foxlorests

That changed, of course, when he met Catherine. Everything he had thought he knew unraveled the moment she walked into his life. And if meeting her was a beginning, then this—now, sitting in a cramped hospital room in London, staring at a grainy screen showing something so small it barely looked real—was another. He was looking at the faintest flicker of a heartbeat, his child, and it didn’t look like much, just a blur of white on the monitor, indistinct as smoke. But he felt like it looked exactly like everything he had ever been waiting for.

Catherine laid on the exam bed, quiet, her hand curled loosely around his, her eyes shining with the strange mix of disbelief and wonder he felt himself. It was still early. Nothing was certain yet. And still, it was enough to shake him down to the marrow.

No one else knew about the pregnancy except Sam. Sam had cried the first time they told her—not delicate tears either, but the messy, unrestrained kind that left her swiping at her face while she laughed. She’d come to the ultrasound with them, sat in the corner like she belonged there, and when the image appeared on the screen she turned to Harry with an expression he would never forget. As if he were the most spoiled man alive, as if life itself had bent every rule to give him this, and she wasn’t entirely wrong.

Harry Castillo was and still is the most spoiled man on earth. That was a fact.

And for once he didn’t feel guilty about it. He wanted to tell her, tell both of them, it’s about damn time. Sam didn’t know—couldn’t know—that he had waited almost fifty years to be this happy, that he had lived his whole life like it was one long prelude and finally, finally, the symphony had begun.

And Catherine had been so brave through it all. With the performance only two days away, she carried her condition quietly, without complaint. Morning sickness came in waves, yet no one seemed to notice. She carried herself with the same bright, buoyant energy she always had on stage, her baton steady in her hand, her eyes alive with music. Harry watched her during rehearsals and soundchecks, the Royal Albert Hall still echoing and half-empty, and it struck him again how loved she was by her team. The players followed her like they were tethered, not just by discipline but by devotion, leaning into her energy as though she made the music possible simply by existing.

It was during one of those rehearsals that she decided to share her other news. Catherine didn’t make a spectacle of it—just announced, with her usual simple directness, that she was engaged to Harry. For a moment there was silence, a brief collective pause while it sank in, and then the entire orchestra moved at once. Musicians abandoned their chairs, their instruments, the neat symmetry of the stage, and rushed her in a wave of joy. They hugged her one by one, then climbed down the steps to where Harry was watching, pulling him into the fold, congratulating him, insisting with mock indignation that they had to play at the wedding. It was chaos, unprofessional, and he loved every second of it.

That night, Catherine called her family to tell them the news. He also told his family. He didn’t overthink it—just sent a short message. It took seconds. His phone hadn’t even cooled from the press of his thumb before the phone rang, not his, but Catherine’s. Harry heard his mother’s voice from across the hotel suite, rich with excitement, spilling advice, stories, questions. Catherine, already exhausted from rehearsals and other phone calls, answered each question with enthusiasm, her smile audible in every word, especially when his mother slipped naturally into calling her “my daughter, Catherine.”

Catherine didn’t have the heart to end the call, even as her eyes fluttered with sleep. Harry finally pried the phone gently from her hand, kissed her hair, and told his mother enough was enough. He lectured her, half-teasing and half-serious, about keeping his fiancée awake before the most important performance of her career. His mother only laughed and accused him of being possessive before hanging up with a dozen blessings.

Catherine was still in the earliest stages of pregnancy, barely five weeks along. The choice presented itself quickly and starkly: marry soon, before the bump appeared at ten to twelve weeks, or wait until after the baby. Catherine didn’t hesitate. She told him she would feel more secure bringing a child into the world while married, that it meant giving their kid a home that felt solid from the start. Harry agreed immediately, though he couldn’t help himself from asking again and again if she was sure. Sometimes even twice in the same day, as if the answer might change.

“It’s okay if you want to do it next year,” he told her one evening, when she was curled against him on the hotel bed. “I can wait.”

But she shook her head, firm despite the tiredness in her eyes. “I can’t. I want to get married.”

Harry exhaled, his hand resting on her hair. “I’m glad you said that,” he murmured after a beat, “because I was lying. I really can’t wait.”

For some reason, Catherine was very relaxed about it all. Calmer than she’d ever been. She didn’t fuss over details, didn’t obsess over planning or rehearsals, didn’t spiral into what-ifs the way she usually did before a performance. Ever since the ring slipped onto her finger she seemed steadier, as if nothing could truly unsettle her now. Harry could see that calmness when she finally walked onstage at the Royal Albert Hall.

The royal family were in attendance—some of them, at least. None he recognised. Catherine didn’t dwell on it either. Once, she might have braced herself for the weight of their eyes, but not tonight. Tonight, she looked utterly at ease under the lights, standing tall before her orchestra. More than once, when a piece ended and applause washed over the hall, Harry could swear her gaze lingered a second too long on the best seat in the house—his.

Her solos were the kind that silenced even the air between breaths. Her bow moved with unbroken precision, her whole body pulled into the music until she seemed less like a musician and more like the instrument itself. Then, when she stepped back into the ensemble, it was with a grace that only highlighted her gift: she made everyone else sound better. Harry sat forward in his chair during one of the larger symphonic passages, watching the way her orchestra followed her lead without hesitation, their trust in her absolute. They didn’t just play for her—they played because of her.

And through it all, Catherine remained luminous, a figure carved out of discipline and joy. The hall belonged to her, the audience was hers, and yet she seemed to give it all away freely, unafraid. Harry watched her and thought she had never looked more beautiful, never more certain of who she was and what she wanted.

After the performance, he still took her to the restaurant he had originally planned for the proposal. The staff laughed when Harry told them they were already engaged because he couldn’t help himself. That bit of news earned them a free dessert. For the rest of the night, Harry drowned Catherine in compliments, refusing to let her downplay what she had just achieved with her performance. She blushed through most of it, hiding her face in her wine glass, laughing at his persistence, and somewhere between the music and the meal her appetite returned.

The next day, they boarded a private plane back to New York, just the two of them and Sam. The orchestra wasn’t particularly happy about Catherine being on a different plane, but Harry fixed that problem easily by upgrading them to first class. It was the least he could do. Some kept thanking Catherine instead of him—he was fine with that. He found it funny.

Harry thought it was almost cruel, the way life was giving him everything at once. As though some hidden clock had finally caught up and decided to reward him after years of empty days.

⊹

Sometimes Harry thought Catherine didn’t really know the extent of his wealth at all. That amused him. All of his ex-girlfriends had asked about his income within the first conversation. 

Catherine told him about her dream wedding, saying she wanted roses that spilled like waterfalls, music that never stopped, a two-piece Givenchy off-shoulder lacy dress she could dance in, the kind of wedding where everyone they loved felt like they belonged in the story. Then she laughed at herself and admitted she could give that up, pare it down to something smaller, quicker, if it meant they didn’t have to wait.

Harry told her he could make her dream wedding happen in two weeks. She didn’t believe him, thought he was exaggerating just to ease her. He only smiled.

“You underestimate how easy it is for me to make things happen,” he said. “And you underestimate my mother.” He meant it. His mother could organize an empire with one phone call if she chose.

And then, as if the universe itself wanted to hurry them along, James—his new assistant—mentioned casually that his boyfriend was a wedding planner. Harry almost laughed. Everything was being laid out for them. Too neatly, almost suspiciously so. But he wasn’t about to question it. Not when Catherine wanted this as much as he did.

In just two weeks, it was all done. It wasn’t surprising for Harry, he knew how quickly people worked if you threw them enough money. James’s boyfriend worked like a machine, though he admitted even he had never met a bride as decisive as Catherine. She was efficient in a way that surprised everyone but Harry—because of course she was. Catherine knew what she wanted and never lingered too long on choices. She confessed, with a shrug and a smile, that like any other girl, she had been planning her wedding since childhood.

Her dress was chosen in a day, the alterations scheduled before she even left the shop. Red velvet cake was requested without hesitation. The venue was settled quickly too—Harry’s business partner had a building for the occasion, big and spacious. And through it all, she never let him stand aside. She insisted he be part of every choice, telling him it was as much his wedding as hers. Harry, caught off guard, couldn’t think of anything except demanding full control over the wedding night. Catherine laughed and agreed, rolling her eyes.

His mother threw herself into the preparations as though the whole thing had been her idea. She took Catherine dress shopping, sat through cake tastings, fussed over fabric swatches. She practically glued herself to Catherine’s side, arriving to plans earlier than Catherine’s own bridesmaids, calling her “my daughter” in a way that made Harry both warm and exasperated. When she came home from the fitting, she teased him mercilessly, saying Catherine was the most beautiful bride she had ever seen in her life. He pretended to be irritated, though he was grateful someone had been there with her. He never trusted Catherine’s friends to be on time for anything.

The invitations went out six days before the wedding, sharp and clean, carrying their names side by side. Some people raised eyebrows at the short engagement, but Harry only answered with the truth. He couldn’t wait any longer. He admitted he had been ready to propose last year, before the accident. That seemed to settle the matter for everyone—because it was obvious, wasn’t it? Obvious how in love they were.

In the end, it wasn’t intimate, not in the way Harry had first imagined. Their guest list grew beyond control, larger than Peter’s wedding had ever been. They had to rent the upstairs hall too. He wasn’t really surprised. Catherine had friends scattered from here to Timbuktu, it seemed. He wanted them all there, every person who had loved her, who had shaped the woman who was now about to be his wife.

Harry asked Peter to be his best man. His brother looked happier now, though still not ready to speak of the miscarriage. Harry didn’t press—it wasn’t his place—but he felt relieved to see Peter smiling more easily. 

For the first time in years, he even had a reason to reach out to his old college friends, to gather them together as groomsmen. It turned into a reunion of sorts, though the reunion wasn’t without its surprises. Harry had always thought of himself as the last in his friend group to marry, only to discover two of them were already divorced. They hadn’t told him. Then again, men rarely updated each other on the parts of their lives that truly mattered. It made him think, not for the first time, that maybe he should be more like Catherine—more attentive, more connected. She knew everything about her friends, their moods, their heartbreaks, their triumphs. She carried those details as naturally as breathing, where Harry only ever noticed if something was said out loud.

Since the wedding planning began, he and Catherine had hardly seen each other. She slept away from home most nights. Her family arrived and filled her days too. She was busy, constantly swept into fittings, meetings, dinners. Closer to the date, he hardly saw her at all. Most of her time was spent with her bridesmaids, a fact that tested his patience but that he respected nonetheless. He did ask Sam to keep an eye on her, especially when he learned there would be a bachelorette party. Sam reassured him quickly—there was nothing to worry about. Catherine’s idea of celebrating was locking herself in the studio, inviting her friends over, and turning it into a game night for musicians. They competed at sight-reading impossible scores, rewriting each other’s compositions into parodies, laughing at inside jokes Harry would never fully understand.

Catherine also insisted he have his own bachelor party. He had no real desire for one, but he appeased her by taking his groomsmen out drinking. It was low-key, almost comically tame compared to what people imagined of bachelor nights, but he preferred it that way. A night with old friends, a few rounds of whiskey, a haze of nostalgia—enough to mark the occasion, not enough to make a fool of himself. He even invited Chester, her brother, though the man hadn’t even congratulated him.

The day before the wedding, everyone moved into the hotel above the venue. A rehearsal dinner had been arranged, and Harry, for the first time, saw what Catherine’s mother was like when Catherine wasn’t sick or fragile. She wasn’t cruel, not really—just unrelenting in her corrections. Sit straighter, don’t laugh so loud, say yes instead of yeah. Tiny adjustments, each one landing like a small tap of a hammer against porcelain. Catherine had warned him not to react, told him she could handle it, and so he bit his tongue, though it left a bitter taste.

Later that night, she came to his door. He didn’t bother with restraint—he kissed her the second she stepped inside, pulling her close with the urgency of a man who’d been starving. It had been too long since they’d had time alone. Too long since he had her pressed against him, her warmth undoing every thread of his composure. He missed her. God, he missed her.

She laughed against his mouth, breathless, as he pulled her into his lap on the bed. The sound turned into a sigh when she shifted, grinding into him just enough to make him lose track of anything she was saying. He caught only fragments—something about her mother, about thanking him for not losing his temper—and he murmured a distracted question, still kissing her throat, her jaw. “Was she always like that?”

“Most of the time,” she admitted, voice low. “But she loves me very much. She does those things out of love. She’s nicer when I’m sick.”

A reckless thought slipped out of him before he could stop it. “Maybe we should tell her you’re pregna—”

Her laughter cut him off. Light, unbothered. “No. We agreed. Later.”

He gave in immediately, kissing her again. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

Her hands framed his face then, and he thought he could spend a lifetime being pulled back into her this way—pulled under by the simplest touch, the softest sound. She kissed him once more and then tried to pull away, whispering that she should get back to her room.

“Stay,” he murmured, not letting her go. His voice was rough, almost pleading. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her warmth to the silence of an empty bed.

She eventually gave in, though only to stay the night. No sex, she insisted, just sleep. He promised to wake her up early, and he meant it, though in truth he would have settled for anything as long as she stayed in his arms. They lay there tangled together, making out for a while, until the need for sleep pulled them under.

But by morning she was already gone from his embrace, crouched in the bathroom, retching into the toilet. Harry, groggy and half-asleep, stumbled after her. He crouched beside her and gathered her hair back.

Catherine, in true Catherine fashion, chose the moment to start talking. Between heaves, she recounted funny moments she just remembered throughout the week of planning—the endless fittings, the cake tasting, the chaos of wrangling bridesmaids and family. At one point she even laughed, right before doubling over again.

Harry muttered, annoyed, “For God’s sake, focus on breathing before you try to tell a story,” and she laughed harder.

The sound of it, ridiculous as it was, eased him. Morning sickness was awful, but laughter meant she was all right. He stayed with her until the worst of it passed, pressing a cool washcloth into her hand before helping her up. She kissed his cheek, told him she’d better head back to her room before anyone noticed she’d been missing, and slipped away. By the time she was gone, the only thing left for him to do was get himself ready for the wedding.

⊹

Harry tried his best not to cry in front of friends and family, but one glimpse of Catherine walking down the aisle ruined the effort. He didn’t care anymore. He was simply overwhelmed, because his mother had been right all along—Catherine was the most beautiful bride to ever exist. In a way that looked alive, radiant, the kind of beauty born from light and warmth.

She was nervous, he could tell, but she smiled anyway, walking toward him as though there was no one else in the world. Nothing could take his gaze away from her, not even the sight of Brandon sneaking into the venue. Harry just stood there and before he knew it, cried.

He stumbled through his vows. He didn’t really remember the words as they left his mouth, only fragments. Something about how he loved her from the very beginning—maybe even before—how he had never met anyone so perfect, and how he sometimes believed he was born into this world only to love her. It came out clumsy, unpolished, but he meant every word. 

He never would have said things like that years ago, never would have let himself appear so raw, but Catherine had drawn that part of him out without trying. She had made him romantic, not with grand gestures, but by existing.

Catherine, on the other hand, delivered her vows without faltering. Her voice was steady, strong, every word clear enough to echo in him. One part stood out more than the others:

“Sometimes I think I ask a lot of people questions to get attention. I’m a performer, a composer—I live for applause. It makes me feel good. I desperately want to be loved by people, but most of all, I desperately want to be loved by you.”

There were no stumbles, no hesitation. She said it like a truth she had been holding onto for years.

The rest of the wedding blurred together in a haze of congratulations, laughter, and too many glasses of champagne pressed into his hands. In reality, he drank twice as much because his wife kept switching her full one for his empty. Thankfully, Harry had great alcohol resistance.

The first dance of the bride and groom, the music beginning, the room full of eyes on them. He couldn’t stop looking at her—how bright her face was, how she seemed to glow under the lights, how her hand fit so naturally into his like it had always belonged there. 

The music began, soft and swelling, and something tugged at him. The melody was familiar. His brow furrowed, just slightly, until he glanced at the orchestra and found them all smiling, almost conspiratorial. Catherine’s hand was warm in his, her other hand resting gently against his chest.

“I know this song,” Harry murmured, almost dazed.

“You do?” She tilted her head, eyes bright with a flicker of surprise.

“It’s my new favorite song. You made it for me,” he said, voice rough with realization. They swayed slowly, the whole room watching, but it didn’t matter. The world narrowed until there was only her, and this music that had followed him through sleepless nights.

“What?” Her lips opened in disbelief. “How’d you know that? I was very careful.”

“I heard it,” he said, twirling her gently, unable to keep the happiness out of his voice. “When you were in California. It was on a small old recorder. I heard it and immediately came to you.”

She laughed, breathless against him. “That’s a shame. It was supposed to be your wedding gift.”

He looked at her then as though she were the gift, as though nothing she could compose or give could ever outshine the fact that she was standing here in his arms, wearing his ring, carrying his future.

“You’ve given me enough,” he whispered, the words low but certain. “More than I deserve.”

Then he kissed her again and it’s as if the world ceased.

Before dinner began, when Catherine for the first time was not by his side, Harry caught a glimpse of Brandon again. He was standing just beyond the banquet hall’s glass doors, half-hidden in the shadows of the terrace. Harry hesitated, then pushed back his chair. He couldn’t help himself. Something in him refused to let the man linger like a ghost in the background of their wedding.

