples talk about on the ride back home?” Harry asked, looking at you from the passenger side.
“I don’t know. We’re not a couple” you said with a fake laugh that died in your lips way too soon.
“Fair, so what do fake couples talk about on the ride back home?”
“I don’t know, maybe how there was a bridesmaid that seemed to be getting it on with the best man” you said, making up the first thing in the back of your mind.
“Really?”
“No, I’m just making shit up” you laughed, “I think we had enough about weddings for a day… tell me about you”
“What about me?” he asked lowly, almost as if he was indiferent when talking about himself.
“I don’t know, whatever you want to say.” you insisted with a small smile.
“You look really pretty in that dress”
And those might have been the worse words you had ever heard, because they sounded so natural coming from him, like forming the coherence between them was as easy and natural for him as breathing or walking.
“I meant more like, I don’t know… the last place you visited”
“Work or pleasure?” he asked, lips already a pout, like a scolded puppy, you would be a liar if you said the sight didn't intrigue you in the slightest.
“Both” you said, voice warmer.
“Iceland counts as pleasure?” he asked you, even when he should already know the answer.
“If you enjoyed it I’d say yes”
“Okay, if I enjoyed half of it?”
“How do you enjoy half a trip?”
“I had booked us a dinner at a lagoon to see the night skies, I planned on proposing there. It was kind of awkward to explain that to the guy, because he didn’t understand english and I had to use my phone. And it was really cold also.”
“Okay, so it was work then” you explained, even when he knew that already.
“How is that work?”
“You were planning to marry her, marriage is a deal, you work by signing deals together, therefore work”
He scoffed at your words, even when he knew they made sense. “That’s your thought process?”
“I’m just trying to make sense of it all. Probably just saying nothing”
“Either way, my last work-trip was to Connecticut”
“What did you do there?”
“There was this company, it’s basically a training center about robotics and machinery in school settings”
“Sounds interesting”
“It is, went there to see the facilities last week, and this Monday we’re signing the deal”
”I’d tell you good luck, but according to the company's page you haven’t lost a deal since you got started”
”You remember all that?”
Silence stood still for just a second, then there was thunder and the wheels faltered just slightly over the pavement. You turned your eyes back to the road, took a deep breath and tried to steady your trembling hands over the leather wheel.
”Well, yeah”
There was lightning in the sky, which meant sooner or later there’d be another thunder rattling through the windows, Harry noticed your distress before you could fully externalize it.
”We can stop for a minute if you want” he started, “Until the storm goes away.”
”No, it’s fine” you insisted, minimizing your fears as if that would make them flee away.
“You sure?”
You could only nod in response. Thunder landed a second later, it sounded so close that the car windows trembled. You blinked hard, focused on the reflector paint sliding toward you in clean white dashes.
At first it was a hefty sound that Harry insisted was another thunder, you nodded in response, silencing the fact that the wheel felt tighter just for a second, your eyes remained fixed to the waterfall of rain against the pavement.
The second time, you were absolutely convinced the loud thud wasn’t just the faint echo of a thunder, there was something else happening, but before you could say anything the steering wheel tugged left so fast your shoulder burned.
The car bucked; the sound under you turned from rain to teeth. You sucked in air like it might hold the car steady. It didn’t. The dashboard flickered; a warning light flared red.
The engine gave up before you could try to ignite it again, the air suddenly shifted into the crippling cold from outside weather, then, it was just a faint sound.
It could’ve been anything, rain, branches, the car itself… but you swore it sounded like a sob. You were paralyzed, feet away from the pedal yet, hands steady like brick.
”Are you okay?” Harry asked after you had lost yourself in thoughts for a second, “Ease to the shoulder. Don’t brake hard”
”I, I think I hit a dog”
”A dog?” he asked, not incredulous but simply, not understanding what was happening, “There are no dogs in here”
”You don’t know that, maybe I didn’t see it. There’s a lot of rain, shit! I killed a dog”
You could listen his voice, see his lips moving from the peripheral, but your ears were numb, you couldn’t understand a single thing.
Your mind travelled in time to another moment and another midnight storm threatening drunk-drivers.
You were sixteen, Mac’s collar in your hand like a ribbon. The first thunder, the jerk, the leash burning your palm as he bolted into the road. Your voice breaking on his name like a silent broken prayer, and the wet sound tires make when they decide something for you. There was a cry then, a loud one —you can’t say yet if it was yours or his—You only saw the driver go away, not caring for anything he did, while you were left there broken-hearted, listening to his last sobs of life. Someone told you then you shouldn’t blame the driver, everyone makes mistakes, maybe you would make the same one years from then.
Maybe you had just committed the same mistake.
The same tears rolled round your cheek, but now there was no sound escaping your throat, you had learned to cry in silence before you had understood the whole mechanics of love.
“I just killed a dog” you whispered again,
“Hey.” Harry’s voice slid in, low, blurred from the passing-by memories. “Look at me.”
You didn’t. You couldn’t
“Look at me.”
You did, finally. Brown eyes, steady as a metronome. He put his hand over your forearm—warm, solid—and pressed once. “You didn’t hit a dog. That was a tire. Feel the pull? Hear the flapping? That 's rubber. There were no dogs on the road”
The car coasted beneath an overpass. He guided your wrist away from the steering wheel. “Good. Here. Neutral. Handbrake.”
You did as he said. The car settled into a dense, humming quiet, rain drumming on the hood like a crowd trying to get in.
He smiled like a promise. “Stay here.”
“Don’t—” You swallowed. “It’s pouring.”
He shrugged out of the dress shirt he’d already ruined and stepped into the rain in an undershirt, tuxedo pants and a tie loosened to his collarbone. The blazer—the one he’d draped over your shoulders—hung heavy and warm on you, smelling faintly of cedar and expensive cologne.
You watched him through the haze of the windshield as he crouched by the front right tire, rain lacing his hair flat. He ran his palm along the tread, then pulled something out and held it up to the headlights—glass, a triangular shard dark with road grime, the kind that’s invisible until it isn’t.
A splinter of the convenience store. It was a miracle the tire hadn’t given up before, or maybe it was destiny forcing you to play whatever pretend it wanted you to be. You had no doubt that destiny sure had a way to play you, an even worse of fucking with you.
He mouthed: “Got it,” then circled to the trunk. You heard him swear, quiet and controlled, you weren’t even sure if you had heard him swear before. Either way he said the words the way men who were trained to win handle being delayed.
He reappeared at your window. You rolled it down two inches; the car inhaled rain. Your hair got ruined.
“Spare’s decent,” he said. “But…”
”You don’t know how to change it?” you asked with a small laugh, it made sense, he was rich, most rich guys don't know even how to ride a bus.
“I can’t find the kit”
”It’s probably because you’re drunk, let me give it a look” you opened your door, just for a second, but he closed it before any more rain could come inside and ruin the interiors of his Benz.
He smiled, wry. “Less drunk than I was ten minutes ago. Adrenaline’s a bitch.” He tipped his head. “And you’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.” It didn’t sound convincing.
“Okay,” he said, already pulling his phone. “Then humor me.”
You watched him make the call, efficiently pressing his wet fingers over the phone screen. It took at least five minutes for some operator to answer him. He didn't say urgent, he asked for the name behind the phone, ‘Diane’, he said please and thank you. He said the facts the same way he talked about business.
He tucked the phone away and leaned into the window gap. Water collected on his lashes.
Your breathing still uneven at the realization that you hadn’t materialized your fear into some gruesome truth, but still, there was a possibility.
“Breathe with me?” he asked, grabbing your wrist with ease.
“I know how to breathe.”
“I’ll pretend you don’t.” His eyes didn’t leave yours. “In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.”
You obeyed to prove him wrong and somehow kept doing it after you proved nothing. Your shoulders unclenched. The memory receded enough that you could hear the rain without seeing headlights.
He tapped the glass from the passenger side. “Unlock?”
You did, and he slid in, soaked, upsetting the car’s little climate in a rush of cold and damp and him. He shut the door and the world became two people and a drumline, he quickly grabbed his dress shirt and against all odds, he covered himself in the thin white fabric, tie discarded somewhere in the back.
“They say the earliest they can arrive is 6am” he said, diplomatically although with a bit of annoyance.
”We can just wait, there has to be someone coming through here”
"I don't think anyone's coming”
You let out a breath that wasn’t a laugh. “So… we still have to wait.”
“In this? With you on a silk slip and fogged windshield glass? You’re going to freeze”
“I won’t die”
“That doesn’t make it any better”
“Waiting’s the only option.”
He didn’t answer right away. His fingers kept moving, scrolling through the maps in his small screen “There’s a hotel,” he said after a beat. “Half a mile down the road.”
“Half a mile?”
He looked up. “Twenty minutes walking, tops”
“And we’re just leaving a Mercedes in the middle of the road?”
“Insurance can deal with it” He was already opening his door. Rain folded him into the dark. “Come on. Before it gets worse.”
You hesitated. Every rational part of you said no. Every human part told you to step outside already.
“Fine,” you muttered.
You opened the door wider and placed one heeled foot onto the asphalt, immediately regretting it. The water reached your ankle, cold enough to make your toes curl. You cursed under your breath, then stepped back into the car.
He arched a brow. “Problem?”
“Pavement’s flooded.” You unbuckled and leaned toward the back seat. “Guess I’m walking barefoot.”
“You’re going to catch a cold.”
“It’s water, not acid.”
He sighed, already moving to the trunk. When he came back, he held out a pair of pristine white Celine sneakers. They looked absurdly out of place against the mud-gray world around you.
“Wear these,” he said.
You stared at them, then at him. “You’re out of your mind. Those cost more than what I’d make in a lifetime.”
“They’re just shoes.”
“They’re expensive shoes.”
“They are,” he said simply, pushing them into your hands. “But they’ll survive.”
You hesitated. The rain was starting to come down harder, and his expression made it clear he wasn’t going to argue again. You slipped off your heels and shoved your feet into the sneakers. They were a size too big, the insoles soft and ridiculously comfortable.
“This is ridiculous,” you said, tightening the laces.
“So is getting sick by walking barefoot in a thunderstorm,” he replied, closing the trunk.
You nodded in agreement, that would've been dumber. You tugged his blazer closer around your shoulders, and started walking close to him.
The road was half-submerged in places, the night pressing close and humid. The shoes squeaked every few steps. You kept your eyes on the faint white line guiding the two of you forward.
He stayed a few paces ahead, flashlight from his phone cutting through the rain.
The rain fell over you two for what fell like eternity, long enough for your hair to stick to your neck and for his flashlight to dim to a dull glow. The trees leaned close, their branches heavy with water. The sound of it all was constant, like static.
You caught it again: the uneven step. Left, right, right slower. The drag of his shoe against the asphalt and the rain covering just above his shoes.
“You’re limping,” you said, voice raised over the rain.
He didn’t look at you. “I’m fine.”
“You sound like someone who’s not fine.” you said, well aware of the same voice tone you used when you were in fact, not fine.
“I sound like someone who wants to keep walking,” he replied, tone even but breath coming shorter now.
You moved closer, watching the way his weight shifted. The limp wasn’t small anymore—it was deliberate, compensating. He was trying not to favor his left leg, which only made it worse. You remembered Charlotte’s words back at the wedding, he had surgery, which meant he was probably hurting at the temperature change.
“Harry.”
He glanced sideways, rain running off his jawline. “What?”
“Stop pretending.”
He said nothing, jaw tightening.
“Let me help,” you pressed, already stepping in closer.
He shook his head once, sharp. “You’ll just slow down.”
You scoffed. “You’re already doing that for both of us.”
That earned a small, reluctant smile, barely there but enough. When he didn’t argue again, you slipped your arm under his—just above the elbow—and guided it over your shoulders. The gesture was clumsy, but it worked.
He tensed immediately. “You don’t have to—”
“Shut up,” you said quietly. “It’s just walking.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. His arm was solid against your shoulders, his breath shallow but steady. He leaned just enough to take pressure off his leg. The heat from his body cut through the cold, subtle but undeniable.
The road stretched ahead in a ribbon of gray. The hotel sign flickered faintly through the mist—close enough to exist, far enough to still feel imaginary.
He adjusted, his arm settling across your shoulders, heavier than you expected but steady. The two of you found a rhythm again — slower, quieter. The sound of the rain changed with it, less like an assault, more like static in the background.
After a while, he said, low enough you almost missed it, “Did Charlotte tell you?”
You didn’t pretend not to know what he meant, you knew that would make it worse.
“She mentioned surgery. Didn’t say much else.” you lied
He nodded once, not looking at you. “Skiing accident. Makes for great conversation at airports.” he said, and you knew he was lying, but to be fair, so were you.
You let out a small breath. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I’m reckless,” he said, voice thin with pain.
“So right now?”
“Exactly.”
You kept walking. The warmth of him against your side was subtle but constant, a quiet pulse through the wet fabric. Every so often you felt him tense —a jolt of discomfort he tried to disguise as balance— and you’d tighten your hold until it passed.
When the hotel lights finally came into view again, you felt closer to his body than you should’ve felt. Maybe because he’d leaned into you, maybe because you’d stopped pretending this wasn’t exhausting both of you in different ways.
“You can let go now,” he said softly when the pavement turned to gravel, and the whooshing air of the lobby caressed your skin.
“You’ll fall if I do.” you insisted
“I’ll manage.”
“Sure you will,” you said, but you didn’t move your arm until you reached the glass doors and the automatic sensor blinked them open like a quiet mercy.
To your surprise, the lobby looked decent, and a hostess was kind enough to bring you both a pair of towels as you approached the front desk.
You wanted to believe it was hospitality, although you knew it was probably because Harry had stayed in those rooms beforehand, and the staff was well-aware of the weight his last-name carried.
“We should get two singles, right?” Harry asked, eyes fixated over yours, face dripping with water.
“Yeah, or a twin. I don’t mind” you answered quickly, analyzing the waxed floors and a working fireplace that had already caught your attention
”Do you mind if I wait for you over there?” you asked him, hoping —praying— that his answer was a nod or a simple “yes”.
It was, and before anything else was to be said you walked towards the fireplace and stood inches away from it. Harry’s blazer held against your figure as tight as you could figure, every kind of friction was good enough to keep you a second without shivering.
The sound of the storm got louder just for a second, the same second when the whooshing sound of the doors appeared.
If you had thought that destiny was the only one having a laugh at pulling the threads of your life into every single incorrect decision; maybe fate, and mother earth, and the devil and god and every other deity that could ever exist was having a go at it as well. As if they were having some gruesome competition on who could fuck you up faster.
You walked towards Harry in the quickest motion one could afford to give while wearing oversized sneakers.
“Ask for a queen room” you whispered harshly at him, trying to make him listen to you while simultaneously attempting to look as the most perfect, amazing couple.
He turned to look at you estranged at your petition, and just before he was about to ask, the damned voice gave him all the answers he might’ve needed.
”Harry?” Peter asked, voice slurred.
Harry only gave you an understanding nod before turning away himself to meet his brother, once again.
”What are you doing here?” He ended up asking, poised as always.
Charlotte laughed before Peter could give his sluggish excuse of an answer. “We were just way too drunk to drive back into the city with this weather, and I figured coming back here was a good idea. Now, what are you doing here?”
”Here’s your room” the hostess interrupted before any of you could answer.
”We got a flat tire on the 87” Harry answered, passing you the small holder with two plastic keys inside of it, 217 written on the opposite edge with bleeding blue ink.
“Oh, that’s a bummer. But maybe we can at least have breakfast together” Charlotte continued with sincerity, or perhaps that was just the alcohol talking.
”That’s such a good idea honey” Peter said, got close to her and kissed the top of her head as he walked towards the front desk.
You noticed the slight limping in his right leg, your eyes travelled to Harry then.
He had been walking for almost half an hour, and now, here he was next to you, standing and composed as always, if you didn’t know anything there was no way you could possibly tell what he had subjugated himself to be a part of.
“Should we go to the room?” he asked in the midst of your thoughts,
“Yeah,” you half muttered, half whispered at him.
“We’ll see you tomorrow” you said at Charlotte, who was still glancing at you from her peripheral, she only turned and smiled.
The hallways of the hotel were cream colored and the rug was soft against your wet soles. Harry and you walked in silence until the elevator sign was visible, even then, there was no comment, you walked like two ghosts over the building, leaving behind a trail that began to evaporate with every step you gave.
Once the metal doors opened, you walked inside the low-light box with quick steps, trembling still from the cold airflow from the lobby. Harry pressed the button to the second floor with ease as he walked to join you.
The faint sound of the storm continued to rattle through the building, you told yourself over and over again that it was a matter of time before it disappeared, not that it quieted the uneasiness inside of your chest, the growing anxiety of it all.
“What time are we waking up tomorrow?” you asked, as if to quiet the rest of voices in your head.
“I don’t know, I’m still trying to understand why you asked for a queen room and not a twin”
”They were already in, and well I’m not an expert, although well, I kind of am” you said with a proud smile. “Happy, loving couples don’t sleep in different beds”
He stared at you as if you had said something in a different language, you thought for a second he might've been doubting your knowledge
“Didn't I say I studied anthropology?
”And why are you writing love-columns then?”
You scuffed, “Right, because I could be doing papers about human behavior and here I am writing shitty lies in waxed paper. You think I’m stupid? That my job is just a joke?” you said, despite everything you hated about your current job, you couldn't deny the fact that there were times when you enjoyed it.
“No. I thought you didn’t like your job” Harry said, voice quieter, almost apologetic.
”I don’t like what it has turned into” you clarified, stepping out of the elevator. “But the only way to change the vision of the articles is if I were to be the section chief, and believe me I’ve tried”
”What’s a section chief?” Harry asked, as if you were speaking in a different language.
”Basically the one who revisits what’s going onto the printed magazine, which topics, which areas, which trendy buzzwords we have to use” you paused, already at the brim of opening the room, but before you could press the plastic key towards the sensor you turned around and faced him. “You remember the article you had of me?”
”Yeah. forgot to ask for an autograph, though.” he said, picking up your wrist so the key could finally meet the sensor and the light turned green, his hand took over the handle and opened the door, the cold air from the room making you shiver.
”Hilarious” you murmured with an eyeroll as you gave the first step in, you weren’t sure if you meant it from his action or his words, what you did know however, is that deep inside you meant it. “That one was published under the other section chief, she retired and then entered Holly, she’s not even a journalist, she studied engineering or something like that but she became an influencer and well here we are”
You continued speaking while sitting at the edge of the bed, Harry walked towards the closet. ”She hated every single thing I wrote until she rediscovered that article—missed the whole point of it—and now I write pretty witty lies, when I was meant to fucking write pretty, witty truths”
You continued talking, aware that what you were saying was everything you had been holding back and at the same time always ended up circling on a night-out, except this wasn’t a night out, and you weren’t in a bar drinking with your friends with similar frustrations.
Harry stepped out of the smaller room with more towels he quickly passed you, you took off his blazer and left it over the small studio chair before covering yourself with the white material.
”I’m sorry, we have bigger problems than my shitty work life” you apologized with a disminishing laugh as you continued drying your hair.
”What does it take for you to be in her position?” Harry asked nevertheless, truly invested in what you were saying.