The cold New York air bit into his lungs as he stepped outside. Brandon was smoking, his shoulders loose, posture too casual for someone who didn’t belong here. He didn’t even look startled when Harry approached—only exhaled a long plume of smoke that curled upward into the dark sky.

“Are you here to ask me to leave?” Brandon asked at last, voice low, steady. His gaze locked to anywhere but Harry, as if looking at him could make him pounce.

Harry should have said yes. It was the obvious answer, the right one. But the words caught in his throat. There was something strange pressing into his chest—not anger, not even jealousy, but a reluctant contentment, like the knowledge that no matter what Brandon felt, he wasn’t a threat anymore. Catherine had made her choice. She was his wife now.

“I haven’t decided,” Harry said, hands buried in his pockets to stop them from trembling in the cold. His tone was flat, but his pulse betrayed him. “I thought you would object during our vows. I was about to send my best man after you.”

Brandon chuckled softly, smoke spilling past his lips. “You underestimated how much I love her, then.” He turned, meeting Harry’s eyes squarely, and there was no mockery in his gaze. “I wouldn’t ruin her day. And as much as I hate your fucking guts, she loves you. I can’t do that to her.”

Harry held his stare for a long moment. Maybe he had underestimated Brandon’s love for Catherine. Rock stars were selfish—at least, that was the rule Harry had always believed in. But this man had been consistent in a way most weren’t. He had shown up when she was sick. Sent flowers. Apologized a thousand times. All of it useless now, because she was no longer his. She was Harry’s wife.

“You’ll do great, kid,” Harry said finally, his voice clipped, unwilling to soften. “You’ll find someone else.”

Brandon’s jaw twitched as he flicked the ash from his cigarette. “I don’t need your condescension.”

Harry almost smirked, almost told him that it wasn’t condescension, it was pity. But he swallowed it down. There was no need. The man had already lost. Brandon’s presence, his smoke, his quiet bitterness—it was nothing compared to the warmth waiting for Harry inside. He decided not to kick him out. Let him wallow in his own devastation. If Harry were in his shoes, he supposed he’d be devastated too—watching Catherine walk down the aisle to someone else. But it couldn’t be helped. 

And he couldn’t stop thinking about it: Catherine Ainsworth was now Catherine Castillo. His wife. His.

He went back inside just in time to see Catherine slip into her chair again, cheeks glowing faintly from the whirlwind of guests. Sam had already taken the microphone, a familiar grin plastered across her face as she tapped it twice and cleared her throat. The room quieted easily; people leaned forward instinctively.

She began with stories of Catherine during their college years—how she was impossibly kind, quick to offer help or stay up late tutoring someone she barely knew, how people were drawn to her almost against their will. Sam’s voice was warm, teasing, and filled with love, and laughter rippled through the room when she shared small, embarrassing details Catherine would never have offered herself.

“The first time Catherine told me about Harry—” Sam paused deliberately, eyes glittering as she sought out the bride across the room. “—she said he called her ‘kid’ the first time they met, and she had been so upset she convinced herself she couldn’t like him no matter how handsome he is. And then she admitted, half a glass of wine later, that she couldn’t stop thinking about his hands.”

The crowd erupted in laughter. Catherine turned scarlet and buried her face in her palms while Harry leaned back, smug, fighting his own grin. He caught the sound of her muffled protest and pulled her closer.

Sam let the noise die down before softening her tone. “You know, when Harry flew all the way to California just to ask me for advice, I realized he wasn’t unfeeling at all. He was nervous. He was in love. And I thought—well, if Harry Castillo can cross a continent for advice on how to please her, then maybe Catherine finally met someone who was worthy of all the love she’s always given away so freely.”

Her voice thickened for a moment. “There’s no one more deserving of that love than Catherine. And I don’t think there’s anyone more perfect for her than Harry.”

The applause swelled, but Harry barely heard it. He was watching Catherine, her eyes shimmering as she mouthed a silent “thank you” to her best friend.

Then it was Peter’s turn. Harry’s younger brother stood with his champagne glass in hand, face serious at first, but his opening words quickly turned lighthearted. He ribbed Harry about his infamous stubbornness, his poor taste in dates, his reckless tendency to assume women would stick around forever. The crowd laughed, and Harry allowed himself a small, rueful smile.

But Peter’s voice shifted, grew steadier, more deliberate. “Against all odds,” he said, “my brother found not just the perfect woman for him, but the perfect woman for our family. Catherine, you are…” He hesitated, drawing a slow breath, his eyes lingering on her as if trying to choose his words carefully. “You are the sister I never had. Harry Castillo always strives for the best, and if my brother hadn’t met you, I’m sure he would never have married at all. And Harry—” He turned then, raising his glass toward the groom. “I used to look up to you, even when you thought I wasn’t paying attention. I still do. I watch the way you live, the way you fight for what you want, and I try every day to do the same. Do the best at everything I do. And now, I have no doubt you’ll try your best to be the best husband you can be. Because you’ve always been that man for the rest of us.”

For a moment, the clink of glasses, the applause—it all faded behind the lump in Harry’s throat. He had always thought of Peter as his little brother, someone he needed to protect, someone still halfway into adulthood. But standing there, glass raised, speaking with that kind of clarity—Peter wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man, shaped by his marriage, by his losses, by his quiet resilience.

Harry sat back, silent, Catherine’s hand sliding into his under the table. He looked at her—his wife, radiant even in the soft shadows of the hall, in a room filled with people who loved them both—and for the first time, he realized something new. He didn’t just hope marriage would change him. He was certain it already had.

⊹

They went back to the penthouse straight after the wedding. Catherine had asked, and Harry hadn’t argued—though, if he were honest, it was as much strategy as indulgence. There was no way they could keep quiet in a hotel surrounded by friends and family. At least here, in their own home, they didn’t have to. The place was still half a mess, but they didn’t care. Their suitcases were already packed and ready for the honeymoon journey tomorrow, what’s left for tonight was rest.

He helped her out of her dress, each layer and button undone with careful hands, as though he were unwrapping something fragile. He unpinned her hair, the curls falling loose over her shoulders, and pressed his lips to the slope where fabric had once covered skin. Through the mirror he saw her watching him, her reflection softened by the dim light, and for a moment he lingered just to take her in. She didn’t need embellishments, not even on her wedding day. In fact, the simplicity had made her more striking—her green eyes clearer, brighter, alive with something only he had ever seen in full.

“So you like my hands, huh?” he teased then, breaking the silence, a sly reference to Sam’s maid of honor speech.

Catherine’s face flushed, pink blooming along her cheeks. “That was supposed to be a secret.”

He laughed, low, and turned her gently until she was facing him instead of the mirror. He lifted one hand to her face, his palm cupping her cheek. She leaned into him without hesitation, nuzzling against his touch as though her skin belonged there. His thumb brushed lightly along the curve of her cheekbone before trailing down, tracing her lips. He tilted her chin upward, guiding her toward him, and kissed her.

When he pulled back, his hand still framed her face, thumb gliding slowly over the soft part of her mouth. He watched her breath catch as he pressed his thumb forward, parting her soft pink lips, until she took him in. She closed around him without protest, her eyes steady on his, her cheeks warmed with color.

Harry’s chest tightened at the sight—the innocence, the trust, the heat simmering beneath it all. He pushed his thumb in deeper, urging her to suck his thumb harder, to do as he asked without words. She did. Like a good girl.

He imagined her sucking his cock the same way. It’s been a while since they had sex, even longer since her lips were wrapped around his length like magic. Harry wanted to take his time with her but wondered if he was capable of such a thing. Probably not, especially when she looked this beautiful and submissive. And as much as he loved the sounds of her moans, her skill in pleasuring him with her mouth was equally amazing. He loved to watch her lips working.

His voice dropped, rough with possession. “This part of the night is mine, hm?”

The words weren’t a question so much as a claim, one that made her blush deepen even as she held his gaze.

“That’s what we agreed on,” she whispered, her voice soft, her composure fragile at the edges. Still, she managed the smallest smile. “Aren’t you tired, though?”

The word barely registered. He leaned closer until their foreheads almost touched, his lips hovering just a breath from hers, unwilling to give her distance.

“Not for this,” he murmured. “Never for this. Are you?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She lingered in the space between them, eyes flickering down to his mouth, and he could feel the hesitation—the way she stretched it out, as though teasing him on purpose. Her teeth caught her bottom lip, holding it, before she released it again. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower, threaded with something heavier than playfulness.

“Not tired enough. We had a business deal, my husband and I.”

There was a twitch in his crotch. His thick hard cock swelling as he looked at her eyes with dark lust.

“Kneel for me, Catherine,” he said, his voice low and demanding. It was a voice he used when he wanted Catherine to listen.

She slowly did. Her knees on the floor, bringing her face to face with the outline of his cock. He reached his hands to her face, he caressed her cheeks again. She looked up then down again at his tenting pants, like she couldn't decide where to land her eyes.

He chuckled and breathed in before pushing his thumb into her mouth, this time with no softness. She finally decided to keep her eyes on his, her lips parting just slightly to let his thumb move into her sweet mouth. She sucked again. Her tongue swirled around the digit, her cheeks hollowing as she obeyed his unspoken command. The feeling of her hot, wet mouth enveloping his thumb sent jolts of electricity zinging down Harry's spine, making his already rock-hard cock throb with renewed urgency.

Harry finally fumbled with his belt.

He watched, enraptured, as Catherine reached behind her back to unhook her lacy bra. The scrap of delicate fabric fell away, revealing the creamy swells of her breasts topped with rosy, stiff peaks. Harry's mouth watered at the sight, his fingers itching to touch and caress and tease those perfect mounds. But first, he had other plans for his wife's eager mouth.

“My sweet girl, my sweet wife,” he breathed hard, pushing his thumb deeper, then adding a finger. She sucked harder, obediently. He brought his body closer to hers until his cock touched her breasts. He groaned at the sensation.

Then, as if sensing his needs, she brought her hand to his length. Oh, how he loved her hands, how small and soft it was compared to him. She was just holding him, yet he was drowning in pleasure. Harry's thumb popped from between her kiss-slicked lips with a soft, obscene sound. 

A bead of precum dripped from the swollen head of his cock. Catherine's hand continued to stroke and caress his shaft as Harry brought the pearly droplet to the rosy peak of her breast. He circled her nipple with the leaking tip, painting the stiff bud with his essence and leaving a glistening trail in its wake. 

Everything about Catherine is simply too much for him. Too intoxicating, too seductive. She circled her nipples with her own fingers, massaging his precum into her skin.

His voice was a low, commanding rumble as he gave her the instruction she so clearly craved, "Use your mouth on me, Catherine," Harry growled, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip.

Catherine, it seemed, was determined to tease him. She moved so agonizingly slow, too slow for his liking, at least. He brought his hand to her head, encouraging her.

Harry groaned, a deep, guttural sound that reverberated through his chest as Catherine's soft, plump lips brushed against the sensitive head of his cock. Just a small kiss. The fleeting touch sent a jolt of electricity zinging up his shaft, making it twitch and throb against her mouth. Harry's grip on her hair tightened, his fingers curling around the silky strands as he fought the urge to simply grab her head and force his cock past those tempting lips.

But he held back, wanting to watch her take him into her mouth of her own accord. Harry's dark gaze was riveted to her face, his eyes roving hungrily over every micro-expression that flitted across her beautiful features. He could see the way her cheeks flushed a pretty pink, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips before she parted them wider, inviting him to claim her mouth.

Harry's voice was a low, strained rasp as he spoke, "That's it,  such a good girl," he praised, his hips rocking slightly.

She licked and sucked the tip, slowly. With that, Harry pushed forward, slowly sliding his throbbing shaft past Catherine's lush, pillowy lips to penetrate the hot, wet cavern of her mouth inch by excruciating inch. He could feel her breath catching as he stretched her lips around his girth.

Harry's voice was a half-broken growl, rough with unchecked lust and desperation as he demanded roughly, "Deeper, Catherine.” 

Catherine relaxed her throat fully, taking him impossibly deeper until her nose pressed against the wiry hair at the base of his cock. She could feel the thick, rigid flesh pulsing and throbbing against her tongue, could taste the first salty drops of his impending release. The feeling of his heavy, aching shaft stretching her throat so completely sent a bolt of liquid heat straight to her core, and Catherine could feel her panties growing damp with her arousal.

Harry's eyes darkened with lust and approval as he watched Catherine reach down to rub herself through her soaked panties. He could see the desperate need etched into every line of her body, the way she arched into her own touch like a woman possessed.Harry could feel himself growing even harder, his shaft pulsing and twitching against Catherine's tongue as she pleasured herself.

Harry's hand tightened in Catherine's hair, gripping the silky strands as he forced her head down, slamming his thick shaft back into the tight, wet heat of her throat. He could feel her resisting for a split second before she relaxed, allowing him to plunge back in and bury himself to the hilt. Harry groaned at the feeling of her throat bulging obscenely around his girth, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he began to fuck her throat with wild abandon.

"That's my good girl," Harry rasped, his voice strained with lust and pleasure. "Take it, Catherine. Such a tight throat. So good for me. Let me fuck your mouth.”

He could feel her struggling to breathe as he used her, her little gasps and gags only spurring him to fuck her deeper and harder. The wet, sloppy sound of his shaft plunging in and out of her throat filled the room, punctuated by Harry's grunts and moans of rapture.

Harry's balls slapped against Catherine's chin with each brutal thrust, already drawn up tight and churning with his rapidly approaching release. He could feel his heart slamming against his ribs, could feel the coiled heat in his gut winding tighter and tighter until it threatened to snap. But still he fucked into her, driven mindless by the need to fill her with his seed, to paint her insides with his thick, hot cum.

With a last few erratic, brutal thrusts, Harry buried himself balls-deep in the hot, clutching grip of Catherine's throat and let out a guttural roar. His cock jerked and pulsed as thick, scalding ropes of cum shot out of him.

She swallowed the first few spurts, but when it hadn’t stopped, she kept it in her mouth. Harry watched as he pulled his still bursting cock, keeping the end just over her open lips. He could see his spend filling up her mouth, her eyes locked into his for approval.

“Good girl. Swallow,” he said. 

She did.

Harry’s hand caressed her absentmindedly before carrying her to the bedroom and putting her on the edge of the bed.

Harry knelt between Catherine's spread thighs, his dark eyes locked onto the damp patch staining her lacy panties. He could smell her arousal, the heady, intoxicating scent of her desire filling his nostrils and making his mouth water. Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he leaned in, his breath hot against her clothed sex. Slowly, teasingly, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and dragged them down her long, shapely legs, revealing her glistening petals to his hungry gaze.

Harry's voice was a low, approving rumble as he spoke, “You were touching yourself when you were sucking my cock so obediently. Did it turn you on, my love?”

“Yes,” she said. He smiled and kissed her center.

“You like me using your mouth?” he asked, his hot breath touching her core. 

She could only moan in response. 

“Use your words, Catherine.”

She moaned again. “Yes,” she finally breathed out.

Harry's tongue delved between Catherine's glistening folds, lapping at her sweet nectar like a man starved. He groaned at the exquisite taste of her, his cock throbbing and leaking precum at the familiar, intoxicating flavor that coated his taste buds. Harry's hands gripped Catherine's thighs, spreading them wider as he buried his face in her hot, dripping core, his stubble rasping deliciously against her sensitive skin.

Harry's fingers found her clit, circling the swollen nub with teasing, maddeningly light strokes. At the same time, he pushed two thick fingers knuckle-deep into her fluttering channel, feeling the silky walls grip him like a vice. He pumped them in and out, curling them to brush against that special spot deep inside her with each thrust.

Harry's voice was a low, approving rumble against Catherine's sex, "Stay still. Don’t move your hips. Let me taste you. Yes, just like that." 

With that, Harry sealed his mouth over Catherine's clit and suckled the sensitive bundle of nerves, his tongue flicking back and forth over the swollen flesh. At the same time, he plunged a third finger into her clenching heat, pumping them harder and faster as he finger-fucked her with wild abandon.

The taste of her arousal was intoxicating, a heady mix of sweet ambrosia and the faint saltiness of her essence, a flavor he knew he would never tire of savoring. It was so erotic that Harry couldn’t help but touch himself while tasting her. His other hand went over his cock, stroking it again for a sense of relief.

As Catherine's body convulsed in ecstasy, her back arching off the bed and her fingers tangling in Harry's hair, he lapped up her release with fervor. He could feel her juices flooding his mouth, could taste the sweet essence of her climax as it coated his tongue. Harry groaned in carnal bliss, the vibrations rumbling through Catherine's cunt and intensifying her orgasm.

Before the aftershocks had a chance to subside, Harry was positioning himself above her, settling his muscular frame between her trembling thighs. He could feel the heat radiating off her skin, could see the way her chest heaved with each ragged breath.

Harry's cock, hard as steel and leaking with need for the second time that night, nestled against her dripping folds, the thick head parting her swollen lips.

He rocked his hips, rubbing the thick length of his shaft along her slick slit, coating himself in her arousal.

“I just came,” she said, breathless.

“I know you did,” he said. “But you can take it, can’t you? You’ll do as I say. Nod your head.”