”Well, in first place Holly would need to retire or be dismissed, then I would enter with other writers for that section by submitting an article that would be evaluated on journalistic rigor as well as public response to it”
”You’ve submitted before?” Harry asked, drying his hair with similar motions, the light of the small kitchen illuminating his sides with a kind of warm you had never seen on him.
“Just once since I joined MUSE, against Holly and other writers” you replied as he walked towards the AC and turned it off, thankfully.
”What did you write about?”
You took a deep breath for a second, unsure if telling the truth was the right thing to do. ”How kissing makes us fall in love”
”And?”
”They said it sounded unromantic, ‘how can you say you know someone’s meant to be through a kiss’ ‘that’s a commodification of our feelings’ When humans started kissing was to taste the other, to see if it was fit for us, we smell the pheromones from the lips, taste the hormones from the saliva…”
”All that through a kiss?”
”All that in a second” you replied. “When she got the job the only thing she kept saying was how gross it was to write the word saliva and I was like… well this is real” you said, voice dropping to mimic your past self, “that’s what happens, that’s the real thing behind kissing. It’s messy and human and chemical. But she—” you gave a soft, bitter laugh, “she said I was ruining the fantasy. Said readers wanted love stories, not ‘scientific breakdowns of spit exchange’.”
Harry, sitting at the edge of the bed, half-listening and half-watching you pace across the carpet, he tilted his head to look at you better, “And you didn’t agree with her?”
You stopped, towel clutched tight around your shoulders. “No. Because back then, for once, I was writing something true. Everyone thinks love is this fantasy, when half the time it’s biology pretending to be fantasy.”
He smiled faintly. “You make it sound clinical.”
“It is clinical,” you said, dropping the towel over the chair. “We just give it pretty names so we don’t feel like lab rats. But it’s all the same—oxytocin, dopamine, adrenaline. You can measure it, predict it, reproduce it.”
He leaned back, one elbow propped against the headboard. “Then how do you still talk about it with that much passion if you don’t believe in it?”
The question landed heavier than you expected. You looked at him. Really looked. His hair still damp, his shirt clinging to his chest, eyes soft but searching. “I guess it’s easier to talk about it than to feel it.”
“Because feeling it means losing control?” he asked, and for a second you didn’t know if he was asking you or himself.
“Because feeling it means admitting it’s real.”
He didn’t respond. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind against the windows and the faint roll of thunder in the distance. You sat on the opposite end of the bed, legs crossed, fingers tracing the embroidery of the hotel’s logo on the blanket.
“Do you ever get tired of pretending?” he asked quietly.
You looked up, for once in your life, scared of what his question could ask from you. “Pretending what?”
“That you don’t want any of it.”
The silence between you both sharpened, stretching taut until it felt like a wire about to snap. You swallowed. “I’m not pretending. I’m fine with my life as it is” you said with a truthful smile.
He smiled then, a slow, knowing curve that wasn’t mocking, just honest. “You are?”
"Yeah" you agreed, "I have friends, a decent living-wage, a decent apartment, love's too big of a risk, it's time and all that... I don't want it."
"And what if it didn't come with all that?" Harry asked, looking at you with a complicity you hadn't cracked yet.
You scoffed softly, shaking your head, trying to find a joke somewhere in the tension, but it wasn’t there. The air was too heavy, his gaze too steady. Both of you began getting closer to each other with the same inevitability that you had postponed for the whole day.
He moved first. Or maybe you did. It didn’t matter. There was no grand gesture, no cinematic pause—just the quiet inevitability of two people who’d spent hours holding everything back. His hand found your jaw; your breath caught. The first touch was hesitant, almost reverent. Then it wasn’t.
The kiss was soft, but it hit you like lightning —brief and electric. You felt every contradiction of it: the warmth of his mouth, the chill of your damp skin, the taste of rain still on his lips. It was everything you claimed not to believe in, and it terrified you to prove wrong that theory.
You were the one who broke it.
Pulling back, you exhaled, your forehead still against his. “It’s late,” you said, voice shaking more than you wanted. “We’re drunk.”
He looked at you, eyes still unfocused from whatever moment you’d both just lived through. “We’re not that drunk.”
“Then tired,” you corrected quickly. “This—” you gestured between you, “this won't change anything”
His smile was faint, sad, and impossibly gentle. “I don't want to change anything” he said.
You exhaled, almost a laugh, almost a sigh, trying to convince yourself that the silence that followed wasn’t charged.
“Good,” you said finally, though your voice betrayed you—soft, too soft. You told yourself this was fine. Manageable. Contained. You were two people in a hotel room after a wedding, stranded by a storm. There had been adrenaline, that's why there was now a search for more. That was all. That was the headline.
But headlines never told the full story.
You laid back, eyes on the ceiling, the hum of the air conditioner filling the gaps where logic should’ve been. It wasn’t love; it was adrenaline. It wasn’t affection; it was chemistry, a thousand hormones conspiring against rational thought.
You knew that. You’d written that. You’d sold that.
Still, you turned to look at him. His gaze had softened, mouth slightly parted, the kind of look that wasn’t asking but wasn’t denying either.
You leaned in first this time.
It wasn’t curiosity anymore. It was defiance—against yourself, against everything you’d ever written about what it meant to feel something. The second kiss came easier, like your body had decided before your mind could veto it. And then another.
Each one pressed your own words back into your skull like a curse.
“By the third kiss, oxytocin begins to trick the brain into attachment. By the fourth, your pulse syncs with theirs. By the fifth, you start to believe this could mean something. [...] And that's when you notice you have just met who might become you're other half”
You knew all of it. You could chart every hormone, name every neurotransmitter, and still, in that very moment, with his lips under yours you noticed that you didn't care about which chemical was plotting in your brain, or which things were happening in his, it could be the realest thing ever, but in that very second you only cared to feel his lips parting and his tongue exploring your own, the sounf of wet mouths finding each other in the quiet echo of the room.
His hands found your waist, steady, deliberate, and the room blurred around the edges until thought dissolved completely. You stopped counting after his lips wandered to the edge of your neck, and your mind stopped wandering when his hands moved to cup your chin, your own hands searching to take off his shirt.
You weren’t even sure in which moment your eyes closed and you rolled onto your side; what you did know was that the shape of his lips was indented over yours —and he had fucked you up.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
You woke up somewhere between five am and six am. Apparently the coffee had decided to kick in hours after you really needed it, at first your mind was blank, you couldn’t remember anything after you walked past the hotel door.
You turned around slowly, trying to not make a sound, that was when you noticed, Harry was shirtless next to you. You tried with all your mind to not gasp at the realization, that was until you noticed, you weren’t wearing plenty of clothing either, if it weren’t for the covers over your nipples, your panties and the blazer you would be naked.
That was the moment it dawned on you, the moment you saw his open shirt and dress pants scattered on the floor, when you saw the bliss on his face, the flashbacks came back to you like whiplash.
His lips over yours, his hands on your chin before they travelled to your waist and then lower to grab your ass, you moaned against his lips, he went back to kiss you once again until his lips travelled from your neck once again, you took off his pants, he unzipped your dress. His lips went down to explore your breasts, until he took off each of the nipple covers with his own teeth before he attentively kissed each one, until you were a writhing mess of incoherent pleasure babbles.
He said your name as you were riding him, you said his as you were coming. He held your waist through the oblivion of the first orgasm, your head hidden in his neck.
Then, you didn't remember if you rode his face, or if you gave him head, maybe you did both in that very order.
He had placed his blazer over your body at some point of the night… maybe the same moment you decided to cover your chest again, you didn’t know at all.
The memories of the night had been all blurred into a nonsense of physical touches and kisses, and yet, here he was next to you, with a hickey on his neck, the materialization of the night already lived.
Did you use a condom? Did he finish inside of you?
Questions piled in your hand like unfinished articles that you couldn’t quite finish writing… you woke up with the most careful movement one could attempt to do after little sleep, caffeine, sleep deprivation and hangover.
You walked up to your phone and with it in your hand you closed yourself in the bathroom. The first thing you did was send a message to your friend group: “ur so sexy, don’t do drugs” along with fifty notifications of messages you couldn’t quite read correctly almost burning your eyes.
You quickly managed to type the words “Let’s meet for lunch instead, I’ll pay, you pick as long as it’s less than hundred”
And after that you sent a message to Mia.
You: Girl, can you get me a next-day pill? pleaseeeee
You got surprised when the message quickly changed from delivered to seen.
Mia: You fucked him?
You: No, I just slipped and my pussy aligned perfectly on his dick. I don't know. I can't remember half ot it.
Mia: Okay, woah, TMI. What do you mean you don't remember half of it?
You: I have no idea. I remember most of it but then it just gets blurry, maybe because this is the first time in months a man knows where the fucking clitoris is? IDK
Mia: Relax, as long as both of you wanted it, everything’s fine, it’s not like you have to date him now, not unless you want to.
You: I mean, I know I enjoyed it, and I know I wanted whatever happened between us two, I just, I’ve never had sex with someone like him.
Mia: Really? He was that good?
A noiseless chuckle fell from between your lips as you rolled your eyes, although you couldn’t quite deny the fact that your cheeks burned just a little at the memories.
You: I mean yeah, but that wasn’t the fucking point. I just think he does want a relationship and I feel bad because well, I don't.
Mia: If you don’t want to date him then he should understand, besides, it was sex, like maybe if you had kissed or something it’d be different
You: We did kiss. Multiple times
Mia: Oh, you’re going to break his heart
You: Is it that bad? I mean, after all, we did want to break his heart.
Mia: I mean, nobody dies from a broken heart, I can promise you that, maybe, don’t bring it up if he doesn’t bring it up. I’ll get you the pill and we’ll grab a drink after lunch.
You: Okay, and if he does bring it up? what do I do?
Mia: Just be you.
You: Yeah, because that has always worked.