Harry's lips curled into a wicked, satisfied smile as Catherine nodded, her breath coming in short, needy gasps. He loves when she’s obedient. He could see the desire burning in her eyes, could feel the way her body trembled with anticipation and need. With a low, approving moan, Harry began to push forward, the thick head of his cock parting Catherine's slick folds and sinking slowly into her tight, welcoming heat.

He could feel every inch of her silky walls gripping him like a velvet vise as he inch by inch sheathed himself inside her. He had to fight the urge to slam forward and bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust, to claim her fully and completely.

Harry's voice was a low, lustful rasp as he spoke, "Always so fucking tight. It’s like this perfect little cunt was made just for me. I can feel you gripping me, squeezing me."

As he spoke, Harry kept up his slow, steady rhythm, sinking deeper and deeper into Catherine's hot, slick center. He could feel her hips rocking up to meet his, could feel the way her heels dug into the small of his back as she urged him on. Harry's hand slid down to grip her hip, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he guided her movements, setting a pace that had them both panting and moaning with each delicious, dragging thrust.

Harry's other hand slid up to cup Catherine's breast, his thumb and forefinger sinking into the pliant mound to tease and pluck at the stiff peak. He rolled the sensitive bud between his fingers, pinching and tugging until Catherine was arching into his touch, her back bowing off the bed. Harry could feel her walls starting to flutter and clench around him, could tell that she was already climbing towards another peak.

“I’m so sensitive,” she said, her eyes fluttering close as his thrusts became rougher.

“I know you are,” he said. “But you’re doing so well. So obedient for me. For your husband.”

She moaned and arched her back. “Only for you, Harry. I’ll be good.”

Catherine's hands slid down to grip Harry's ass, squeezing and kneading the firm globes as he fucked her with deep, powerful thrusts. She could feel his muscles flexing and clenching beneath her touch, could feel the raw, primal strength coiled in his body. It made her feel small, feminine, and utterly owned. As much as he wanted to control every movement, Harry loved it when she couldn't help but touch him, so he let her.

“So big. You’re so big,” she breathed out.

“That’s right. Stretching you out. You’ll take it. Good girl, squeezing me so tight,” he said.

The room filled with the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling, flesh slapping against flesh, the slap of skin on skin, and the shameless moans and cries of a woman lost in rapture.

Harry's hands gripped Catherine's hips hard enough to leave bruises, fingers sinking into the delicate skin and bone. He yanked her hips up to meet his relentless thrusts, pulling her harder against him with each plunge of his thick shaft. At the same time, he leaned down to catch one of her hardened nipples between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make her yelp before suckling the tender bud, swirling his tongue around it and coaxing it to an even stiffer peak.

Catherine's orgasm crashed over her, her velvety walls clamping down around Harry's pistoning shaft like a silken vice, he could feel the way her body quaked and trembled beneath him. Her cries of ecstasy filled his ears, spurring on his lust and urging him to fuck her with even greater fervor. His hips never ceased their relentless rhythm, fucking Catherine through her orgasm. He moved deeper, deeper, deeper, searching for release.

Harry's hands slid up to tangle in Catherine's hair, gripping the silky strands and wrenching her head back to bare the slender column of her throat. He could see her pulse jumping beneath the smooth skin, could feel the way her heart raced against his lips as he leaned down to run his tongue along the column of her neck. Harry's teeth sank into the tender flesh. 

With a guttural roar, Harry slammed forward one final time, burying his throbbing cock to the hilt inside Catherine's spasming cunt. His back arched, muscles corded and straining as the second hot, thick ropes of his seed erupted from his shaft, flooding Catherine's channel with his virile essence. Harry's hands gripped her hips with bruising force as he ground against her, stirring his seed deeper into her. Breathless, Harry slumped against Catherine, his sweaty skin slick against her own as he fought to regain some semblance of control.

They did it once again that night, and once in the morning. Through it all, Harry was glad he didn’t stay at the hotel. They were particularly loud that day, as predicted.

As planned, they traveled. Their London trip was cut short last time because of the wedding, so Harry promised to make it up with the honeymoon. The Castillos owned a beach house in Hawaii, one that’s newly renovated and no one in the family had used in years. He told her it was for convenience, but truthfully, it was strategic. The place was quiet with barely anything to do around the area, so no itinerary planned. He wanted to spend most of his honeymoon having sex. At the beach too, if he’s lucky. The original plan was simple: a month, maybe more, if they felt like it. Harry had prepared everything—flights, staff, even a doctor nearby, in case Catherine needed anything. He had thought of every detail she might want, everything a pregnant woman could possibly need.

Days blurred together after that. They swam at dawn, lounged in hammocks until the sun dropped, ate dinners by candlelight with the sound of waves in the background. Catherine practiced her music sometimes, soft notes carrying into the sea air, and Harry thought it was the sweetest sound in the world. Other times, she dozed on the deck and he would just sit beside her, reading, content to keep her close.

True to his word, they stayed longer than planned. Weeks stretched into more weeks until Harry had broken his own record for the longest vacation of his life. He barely worked this year. No one complained—not his assistant, not his staff—because they all knew he had earned every second after years of running himself into the ground. Harry didn’t complain either. He couldn’t. For once, there was nothing in his life he wanted to hurry back to. All he wanted was her.

⊹

When they came back from their honeymoon, Catherine’s bump was visible. It wasn’t big—just thirteen weeks—but it was enough. Harry had timed it, almost like strategy, so that the reveal would happen naturally. His mother was waiting at the airport, just as he’d asked. He’d told her he had a surprise, but not what kind.

At first, she didn’t notice. She waved, poised and elegant as always. But when they drew closer, when Catherine stepped forward with her hand absentmindedly resting on her stomach, his mother’s eyes widened. Then, in an instant, the cool, collected woman Harry had known all his life disappeared. She screamed so loud half the terminal turned to stare. Catherine laughed nervously as his mother ran across the space, arms wide, and pulled her into a fierce embrace. She kissed Catherine’s head, her cheeks, her hands, almost incoherent with joy.

Harry had never seen his mother like that. Not once, not for him. She’d been composed at every one of his milestones, even his graduation, even the first time he made real money. Watching her now, crying openly, he felt almost like a spectator—like Catherine had unlocked a side of her he never knew existed. He supposed she had.

“No one told me! My first grandbaby!” she cried between kisses. “You should’ve called me. I should’ve known.”

After that, the news spread quickly. Catherine called her father first, and Harry could hear Edward laughing in disbelief through the phone. His friends reacted the way men usually did—with short, blunt congratulations, followed later by expensive bottles of wine and jokes about Harry finally “settling down.” Emma cried. Peter and Charlotte were subtle in their happiness, but he could tell they were sincere.

Catherine’s side was louder. Her orchestra nearly tore down rehearsal when she announced it, cheering so hard she had to beg them to sit back down. Her other friends he recognized planned a small “celebration tea,” which turned into a chaotic afternoon of Catherine being fussed over while Harry was banished to another room.

The rest of the pregnancy went by smoothly. For the most part.

The first few weeks at home Harry hovered over Catherine like a shadow. He couldn’t help it—every step she took looked dangerous to him, every chore exaggerated into something reckless. He scolded her when she walked too much, when she bent over for too long, when she insisted on doing her usual stress cleaning. It drove her mad, apparently. She begged him to go back to the office, said he was smothering her, that she was pregnant, not dying. He refused at first, stubborn as always, until James began sending him increasingly dramatic emails about urgent matters waiting on his desk, about things that “couldn’t possibly be handled remotely.”

He relented. Catherine smiled too easily when he finally left, which should have tipped him off. He figured out later that James exaggerated everything, but only because Catherine begged him to. 

When Harry got home that night, the penthouse was cleaned through and through, but not in the way his cleaners did. The smell of expensive candles indicated it was all Catherine. The floors polished, the shelves dusted, even the furniture rearranged slightly as though she’d been testing angles and balance all day. He found her at the computer, a soft glow on her face as she pieced together design boards for a baby room. She turned to him, proud, and announced that she’d been very productive and very happy. 

That reassured him. He didn’t mind going to work after that. But he made a point of checking on her every few hours, his calls slipping between meetings and late lunches, the same question always waiting at the end of the line: how are you feeling? He gave her a rule too—never go out alone, not even to the studio. At first she resisted, sharp and indignant, until he threatened to return to his hovering ways. Reluctantly, she relented. Mr. Williams became her permanent companion, and Harry quietly hired a new driver so the balance felt fair.

He helped her in smaller ways too. They created order—schedules for vitamins and supplements, reminders for meals, even an elaborate color-coded calendar pinned to the library wall. They spent an evening filling it together, different shades for rehearsals, doctor visits, family dinners. They both loved it. It made the waiting tangible, as if time could be organized into neat little squares while their lives changed.

The ultrasounds became his anchor. Each appointment, no matter how busy, Harry made a point of being there. Sitting beside her in those dim rooms, watching the screen flicker, the faint hum of machines translating the impossible into reality—it moved him in ways he couldn’t quite name. The blur on the screen became sharper week after week. First just a pulse of light, then a shape, then something undeniably theirs. Catherine always squeezed his hand when the sound filled the room—the quick, galloping rhythm of their child’s heart—and Harry found himself holding his breath, terrified of missing a single beat.

On the car ride home afterward, they rarely spoke. Instead, they sat in the backseat quietly, each taking turns staring at the black-and-white photos. Catherine had started a small album, tucking the pictures into plastic sleeves, scribbling notes in the margins—hiccups, first movement, twenty weeks. It was the kind of sentiment Harry never thought he’d care about, but he did. He loved seeing her handwriting pressed against proof of the life they made.

Once, she leaned into him as the car moved through traffic, the album open in her lap. “Do you want a boy or a girl?” she asked.

Harry thought for a second. “During our honeymoon I read an article about how fathers with daughters live longer lives.”

Catherine looked up at him, suspicious. “Really?”

“I’m thinking four daughters. Two for you, two for me. We’ll live forever.”

She snorted. “Harry, that’s ridiculous.”

“It’s strategic,” he said with a laugh, though the truth was, he did want daughters. He wanted one who looked just like her mother—Catherine’s eyes, Catherine’s smile, Catherine’s kindness. He prayed she wouldn’t inherit his stubbornness, but even if she did, he’d still adore her. 

Truthfully, he would love any child they had—son or daughter, quiet or noisy. He’d spoil them until they were impossible to handle.

“Seriously,” she pressed, nudging him. “Boy or girl?”

Harry tucked the photo back into the sleeve, smoothing the page. “I want healthy kids,” he said simply.

Catherine smiled and agreed, giving him a soft kiss before leaning back against his shoulder.

It was a few weeks before they agreed to ask about the baby’s gender, but Harry swore he already knew. Something in his gut told him. Maybe it was the way the kid moved—constant kicks at odd hours, as if determined to remind them it was there. Sometimes in the middle of the night, Catherine would jolt awake with a groan, nudging Harry’s shoulder, complaining she couldn’t fall back asleep because their baby was having a midnight boxing match. Harry would lie there, hand on her stomach, feeling the insistent kicks and thinking, a girl wouldn’t be this inconsiderate. Silly thought, but he couldn’t shake it.

And sure enough, when the doctor revealed it, he was right. A boy.

Closer to the due date, the house filled with gifts until the room beside theirs—soon to be the baby’s—looked like a small store. Peter and Charlotte brought over a carved wooden crib, family heirloom style, insisting Harry’s son deserved something with history. His college friends sent a ridiculous amount of tiny clothes and novelty toys, half of which Catherine laughed at but still folded neatly. James, efficient as always, had organized a steady stream of packages, from strollers to high-tech monitors, making sure nothing slipped through the cracks. Sam cried again when she handed over a blanket she had knitted herself, uneven stitches and all, and Catherine kissed her for it. Even Harry’s mother, who had once prided herself on restraint, fussed over every detail—ordering bassinets, linens, even arguing over which kind of diaper was best—until Harry finally had to put his foot down and tell her to relax.

By the eighth month, Catherine stopped working altogether, which suited Harry just fine. Better than fine. He was increasingly getting more worried by the week. She was tired most days, the kind of exhaustion that settled into her bones, and Harry hated seeing it. When she wasn’t resting, she had a book in her lap—on parenting, child psychology, even nutrition guides. She underlined passages in pencil, marking entire paragraphs for Harry to read later. He liked how organized she was, how she made their future feel manageable, less overwhelming. He read them, every single one. Some even sparked ideas—products and brands he thought were missing something, investments he wanted to make for the future.

He found himself taking notes in the margins too, though his were less about parenting and more about markets. Catherine teased him, but he liked it—liked how her world and his overlapped in these quiet ways, how even preparing for a baby felt like something they were building together.

What Harry secretly enjoyed about Catherine’s pregnancy, though he’d never admit it out loud, was her libido. It was the first time in their entire relationship that he could say her appetite for sex matched his own. Catherine, on weekends, would now pull him into the bedroom in the middle of the afternoon with a shameless grin, whispering that she needed him right then and there. Once, she climbed into his lap while he was typing some report and mouthed “don’t stop” as she tugged at his shirt.

Another time, she got annoyed that he’d fallen asleep too quickly, woke him up, and told him that if she had to suffer pregnancy heartburn at 2 a.m., the least he could do was “make it worth her while.” Harry thought it was unfair, really, how pregnancy had turned her into him. They had sex almost like they were in Seville, where he practically held her hostage. He’d tease her, call her demanding, but truthfully he adored it. For the first time, she wanted him just as much as he wanted her—and he found the whole thing both exhilarating and hilarious.

But for all the little joys, the last stretch tested Catherine’s patience in ways Harry had never seen. The boy refused to come on time. Each morning she stared at the calendar in the library, arms crossed, as if sheer willpower could force the baby to arrive. Sometimes she’d sigh, sometimes she’d mutter her disappointment out loud. Harry tried reasoning with her—telling her due dates were estimates, that babies came when they wanted—but she didn’t want logic. She wanted results.

By the time they were creeping toward the tenth month, Catherine snapped. She stormed into his office, hair pinned up in frustration, eyes blazing with that particular fire he both admired and feared. 

“By all of Beethoven’s soul, by Mozart’s powdered wig, and by Tchaikovsky’s bloody swan, this baby will come out today! I can’t stand it!” she declared, hands on her belly as if scolding their unborn son directly.

Harry didn’t argue. He closed his computer in record time, told James to prepare everything, and followed her out the door.

The drive to the hospital stretched his nerves thin. Each passing mile made his heartbeat climb higher. He tried to remind himself to stay calm for her, but his mind wouldn’t let him. He thought about complications, about Catherine’s body under stress, about every worst-case scenario. By the time they reached the hospital and Catherine was being wheeled into pre-op, Harry was pale and sweating like he was the one about to give birth.

James had packed everything they needed—bags, documents, snacks, even Catherine’s favorite blanket. Harry barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on Catherine the entire time. The doctors explained options: inducing labor, monitoring contractions, or proceeding with a C-section. Catherine, stubborn as ever, tried to negotiate with the doctor like it was a rehearsal schedule, but when her body clearly wasn’t cooperating, the decision was made for them. A C-section.

Harry hated it. He had once, out of morbid curiosity, watched a C-section in a documentary. It had unsettled him then, and now the memory of it made his stomach clench. When the anesthetic needle went in, his nausea doubled. Catherine’s eyes watered, though she didn’t make a sound. Harry knew better. It must’ve hurt like hell. He bent close, whispering into Catherine’s ear that she was strong, that he was there—but inside, he was undone. The thought of her in pain rattled him more than the surgery itself.

When she was settled and the operation began, he sat rigid beside her, hand wrapped so tightly around hers he was probably hurting her. She didn’t complain. She never did.

He hadn’t expected her to be awake. None of the women in the documentary had been. He had asked twice about the anesthesia, about the dosage, about whether she’d feel anything at all. Still, when the doctors began, he nearly broke into a sweat. Catherine, meanwhile, looked almost serene, which struck him as strange given that she’d been close to tears just hours ago.

“It feels like they’re rummaging through my stomach,” she whispered.

Harry frowned at that, though she didn’t notice. He hated the word rummaging. He tried to keep his face neutral, tried to be calm for her, but inside every muscle in his body screamed.

“How are you completely fine?” he muttered.

“Your kid is heavy, Harry,” she said, smiling faintly. “I’m sorry if I’m glad the kid is finally getting out of me.”

A nurse chuckled at that, and Harry tried to, too, but his throat was dry.

So he just listened. To the steady, practiced cadence of the surgeons. To Catherine’s occasional wince. To his own pulse pounding in his ears. Each second dragged unbearably. The air felt thick, every tick of the clock stretched too long—until finally, miraculously, the sharp cry of their son split the room.

Harry didn’t remember standing. He didn’t remember breathing. All he remembered was Catherine’s face softening with relief, her eyes glistening, and the crushing weight in his chest that told him life would never—could never—be the same.

⊹

Harry Castillo wondered a lot about life, and how foolish he’d been to think that anything could matter as much as this. He used to believe in work above all else, loved the grind, the endless meetings, the numbers on a screen. He almost compromised on love once, almost convinced himself he could marry the way he did business—neatly, practically, without too much risk. Maybe in some other dimension, some sad parallel world, he’d gone through with it. But in this one? In this one, he had Catherine. And he was the happiest man alive.