You: Either way, why are you awake this early on a Sunday?
Mia: I grabbed a drink with this guy last night. We met at the supermarket after we tried grabbing the last peach cobbler pie at the same time. His name is Hugo, he’s an IB philosophy teacher, has a place in Soho and has a really pretty smile
You: Okay, so yeah, good for you but why are you awake at 5:54 am?
Mia: I got hungover and my head's been spinning since 3am.
You: Go to my place, I think I still have some hungover soup Lu gave to me?
Mia: Lu? as in Luna Minh? as in your neighbor? Didn’t you say she was a bitch?
You: I thought so, but we grabbed a drink a few nights ago and she’s actually really nice. I think she’s just trying to adapt after divorcing at a young age.
You: I actually was thinking we should invite her for dinner someday with the others, I think she’d get along pretty well with Sonia, they are both classically trained musicians and love horror movies.
Mia: WTF? They would totally get along! They need to meet like now
You: Righttt. Okay, wait, I should probably go. Either way, you have my spare, the soup is in the blue tupper, if you finish it just put it in the dishwasher.
Mia: Okok, I'll get you the pill. If you need anything else after just call me.
You: Yep, thanksss ILYYY.
After your nonsensical talk with Mia, you decided to walk out of the bathroom, but before you could go back and lay back down next to Harry, you noticed the surgical scars over both of his knees, and it was almost as if you could hear Charlotte's words reverberating in your head.
There was something so strange about a man like Harry, he had his life practically arranged, walked through the streets as if he had been the same man who ordered their construction, talks with coherence, flirts like a character from some oscar-worthy 2000s rom-com, has that loving charm about him that makes him some impossible fantasy no other human could compete with, and yet, he had engaged in some secret surgery that he carried like a burden only a man like him could be insistent enough to sustain.
You couldn’t help but feel intrigued, there was something in you that seeked to understand the dichotomy of his existence, the very paradox that had stranded him into that hotel room, dead asleep, next to a pretender like you, when he himself walked as a pretender of his own.
The difference was you wore everything on your outer sleeves, there was no way for people to hurt you with secrecy if you acted as if there were no secrets. Harry was different, he was a walking reverie, and he was indeed a daydream incarnated yet, if someone were to stare long enough at him —just like you were looking in that moment— they’d be able to notice how human he dared to look sometimes, through the cracks of a man who might as well be a divine creature there was some other kind of incantation in the weight of his existence.
You walked back into the bathroom as you tried to remember what was the name of the procedure Charlotte mentioned, when no word combinations clicked, you ended up googling: “Surgery to get taller” and there it was, “leg-lenghtening surgery” you clicked over the blue letters and began scrolling over the technicalities.
If everything written on the site was half true at least that meant Harry had relearned to walk again, it meant he was probably hurting from the cold because he had metal plaques inside of his body, he had broken his body to be taller, and unfortunately, you seemed to understand why he had done it, short guys weren’t exactly the “ideal man” a woman would think of, but somehow seeing the images of the procedure only made things worse.
Was this really how far people would go just to feel a little wanted? Thank god I don’t do love
“Thank god I don’t do love” you murmured to yourself in front of the mirror, as if saying it made it more true, more honest, more you.
You walked back outside then, laid on your side of the bed and tried as hard as you could to not make a sound, you remained fixed on the man next to you, the shadow of the night adorning his face, the quiet in his eyes and the tranquility of his expression, stripped away from the charm and suave demeanor there was something else in him, something almost human about the city’s last worthy bachelor reduced to a man stripped from his suit and tie who could sleep in a bed next to a pretender, somehow in the midst of your neverending thoughts, your eyes close and you fell asleep.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Someone knocked on the hotel door hours later, you heard it and yet you didn’t have it in you to wake up, that was until the knocks only grew louder and then more desperate, you finally tossed in the bed to get up and see who was on the other side of the white mahogany door, you walked barefoot against the rug and the wooden floors and with the sleep still clinging to your eyelids you looked through the peehole.
It was Harry, already showered, and looking good as always, ditching his blazer and dress shirt for a simple white shirt fabric that looked equally expensive as his past looks, on the other hand, you were still left with nothing but your underwear, if you could even dare calling it that.
You were about to walk back and put your dress on, but just like that you noticed it was still wet, and if you had already ruined it because of the storm exposure the least you could do was leave it lying over the desk, hoping it didn't get worse.
He saw you naked last night, what use did you have trying to play it as if nothing happened? You were both grown ups after all, grown ups who were aware sex wasn’t a synonym for love, and whatever had happened didn’t require explanations. It didn't mean anything, both of you acknowledged that already.
You didn’t give him enough time for another knock to be heard against the door before you opened the door.
He stared at you in silence for just a second before finally walking inside, a bag in his hand, an expression of being knocked out of any possible thought adorning his face.
“I forgot the key,” he said simply, walking inside the room.
“Where did you go?” you asked in return as he left the bag over the bed.
“To pick the car from the driveway” he replied quickly, he couldn’t even look at you, maybe you thought wrong and sex was a synonym for closeness to him.
“The storm’s over?” you asked finally, breaking the inevitable silence when you realized the distance had already been established.
“Yeah. I think I have something in here you could wear, if you want to”
“You always pack a bag of clothes in your car?” you asked with a soft laugh.
“I didn’t want to unpack before I travelled again on monday”
“Right” you nodded, remembering other fragments of last night.
He pulled out a navy shirt, fabric looser than the one he was wearing, the label inside of it indicating it was equally expensive as his rest of attire, and judging by the rest of his clothes which were either suits and dress shirts, that was the only thing you could actually bother to wear.
He kept his eyes on the bag, rifling through it like the answer to everything was buried somewhere beneath neatly folded fabric. You could see the muscles in his jaw working, the quiet strain of someone trying too hard to act unaffected.
“I think this should fit,” he said at last, pulling out the navy shirt again. His tone was steady, almost too steady. He didn’t look at you. Not once.
You took it from him, your fingers brushing his for half a second. He flinched, barely perceptible, and that told you enough. You’d thought maybe he’d say something—make a joke, offer a line to smooth the edges of whatever last night had been—but he didn’t. He was just… quiet.
It wasn’t respect, you decided. It was avoidance. Maybe even regret.
You slipped the shirt on; it hung loose on your frame, the hem brushing the middle of your thighs. The faint smell of his cologne lingered in the cotton, soft but maddeningly close.
He was still sorting through the bag, pretending to look for something else “I can call Charlotte, maybe she has some jeans you could wear”
You cut him off too quickly. “No. Don’t.” Sharing clothes meant there’d be some moment where you would have to give them back and therefore meet them again someday, but the deal was finished, and after this, whatever happened between Harry and you had to be over so you could go back to being strangers.
He looked up then, startled at the urgency behind your words.
“I just mean…” you started, gripping the hem of the shirt. “There’s no need to bother her. It’s fine. I’ll go to the front desk and see if they’ve got something in lost and found. A pair of sweatpants, maybe.”
He hesitated, lips parting like he wanted to argue, but then he sighed. “You could just take these.”
He pulled a pair of trousers from the bag, dark gray, obviously tailored. You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already handing them to you, and the fabric was soft against your skin. “They’ve got a drawstring,” he added, forcing a small, crooked smile, “so you can be comfortable in them.”
It took some improvisation, folding the waistband, rolling the hems, and doing thousands of alterations, but still, they fit. When you looked up again, he’d turned back toward the window, hands buried in his pockets like he was holding something fragile there, you wanted to say something, joke about the cologne his clothes were drenched in, something so expensive you were almost sure no other man in the damned city had ever worn something similar.
But you decided to ignore the sarcasm and comebacks and instead a soft “Thanks,” escaped from your lips.
He nodded once, still not turning around. The silence was heavier now, filled with everything neither of you wanted to ask.
Finally, you broke it, you could almost listen to Mia’s talk about not bringing up the topic, but in that very moment it felt like the correct thing to do. “About last night…”
He tensed. Just barely, but you caught it.
“We’re both aware it doesn't change anything about the deal, right?” you said, unsure but trying to sound as casual as possible —tried to sell it like any of the other pretty lies you’d built a career on—,but your throat tightened around the words.
He turned then, slow, his expression unreadable. Whatever flickered in his eyes wasn’t surprise. It was something quieter, sadder, like he’d been expecting you to say it first.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low, careful. “It was nothing.”
You nodded, once. “Good.”
But when he looked away again, and you caught the reflection of his face in the window’s dim light, you realized the emotions that hid behind his unreadable exterior, but knowing you carried similar burdens on your exterior, you said nothing, and instead both of you prepared to walk to the lobby and grab breakfast.
The restaurant glowed in soft amber light, the kind reserved for luxury hotels and Michelin-guide restaurants. The storm had scrubbed the city clean; sunlight filtered through wide glass panes, falling in stripes over the redwood floor.
Charlotte was waving before you and Harry even crossed the room.
“There you are!” she called, her voice bright enough to make heads turn. “We were starting to think you’d ditched us.”
You managed a small smile. “We fell asleep, the storm practically knocked us out”
Charlotte laughed, delighted. “And in a suite, no less. Terrible luck.”
Her tone was teasing, not cruel —she lived in a world where everything was a light anecdote, never consequence, something that would be laughed at over a hundred-dollar wine corkage. Peter smiled politely at the joke, already halfway through his first cup of coffee, scrolling through emails with the faint air of someone who found reality mildly inconvenient.
Harry pulled your chair out for you —it felt like instinct now — and sat across from Charlotte. “So, last night you said you had been in this hotel before? Can I ask why?"
"Harry and I have actions in this company." Peter replied, not even looking from his phone.
You nodded as if it was mildly interesting, you turned to look at Harry, "I'm kind of hungry, should we go and see?"