He took time off work, again, and though they had a nanny on call, Harry refused to let the bulk of it fall to anyone else. He wanted the weight of it, the exhaustion, the messy, sleepless miracle of being there. He carried their son through the apartment in the small hours, whispering lullabies he barely knew, making promises the baby couldn’t yet understand. He held bottles for Catherine when she was too tired to keep her eyes open, kissed her hair as she drifted off, murmuring that he’d stay awake, that she could rest.

There were moments so small they nearly slipped past him—like Catherine falling asleep with the baby curled on her chest, and Harry draping a blanket over them, standing there longer than necessary just to take in the sight. Or the way he reached for her hand at three in the morning when their son finally, finally settled back down, just so she would know they were in this together. He wrote reminders on sticky notes for her vitamins, brewed her tea exactly the way she liked it, and learned to fold tiny laundry with ridiculous precision. He’d never been a man of grand gestures, not really—not until Catherine—but now the smallest things felt like declarations.

Emma was the first to swoop in with practical help. She had always been efficient as his assistant, but with Catherine she was something else—firm, unflappable, and oddly maternal in a way Harry hadn’t expected. She stocked the studio with snacks Catherine could stomach, bought out entire shelves of herbal teas, and even rewrote Catherine’s work calendar in handwriting so neat it almost looked printed. Once, when Catherine forgot to eat lunch because the baby had been fussing, Emma scolded Harry instead. “You’re supposed to remind her,” she said flatly, handing him a lunchbox as though it were his homework. Harry, her previous boss, had found himself nodding meekly. Catherine had laughed for a good ten minutes about it.

His mother helped too, though in a very different way. She had never been the type to hover, but with her first grandchild she seemed reborn into someone else entirely. Harry once came home to find her teaching Catherine how to swaddle, both of them bent over the baby with his mother criticizing Catherine’s technique in a voice that carried all the authority of a general. Catherine only smiled, patient, and by the end of it his mother was cooing into the baby’s hair like she had never scolded anyone in her life.

Later that night, Catherine admitted softly, “You were right about her. She is scary sometimes.” Harry had laughed and said she was always scary, but she had put on a face ever since she met Catherine. She found that hilarious.

There were funny nights too, moments that didn’t feel sacred so much as chaotic. Like the time the baby’s diaper leaked all over Harry’s shirt and Catherine was laughing too hard to help, doubled over on the couch while Harry stood there in horror. 

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he said, glaring at her while peeling off the ruined shirt.

“I’m sleep-deprived,” she said between laughs.

Another night, when the baby refused to sleep unless held, Harry insisted he could rock him better, only for Catherine to smirk and say, “You think you’re better at lullabies than me?” He had taken that as a challenge, humming off-key for hours until the baby finally dozed off—though Catherine still teased him about his lack of pitch. His wife was a composer after all.

Somehow, through all the exhaustion, they managed. Their world had narrowed to feedings, naps, and tiny socks scattered across the floor, but it was theirs. And every time Harry caught Catherine in those unguarded moments—rocking their son in the half-light, hair messy, eyes tired but still bright—he wondered how he had ever lived before this.

And thinking back on those early hardships—the bleary eyes, the sharp arguments born of exhaustion, the weight of responsibility pressing down on both of them—Harry could only laugh at how terrified he’d been.

Because now, years later, with Catherine beside him and three children tumbling through their home—three, god, three—he could say with certainty that nothing in the world came close to this. Not the fortune, not the empire, not the legacy.

Nothing was better than his family.

Lucas was an older brother now, and he wore the role with an odd seriousness for someone so young. He was good with numbers, quicker than Harry ever remembered being at his age, but what surprised them all was his particular gift for chess. He could play against adults at just seven years old. It made Harry both proud and slightly unnerved. When he first got into elementary school, he was competing in small tournaments, knocking out older kids with strategies Harry had to admit he didn’t even understand. Harry’s mother swore Lucas was smarter than the entire Castillo line combined, and Harry agreed without hesitation. Of course he was—it was his and Catherine’s kid, after all. 

A year after Lucas, Catherine got pregnant again. Their second boy, Oliver, had arrived with just as much promise but in a very different package. Where Lucas was measured and careful, Oliver was chaos. He was the artistic one, yes—always scribbling on walls, tugging at instruments far too big for him, humming half-formed melodies that Catherine insisted were genius. But his personality was the opposite of his mother’s steady calm. If Lucas had been difficult in the first years, then Oliver was a storm. Harry swore sometimes the boy was switched at birth, because there was no way Catherine’s son could be that mischievous. He climbed bookshelves just to reach things he wasn’t supposed to touch, cut all the strings on Catherine’s favorite cello when he can’t have ice cream, dumped cereal all over the penthouse just to “make art,” and once, memorably, flushed Harry’s expensive watch down the toilet because “it looked like a submarine.”

Still, Harry couldn’t deny him. The boy’s face was his exact copy—down to the stubborn line of his jaw and the glint in his eyes when he knew he was about to get away with trouble. Harry had wanted at least one of their children to inherit Catherine’s face, her soft features, her unmistakable eyes. But fate, it seemed, had decided differently. Lucas was his reflection. Oliver too. Two Castillos stamped from the same mold. And no matter how much of a menace Oliver could be, Harry could never stay angry for long. The boy laughed like Catherine did—loud, unashamed, the kind of sound that melted away every ounce of frustration.

When Catherine got pregnant the third time, Harry said this was it. No more. He was going to wear condoms for the rest of his life—something he hadn’t touched since the day he met her—or he’d book himself in for a vasectomy. Whatever it took. Because he couldn’t stand watching her go through another pregnancy like this.

The last Castillo had been the hardest yet. Catherine was sick almost constantly, in and out of the hospital more times than Harry cared to count. There were a few nights he thought he’d lose both her and the baby, nights when she clutched his hand and tried to reassure him while he felt like his chest was being torn open. Harry never admitted how terrified he’d been, but even now, a year later, he still remembered the hollow feeling in his stomach each time a doctor paused before speaking. He’d had enough of that fear to last him a lifetime.

But then came his daughter. Rose Castillo, named after Catherine’s favorite flower, something Harry filled her apartment with years ago. Everything softened when she was born. Her face was a copy of his too, but prettier.

Harry always thought a girl might be easier, and—miraculously—it was. She was his calmest child. She slept through the night earlier than the boys had, rarely threw tantrums, and was always reaching out for faces with her sticky little hands. She loved tearing paper into shreds, loved chewing on Harry’s watch strap when he forgot to take it off, loved toddling after her brothers with a wobbling determination that made the whole house laugh. At one year old, her personality was only just beginning to show, but Harry knew she was going to be the quiet one. 

Life with three children was chaotic, especially when there’s a gathering. For Oliver’s birthday he insisted on a piñata, and Harry—unable to refuse him—ordered one the size of a small car. The aftermath was a battlefield of paper and sugar. Hours later, while Harry was still sweeping stray candy out from under the couch, Lucas crouched beside him with a broom. Lucas rarely helped out—none of his kids have that instinct yet, spoiled rotten as they were—so Harry knew he wanted something even before he started talking.

“I didn’t have a piñata for my birthday,” Lucas said, solemn as a judge.

Harry glanced down, hiding a smile. His son’s frown looked exactly like his own. “That’s because you wanted a chessboard, remember? A very expensive chessboard.”

Lucas’s frown deepened, as though reminded of his own mistake. “I still want a piñata.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to Ollie, so you can’t have both,” Harry said, narrowing his eyes in mock sternness.

“Yes I can. It doesn’t even have to be a birthday. I’ll ask Grandma. She always says yes to m—”

Harry opened his mouth, ready to remind him who was really in charge of this house, when Oliver stormed back in. Harry guessed he heard the conversation. His face was sticky with frosting, his hands still in the oversized Hulk fists he’d been wearing all day.

“Copycat! It’s my piñata,” Oliver declared, puffing his chest out like a tiny soldier. “You can’t have one, Lucas.”

Lucas rose to his feet, righteous indignation lighting up his little face. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Before Harry could intervene, Oliver let out a war cry of “Smash!” and hurled himself at his brother. The two of them collapsed in a flurry of fists, plastic hands, and outraged shrieking.

Harry tried to separate them, but it was like wrestling two wild dogs. Their fights had been escalating lately—more noise, more stubbornness—and he hated how easily they dragged him into it. He heard his own voice slipping into the argument, about how fighting with hulk’s fist isn’t fair.

That was when Catherine appeared. She stood in the doorway, Rose perched on her hip, watching with that steady, unimpressed look he knew too well. Her eyes flicked from the mess to him, wordlessly asking why he was participating instead of parenting.

“We’ll get you one next year, Lucas,” she said, her tone calm but final. “Promise.”

Lucas hesitated, then crossed his arms in surrender. Oliver opened his mouth to argue, but Catherine’s voice cut through, practiced and smooth. “If you both stop fighting, I’ll let you have leftover cake for breakfast tomorrow. Now brush your teeth, please.”

The boys stopped fighting and walked off. Harry stared after them and exhaled. Catherine hadn’t raised her voice once. She never needed to. He crossed the room and kissed her, Rose squirming happily between them.

“You always know exactly what to say,” he murmured.

She tilted her head, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “That’s because I don’t argue with toddlers.”

He huffed a laugh, brushing his hand against her waist, reluctant to let her go. “Apparently I still haven’t learned.”

“Apparently,” she said, amused, before Rose tugged her hair and forced her to laugh.

That night was one of the harder ones. Rose had cried twice, Oliver refused to stay in his own bed, and Lucas had woken up insisting he needed to practice chess at midnight because “champions don’t sleep.” By the time Harry had coaxed, threatened, and bribed all three back into their rooms, he collapsed onto the couch on the library beside Catherine with the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who had lost a war.

“We’re outnumbered,” Harry muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Catherine laughed softly, though her eyes were just as tired. “We’re not going to war with them. We’re the adults—we just need a new strategy to keep them in bed at bedtime.”

He leaned back, looking toward the great calendar pinned up in the library. Their sacred map of order. Color-coded, neat blocks of time, the only thing that kept their household from dissolving into anarchy. He pointed to it like a general consulting a battle plan.

“Just wait a few more years. We’ll send them to chess tournaments, music camps… whatever kids go to these days,” Harry said. “I want them out of the house every summer. A full evacuation.”

Catherine tilted her head, fighting a smile. “That seems cruel. You can’t just kick them out.”

“Rose can stay forever, but we have to force the boys to have an activity for summer.”

“They can go if they want, but no force.”

“No?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Not even Ollie?”

She chuckled. “Especially Ollie. He’ll riot.”

Harry smiled at that, picturing their wild middle child raising hell in some unfortunate camp, refusing to be managed. Then his eyes lingered on Catherine, the curve of her mouth as she teased him, the warmth still in her voice despite her exhaustion.

“Hm,” he said slowly, leaning toward her, lowering his voice. “He does inherit my inability to stay away from you.”

Catherine’s laugh was quieter this time, softer, fading as his hand found hers on the couch. The house was finally quiet, but here, with her, he realized that even in their fatigue—even in the mess—he’d never wanted anything more than this life they’d built.

Harry sometimes wondered where Catherine got the energy. Between the children, her music, and him—God knew he wasn’t low maintenance for her attention—she still found ways to pour herself into something bigger. He used to think she needed the stage, the applause, the constant demand of an audience. But as the years passed, Catherine had grown into something steadier. Harry taught her a lot about managing her time and letting people take over tasks. She hired more people for the studio. She took up more screen projects, sometimes for a family show or an indie movie. It had gone surprisingly well. What drove her now wasn’t the hunger for recognition, but the urge to leave the world better than she found it.

That was how Catherine ended up running a marathon for safe driving awareness—a cause close to her heart ever since the accident. She trained quietly at first, slipping out at dawn before the children woke, brushing off Harry’s concern with that infuriating calm of hers. When she announced she would run the full distance, Harry understood it wasn’t just about running anymore. It was Catherine making peace with what had once broken her. Turning pain into something purposeful.

He started joining her in the mornings, half out of support, half out of fear of letting her face it alone. Jogging wasn’t his usual rhythm, but he told himself it might do him some good. She had been doing this longer, and he hated admitting he couldn’t keep up. More than once, he had to remind her to slow down, which irritated her; she hated being told to hold back, even in something as trivial as running. They argued once over it, but the next day they found a compromise—shorter bursts, longer breaks, Harry trailing her until he didn’t anymore. Eventually, he could keep pace. Eventually, it felt like they were doing it together, and not just Harry catching up.

James arrived early every morning so Harry could follow her, and it became routine. But children were observant, and Lucas and Oliver soon caught on that their parents slipped out before breakfast. One morning, they woke up early to find both parents gone. James, too kind-hearted to send them back to bed, faced their wrath alone. Harry and Catherine returned sweaty and breathless to find the house in chaos: James red-faced, Rose wailing, Lucas and Oliver shouting over who got to hold the stop-watch Catherine had left behind. Harry took one look and promised James he would never saddle him with babysitting again.

In the end, they compromised with the boys too—weekday runs stayed for Harry and Catherine alone, weekends became family runs. Catherine laughed about it, saying they couldn’t even run away together without the children finding them, but he knew that she had the same opinions as he: they loved spending time with each other.

On the day of the marathon, Harry was there with Emma and the kids. He stayed on the sidelines with the crowd until the children got restless, then decided to buy them coffee and snacks a few blocks away. He left the boys with Emma and strapped Rose into the baby sling, which he still despised—she had developed the habit of babbling nonsense while blowing spit bubbles, her little hands tugging his collar until her saliva sometimes landed on his chin. He wiped at it absentmindedly as he ordered, keeping one eye on the clock. He had Catherine’s pace memorized from months of morning runs; he knew almost to the minute when she would pass the last turn.

“Harry?” a voice called. “I thought that was you.”

He turned. “Lucy.”

She was with John, both holding paper cups, looking far too surprised. Harry adjusted Rose on his chest before shaking their hands.

“Oh, you’re a dad,” John said.

Harry smiled. “I’m a dad. This is my third, actually.”

“With… the musician?” Lucy asked.

“Composer,” he corrected, calm and certain.

“Right. Composer.” She smiled faintly, a little awkward. “So it was love, after all.”

“It was,” he said simply.

John hesitated, then started, “Listen, I don’t want to bother you, but I feel like I should—”

Lucy cut in. “We should thank you. Or rather, thank your wife.”

Harry frowned. Rose gurgled louder, tugging on his shirt, making it harder to follow the words. “Sorry?”

John cleared his throat. “Your wedding. I catered. You didn’t notice me, but your wife did. I was in the back, rehearsing lines. She overheard me—Hamlet. She stopped, complimented me, told me to approach Tomas.”

Harry’s mouth tugged in amusement. “Tomas—yes, I know him.”

“That was a big help,” John said. “Tomas got me a job. Now I teach theater at a high school. It’s not glamorous, but it’s steady. I was able to quit waiting tables.”

Lucy slipped her hand into his, her expression softening. “We owe her for that.”

Harry nodded, though words escaped him for a beat. Catherine had probably never realized the man she encouraged that day was Lucy’s husband. She hadn’t liked Lucy much—hadn’t liked any of his exes, really, and thank God for that—but of course she’d stop to help a stranger anyway. That was Catherine. She always seemed to see grit in people, a kind of rawness they didn’t know they carried, and she had a way of pushing them toward it.

“I’m glad she helped you,” he said finally. “She has an eye for talent. Tomas has it too.”

They said their goodbyes, and Harry walked back toward the course, Rose pressed warmly against his chest, her soft babble a counterpoint to the crowd’s noise.

He thought about love, and how strangely it all unfolded—how Lucy, once so fixated on money and security, now looked content, finally settled with a man who was hers in every sense.

He was happy for her, to finally have some financial security she craved when she was with Harry. All his exes craved the same from him, really. He remembered the compliments he gets from women. Lucy had said she’d love how he took care of the bill. He didn’t mind the compliment. In fact, he liked it at the time. There’s also previous girlfriends who said they like how he gives them fancy gifts. How he seemed to make them feel like they’re worth something. Harry lavished them with gifts because… because they seem to value that. They say it makes them feel worth something. They connect their worths to the gifts he gave them. So he obliged. Had progressively gotten a lot more fancier if they liked him. But he should have known it wasn’t supposed to be like that. That relationship like that could not last.

Fate had dragged them all where they were meant to be anyway, teaching the lesson afterward.

The thought ceased when he walked back and saw his wife. She was running the last stretch, face flushed, hair damp, stride faltering but unbroken. The crowd roared as she approached the finish, but her eyes were searching for them, and when they landed on Harry—on the boys bouncing beside Emma, on Rose perched against his chest—her expression softened into something that undid him completely.

Lucas and Oliver screamed her name, waving their arms, while Emma clapped along. Rose babbled louder, as if she too recognized her mother in the blur of motion. Catherine crossed the line with a half-laugh, half-sob, the kind of sound born of relief and pride colliding at once.

They walked back to the car with Harry carrying Catherine on his back, Rose strapped snug against his chest, and Lucas and Oliver tethered to his hands like restless kites. He didn’t know where the strength came from, managing all four of them at once—love, he supposed. Or pride. 