The easy lie slipped between Harry and you like an unspoken treaty, a reminder that nothing had changed between the two of you.
The buffet was the kind of excess that almost mocked you: towers of croissants, fresh fruit glittering in glass bowls, rows of silver trays steaming beneath their lids. You walked side by side, plates in hand, the silence between you taut and too careful.
He reached for the serving tongs at the same moment you did, and your fingers brushed — that small, stupid, familiar electricity that shouldn’t still exist. You pulled back first. He didn’t look at you.
“So,” you said quietly, as if the word could break the tension, “how do you want to play this?”
Harry’s jaw flexed. “Like nothing happened.”
“Nothing did happen,” you said too fast.
He glanced at you then, just once, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Right,” he said softly. “Nothing.”
You picked at the scrambled eggs like they’d done something wrong and changed the subject. “Charlotte’s already glowing. She’s going to make jokes all morning.”
“She means well,” he said. “She just… doesn’t live in the same world as everyone else.”
You almost smiled at that. “You say that like you do.”
He didn’t answer. He just filled his plate and moved on to the next dish, leaving the air between you heavy and unspooled.
By the time you both returned, Charlotte was pouring more coffee, Peter was describing a vineyard he wanted to visit “once the markets stabilized,” whatever that meant.
“Oh, finally,” Charlotte said, beaming. “I was about to tell Peter we’d have to continue eating without you”
“You might as well” Harry said easily, placing a hand on your chair as you sat. “There was a really long line at the pancake station”
You gave a small, automatic laugh, grateful that he could still summon that effortless tone. Charlotte’s smile widened, satisfied. “I swear, you two are adorable.”
Peter reached for the orange juice in front of him, “If this one’s calling someone adorable,” he said with affection that made you force a smile even tighter, “you’ve done something right.”
It was all so casual, so perfectly normal that you could almost believe it wasn’t a ruse —almost believe that the world hadn’t tilted sometime between midnight and dawn.
Harry leaned back slightly, stirring his coffee, the silver spoon clicking against the cup in neat rhythm. His other hand rested loosely on the table, close enough that you could feel the ghost of his presence.
Charlotte chatted about travel plans, the wedding, her new art acquisitions, their holiday plans to Copenhagen and Switzerland. Peter added a few dry comments that made her laugh.
They weren’t cruel, you realized, quite snobbish but they just lived differently, a life cushioned by the kind of certainty you’d never quite trusted despite deeply desiring it in your darkest insides. They spoke in that language of people who assumed everything, even love, could be sustained by design, and happy families that are sustained exclusively by saying so.
At some point, Charlotte leaned toward you, her tone conspiratorial. “You know, I still can’t get over how lovely you two looked last night. Everyone was asking who you were”
”My guess is a couple hearts got broken” Peter added, and you turned to look at Harry with some unspoken smile and glinter in your eyes.
You blinked, trying to ignore the man’s comment. “Everyone?”
“Well, everyone who matters, some bridesmaids, some of Lucy’s friends” she said with a little shrug. “You just… looked so right together”
You smiled tightly, the words left your mouth before you could reformulate the coherence inside your brain, “That’s only because we’re so in love with each other”
Harry’s hand froze mid-air for half a second before he picked up his cup again.
Charlotte and Peter only chuckled at the comment, then she laid her head on his shoulders, murmuring something neither Harry or you could hear.
You took a slow breath, trying to steady yourself, trying to be the version of you everyone expected: composed, quick, unbothered. Trying to act as if nothing had changed, as if the words didn’t sit differently under your tongue when the lips that lied were the same ones that had tasted his skin last night.
”I’m going to grab an omelette” you murmured, already pulling yourself from the table
It didn’t took him more than a second to get on his feet and walk with you, even when he didn’t have a plate in his hands. He was polite, attentive, perfectly in character. But his eyes flickered toward you more than once, like he couldn’t help checking if you were still the same woman he had laughed with hours ago.
“Are you okay?” He asked suddenly, while you handed the chef your plate, you murmured your order at her.
You smiled. “Yeah. Just tired”
He noticed the ring in your voice and decided to not push anymore, instead he reserved to look at you only, until you turned to look at him and then his gaze swayed across the ceilings and back into the floor, everywhere but meeting your frame.
When you came back it was Charlotte's turn to excuse herself to take a call and Peter wandered toward the buffet, you and Harry were left alone at the table. The hum of the dining room seemed louder without conversation to hide behind.
He set his cup down carefully, eyes still on the window. “The love comment really did the trick” he said quietly.
You blinked, lost in your thoughts as you played with the fork, “What?”
“The love thing you said about us” he said, then added, almost to himself, “you made it sound so real”
You stared at him, unsure on what to reply, "Well, I do get paid to lie” you opted saying with a low chuckle.
He met your gaze then, something softer and more dangerous flickering there. “Guess so.”
And when Charlotte returned a few minutes later, bright and oblivious, you smiled like nothing had shifted at all. But under the polished surface of the morning, something had —something subtle, irreversible, the kind of change that doesn’t announce itself but lingers quietly in the space between words.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
The way back into the city was quiet, there was no traffic in the highway and surprisingly not a lot either through the bridge.
Harry was the one behind the wheel this time, and you were staring at the morning mist through the windows, none of you said anything. Every moment where there had been a comment or a chuckle or a joke was filled with deafening silence that pricked over your skin like an out-of-tune violin.
You had your laptop, he had kept his reputation, he had Tribeca while you were to be stranded in Brooklyn for the day.
Your building finally appeared at the distance, you recognized the guy from the Halal cart and the deli where you got your breakfast from at least once a week, like a little price.
Your scene was so different from his —full of Soho and Tribeca, and art galleries and upstate weddings ceremonies where everyone’s wearing real silk, of penthouses and warm lightning, of discussing vacations over breakfast with the easiness of choosing between decaf or regular coffee.
And you oscillated between the american dream of the city and the other side of its charm —cheap drinks and places with two-star ratings that are actually amazing, walks in the park, flea markets and the bohemian after-scene over speakeasies and well-preserved diners with mean black and white milkshakes.
It did make sense he wanted someone like you, so good at pretending, to be at his side. And it made sense that it had to be nothing but a momentary deal, because love wasn’t real, because the price to pay was just a laptop that he could purchase with a simple move of his finger, and because no man like him could ever belong next to someone like you.
The only way two opposites could match was through love, but love was a lie, just like everything you had pretended to be.
The car stopped, the silence was so thick you could hear the slow rumble of the tires against the pavement beneath you.
Your fingers found the handle of the door before you could dare to say goodbye, and somehow the air outside seemed so foreign.
He got down from the car as well as you were picking up your tote-bag with your laptop from the backseat.
You heard the sound of the trunk opening when you had finally closed the door, trying to ignore all what was left unsaid in between the highway and the bridge.
He passed you the dress and the heels, “You keep them”
”You paid for them”
”It’s not like I could wear them”
You wanted to make some joke, but decided not to, instead you took off the earrings, the ones he had said were so fit for you, and for fuck’s sake he wasn’t wrong, but they seemed so heavy now dangingling over your shoulders you couldn’t be quicker to give them back.
”Give me a second so I can change and give you back your clothes”
”You keep them” he repeated his same words, “I know what happened last night didn't change anything. But that aside, I really liked spending my weekend with you.” he added, and you hated that you didn’t hate what he said and hated even more that you had enjoyed his presence as well.
”We’ll have to get in contact soon to plan the breakup story… make it realistic” you said with a laugh, as always, dedicated to give a true performance.
”We can go have lunch right now.”
”I have plans already. Sorry”
”No, it’s fine, I should’ve known”
You stared at him then, still unable to walk the stairs into your building, trying to memorize the shade of his eyes, the softness in his smile, the feeling of his lips against yours, and then reminding yourself over and over and over again that it wasn’t nothing more than attraction and your body betraying you for being touch-deprived and stressed. It would pass. It had to pass.
”Goodbye, Harry” you finally gathered enough strength to say, and just like the day you had walked inside of his life like some kind of c-list actress, you left with no standing ovation but his voice reverberating in the back of your head like the feedback from a karaoke-bar microphone.
You turned around to face him once again, but he was already inside of his Mercedes, giving an u-turn to drive back into the city. He had looked at you through the rearview all the way until you finally entered through the door.
And just like that you walked back into your department, covered in his shirt and sweatpants, carrying the dress and heels and you had forgotten, wearing his expensive sneakers, now tainted in a lighter shade of gray due to the asphalt rain and dirt.
Mia received you then, lying on your couch as she half-read one of the magazines you kept over your coffee-table.
”The pill’s over there” she murmured, not even looking from whatever interesting article she was reading.
You walked over to the counter, the box piled neatly arranged next to a glass of water, and as you swallowed it you tried repeating in your head —as some type of quiet mantra— this is over, this meant nothing, you don’t want a relationship, you don't need it, it's way too tiring to engage in one.
This meant nothing, and with no proof of it whatsoever you could make sure to believe in those three words just for a little longer even if deep down you knew it was a lie.
summary: You got called, once again, by the Bureau so you could help the art department to track a stolen painting, but instead of meeting with the typical agents, you meet the new transfer: Agent Marcus Pike, and unknowingly him —the first agent to not underestimate you— becomes the first man to should've.
masterlist I next
wordcount: 6k
cw: crimes, art-world, art-related slang, criminals, corruption in the elite art world, deception, theft, forgery.
The FBI field office in Washington was all steel and glass; sunlight muted through slatted blinds, and quiet agents walking with coffee in their hand, badge in their chest. You were walking with your hands folded neatly around your restoration notes, bag hanging from your shoulder, the picture of professional composure —you had to keep the ruse going for a little longer.
You walked through the reception where they handed you a VISITOR badge under the FBI logo, and a woman walked you towards the elevator, “3rd floor to the right, you’ll find Agent Pike there”
You did as instructed, you had never met an Agent “Pike”, but you could already expect him to be like any other agent that ever called for your help, you talked for half a minute, they shut you up after the second by the third you were walking out the building.
And as much as their macho-shit tired you, you couldn’t deny the fact that their despise of women being smarter than them was what had helped you remain under the shadows, and even sometimes just one step forward than them at all times, because dumb men always let their mouths loose with people they consider inferior, not noticing the real inferior prey of their ego is their never-shutting-up mouth.
Your low heels clashed against the carpet-covered floor in a silent motion as the flow of loose trousers clashed against your bracelet-covered arms, the faint noise made you think of bells, as if you were some royal entrance worth announcing.
There he was, peach-fuzz beard and mustache, black suit and maroon tie, sitting and yet, pacing —fingers tapping against the aluminum table inside the transparent room, leg moving in quivering motions indicative of the time he had been waiting inside.
You knocked the door, just once, trying to catch his attention, which you accomplished. He stood up with a smile and walked towards you to open the door, stretching his hand to shake yours as he said your name with kindness, tone steady but not sharp.
He introduced himself after, smile still present. “Marcus Pike, we spoke on the phone earlier…” he said,
”Yeah, I remember your voice” you said, surprised the same man who had found your personal phone instead of office was the same agent in front of you and not some federal hacker.
“Please, take a seat” he said with a smile waving his hand diplomatically towards you, “So… you worked on the Courbet about eight months ago. According to your notes, you stripped down the varnish, repaired craquelure along the left margin. Can you walk us through what you saw?”
Over the desk you placed your leather portfolio, your restoration notes carefully bound, the margins filled with tiny, exacting script—they had asked you to bring it with you this time, that was a first, but after all, by them you actually thought of the velvet voice through the other side of the call which you now knew belonged to Agent Pike.
You offered a polite smile, the kind you’d practiced for donors and collectors and all the high-men from the art world as you took a seat in front of him. “Yes. The work was… in average condition. Consistent with its supposed age, though I did notice a few anomalies in the underpaint.” You tapped your notes. “It was subtle. Nothing a layperson would notice.”
Pike studied you carefully, it had already been a minute and he hadn’t interrupted.
He took the portfolio from you and read it slightly, his fingers caressing the paper with reverence. “Anomalies?”
This was the moment. You could have simply explained the jargon, and kept the game neat. Instead, you allowed your smile to widen into something sharper, somehow the difference in his interrogation style conversation had given you enough trust to forget about the bureaucracy.
“Your thief is kind of stupid, Agent Pike,” you said. “I have my doubts about what I saw, I can’t say it’s a forged piece but I’m not sure its legitimate either”
The silence stretched. Through the glass you could see how other agents that were probably observing through the small camera on the opposite side of the room shifted with discomfort, underestimating you, thinking you weren’t as good as you sold yourself to others,
“How can this be a fake?” “she doesn’t know shit” you could imagine their voices in your head, the weight of everything they thought you were incapable of.
Pike didn’t. His gaze stayed on you, steady, measuring.
“A fake,” he repeated slowly, certain of your words. “You’re sure? The gallery owner says he has had it since ages.”
“If not fake, altered at least.” You slid the file toward him, pages rustling. “Composition analysis, pigment dating, brushstroke irregularities. The gallery insisted on displaying it despite my recommendation that they have it authenticated once again. But well, my job was to restore, not police their honesty and the contract forbade me from talking. If you ask me, someone’s stolen that piece long before your thief walked in.”
The words were a clean dagger, stabbed neatly between the gallery owner’s ribs —and you relished it. For nearly a year the real Courbet had been hidden away, safe in your own private collection. You’d stolen it before the restoration even began, replacing it with a carefully prepared double.
And now, the theft that was making headlines wouldn’t ruin you, but the man who’d flaunted it as his own and kept making a fuzz about it for years.
Across the table, Pike’s expression softened, a flicker of admiration cutting through his professional mask. Not for the gallery owner—for your clarity and confidence
“You don’t sound surprised,” he said finally.
You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “In this business? Men lie about value all the time. Sometimes it’s money, sometimes it’s art. Either way, someone always ends up exposed.”
Your eyes met his. He didn’t look away. You felt it —the spark. the unexpected feeling of being with someone that didn’t look at you from above or below, but straight across you.
“Then I guess we’re lucky you’re here to help us sort through all of this,” Pike said, his voice even, but there was something warmer beneath it, you liked it.
You smoothed a strand of hair behind your ear, disguising the way your pulse had quickened. “Lucky, indeed.”
𓊈 ˗ˏˋ.𖥔 ݁ ˎˊ˗⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓊉
You were in the middle of an art consultation in a downtown coffee shop when the second call arrived, the number unknown —and yet, something in you already knew the voice waiting on the other end.
“Could you excuse me for a second?” you asked your client, interrupting his rambling about market values. His annoyance was obvious, but he forced a polite nod as you rose.
Outside, the air was cool and sharp, the kind of autumn afternoon that smelled faintly of coffee grounds and rain-soaked concrete. You pressed the phone to your ear.
“Hi,” came that warm, steady voice. “Is now a good time?”
“Give me just a minute.” You took a few steps away from the door, the city’s noise softening behind you, as you placed your hand on the opposite side of your head, covering your ear. “Alright, Agent Pike. What’s got the FBI calling me again? Am I in trouble or have you found your thief?”
“Neither,” Marcus said, and you could hear the faint rustle of paper, the hum of a distant office. “But we might’ve found something else.”
Your brow lifted slightly. “Something else?”
“Yeah. I went back through the previous restoration reports on the Courbet, after what you said of a possible forgery. A conservator named Armitage led the last one about fifteen years ago.”
You tilted your head, half-feigning interest, although you did know that already. “That name rings a bell. What about him?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “it looks like Armitage’s notes don’t line up with the current findings. He documented pigment use that shouldn’t exist in Courbet’s palette and his microscopy images show alterations along the same areas you flagged as anomalies. If he wasn’t forging something, he sure as hell was covering for someone who did.”
You let a quiet hum escape your throat. “I didn’t check his report.” you lied, you had waited for some man like him to mess up in his restorations so you could act like the savior and steal the painting for years. It wasn't a surprise noone had caught you yet, you were aware that you were that good. “I never do, to be honest. I just focus on what’s in front of me; the condition, the material, the restoration itself.”
“I figured,” Marcus said, a hint of approval in his voice. “Your process seems cleaner that way. But it does mean you probably walked right into someone else’s mess.”
You smiled faintly, leaning against the railing, your reflection caught in the café window. “Wouldn’t be the first time. So you think Armitage altered the Courbet?”
“At this point,” Marcus said, the rustle of a folder punctuating his words, “that’s our leading theory. The pigment inconsistencies you found match the areas he supposedly ‘stabilized.’ It looks like the painting was tampered long before the theft. Which means this case might not be just about a stolen piece.”
You blinked, your pulse quickening despite your practiced calm. “You’re thinking this is forgery and theft.”
“Exactly.” His tone dropped lower, measured but deliberate. “What you said the other day made so much sense after this. If Armitage swapped the painting, or altered the original, that would explain the contradictions in the lab results. We might be dealing with a forged Courbet, stolen from the gallery before anyone realized it wasn’t the real thing.”
You let out a slow breath. “That’s quite a tangle, Agent Pike.”
“Please, Marcus is better,” he corrected absently, too deep in thought to notice your quiet amusement. “And yeah, it is. But you’ve got the only detailed modern restoration record we can trust. Which means I’ll need you to come back this evening. Around six. We’re bringing Armitage in, too. I want both of you to walk us through your findings side by side.”
You turned slightly, the late light catching the side of your face. “You’re putting us in the same room?” the voice left your mouth unhurried and yet,
“That’s right,” he said. “If we can prove his alterations were deliberate, then we’ll know whether we’re chasing a thief who stole from a thief or just a thief.”
You paused, long enough to make it sound thoughtful instead of wary. “And if neither of those things hold up?”
“Then,” Marcus said, his voice quiet but certain, “we go back to square one. But my gut says this starts with Armitage. You spotted what everyone else missed, the irregular pigment pattern. It lines up too neatly with his so-called ‘stabilization work.’”
You let a small smile trace your lips, though it didn’t reach your eyes. You couldn’t deny the fact that the compliment felt warm over the insults and backlash you had faced over the years. “Lucky coincidence.”
“Or proof of your talent,” he said. “Either way, it saved us a lot of dead ends. I’ll have someone email you the details for the meeting.”
“Alright,” you said, glancing back through the café window, where your client had started to fidget. “I’ll be there.”
He hesitated a moment. “You okay with that?”
“Of course,” you replied smoothly, adrenaline rushing through your veins. “Always glad to be of service for the Feds” you said, voice lighter than before.
Marcus chuckled softly, the warmth in his tone edging back in. “You make it sound like we’re in some noir movie.”
“Maybe we are,” you said, the sweetest of ironies dressing your words. “and that’s why the detective’s always one step behind.”
That earned a low laugh from him. “Then I’ll try to catch up, ma’am.”
“Well, try harder, Marcus.”
He was still smiling when he said, “Good bye”
The line clicked off.
You stood there for a moment, watching your reflection ghosted against the window glass, the faint outline of your client’s restless silhouette behind it. Then you exhaled, tucked your phone away, and walked back inside.
“Everything alright?” your client asked, trying to sound casual although his eyes noted an annoyed diminished look.
“Perfectly,” you said, settling back into your seat with practiced ease. “Now, as I was saying, if you ask me, your personal collection would look much better with the Carrington than the Varos.”
He nodded, relaxing again, content in his ignorance.