That night, when the children were finally asleep and the house was quiet again, he slipped into their room to find Catherine cocooned in the heavy blankets she loved, her hair spilling across the pillow. She stirred when the mattress dipped, blinking at him through the dim light.

“You wouldn’t believe who I met today,” Harry murmured as he slid in beside her, pulling her into his arms.

“Who?” she asked, her voice soft with drowsiness.

“Lucy,” he said, almost laughing at the absurdity of it.

Her eyes flew open, instantly awake. “What?”

“Lucy—and her husband, John.” He brushed a kiss against her temple. “You know both of them.”

“No, I don’t. Who’s John? I don’t know John,” she said, frowning faintly.

“You do. You met him at our wedding. He was a waiter, rehearsing Hamlet by the restrooms.”

Catherine blinked, searching her memory. Then it clicked. “That’s John?”

“That’s John.”

For a moment she just stared, then let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “God, how small is New York City?”

He laughed too, kissing her cheek, unable to resist. “They wanted to thank you for introducing him to Tomas. He said it got him a job teaching drama at some high school.”

“That’s nice,” she said, smiling as she burrowed closer, her head resting against his chest. Harry closed his eyes, holding her tighter, the warmth of her laugh still lingering. Strange, he thought, how she kept changing lives without even realizing it.

Then, softly, she asked, “How old is Lucy?”

Harry blinked down at her, caught off guard. “I don’t know. Still in her thirties, maybe.”

Catherine hummed—he knew that sound. A little tune, barely audible, the one she always made when her mind was circling something.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Just thinking,” she murmured, tapping her fingers lightly against his chest.

“About?”

“My age.”

He frowned. “What about your age?”

“You said… back when we were flying home from California, you told me about your past girlfriends. That they were never much younger than you. Always… mature. Sometimes even older.”

Harry chuckled, amused despite himself. She never said it outright, but he could always tell when Catherine was turning over thoughts about his past. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly—more curiosity, the kind that made her pick at threads until she understood them. And he found it endearing.

“Catherine Castillo—” he said, rolling her name off his tongue just to see her smile, “why do you think I married you?”

“Because I got pregnant?” she said quickly.

They both laughed, because there was some truth in it. But Harry wasn’t about to leave it at that.

“It’s not like I went looking for someone younger,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I love you so much it makes me angry sometimes—angry we didn’t meet sooner. But then again, it was exactly the right time. You’d already built something for yourself. You already knew who you were and what you wanted. That’s rare. You were ambitious, confident, already complete and full of life. I’ve always liked that in a woman.”

Harry told her to sleep then, to forget about Lucy and age and all the other worries she collected so easily. But Catherine only shifted closer, wide awake in the way she always was when her mind refused to rest, and she picked a topic she knew Harry could never ignore.

“Brandon was at our wedding too, funnily enough,” she said.

“Yes, I know. I practically threw him out.” The bitterness slipped out before he could stop it. Even after all these years, he couldn’t stand the name. Though Harry had Catherine, had won the life Brandon might have dreamed of, he still resented how successful the man had become, how he had a common ground in music with Catherine. He couldn’t help the scoff that rose in his throat.

“You did?” she laughed, amused by his pettiness.

“Not literally. I encouraged him to leave,” he admitted, though a crooked smile betrayed him. “When did you meet him?”

“Before the ceremony,” she said lightly, as if it were nothing at all.

Harry looked down at her, surprised. “Before? And you didn’t tell me?”

“I forgot,” she teased, her voice playful. “I was about to get married a few hours later, you know. I had a lot on my mind.”

She nestled closer, draping her hand across his chest like a peace offering.

“What did he say?” Harry asked, trying to sound casual, though the question came out sharper than he meant.

She paused long enough to make him nervous, her silence stretching as though she were carefully choosing her words. He hoped it was just memory, not hesitation.

“He told me to leave you,” she said at last.

Harry scoffed outright, scandalized. “The nerve. I should’ve had Peter toss him out on the street. I was far too kind.”

She looked up at him then, eyes glinting with amusement, her smile small but steady.

“What did you say?” he pressed. “Other than ‘absolutely not’?”

“I told him I loved you, of course.” She said it simply, like it had never been a question. “It was a short conversation. I had better things to do that day.”

“I’m glad it was forgettable for you.”

“I was too happy getting married,” she said, humming afterward in that content, absentminded way of hers. Then, as though the thought had just wandered into her mind, she added, “I loved you a lot. Even before. You know I had a crush on you when we first met?”

Harry grinned in the dark. “Oh?”

“In that old bookstore in Cold Spring. I thought you were handsome, sure,” she said, her tone teasing. “But it was more than that. You explained your work over whiskey in such detail—finance, all those things I barely understood—and you explained it like you wanted me to understand. Not like you were showing off. You were just confident. Secure. You didn’t care that I didn’t know anything about it, you just taught me like it was the most natural thing in the world. I’d never met anyone like that before.”

Her voice grew softer, almost shy. “I admired you. I wanted that same confidence for myself. That’s why I started playing my own songs for people. Original songs. I wanted to stand by my work the way you stood by yours.”

Harry’s chest tightened, not with nerves but with a deep, steady ache. Gratitude, love, something wordless and vast. He bent to kiss the top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her hair, and thought—again, as he had so many times before—that he was the lucky one. The luckiest man alive.

⊹

Harry Castillo wondered a lot about life, about its odd turns and the strangeness of endings. How important it was to choose a partner—how that single choice could set the course of everything that followed. He thought often about what it would have been like if he had married anyone else, and the thought made him shudder.

To face life and uncertainty with someone he did not love, someone who could not soften the weight of it, would have been unbearable.

And there had been plenty of uncertainties. Nights when Catherine was sick and he paced the floor, useless except for holding her hand. Times when some businesses failed and he came home silent, and she met him at the door anyway, refusing to let him carry it alone. There had been funerals. Friends lost, a mentor gone too soon. There were days of exhaustion when the children’s laughter was the only thing keeping him steady. And yet, threaded through it all, there were celebrations. Peter had his first child—an event that turned the family inside out. That little boy became the most cherished Castillo overnight, and Harry found himself looking at Peter differently after, with pride he hadn’t felt since they were kids. Pride not just as a brother, but as a father watching another man stumble into the same transformation.

He was glad for all of it—the joy and the sorrow, the ordinary and the sharp edges. Because the life they had built felt like some kind of magic. And Catherine, always Catherine, was at the heart of it.

The world around them grew, too. Friends became family, neighbors became confidants. There were Sunday dinners that stretched long into the night, children falling asleep on couches while the adults drank one more glass of wine. There were golf games that ended in laughter, bowling nights where nobody kept score, charity galas that turned into excuses to dance. They had a community, a life stitched together with small rituals and imperfect people. And Harry, who had once thought wealth and work were enough, learned that this—this tangled, noisy, unpredictable life—was what it meant to be rich.

There was always news about the people who had once circled close to them. Brandon never settled down, though he carried a string of girlfriends who all looked a little too much like Catherine for Harry’s liking. Still, he seemed content, his music career thriving in a way that proved he had chosen the life he wanted, even if it was a lonely one. Lucy and John finally bought a home in Brooklyn, small but theirs, close enough to his school that he could walk to work. Sam became a cruise ship musician, vanishing into ports all over the world and mailing back absurd trinkets that made Catherine laugh until her stomach hurt. Emma ran the studio with the same sharp certainty she had always had, her emails still as clipped and efficient as they were in the beginning, except now she signed them with affection too. Charlotte found her footing again—happier, lighter—with her son, as if the years had finally given her permission to breathe.

Life carried everyone forward, sometimes gently, sometimes harshly. Some found joy, some settled into compromise, and others chased freedom at all costs. Harry learned not to measure one against the other. What mattered was that through all of it—through every change, every small distance or unexpected reunion—Catherine was still beside him. 

Lucas moved on from chess to math, the way some children outgrow toys but never lose their hunger for puzzles. By the time he was in high school, he was winning state tournaments, representing his school in competitions that Harry proudly attended, even when he didn’t understand half of the numbers scribbled on the boards. He was valedictorian, of course—Harry wasn’t surprised, but he nearly cried at the speech anyway. Lucas stood at the podium with that steady voice of his, thanking his family, his teachers, his little siblings, and Catherine most of all for teaching him patience. Later, Harry would brag to anyone who listened that his son had gotten into MIT, as if the world didn’t already know.

Oliver, against all odds, matured into a fine young man. He had been the menace of the household, the loudest, the most difficult, but brilliance always burned in him. While his mother’s world was music, Oliver’s heart leaned toward painting. His canvases filled the walls of their house, bold strokes of color that startled visitors with their depth. He carried that same mischievous grin into his art shows, drawing people in with charm before dazzling them with talent. Teachers called him exceptional. Private schools loved him despite his mischievous ways. Harry, who couldn’t paint to save his life, simply stood in the back of every gallery, staring at his son’s work and wondering how in the world he’d helped make something so extraordinary.

Rose, their youngest, was quiet and pretty and perfect. Catherine sometimes teased that she was Harry’s favorite, and though he denied it, there was truth in the way his heart clenched every time Rose left the house. It was harder for him to let her go, even for something as small as a school trip or a sleepover with friends. She was bookish, her braces flashing in the light when she smiled, her hair almost always tied back in a perfect ponytail while she devoured novels and underlined passages with quiet focus. She never had a boyfriend—thank God, Harry thought—but Catherine only laughed, saying it was inevitable. She was so smart too. “She’ll become someone serious one day,” Catherine predicted. “Probably a lawyer.” Harry only shook his own, pretending to scowl, though the thought of Rose being an adult, living away from home, made his chest ache.

Life, of course, had not been without grief. Catherine stood by him through his mother’s death, which hurt more than he had ever expected. He had thought himself hardened after his father’s passing, had imagined he would face it with that same muted sorrow. But grief was different this time—sharper, heavier, because now he had Catherine and the children, and the thought of losing them terrified him in a way nothing else could. Through it all, he was grateful—grateful that he had married for love, grateful that Catherine’s steadiness had carried him through storms he couldn’t have borne alone. Without her, without Lucas and Oliver and Rose, he could not have endured.

They built their own rituals—quiet anchors to mark the years. Soup night every Sunday during winter, because it had once been their routine, and Catherine insisted on keeping it sacred. Private concerts in their living room, her fingers gliding over strings only for him. She wrote songs for Harry, dozens of them, each one its own gift. She said writing a song with an actual name for a musician is the equivalent of the average person tattooing names on their skin. Harry had laughed at that, but he knew what she meant. And he cherished those songs because he knew how deeply music was a part of her soul. It was the purest expression of her love.

One evening, as her bow stilled on the final note, she looked at him with that unshakable certainty of hers and said, “I think I love you more than music.”

It silenced him for a long while, the weight of it pressing down on his chest. But eventually, as the words settled, Harry smiled. It was a step closer to how much he loved her.

Because if Catherine loved him more than music, then Harry loved her more than life itself.

Before Catherine, Harry had lived by lists. In true Castillo fashion, he had written down what he wanted in a woman as if it were another investment to be calculated. He had kept every partner at arm’s length, showing them the polished version of himself, impressing them with gifts and worldly things, but never letting them touch what was real.

And then Catherine appeared. She had looked at him—really looked at him—and for the first time he felt seen as something more than the sum of his wealth. The checklist on what he wanted in a woman had gone forgotten, left on a desk in the back of his mind, because none of it mattered anymore. He only wanted her.

When he was about to propose, he remembered that old list. It was short, almost pitiful compared to what Catherine had given him without even trying. She hadn’t just checked the boxes; she had expanded them, rewritten them. She had taught him there was more to love than compromise or performance—that love could be thunder, sudden and all-consuming, reshaping everything in its path.

Harry often thought of how unfair it was, for every man in the world, that she had chosen him. She had loved not just the Castillo the world admired, but the man beneath, flawed and human. And in return, he vowed he would spend his life loving her as completely as he could—kissing the ground she walked on, if that’s what it took—because Catherine had been the one miracle he never thought he would deserve.

Eventually Harry retired, or rather, he stopped needing to “work” in any sense of the word. He could run everything without ever stepping into an office—he was the owner since his mother’s passing, after all, and ownership required little more than his signature.

Age crept up on him, as it does on everyone. He saw it in his reflection: the deepening lines on his face, the silver threading into his hair. And yet, every time Catherine kissed those wrinkles with as much love as she had in their youth, Harry felt almost young again. She had grown older too, more mature, softer in her wisdom, and he thought he had never loved her more.

One evening, when the house was quiet in a way it rarely had been before, Harry found himself lingering on thoughts he had spent years pushing away. The children were grown, scattered across their own lives. The walls that once carried noise—Oliver’s tantrums, Lucas’s laughter, Rose’s singing—now only held silence, broken only by Catherine’s soft humming. She was curled against him on the sofa, her head on his shoulder as though no years had passed at all. He had aged faster than her, and he felt it every time he caught his reflection in the mirror: the lines, the slower step, the way his hands had begun to tremble if he wasn’t paying attention.

Death was no longer an abstract thing. It sat quietly at the edges of his thoughts, steady and constant. He wasn’t that old yet, there were a few dark hairs in his head still. And he wasn’t afraid of dying—not in the way he might have been when he was younger. What unsettled him was the thought of leaving Catherine behind. Of her life stretching on without him, of her walking through their home alone. He had been powerful once, untouchable, but even powerful men struggled most with the things they couldn’t control. And losing her—or forcing her to lose him—was the one thing he could never fight against.

“What if I go first?” he asked, his voice barely louder than the ticking clock across the room. Vulnerability was not something he offered often, but it slipped out then, unguarded.

Catherine tilted her head to look at him, and there was no fear in her eyes. Only tenderness. “Then I’ll play your favorite song one last time,” she said softly, as though it were already decided. “And I’ll find you soon after.”

He exhaled, something breaking and healing in him all at once. She always had a way of answering him like that—turning fear into something bearable, turning endings into promises.

And so life went on in its perfect, unpredictable way. They lived the days as they came, not with urgency, but with the kind of love that had carried them through everything: stubborn, fierce, tender. Their story grew into something almost mythic, whispered about by friends and family—because how could two people love like that, with such constancy? The answer was simple. They had never forced it, never tried to shape it into something it wasn’t. Fate and time had handed them to each other, and they had held on.

And when the day finally came, when Harry’s body gave in to the years, Catherine did exactly what she had promised. She sat by his side, kissed his temple, and played the song she had written for him long ago. Her lullaby carried him out of the world, and though her tears fell, she smiled too, because he had kept every promise that mattered—except the one about never leaving her. She would grieve, cry, and live the rest of her life half empty. But that was another story.

For now, what mattered was this: Harry Castillo had slow days, every day. He never woke without kissing his wife, never missed the comfort of her face beside his. Bagels remained his breakfast of choice, not because he loved them that much, but because Catherine always bought them for him, the same way she had since their earliest mornings together. Every anniversary, she wrote him a new song. Every birthday, she still gave him expensive suits he no longer needed, because tradition mattered more than practicality. She cooked his favorite meals as if he were still the busy man he once had been, though now he had nowhere to rush to, no meetings to keep.

Catherine no longer worried about missing out on the world, no longer compared herself to the friends and family living different lives. Their life was enough, filled with children, out-of-tune cellos, new violins and pianos, with kisses and mismatched socks, with soups that always tasted better in winter. They took vacations whenever they could, most often to Seville, where Harry insisted on keeping his wife to himself, pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist. On busier weeks, when life crowded in with calls and visitors and the endless small interruptions of family, Harry still carved out a moment each day just to sit with her in quiet, to look at his beautiful wife and pepper her face with kisses, tickling her with his mustache that he refused to shave.

Sometimes they wondered if it was a dream, if their years together could possibly be real. If that night so long ago had gone differently, if Harry hadn’t walked into the rain in his suit, if Catherine hadn’t been there with her cello case, would they have missed each other entirely? Harry thought of that night often—the first glimpse of her, rain-soaked and strange and beautiful, standing in a storm as though she belonged to it. He had been almost certain he loved her instantly, though he hadn’t yet had the courage to name it. It was as if his soul had recognized hers before his mind had even begun to understand. The thought haunted him sometimes, how close they had come to living separate lives.

And yet they had met, and they had fallen in love. Not with effort, not with calculation, but with the ease of breathing. Their stories had tangled together from the moment his eyes first found her, inevitable in the way all the greatest stories are. Forgotten, then, were the days when Harry lived only for meetings and deals, when he mistook business for purpose and thought marriage was meant to be practical. He had always known, somewhere deep down, that he wanted more. Somehow fate had seen fit to give him exactly that.

He had lived his life full of Catherine—full of her laughter, her stubbornness, her music, her love. Against all odds, against the loneliness he once thought permanent, he had been given this extraordinary gift: a life made whole by her. And in the quiet of old age, with the storms of his youth far behind him, Harry Castillo could say with certainty that he had lived as a happy man.

He hadn’t even realized he had such a high libido. Not really. Not until they were in Seville.

The first few days were tame, if anything. They landed in the afternoon and checked into a villa nestled in the outskirts of the old city, surrounded by olive trees and bougainvillea. Catherine gasped when she saw the kitchen. She liked kitchens. There were big windows that let the sun in during the early morning, turning everything gold and warm, and a wide stone balcony that overlooked a field of lemon trees. Their first breakfast was made quietly. Catherine sliced fruit. He made coffee.

They did tourist things—at least half the time. Walked through the Alcázar and got lost in gardens where the walls hummed with heat. She brought her camera and took photos of tile patterns and fountains. She also bought a recipe book on how to cook local food and made amazing breakfast everyday. He didn’t even pretend not to watch her the whole time. They went to the flamenco museum, ate too much jamón ibérico, drank local wine that made her tipsy by late afternoon. She wore linen dresses and barely did her hair. And still—especially still—he couldn’t stop looking at her. She loved it there, he could tell. She kept saying things like, “We should come back in the winter,” and “Imagine composing in a place like this.”

They went out to eat nearly every night, and Harry insisted on ordering too much food—mostly because Catherine had lost weight over the last couple of months, thanks to endless rehearsals and late-night composing for the upcoming concert. One evening turned into a whole event, a parade of street vendors stopping Catherine to compliment her hair, her dress, her eyes. Most of them were obviously trying to charm tourists out of their money—but unfortunately for Harry, they’d found the perfect mark. Catherine was too kind to just leave them without buying a couple of things. She started using her own money when Harry said no more. He argued she didn’t even want the things they were selling, but she didn’t care. She happily bought them. They went home that night with arms full of trinkets: woven fans, tiny painted tiles, a hand-carved guitar charm.

After that, he started forcing her to leave her purse behind when they went out. She protested, of course, so they compromised—she could bring cash, but only enough for flamenco dancers and musicians. And even though it got annoying, stopping every time someone picked up a guitar or tapped a rhythm on a wine crate, Harry had to admit… they were good. Some of them better than good. Catherine didn’t just give out of politeness. She gave because she recognized talent. She gave because she saw herself in them.

One day, they did nothing. A full day off their itinerary. Catherine had insisted. “I don’t want every day to feel scheduled,” she said, curling under the sheets with sleep still in her voice. He’d agreed easily.

The villa had a private pool tucked behind hedges. No neighbors in sight. Catherine swam that day—really swam, not just dipping her feet or wading in. She looked happy. Like a child at first, splashing water at him when he refused to join. But something shifted. At one point she climbed out of the pool, water sliding down her back, her hair slicked, her cheeks pink from the sun—and something about the way she moved, unbothered, gleaming with heat and skin, made Harry pause. His jaw clenched. He had no idea why she suddenly looked so… seductive. Well, technically, he knew she was, but at least he could keep it in his pants most of the time. All he knew was that he was doomed.

But still—that wasn’t the moment it turned. Not quite. He still had a bit of self-control left.

It happened later that same evening. She’d changed into one of those silk nightdresses that never tried to be seductive but always ended up that way anyway—light-colored, soft, sleeveless, something probably picked for comfort. But it clung to her in places that made him stupid. She was brushing her hair at the edge of the bed, bare feet tucked under her. And when she looked up at him through the mirror, cheeks flushed from the heat, she looked undeniably pretty.

Harry was careful not to let it show. He was used to being good at that. Checking her out without getting caught. He leaned against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed, trying to think about anything else.

That was when she said, “Have you ever lied to me, Harry?”

He blinked.

“No, I don’t think so, baby.” He thought for a second, then added with a grin, “Maybe I did when I said that paella wasn’t salty. It was. But you looked so proud, I couldn’t crush you.”

He chuckled at the memory, but Catherine didn’t join in. She was quiet. Something was brewing.

“Have you ever lied about…” she trailed off, then took a breath. “About how you feel about me?”

That sobered him.

“What?” He pushed off the doorframe, walked closer. “Why would you think that?”

She didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, she ran her fingers along the edge of the hairbrush. “You say you want me all the time. But sometimes… I don’t know. I don’t always believe you.”

Harry stayed quiet. He knew that tone. Knew when she wanted to explain herself, so he waited.

“I’m a confident girl, you know?” she continued, quieter now. “I don’t mind asking. But I think… I think I initiate sex more than you do. I mean, I can tell when you want it, obviously. But you rarely start things. Sometimes I wonder if you’re just humoring me. Like I’m… too young, or too forward, and you’re being nice.”

He almost laughed. “Not all the time.”

“Most of the time. You initiated once or twice.”

Harry finally let out a low chuckle and stepped closer, brushing her hair off her shoulder. “You know why that is?”

“Why?”

“Because if it were up to me,” he said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, “we’d be doing it morning, night, and every hour between. You should be grateful I’ve got self-control. We need to eat. And socialize. And function in public. We need to not get evicted from hotels.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I’m being serious too.” He pulled her into a hug from behind, pressing his chin gently to her shoulder. “I want you all the time.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just turned and let her body mold against his, soft and unguarded. The scent of her hair, the feel of her skin, the way she leaned into him without hesitation—it knocked something loose in him. Made everything feel more dangerous. More tender.

“I would have said yes all the time,” she said then, barely audible.

That was when the vacation changed.

He had decided then—maybe this was it. The moment to stop holding back. With Catherine, he always paced himself. Not just in the act, but in the way he allowed himself to want. If not in how rough, then in how many times. Not because she asked him to, but because she once told him, shyly and without shame, that she’d never had a one-night stand. Never had meaningless sex. And somehow that stayed with him longer than he meant it to. It made him careful, made him deliberate. Not out of fear, but respect. A reverence, almost.

And every time he touched her, he did it like he was on borrowed time. Maybe one day, he thought. Maybe one day she’d want him the way he wanted her—without measure, without patience. With the same kind of desperation that sat in his bones when she looked at him like that. And if not, then maybe time would do the telling. Maybe time would show her what he already knew: that he needed her more than breath, and probably always would. And maybe then she’ll let him have his way.

This was that day.

He looked down at her pink lips—pouting now—and from this angle he could look down and see the valley of her breasts.

Then he dipped his head to kiss her. Slow at first, then gradually rougher. He felt everything, savoring her taste. Her tongue danced with his in equal want, which only stroked his desire.

He was already hard when she moved closer, pressing her body against him. Her soft curves molding to the hard planes of his body. This was it.

“Last chance, Catherine,” he said warningly. His voice sounded different, too much husk, too much unadulterated lust.

But she just stood on her tiptoes and kissed him again, and that sealed the deal.

Overwhelmed by the sheer, visceral need to claim her, to mark her as his own, Harry brought his lips down to cover hers in a searing kiss. It was a kiss of pure possession, of scorching, all-consuming desire. He slanted his mouth over hers, his tongue delving past her parted lips to stroke along the warm, wet cavern of her mouth. He kissed her as if he were starving for her taste, as if he could never get enough of the sweet ambrosia of her lips and tongue.

One hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss, while the other hand slid down the slender curve of her back to pull her hips flush against his. Harry ground his hardening length against her, letting her feel exactly what she did to him, how hard he was.

He pulled on her nightgown. The delicate fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling around her feet in a shimmering puddle. His eyes drank in the sight of her, clad now in only a lacy bra and panties that left little to the imagination. And as much as he loved those underwear, he took those off too. Harry was already shirtless so he simply pulled his boxers. Their clothing now scattered on the floor.

His hands mapped the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, before coming to rest on the tempting swell of her ass. He squeezed the firm globes, kneading the supple flesh as he ground his hardening cock against her stomach.

"Fuck, Catherine," he rasped, his voice strained with desire.

He walked her backwards towards the bed, his lips never leaving her skin. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, the tops of her breasts as he lowered her onto the plush mattress. Harry crawled over her, settling his hips between her spread thighs as he loomed above her, his dark eyes blazing with hunger.

His hands slid up her ribs, over the swell of her breasts, his heated gaze landed on her rosy nipples. Harry was always more of a breast person, and god help him, does Catherine have the most beautiful breasts. Unable to resist the allure of it any longer, Harry leaned down and captured one straining nipple between his lips. He rolled the sensitive bud around his tongue, savoring its texture and the way it pebbled even further under his ministrations. A deep, approving groan rumbled in Harry's chest as he suckled harder, his fingers coming up to pluck at its twin, tweaking and tugging at the other aching nipple.

All the while, Harry's hips undulated against her, the thick ridge of his erection sliding along her inner thigh as he ground against her with increasing urgency.

Then one of his hands went down to her most sensitive area. He pressed one finger, right at the center, then slicked back and forth.

“Harry, please,” she said desperately. He stroked again, right at the spot that made her clench. The smell of her arousal was so familiar, so lovely, it made his cock twitch.

He pushed one finger, then two, making her gasp every time. He dipped them slowly, in and out ever so slightly.

He pulled back to get a glimpse of her cunt, and what a sight it was. He smiled down and guided his cock closer. It touched her wetness, just enough without penetrating. Then, he rubbed himself against her, slowly, sliding his cock up and down her pussy lips, dragging his length, drenching it with her arousal. He tilted his hip to hump. She let out a small moan every time it touched her clit.

He watched his precum come out of him. One drop, and another, then another. With each pass, Harry coated her folds with his essence, mixing his with her own arousal until her thighs were slick with the combination of their desires. He held the base of his cock tightly, as if holding back.

If he was going to be rough, then they should be wet enough for more than one round. Thankfully, Catherine was fucking drenched.

“Good girl, so wet for me,” he breathed out.

It looked for a moment that he was too big. His cock looked… angrier than normal. It throbbed against Catherine's slick folds, engorged and flushed a deep, angry red. Veins pulsed along its impressive length as it jerked with a mind of its own, seeming to strain towards her welcoming heat.

Then he leaned in and slowly entered her. He could feel her stretching around him, her walls clenching and fluttering as they struggled to accept his impressive girth. The sensation was exquisite, and Harry let out a guttural groan as inch after inch of his thick shaft disappeared into her welcoming body.

Fuck, he always forgot how tight she was.

He had known, ever since he first had sex with Catherine, that she was the tightest he had ever had. Oh, and every time he buried himself, sheathed himself in that tight cunt, he was reminded of it. It hugged him like second skin. It’s not because she was young—although she was—but because she was just so snug. Partially, it was also her reaction. Whenever he talked dirty, she tightened some more, and it felt like his cock was being massaged by a velvet wall. It was simply heavenly.

Harry didn’t think he could possibly get more aroused than he already was, but he could. Blood was rushing through his veins and ringing his ear, pushing him to just let loose, just be rough.

Then slowly, he whispered to her ear, “You’ll regret wanting this, sweetheart.”

“No, I won’t,” she said in a whisper.

He sincerely doubted that statement. He thrusted slightly hard at her answer, watching her eyelashes flutter. Oh, she was so sensitive already. He collapsed on top of her, catching himself with his forearms. The new angle made Catherine gasp, her back arching off the bed as she clung to Harry's broad shoulders. He could feel her nails digging into his skin, her body trembling with a mix of pleasure and a hint of pain.

His breath came up in pants, occasional grunts came out of his lips, low and scary.

“Oh, Harry,” she moaned, then bit her lip.

Catherine had always been vocal during sex. She was louder when he talked dirty, when he moaned and groaned, and especially when was rough. And oh, how beautiful her voice was. How… erotic.

When he bottomed out, she writhed and moved her hips. Harry had to hold her down. His blood sang at the sensation. She was so warm, pliant, and so fucking soft.

And instantly, he got lost in the pleasure of it all. He started to rut into her, deeper, deeper. Every thrusts made a sound, skin against skin, beautiful moaning in his ear.

She was always beautiful, with her honey blonde hair and pink lips and gorgeous breasts. There were freckles on her skin now, more visible than ever. But it’s a different kind of beauty when she was spread out beneath him, taking him like a fantasy, squeezing around his cock, hot and tight.

Her eyes were hazy and glazed, her mouth open as it let another moan, another whimper. It made him rougher, louder.

"Fuck, Catherine," Harry grunted, his voice a harsh, guttural rumble as he surged forward, sinking his thick shaft deeper into her welcoming body. "You’re so tight, sweetheart. Like it was made for me, like it's pulling me in, wanting me to fill you up fucking thoroughly."

He hooked her leg over his shoulder, the new angle allowing him to drive even deeper, the head of his cock kissing her cervix with every forceful thrust. Harry's other hand slid down to grip her ass, squeezing the firm globe as he pulled her harder against him, meeting his increasingly rough and urgent thrusts.

Panting harshly, Harry lowered his mouth to her neck, sucking and nipping at the tender skin. He wanted to mark her, to leave his claim on her flesh for all to see. At the same time, he growled filthy praise in her ear, his deep, resonant voice sending shivers down her spine.

"Take me, Catherine. Take me deeper. Fuck, yes just like that, squeeze me. Good girl. I'm going to fill you up. You want that, don't you sweetheart? Want my seed flooding you?"

Catherine was closer to her release. "Yes, yes, I want you to cum in me. Please, Harry."

Harry could feel Catherine's body tensing, her walls starting to quiver and clench around his pistoning shaft. The way she begged, pleading with him to fill her up, pushed Harry closer to the edge. He doubled his efforts, slamming into her with a newfound fervor.

"Yes, squeeze me just like that. Good girl, so fucking tight. Fuck, I'm so close, I'm gonna..."

Harry's hips jerked erratically as his climax hit him like a freight train. His cock throbbed hard and pulsed as he spilled his hot seed deep inside Catherine's spasming sex. Jet after jet of his thick, potent cum painted her walls, flooding her womb as he roared with pleasure.

At the same time, Catherine cried out, her own release crashing over her as she felt Harry's seed marking her from within. Her body shook and trembled, back arching off the bed as ecstasy consumed her.

The clenching of her walls milked him for all his worth. He grinded a few more times, kissing her neck, to ride out the orgasm, spurting more into her soft pliant body.

And still, his hand didn’t stop. It roamed her body, rubbing at her skin, her breasts. He leaned back slightly to look at the mess they made. As he withdrew, pearly drops of his seed leaked out, mingling with Catherine's slick arousal and dripping down her inner thighs. The sight of their combined releases leaking from her freshly fucked hole sent a primal thrill through Harry.

She flinched slightly at the sudden sensitivity of her well-satisfied flesh. Harry's hand drifted down to cup her mound, fingers brushing against the dewy petals of her sex. Then, he brought the finger over to her mouth, and she sucked.

Harry watched, utterly enraptured, as Catherine welcomed his fingers. The sight of her pink lips wrapping around his digit, her little tongue lapping at his cum, sent a fresh surge of desire coursing through him. He could feel his spent cock twitching, already beginning to stir with renewed interest.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, Harry leaned in and captured Catherine's lips again. His mouth slanted over hers hungrily, tasting the salty, slightly bitter essence of their lovemaking. He groaned, his free hand coming up to tangle in her hair, anchoring her to him. 

“Turn around, Catherine,” he said. “Present yourself to me.”

And she did. He watched intently as Catherine rolled over, her hair tumbling in disarray across the pillow as she assumed the position he demanded. The sight of her pert, heart-shaped ass pointed towards him, just begging to be grabbed and squeezed, made Harry's newly hardened cock throb with need. It was comical how quick he could renew his appetite.

“That's it, good girl,” he praised, his voice a low, approving rumble. “So pretty. So good like this, letting me use you, hm? Letting me have my pleasure.”

Harry's hand drifted down to grip his aching shaft, stroking it languidly as he drank in the erotic sight before him. He could feel it hardening rapidly, growing thicker and longer under his touch. 

In one swift, powerful motion, Harry grabbed Catherine's hips and thrust back into her dripping pussy, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke. He set a hard, fast pace from the start, slamming into Catherine's ass as he gripped her hips tight enough to leave red marks in the shape of his fingers. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room as Harry fucked into her with wild abandon, chasing his own pleasure as much as her own.

It was easier for her to adjust the second time, mainly because she was lubed out with their combined essence. His cum squelched as he thrusted back and forth, making it easier for him to go deeper and deeper into her tight heat. His balls slapped against her clit with every powerful thrust, the little bud swollen and sensitive from their previous lovemaking. He could feel the way her walls fluttered and clenched around him, gripping his pistoning shaft like a velvet vise. The sensation only spurred Harry on, making him fuck into her harder, faster, determined to make her scream.

“I’m sensitive, Harry,” she said. “You’re so rough.”

“Shh, I know, Catherine. I know, sweetheart,” Harry coaxed, his hand drifting down to circle her swollen clit with a feather-light touch. He pounded again, not slowing down. “But you want more don’t you?”

She moaned a quiet confirmation and that was all he needed.

Harry's mouth found her neck, his teeth and lips and tongue worshipping the slender column of her throat as he fucked into her with wild abandon.

“That's my good girl, so tight for me. So fucking tight. Can barely fit it in," Harry panted against her skin, his voice ragged with arousal. Harry's thrusts grew more erratic as he chased his own release, spurred on by the knowledge that he was bringing Catherine closer to the edge of ecstasy with every pump of his hips.

He gathered some of her hair and pulled, guiding her back into him with each thrust.

“Ah, Harry! Ah, something’s—” she screamed and writhed and finally, a gush of her juices drenched his cock. He didn’t know she could do that.

It should have made him stop, but it only encouraged him.

He gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises as he slammed into her, the force of his thrusts making her entire body jerk and bounce on the bed. The obscene sound of her release squelching around his plundering cock filled the room, mixing with the lewd slapping of skin on skin and Harry's own ragged panting. Then, with a roar of triumph and raw, masculine satisfaction, Harry hilted himself inside Catherine's spasming cunt, his cock pulsing as he began to come undone.

"Fuck, Catherine!" Harry bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls as his hot, thick seed erupted from his cock. Harry's hips jerked and spasmed as he emptied himself again, jet after jet of his cum painting Catherine's clutching walls.

Harry's chest heaved with ragged breaths as the final waves of his intense climax washed over him. He collapsed against Catherine's back, his sweat-slicked skin sticking to hers as he fought to catch his breath. His softening cock remained nestled inside her, plugging her up.

He peppered her back with kisses, then moved to her neck to do the same. She moved slightly closer when she felt his rough mustache against her skin, which made him want to kiss her thoroughly, yet again. And so he did.

They did it again twice that night, and they slept in each other’s arms with him still inside her. The next day he woke up wanting, again, and she kept her word. She let him.

They rarely went out after that. Only sometimes, for the much needed meal in between. They barely did any sight seeing, their itinerary forgotten. The rest of the time in Seville they used for fucking. And oh, how he fucked her thoroughly. By the pool, in the kitchen, in the shower, everywhere. And every time he thought he was sated, he looked at her again and decided one more. Then it became another, and another.

They spent most of their time in the villa. It was such a shame too, the weather was awfully nice. But thankfully, neither of them regretted it. 

⊹

Harry and Catherine only had a few days left in Seville before they were due to fly to London. That leg of the trip was supposed to be part two of their vacation, but the first few days were strictly business — at least for her. There was the performance, the rehearsals, the inevitable chaos of coordinating an orchestra even as seamless as hers. Technically, they didn’t need the extra practice. The musicians were seasoned, the arrangement flawless. But Catherine was Catherine. Precision wasn’t optional. Especially when playing for donors and trustees and a room full of powerful people who didn’t clap unless something moved them.

He didn’t mind. He liked watching her work. And frankly, he needed the breather from too much sex. It became too ridiculous.  If he were superstitious, he’d say there was something in the Seville air, or maybe the water. At this rate, he was convinced he'd suffer cardiac arrest before their vacation was over.

Catherine said it was because they finally had uninterrupted time. No performances, no rehearsals, no looming calendar appointments — just the two of them in a villa with wine, a pool, and no real schedule. But Harry knew it wasn’t just that. It was her. It was always her. Something about her made his restraint fall to pieces. 

And lately, it was beginning to feel like… well, like a honeymoon.

Which reminded him. He still hadn’t proposed.

He didn’t know when exactly, or how, but he knew it had to happen soon. And like everything else important in his life, Harry didn’t want to wing it. He needed a plan. Maybe even professional help. If there was a consultant for proposals, he would’ve written the check already, but that probably takes time. That was his way, after all — throw money at the problem, dress it in something tasteful, call it solved.

But most of all, he wanted to speak with Sam. He’d texted her a few days ago to ask when she’d be in New York, but the reply came late — she was in California again, performing for a venue. Typical. Of course she was busy. Then Harry’s mind started calculating. If he couldn’t get Sam’s advice in time, maybe he’d just fly to her while Catherine was busy preparing for the performance. Quick in, quick out. He could also talk to Edward—Catherine’s dad— while he was there. It was more asking for advice than asking for permission, really. Harry needed all the advice he could get. Especially when his brother claimed he was too busy for a phone call and too lazy to open emails, that dickhead. So yes, any advice would do.

It was ideal to propose in London, but it meant letting Catherine go ahead first, and following a few days later. It had to look like business.

Meanwhile, Catherine had been sneaking around the villa lately. She was never very good at being covert — not with him — and he figured it out the day before they left Seville. He’d woken up to breakfast in bed, eggs the way he liked them, toast a little burnt just how he preferred. His favorite of hers, made with the quiet care of someone who really knew him. 

He blinked, half asleep. “What’s all this?”

It wasn’t until she kissed his forehead and said, “Happy birthday,” that he remembered what day it was.

He blinked up at her, disoriented. “Really?”

“Yes.” She perched on the bed beside him and handed him a small box, no ribbon, just a clean fold and a neat sticker seal. “I figured you forgot. That’s why I made food.”

Inside the box were two things: a compact, portable espresso machine — sleek, matte black — and a metal business card. High-end, etched with minimal but striking typography.

“So it doesn’t rip,” she said simply, referring to his business card he gave her seven years ago when they first met, the one that ripped because she fell into a puddle. He laughed and kissed her.

That morning, he could’ve asked for anything, really — a walk, a swim, a fancy dinner — but the truth was all he wanted was her. And although he told himself he would reign it in for the last few days, he decided his birthday was a good enough reason to break that promise. Quiet, uninterrupted hours. She asked what he wanted to do, and he told her: a lazy day inside. Which, as they both knew, was a thinly veiled code for sex. One last slow day before the London trip, she’d said.

But then Harry remembered what he was supposed to tell her — that he wouldn’t be on the flight with her. He waited until they were stretched out on the terrace couch, under the pale shadow of the afternoon, sated after a few rounds of sex, coffee mugs now half-empty, her head on his thigh.

“I need to go back for a couple days,” he said casually, caressing her hair. “Something’s come up. Work-related.”

She looked at him, her expression blank for a second. Then she smiled, polite and quick. “Oh. Okay.”

“It’s just a meeting. Shouldn’t take long.”

“No problem,” she said. “The first few days in London’s just rehearsal anyway. You’d be bored in the hotel without me.”

He frowned a little. “I’ll be quick. You won’t even have time to miss me.”

“I always have time to miss you,” she said, soft as a breath.

He didn’t say anything to that. Just reached down and kissed her.

They went to the airport together the next day. He caught her looking out the window more than once, watching the narrow streets and sunlit facades pass by like she was memorizing them. At one point, almost to herself, she murmured, “I’ll miss this.”

He glanced over. “Firstly,” he said, “we can come back. Secondly, we’ve still got London. And thirdly—if what you’re going to miss is the sex, I’ll be ready all the time.”

That got her to laugh.

Catherine’s flight was first. His wasn’t for another few hours. They stood together by her gate until the final call came, and when she kissed him goodbye, she lingered for a beat longer than she needed to, her fingers curled lightly against the back of his neck. He watched her disappear into the boarding tunnel, the small carry-on bumping against her leg, and stayed there until the last passenger was gone. Only then did he turn away, already pulling out his phone to check the messages from Sam.

⊹

When Sam found out he really had flown across the country just to see her, she’d looked guilty enough to offer to meet him at his hotel restaurant for his convenience. He didn’t argue. In truth, he wanted her to feel a little guilty. He’d been trying to pin her down for months, and at this point it felt like he was some desperate investor finally getting a meeting with a consultant.

At least she was on time. She walked in exactly on the dot for lunch, saxophone case in hand, her hair slightly mussed in a way that suggested she’d either rushed from somewhere or hadn’t slept much. Her oversized jacket looked like it had been borrowed from a man twice her size, and she had the faint shadows of someone who could use either a strong coffee or a long nap—maybe both.

“Were you waiting long?” she asked, sliding into the chair opposite him without ceremony.

Harry shook his head and let her settle.

At first glance, Catherine and Sam couldn’t have been more different—Catherine precise, elegant, and impossibly neat; Sam a little chaotic, a singer and a jazz musician with a mismatched wardrobe and a vocabulary full of idioms that would never leave Catherine’s mouth. But he understood why they were friends. They were both a listener and a talker, appreciated any kind of art without condescension, and—above all—loyalty. He will never forget the time she’d driven hours from God knows where, cancelling a gig without hesitation the moment she heard Catherine was in the hospital. He appreciated that.

She ordered a lot of food, which he suspected had something to do with him paying. He didn’t mind.

“So what’s the rush?” she asked, leaning back as the server walked away. “Let me guess—your anniversary’s coming up and you want ideas. Or maybe there’s trouble—did you break up?”

“We didn’t break up.”

“Okay, so she’s acting weird? Stubborn? What’s the sitch? Why couldn’t this be an e-mail?”

He had forgotten how talkative Sam could be. He waited her out, letting the silence fall once she’d run out of steam.

“It’s not an anniversary idea,” he said. “I’m thinking of proposing.”

That made her pause.

“Shit,” she said slowly. “That quick?”

“I’m aware it’s quick. That’s why I need advice.”

Sam was quiet for a second before letting out a short laugh. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would’ve cancelled my gigs.”

“I can’t stand in the way of ambition,” he said, “but this is an emergency. I was never good at waiting and lately it feels like I can’t.”

“You can’t?” she asked.

“No,” he said simply. “I don’t think I can. I feel like I could blurt the question out if I wait any longer. And I’m not impulsive—this is me being calculated. I’ve run the numbers in my head: how much time we’ve been together, how we’ve handled every change in circumstance, how easily we’ve adapted to living together. If something like the accident happened again, and I hadn’t done this yet, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. I can’t afford to lose time, not when I’ve already lost enough of it before I met her. And in all honesty—” He exhaled, almost like it pained him to admit it out loud. “—I just want to be married to her.”

Sam tilted her head, studying him. “It’s interesting, listening to you talk about Catherine. You sound younger than you are.”

“What do you think?” he asked. “Would she say yes?”

“Catherine was always a long term relationship type of girl,” Sam said. “Dating culture was foreign to her. I told her once what men usually expected, and she snorted. She’d said, ‘Why would I date someone I can’t see myself marrying?’”

“She really said that?”

“Yeah. She’s a beautiful girl who only had one boyfriend before you. What do you think? I saw a boy once, years ago, singing under her dorm window. She rejected him, even though the whole building was watching. Let him down easy, too. And you know why she said no? Because he didn’t know her. Never asked her a single real question about herself, and yet he asked her to be his girlfriend, for a date to a seafood place she didn’t like. She has standards. Makes sense, though—she was raised in a perfect family. Secure, independent. Though her kindness isn’t inherited, I give her that. I’m sure you know how uptight the Ainsworths can be. Sometimes even mean. But they love each other fiercely, and that’s why she’s so self-confident in love. Never needed men’s approval, they already liked her for her face. She cares more about friendship than attention.”

A waiter appeared then, setting a cup of coffee in front of Sam and pouring without interrupting. She wrapped her hands around it, leaning back in her chair.

“She knows what she’s doing. If she says yes, it’ll be because she’s absolutely sure.”

“So you don’t even know if she’d say yes?” Harry asked.

“This isn’t some market forecast, you finance guys think everything is,” Sam shot back. “This is real life. A yes means a lifetime of commitment. What I do know is that she loves you.”

“So I have a good chance?”

“Sure you do.”

The food arrived then, steaming and fragrant, plates filling the space between them. Harry didn’t touch his fork right away. He just sat there, staring at nothing in particular, mind already running every possible scenario, every version of her answer. His face stayed perfectly still, but inside he was still weighing the odds like it was the most important deal of his life—because it was.

“I just turned forty-nine. She’s twenty-nine. I feel like… like I should be giving her more time. I don’t want to take anything from her. She’s still got so much ahead of her, and I—”

“Jesus, Castillo, she’s not fucking twelve. I have a friend who married at nineteen. Twenty-nine is fine,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t think you know how hard it is to get Catherine to date someone. Brandon spent like a year asking her out.”

Sam told the story too, about Brandon and his habit of chasing after good girls like they were challenges to be conquered, about the ridiculous songs he’d written for Catherine and sung as if grand gestures could make up for the fact that he didn’t really know her. Harry hated listening, hated having to picture her younger and tangled in the attention of someone so thoroughly undeserving, but he didn’t interrupt. He let Sam talk, even when every word only made him want to roll his eyes.

Apparently Brandon had gone around telling their friends how difficult Catherine was when they broke up, how impossible to please she was. Harry scoffed under his breath at that, because it couldn’t have been further from the truth. Difficult? Catherine, who made his mornings feel lighter just by sitting across the table with her coffee, who softened every edge in his life without even realizing it? Catherine, who laughed at his worst jokes, who carried herself with enough patience and grace to put anyone at ease? She was the easiest person in the world to love. It was almost comical that Brandon thought otherwise. Perhaps that was the problem—men like Brandon mistook ease for indifference, effort for proof of affection. They wanted to bleed for love, to fight uphill battles, so they could feel noble for enduring them. Harry had believed that once, back when he thought relationships were about compromise stacked on compromise, about silences so heavy you carried them like debts.

With Catherine there was none of that. With Catherine, everything was strangely simple.

Sam pulled him from his thoughts and asked: “How long did you know each other before she started dating you?”

“A few weeks?”

“Yeah. Thought so. You know why? Because you didn’t expect anything from her. You were just there, steady, ready to support her. She’s an ambitious, confident woman. And you and her…” Sam gave him a look. “You have that weird connection. You have the same intuition. Sometimes she’ll say something to you and you’ll just get it. Stuff that’s taken me a long time to pick up on, you read in seconds. That’s rare.”

For some reason, those words comforted him. He decided then—it was settled. London. No more circling the thought, no more hesitations. He would propose there, after her concert, when the world already felt sharpened by her music. Sam, ever loyal, agreed to help without a second’s pause. She cancelled her next gig as if it meant nothing. “My best friend is getting proposed to,” she’d said, and that was the end of the discussion. “That’s worth showing up for.”

Harry offered to cover everything—flights, hotel, even the loss of whatever she would’ve earned from those nights on stage. That part was easy. Money was the one resource he never had to worry about. The harder part—the unbearable part—was the waiting. He wasn’t accustomed to anticipation. Deals were made, numbers exchanged, signatures collected, all of it efficient and fast. But this was different. This was a question he’d been carrying for weeks, and now every hour between him and the asking felt like sandpaper against his nerves.

Before he and Sam left for London, they stopped in Los Altos Hills to see Catherine’s father. Edward’s only advice was to do it when it felt right. Don’t overthink it. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of that—he had built his life on planning and overthinking—but he kept the words anyway. 

The ring never left his pocket after that.

⊹

On the flight to London, the plan began to take shape in earnest. He and Sam bent over notes, her handwriting a mess of arrows and exclamation marks, his far more precise, neat even in turbulence. There were orchestras for hire—though the best ones required advance booking. Locations were trickier. Whatever he chose, it had to be done discreetly, before she realized he was even in the city. Sam’s part was simpler: show up unannounced, distract Catherine, keep her occupied with dinners and rehearsals and the kind of easy banter that had always come naturally between them.

They even rehearsed excuses in case Catherine grew suspicious. Sam suggested ridiculous ones, Harry rejected them all, and still, he wrote down a few because Catherine had a way of seeing through him that no one else ever had. The thought of her discovering his plans too soon filled him with a strange mixture of dread and longing—he wanted her to be surprised, and Harry is a perfectionist, through and through.

His assistant, James, helped them all the way from New York. His result had been thorough, preparing a small list of addresses across London and arranging for two separate drivers so their movements would never overlap. It was, in many ways, like preparing for a deal that couldn’t be allowed to leak—except this time, the stakes were infinitely higher. Higher than any business deals he had ever made.

England met him with a slate-gray sky and that damp chill that seemed to live in the air year-round. They wasted no time. Harry texted Catherine that his flight was delayed and started to go around London looking at venues. By afternoon he had already crossed three of the five locations off his list, each one failing in some subtle but important way. Too small, too public, too cold in its atmosphere. He wanted warmth. He wanted her to walk in and feel seen, not staged.

He found it near the Royal Albert Hall—a restaurant tucked into a quiet corner, only a short walk from the place where she would conduct. The menu was elegant without being ostentatious. The private room upstairs held the kind of intimacy he was looking for, walls warm-toned and lined with books, a space that could be theirs without interruption. Musicians could be arranged, discreetly, for a price.

It was exactly what he needed.

He booked it on the spot, the decision landing in his chest like a weight finally set down. And yet, even as the reservation was confirmed, he felt no relief. Only anticipation, sharper now, because the question no longer lived in some vague future. It was waiting for him, solid and immovable, just days ahead.

Sam called as he stepped outside. He answered and began to tell her. “I booked the fourth choice, for the day after the concert. They can provide musicians too—”

“Harry, stop for a second, please,” she said, her voice clipped.

He froze. “What?”

“You need to come right now.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” He was already moving, signaling the driver before she even answered.

Silence. A silence that was worse than words. “Sam?”

“Just come,” she said finally. “She’s locked herself in there. It doesn’t sound good. Fuck the plan.”

The drive felt longer than it was, every red light a personal insult. It reminded him—too much—of the night he got the call about her accident. Different circumstances, same gnawing dread in his chest. He told himself that if it were as bad as the accident, Sam would’ve sounded more panicked. She wasn’t frantic, just urgent. Still, he could feel something was wrong, that subtle weight in the air that made him restless in his own skin.

By the time he reached the Ritz he was sweating through his shirt despite the cold weather. He barely registered the people he passed—lobby staff, guests, a blur of movement, slow elevators, long hallways—until Sam opened the suite door. She didn’t waste time, just led him straight to the bathroom before excusing herself to buy supplies. He didn’t really hear her. He didn’t need details; his mind was fixed on Catherine.