But your thoughts had already drifted to six o’clock —to that interrogation room with its glass walls, and the man who’d stare across the table, watching every flicker of your expression.
Marcus Pike was sharp. Smarter than most. But this time, his attention wasn’t the problem. The problem was that you were walking straight into a room with the only man who might actually recognize your brushwork and you’d have to also talk to the same man who didn’t underestimate you, which meant, you had to be extra-careful, because most agents wouldn’t think you capable from distinguishing watercolors from gouache, but something told you Marcus wasn’t like most agents.
𓊈 ˗ˏˋ.𖥔 ݁ ˎˊ˗⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓊉
Before your “date” you went back to your studio, three locks over the door, you checked both of the sides of the street, hoping that no one would see you.
The place wasn’t small, of course, it was full of varnishes and paintings, a cork board with all the notes of your meetings, the small drawings that indicated who would arrive to do “pick-ups” that day.
Today, it was Leo, the Spaniard, who would buy the “real” Courbet for double the price that they paid you to restore it, yet, the real piece was already under the jurisdiction of some european millionaire, the money was tucked in between the organization your mother funded and an art-school.
The bell rang, you walked towards the door.
”Darling!” he met you, flirty as always “Do you have my little gift already?”
“Give me just one minute” you insisted, washing away the oil painting from your hands.
You walked towards the fake canvas on the side of the studio, the fake courbet hidden behind. There was a crazy amount of men like Leo who desired to buy fake-paintings just to tell their upper circle they had stolen it, proof of their power, but honestly, proof of your talent.
“Turn on the UV switch so you can see it better”
He followed your words, walking towards the light switch with a little violet dot over it, he pressed it only once as you surgically closed the blinds, his hands took the canvas from you and placed the square almost surgically over the table.
”So what am I supposed to be looking at?”
“This lacks my restoration,” you said quietly, almost clinical, fingertips drifting over the air above paint. “Matches the alleged forgery timeline. It makes your people look like the real thieves — or at least the first ones clever enough to know better.”
You tapped lightly at a cluster of faint craquelure.
“See here? These patterns. Armitage’s sloppy stabilization. He tried hiding the aging, not well. And here—”
Your finger traced a dark bloom revealed under UV.
“This pigment. Chrome-navy. Government-registered. Only one restorer in the country with legal access, and he touched this canvas. That alone should make everyone sure of the authenticity.”
”You really think about everything” he said with a dark chuckle
”Well, that’s why your dad pays me six figures” you said back, a proud smile in your face.
”My dad thinks you’re just a spoiled brat who knows the difference between oil and pastels” he complained, his eyes opening for the slightest of seconds accompanying his bitter sarcastic words.
You chuckled, truly chuckled. “And yet he keeps paying me” the sing-song in your voice allowing the words to filter with the mockery you intended.
“Just make sure you don’t give him a reason not to”
”Which reason could I give?”
”You’re talking to feds too much”
”I just got a degree as a consultant, and with men like you making their work difficult all the time. It's not like the feds have plenty to choose from"
Leo’s mouth twisted —not a smile, not quite anger, but the sour taste of truth pressed against pride.
“Don’t say men like me,” he muttered, still studying the ghost-blue flicker beneath the paint. “You say it like we’re the problem.”
“You are the problem,” you replied dryly, lifting the edge of the canvas to check its weight. “But you also pay well and keep me from going jobless, so I tolerate you.”
He exhaled sharply, amused, offended all at once. “Tolerate. Cute.” His gaze dragged from the painting to you, slow, assessing. “That new FBI agent” of course, word had travelled fast, “Pike. I hear you’ve been in his office already.”
You didn’t blink. That was one of the first rules with men like these, never blink, never let them know what's behind your eyes.
“He needed technical guidance.” you said, cynically and expert, like a surgeon explaining the steps to their team.
“Oh, I’m sure he needed something.” His tone sharpened, lost its silk. “You don’t get it, do you? Men in my world don’t like when one of their assets starts getting too friendly with law enforcement.”
You leaned your hip against the table, hands folding loosely over the fabric and tightening ever-so-subtly, otherwise you’d lose your mind. “I’m not your asset.”
Leo’s jaw ticked. “No, you’re my supplier. Which is worse.”
“And who else would hand you a Courbet no one can question?” You waved a hand at the glowing pigment like you were showing off jewelry. “You don’t get to complain about the angels guarding the devils.”
His eyes narrowed, a warning disguised as critique. “Pike isn’t an angel.”
You raised a brow as if bored, though something tight coiled once in your ribs at the sound of his name spoken like a threat. “Oh?”
“Oh. He’s the one who caught Mackaye back in Austin. You know that story, right? With the marching band and all that”
You let a beat of silence pass —measured, cool, as if deciding whether the information deserved space in your mind.
“I restore art,” you said quietly. “I’m not a thief or go shooting people, if I want a piece, I wait until they suggest I restore it and sell it”
You never sold them, that was where the second rule applied: Trust noone but yourself, every secret must be vowed in the echo of your head, even the mirror or worse —the walls could betray you.
Leo laughed once, humorless. “It wasn’t the theft alone. It’s me telling you what kind of man Pike is —the kind who think they’re smarter than the room.”
“And you think that applies to me” It wasn’t a question.
“I think it could,” he said. “One wrong sentence. One wrong look. And a man like that will decide he knows you.”
You adjusted a strand of hair behind your ear, slow, unfazed. “I don’t give people the luxury of deciding who I am.”
Leo scoffed. “You give them plenty when you walk into their glass box and play hero conservator.”
You picked up a lint-free cloth, brushing imaginary dust from the stretcher, the ritual of dismissal.
“If the FBI wants a mind worth listening to, I’m not going to refuse.” You looked him dead in the eye. “Would you?”
He hesitated —just a hairline crack— then sneered, “Men like me don’t get to sit at their tables.”
“Which is why men like you come to mine when I’m still kind enough to share my leftovers, you can try finding another forger but I assure you noone can give you what I provide.”
That hit. He straightened, tension bristling under his expensive suit.
“Careful,” he murmured, voice dropping. “There’s a thin line between being useful to us and interesting to them. And when the line breaks?”
You gave him a soft smile —not sweet, not kind. The kind a scalpel might make if it were capable of expression.
“It won’t break. If you were to lose me both of us know who'd be losing more”
For a moment —just a sliver of time— Leo looked at you like he wasn’t sure whether to admire you or fear you. Then he wrapped the Courbet, movements brisk, controlled, as if touching anything else in the room might burn him.
“I hope you’re right,” he muttered.
“I’m always right.”
He paused at the door, hand on the lock.
“Mackaye thought so too.”
“And yet I’m here,” you replied softly, “and he’s not.”
A long, low silence stretched —heavy, electric, ultraviolet humming between you.
“Just don’t give me a reason to doubt you,” Leo said at last.
You tilted your head, amused. “Have I ever?”
He pulled the door open, stepping with the covered canvas, you didn’t know where he would drive now, but that wouldn’t concern you anymore, instead you turned the UV light off and walked towards the sofa, searching on your computer the name of the same agent who you’d meet in a matter of hours.
𓊈 ˗ˏˋ.𖥔 ݁ ˎˊ˗⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓊉
You turned the UV off. The room slipped from violet to amber, and with it you shed the strange intimacy of secrets that glow.
You had already checked for the information adjecent in the email Marcus Pike had sent you, you couldn't help but browse the black and white photo that somehow appeared in his email profile, he wasn't smiling and he looked younger than he did when you saw him, perhaps because of the lack of facial hair.
And that's why, while you were lying on the sofa you closed the emails tab and instead opted to open an incognito one, VPN already changing locations as you began typing the words the back of your head had already memorized.
Marcus Pike.
Articles bloomed in stacked headlines —Texas, a task force, an art thief who’d escalated to murder when the gallery owner refused to give the painting. Photographs of a glass-walled office, evidence boards flaring with red thread and glossy prints. A profile that kept repeating the same note: good with people; better with patterns.
You shut the lid before the story could settle. You didn’t want someone else’s version of him in your head.
By six, you were back in the steel-and-glass hive, the third floor humming with the low symphony of printers and shoe leather and coffee. They gave you another VISITOR badge, the laminate still warm from the machine. You clipped it on the edge of your blazer.
A young woman led you down the corridor. Glass rooms. Slatted blinds cutting the dusk into gray ribs. Through one pane you caught your reflection: neutral suit, hair smoothed, bracelets edited down to one. Professional. Uninteresting. Exactly the costume.
Pike met you at the door. Jacket off. Maroon tie loosened by a single, human inch.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, and the words made other agents glance up, because gratitude was not what they were used to hearing in this building.
“Let’s make it worth it,” you replied, stepping past him into the room.
Armitage was already at the table, head balding and eyes full of arrogance, sallow under fluorescents. The last time you’d seen his face was a thumbnail black-and-white byline in a conservation journal, all tidy respectability. Here, he was melted around the edges. His collar bit his neck. His eyes moved too much.
“Ms.…” He tried your name and failed to make it sound like anything but a grievance. “I’ve reviewed your… assertions.”
“Observations,” you corrected mildly, setting your portfolio down. A muscle jumped in his cheek. Pike’s mouth didn’t move, but something pleased flickered behind his eyes.
Two other agents slid into chairs —one with a legal pad, one with the weary patience of someone who knew how long fluorescent bulbs could hum.
Pike nodded to you. “Walk us through, like you did in the on Monday.”
You opened the portfolio. The room tightened around paper and ink and the soft rasp of turned pages. You laid out photographs: the underpainting in infrared reflectography, the craquelure maps, the fluorescence inconsistencies in the varnish. You kept your voice soft, clinical, intimate in the way surgeons use to make people trust the blade.
“Here’s the left margin,” you said, tapping a print where hairline fractures curved in unnatural chorus. “Craquelure should travel the way wood breathes. This pattern migrates instead to avoid stress— someone retouched to disguise ground-layer disturbance.”
You slid a second image forward, UV fluorescing like a bruise. “And here’s the binder fluorescing unevenly over the blue register. Chrome-navy isn’t period-correct for Courbet, but it is consistent with Armitage’s restoration studio — his procurement records show a government-registered batch from the year of his treatment. See the ridge? He tested a swatch and painted it thin to tone a correction. It fluoresces like his.”
Armitage swallowed. “You’re misinterpreting standard stabilization.”
“Then you won’t mind matching the ridge profile to your own panels,” you said, calm as tea. “I brought micrographs of your published samples. The brush hair count is… distinctive to say the least. It's not similar to the previous restorations at all.”
That got Pike’s attention. His pen paused. One of the agents hid a nervous cough in his fist.
Armitage’s fingers twitched toward the folder in front of him, then aborted halfway like a shy bird. “This is a… an attack on my reputation.”
“It’s a repair of the public’s,” you said. “Yours is collateral.”
The room shifted. Pike lifted his gaze to Armitage with that steady, quiet thing you’d already learned could move men where shouting never would.
“Dr. Armitage,” he said, voice even, “we’re not accusing you of theft. We’re trying to understand alterations that predate the reported burglary.”
“I didn’t forge anything,” Armitage snapped, panic turning his vowels brittle. “I adjusted discoloration, in situ, the way any conservator would!”
“By introducing a pigment from a restricted batch registered to your lab?” you asked, interrupting his words. “Bold.” you murmured, voice low, but you knew which effect that mere word would have on him, after all, learning to read paintings also allowed you to understand the behaviour of those who painted them.
Armitage flinched.
Silence collected in the corners. Behind the glass, a pair of agents slowed to watch, carrying their coffees like props.
Pike folded his hands, patient. “We can do this two ways. You can keep insisting, and we can keep debating in here the whole night. Or,” he offered, almost kind, “we can run a polygraph on both of you right now to put your concerns on the record and move quickly to what matters: The Courbet.”
You let your breath flow in quiet, measured counts. Polygraph. Old machine, older logic. Measure worry, call it truth. You had read about it since the first time the FBI came into your office, you could recall every word, the diaphragmatic breathing barely above baseline, a pinprick in your shoe to spike responses to control questions, a pleasant memory stored for the moment they asked you something you could not afford to feel about.
Armitage went the color of paper.
The room they led you into felt like every secret ever told had condensed into the walls —sound-dampened, fluorescent, a hum like nervous breath under the ceiling tiles. The polygraph sat on the table, inks, wires, cuffs. A machine that pretended it could divine truth.
Marcus stood beside it, sleeves rolled once, tie loosened just enough to look human rather than carved. He didn’t sit.
“Alright,” he said softly, offering the lightest of smiles that dissapeared as soon as the red light of a camera appeared, “we’re going to get through this nice and easy.”
“Is this where you play bad cop?” you murmured, lowering into the chair they gestured to. “Because I have to say, it doesn’t quite fit your eyes.”
A flicker. Warmth. A heartbeat of amusement he tried to swallow because there were other eyes behind the glass.
“I can be intimidating,” he replied, tone perfectly deadpan, even if his eyes betrayed the smile trying to happen. “Give me a chance.”
You let your lips curl. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
He hooked the cuff around your arm, gentle, precise. You didn’t flinch —you had trained your body away from tells long before this office ever existed. His fingertips brushed your skin only once, and the goosebumps that tried to rise? You buried them alive.
“Ever done a polygraph before?” he asked, connecting the finger clips to your hands. The contact of his hands against yours making your body slightly warmer.
“No.”
A beat. Then, lightly, “Unless we’re counting bad dates.”
His gaze shot to yours —surprise, a laugh wanting to happen. “Let’s not.”
“I’m sorry,” you softened, tilting your head like you were embarrassed, “I’ve never done this. Humor I guess… it's a coping mechanism.”
As if you hadn't practiced with every person in earth and read every book on how to beat the goddamned needles and papers.
He nodded, and there it was —gentleness again. Something in him that wanted to make people comfortable, even when he was the one probing their truth.
“I’ll walk you through it” he said. “Just answer steadily. No rush. The first questions will be to calibrate the machine”
The pen arms lifted.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” you echoed, breathing slow, anchored. You imagined the gentle weight of linseed oil on brush hair, the neutral scent of wood pulp, not the very real danger sitting six feet away wearing Bureau credentials and a soft mouth.
He sat across from you finally, his voice measured.
“State your name.”
You did. Clean. Stable. You tried to focus on his eyes, on the hair, on his uneven tie, on the splash of coffee on his left sleeve, on the ink pen on the lower side of his shirt, on anything that would make you continue steady and relaxed.
"Is that your legal name?"
"Yes"
“Do you reside in D.C.?”
“Yes.”
"Do you work as a doctor?"
"No" you said with a sheepish smile that he matched
"Did you study Chemical Engineering?"
"No"
“Did you perform conservation work on the Courbet painting?”
“Yes.”
No spike. The truth lived in the details they didn’t know to ask.
“Did you alter the painting beyond standard restoration protocols?”
“No.”
a pause, soft inhale, diaphragm steady. You imagined him asking you if you had been married beforehand, and trough the reading you imagined the quiet of your studio, fluorescent lambency bouncing off glass jars, not the real painting hidden continents away.
“Did you forge the Courbet?”
You blinked slowly. “No.”
You thought of the real Courbet breathing safely elsewhere, untouched, honest —and the lie settled into the word like silk folding.
Marcus watched you. Not the graph, or the pens, or the camera or the other agents glancing from the blackened windows. He looked at you. His eyes held curiosity, not suspicion, but curiosity was more dangerous than doubt.
He hesitated before the next one, something almost personal glinting through.
“Do you know who stole it?”
“No.”
Firm. Smooth. A truth inside a lie inside a truth.
His jaw flexed, just slightly. The pen barely twitched — the perfect performance, and you were the perfect audience of one.
“One more,” he said softly, tone lower, as if even asking made him too aware of you.
“Have you ever participated in art theft?”
Your pulse threatened a jump —not from guilt, but from the thrill of the question. Your body wanted to smile; your training didn’t let it.
You breathed in through your nose, calm, practiced.
“No.”
The word was velvet. Holy. Unshakeable.
You didn’t steal paintings. You replaced them. You were just as good as the artists they exhibited, but money was tight and your father just turned rich, you deserved that place more than anyone.
The machine recorded serenity. You gave it nothing else.
He let a moment sit. The kind that could turn into a step forward or a step off a cliff.
Then he cleared his throat. “Okay. That’s all.”
His voice carried something you almost — almost — regretted bending around your fingers.
You were unhooked, released, escorted to a quiet observation room. Gray chairs, glass wall, muted chatter outside. A woman brought you water, eyes soft but curious —wondering why someone like you would ever end up here.
You waited. Still. Perfect.
Minutes stretched. Then the door opened and Marcus stepped through, a folder in hand, expression unreadable for a breath too long.
Then it shifted —relief, satisfaction, the warm pride of someone who had just tied a knot neatly.
“Well,” he said, leaning against the frame like he hadn’t meant to be casual but couldn’t help himself, “Armitage asked for a lawyer.”
“Already?” you asked, tilting your head.
Marcus nodded. “He cracked. Told us he wasn’t actually doing most of his restorations himself —sloppily subcontracted, covered gaps, falsified notes.” His brow lifted, wry. “That’s enough to bury him in professional misconduct alone. Fraud charges are just garnish.”
A little pulse of amusement fluttered in your chest. The irony was almost poetic. You weren't even aware of everything Marcus said, but you'd be a liar if you said it didn't make you even prouder of your work.
“And me?” you asked, voice light, playfully cautious. “Am I buried too?”
He shook his head. “You passed clean. Smoothest readings we’ve had in months.”
A beat. His eyes lingered. “Better breathing technique than most trained agents.”
Ah. He noticed.
You gave a soft laugh, lowering your lashes. “Yoga.”
“Makes sense.” He didn’t look like he believed that but he forced himself to do so just for the minute. “You're very good at staying composed.”
“I restore paintings older than your Bureau,” you replied. “Patience is a prerequisite.”
He smiled slowly —that same warm, disarming, careful smile that wasn’t meant to be a weapon, which made it infinitely more dangerous.
“Guess that means we caught our forger,” he said softly. “Now we catch our thief.”
You lifted a brow. “Is that the royal we?”
“You’re part of this now.” He shrugged lightly, hands in pockets. “You don’t get to walk away from being the smartest person in this room of police and feds”
You pretended to consider it, though a thrill sparked low in your ribs. There were plenty of reasons you had decided to partake in crimes, but the main one was for the thrill of it all, the adrenaline in your body after seeing the first forgery you had ever made still hanging from the highest place of your father's gallery, and he was still unaware. You had felt the same thrill the moment Marcus Pike had called you in the morning, and the same one when Leo had warned you about his preceeding reputation. The decision had been almost instantaneous.
“Fine,” you said. “But I expect better coffee next time. Federal brew tastes like dirt water.”
His laugh came warm, quiet, genuine. “Deal. And next time, maybe no polygraph.”
“Next time,” you echoed, stepping past him into the hall, brushing close enough that the air between you felt charged, “you don’t need wires to ask me things.”
He paused, watching you go — that searching softness back in his eyes.
“Just don’t make me play bad cop again,” he murmured.
You didn’t turn. Just let the smile slip into your voice.
summary: You got called, once again, by the Bureau so you could help the art department to track a stolen painting, but instead of meeting with the typical agents, you meet the new transfer: Agent Marcus Pike, and unknowingly him —the first agent to not underestimate you— becomes the first man to should've.