God, how many times had his heart dropped like this since they’d started dating? Too many. She had taken years off his life by making him worry. He needed to talk to her about being safer—especially when he wasn’t there. 

“Catherine?” he called, knocking gently against the door. “It’s me. Open the door, sweetheart.”

He barged in anyway. He hadn’t expected her to be sitting on the floor.

“Hey, hey—what’s this? Why are you down here?” He dropped to his knees beside her, catching the edge of the toilet out of the corner of his eye. “Are you sick?”

“Yes. I smelled some mutton and just…” she trailed off. Her voice was too soft for his liking, like it had lost its usual brightness. Still, she managed a small smile. “Sam’s here in London.”

“Yes, I know. I brought her here.” His answer came quick, sharper than he intended, but he didn’t care. He was still scanning her face, searching for fever, paleness—anything.

“I thought you weren’t due until tomorrow,” she said. “I thought you said the flight was delayed. That’s funny. I was just wishing for this a second ago. I was really hoping you were here and then—pop!—here you are. And you brought my best friend. It’s like you know exactly what I need.”

She was pale, hair a little damp at the temples, the kind of small detail that told him she’d been unwell for hours before anyone called him. He wanted to press her for how long, but didn’t have the heart. He could tell she didn’t want to talk about it, at least not yet. Her knees were drawn up, one arm resting limply on them, and all he could think about was getting her off the cold tile.

He pressed his palm lightly to her forehead, searching for fever, but she only felt warm in the way she always did. He reached for a glass, filled it from the sink, and crouched in front of her until she finally took it, her fingers barely curling around the rim. He held it steady while she drank, though she only managed a few sips before pushing it back into his hand. He set it aside, restless. What he wanted to do was to pick her up, to demand she tell him what was wrong. But Catherine, who normally spoke to fill silences before they had a chance to settle, stayed quiet.

That unsettled him more than anything else. Usually she would tell him everything, even things he didn’t ask—stories about rehearsals, small complaints about the people she had to deal with, fragments of music she wanted him to hear. Even when she was sick she tried, as if talking might convince both of them that she was fine. But now she said nothing, and the absence of her voice pressed on him like a weight.

He didn’t know how long it was before Sam knocked on the door. Harry opened it before Catherine even made the smallest effort to get up. Sam handed him a slender box, still in its plastic bag, and slipped away without a word. He looked down at it and understood immediately.

A pregnancy test.

For a moment, his brain didn’t move. It was like reading a sentence in a foreign language you’d studied just enough to understand, but not enough to process instantly. The meaning was clear—painfully, suddenly clear—but his thoughts lagged behind as if his mind was reluctant to catch up. All at once, numbers and timelines started colliding in his head. 

He gave it to Catherine.

“Turn around, please, Harry.”

He did. 

He wanted to point out there wasn’t an inch of her he hadn’t seen before, but he forced himself to turn away. In truth, he only agreed because he needed to find some shred of decorum himself—because right now, Harry was close to collapsing. His pulse was erratic, his throat tight.

Fuck, maybe he really should get his heart checked out. This was, without exaggeration, the most nervous he’d ever been in his life.

When she finished, he scooped her up without asking, setting her carefully on the counter by the sink so they were eye to eye. The pregnancy test sat beside them, ignored for the moment. He smoothed his hands over her cheeks, thumbs brushing the warmth of her skin.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” he murmured.

“I haven't felt well ever since I got here. I swear I thought it was a curse. Like every time I took a job for this royal family, I got sick.” She let out a small, breathless laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

She took his hand and pressed it to her chest. He felt it then—the quick, frantic beat. She was nervous too.

“We’ll be fine,” he said softly. “Whatever the outcome. Hm?”

She didn’t answer. Her gaze had drifted to the watch on his wrist, following the steady tick of the seconds until the three minutes were up.

Neither of them spoke for the entire wait. The silence was heavy, not awkward but dense with every thought they weren’t saying out loud. Harry didn’t dare try to cheer her up—partly because nothing he could say would take the edge off, and partly because he was seconds away from shitting his own pants. His palms were damp, his jaw tense, and every tick of his watch felt like it was drilling into his skull. He hated the suspense. Hated waiting.

“I can’t look,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Can you check?”

He did. Two lines. Faint, but there.

There were a few moments in a man’s life that shifted everything. Harry had already lived through some of them. Meeting Catherine was one—like a hand pulling him out of the fog he’d been walking in for years. Almost losing her had been another, the kind of jolt that rearranged every priority overnight. This was one of those moments too. He knew—instinctively, absolutely—that nothing about his life would be the same after today. This one, like all the ones with Catherine, was permanent. This one was the kind you built the rest of your life around.

He tried to read her expression when he told her, but it was impossible—closed off in that way she sometimes was when she was sorting through too many thoughts at once. At least she didn’t look sad. That alone loosened something tight in his chest.

“Do you want to keep it?” she finally asked, her voice low.

He smiled then, almost without thinking, and the answer came to him as naturally as breathing. “I appreciate you asking, my love, but that’s your question to answer.”

“But—”

“No buts,” he said, firm but gentle. “It’s yours to answer. I know you, Catherine—you’d bend yourself into knots trying to please people, and I won’t give you my opinion until you’re sure. Having a kid is hard work, and you’re young. Whatever you decide, that’s the law. I mean it.”

She was quiet for a long moment, eyes lowered like she was working something out in her head. Then, softly, “I think… I think I want to keep it.” She looked at him as if bracing for an impact, but before he could answer she went on.

“I’m not supposed to tell you this story, but I need you to understand,” she said. “Remember when I got sad on my birthday?”

Harry nodded and waited.

Then Catherine told him about Charlotte. How, a few months ago, she’d called in the middle of a weekday, her voice trembling so badly that Catherine could hardly make out the words. She hadn’t explained at first, just begged Catherine to come. And Catherine, frantic, took the cab without even changing out of her rehearsal clothes.

She found Charlotte curled on the couch, pale, incoherent, a blanket wrapped around her knees and blood staining through it. She had a miscarriage. Charlotte had refused to call anyone, refused to go to the hospital. She kept saying it was her fault, that she hadn’t been careful, that if she just waited it out it would pass. Catherine had sat with her, coaxing, pleading, finally managing to get her into the car. She’d driven without licence with one hand gripping Charlotte’s trembling fingers, the other clenched so tightly around the steering wheel that her knuckles ached for days afterward. At the hospital she’d been the one to sign Charlotte in, to insist the nurses hurry.

Catherine said it took hours before Charlotte allowed her to call Peter. Hours where Charlotte carried the weight of it alone, keeping the truth from her own husband because admitting it to him would have made it real. Catherine had sat on that hard plastic chair beside the bed, listening to Charlotte whisper apologies to no one in particular, and it was only then—when Peter finally arrived, when he finally broke too—that Catherine realized how much they had wanted it.

Harry listened carefully. He wasn’t naturally perceptive with people outside of Catherine—half the time he missed subtleties even when they were staring him in the face—but God, his own brother? Peter was almost nine years younger, still at that stage in life where Harry sometimes thought of him as unshakable, untouched by the cruelties that wore others down. He tried to picture it, tried to imagine Peter pacing a hospital hallway, tried to imagine his sister-in-law curled up in the way Catherine described, but his mind resisted the image. To have his partner go through—God, he couldn’t even imagine it. The thought alone made his chest tight, his throat constrict. Guilt crept in before he could stop it. He had been too far away, too wrapped up in his own life, his own business, to notice how badly Peter must have been struggling. He should’ve known something was wrong when the couple hadn’t called, left any messages after their honeymoon, or accepted any invitations.

“All the while,” Catherine continued, “I wondered why she called me first—not her other friends, not family. And I realized, after seeing her cry, that she didn’t want anyone else to know how deeply she grieved. Not even Peter, at first. I left shortly after Peter came, but not before I saw both of them cry. And they were so sad, Harry. They wanted it that much. I thought about them a lot since then.”

She paused again, drawing in a slow breath.

“I… I wanted to be a mother someday. I don’t know when, and maybe it shouldn’t matter when, not when the chance is here. Because watching them—seeing how something you’ve wanted so much can disappear so quickly—made me think about what I’d do, if it were me. And I think…” Her voice softened, almost breaking. “I think I would regret it if I didn’t try now.”

She looked at him then, fully, as if this was the moment where his answer mattered more than anything. Finally, she asked, “Are you angry?”

“How could I be angry?” he said quickly, and the question wasn’t rhetorical—it was heavy with sincerity, almost baffled at the thought.

“You don’t like kids,” she said, the words small but pointed, as though she’d been holding them back.

“Who says I don’t?” He tilted his head, searching her face. “I like kids—hell, I dance with them every chance I get, if they’re willing. Which is rare, since they’re usually the ones who don’t like me.”

Her brows knit, as if that answer wasn’t enough. “But you told me before… when you had sex, you always—” She hesitated, searching for the right phrasing. “You always wore a condom. Even when they were on the pill. You never came inside. You’ve always been careful. You told me yourself.”

“Careful doesn’t mean I don’t want it. It means I understand the weight of it.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Was I careful with you?”

She blinked. “Not really.”

“Not at all,” he said, voice low but certain. “Even from the start. From the first time, I didn’t really care, did I?”

“No,” she whispered. “You didn’t.”

There was a pause, where they looked at each other's eyes. He saw the tenderness, the vulnerability of her gaze. The worry, too. He couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t worried. Hell, Harry had never been a father, but there was something calming about having one with Catherine. And he would be lying if he said he never imagined it—never wanted it. Because he did. Secretly. So he told her what he knew:

“We’ll be fine,” he said. “We’re a great team, you and I.”

Something in her broke then—he could see it in the way her eyes welled up, in the way she tried to hold her expression steady but failed. The tears spilled quickly, almost angrily, as though she hadn’t planned to cry but couldn’t stop it. Harry’s hands were on her before he even thought about it, brushing the tears from her cheeks, kissing them away like it would undo the reasons they’d fallen in the first place. 

“But we’re not married yet,” she said, her voice catching. “And I need to conduct in a few days in front of thousands of people who actually know music. And I had beer the first day I got here. Oh, I was so stupid. I’ve never been this careless during traveling. It’s really on me.”

Her words came faster now, like a confession she couldn’t stop. “I thought it was just air-sickness during the flight over here, but it was strange because I’ve never been like that. And I missed my period, and I thought—oh, maybe my cycle’s acting up. But I realized I still took the pill at the same time every day, even when I was traveling, even though I should have adjusted it to the time zone…”

Harry wasn’t listening to all of it. He caught pieces—flight, schedule, time difference, her first time using the pill—but none of that mattered. He was distracted.

His mind, his heartbeat, had stalled on her first sentence. 

We’re not married yet. Yet. She’d said it like it was a problem. Like not being married to him was a gap in her life, something missing.

And finally, he understood what Edward had meant when he’d said, do it when it feels right. Don’t overthink it. Because this—this exact moment, in a hotel room with her voice shaking and his own heart somewhere in his throat—this was when it felt right.

For the first time in his life, Harry decided to wing it. No planning, no orchestration, no perfect setting. He slid his hands under her arms and eased her down from the counter, steadying her on her feet. She kept talking—about the time difference, about being irresponsible, about the cursed job—but he was only half-hearing her now. He took her hand and began leading her, slow enough not to jar her, his mind already turning over what he was about to do.

Thankfully, the suite was empty when they stepped out of the bathroom, save for the quiet hum of the city bleeding faintly through the windows. Catherine’s record player sat in its corner, a neat stack of vinyls beside it—her own albums among them. Harry crossed the room without a word, flipping through until he found the one she had performed the first time he saw her at Carnegie.

The needle dropped, and the first bars filled the room with a warmth that didn’t belong to the cold London night. Catherine stopped talking. Whatever she’d been saying about flights and time zones dissolved into the music. She stepped closer, her arms winding around him, and he held her without thinking. They began to sway, slow and unpracticed, more an embrace that happened to move than a dance.

He breathed her in—her perfume softened by the hotel’s crisp air, the faintest trace of something citrus tangled with her shampoo. It reminded him of all the nights he’d held her after performances, when she still carried the music in her body.

“I love you, Catherine,” he said quietly, the words settling between them.

She looked up at him, ready to answer, but he eased her hands away. His chest tightened as he dropped to one knee—not from nerves alone, but from the sharp, almost physical ache of realizing he was about to change both their lives.

“I think there are a thousand different ways I could have done this,” he began, his voice low, steady despite the storm in his chest. “I’ve spent hours running around London—looking for musicians, a perfect place, rehearsing speeches I thought I’d give. But I realized tonight that none of that matters. It doesn’t matter where I am when I ask you, because anywhere with you is perfect. And it doesn’t matter if I have the perfect words, as long as you understand me, as long as this eases your heart in some way. What matters is that I wanted to ask you this question because it’s been sitting in my chest since the day I realized you weren’t just someone I loved—you were the person I could not imagine living without. And if this life is going to be as unpredictable as it’s been with you, I want to go through every single unexpected turn with you as my wife. So—” He swallowed hard, the words catching like they might never make it out. “—will you marry me, Catherine?”

The silence that followed felt like the longest of his life. He could hear the faint crackle of the record under her music, the rush of air from the vent overhead, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. She didn’t answer right away—just looked at him, eyes bright yet watery, like she was turning something over in her mind.

When she spoke, it was barely louder than the music.

“Yes, please,” she said.

He didn’t remember much about what came after, only that it blurred together in fragments—her laugh breaking between tears, his own voice asking over and over if she was sure, as if he needed to hear it again just to believe it. He remembered the warmth of her hands on his face, the way she kissed him like they had all the time in the world, the dizzy press of her forehead against his. There were a thousand kisses, and still not enough.

Later that night, when they were curled together on the bed, with the muffled sounds of London traffic seeping faintly through the heavy curtains, the topic of her pregnancy returned as naturally as breathing. It wasn’t Catherine who brought it up this time—it was Harry. He couldn’t keep it inside, not when it sat so loudly in his chest.

He told her, plainly, unashamedly, that he was happy. Undeniably, unbelievably happy. That he wanted this—her, them, the possibility of a family. He said he had always wanted it, even if he’d never admitted it out loud, even if he had spent years brushing off his mother’s pointed remarks about marriage and children with easy cynicism. He confessed that deep down, under all his well-rehearsed indifference, he had always longed for it. But he also knew—better than most—that having a family was no small matter. It was responsibility, commitment, the kind of weight you didn’t shrug off when it got inconvenient. That was why he had been so careful before. Why he had been meticulous, cautious, almost obsessive about avoiding entanglements that could tie him to someone he didn’t love.

But with Catherine, he realized he had never truly cared for that carefulness. From the very beginning, it hadn’t mattered, because something in him had recognized her instantly. Recognized that she was the only one he wanted, the only one who could make that long-held want into something alive and bearable. He told himself, unashamedly, that after Catherine, he didn’t know if he could love anyone else—not in the way that mattered, not in the way that would make building a family possible.

And that was the truth of it. He had always wanted a family, but he had always wanted it to be born of love, not duty, not obligation, not chance. And now, with her in his arms and the future shifting before them, he could not have imagined it any other way.

He wanted advice, but never got the timing right. Sam, her best friend, was constantly traveling for her singing gigs, and when she did drop by New York, Catherine latched onto her immediately, carving hours just for her. They hadn’t seen each other properly for two months, and Harry wasn’t cruel enough to take that away. Peter was even harder to reach—somewhere in South America with Charlotte, celebrating their anniversary. Unreachable except for the occasional emails that never really said anything useful. So Harry had no sounding board. Just himself, the ring he kept hidden in the back of a drawer, and the mounting pressure of everything he felt.

Still, the life he shared with Catherine was enough to anchor him. She was getting stronger. She was herself again. No more wincing. No more daily walks out of obligation. She worked longer hours now, and even though he didn’t like it, he didn’t complain. She was the kind of woman who needed to feel useful, even while healing.

Other things had shifted in the weeks since Catherine returned, subtle but undeniable. His mother’s texts arrived more often—recipes she wanted to share, random articles about artist residencies, half-baked questions about Catherine’s diet and sleep schedule. It struck Harry as odd—his mother had never pried like this—but maybe it wasn’t nosiness so much as fondness. She’d liked Catherine from the start, but now it seemed she genuinely wanted to know her. One afternoon, Harry came home from work to find the penthouse empty. No note, no message. Just her absence. And for a man who used to bask in solitude, he was getting bad at being alone. Plus, after the accident, he was getting a little paranoid whenever she decided to go out without him.

He called her immediately.

Catherine picked up after two rings. “I’m fine,” she said before he could ask. “Your mother came and kidnapped me. We’re at a salon.”

“Salon?”

“She said I looked like I needed bangs again. Which I do, honestly. It’s gotten way too long. I want the same length you gave me the first time.”

“I could do it again if you come home now.”

Then his mother’s voice, amused, distant through the phone: “Tell him to get a hobby and stop hovering.”

Catherine laughed. “Your mother said she missed you.”

“Sure she did.” He grinned to himself. “Do you want me to pick you up? We could have dinner.”

“Okay. Pick me up in an hour.” Then, before hanging up, she added, “I love you, Harry.”

No matter how many times she said it, it still did something to him. Stilled the noise in his head. Steadied his heart. Still in awe that it was his name she said at all.

Dinner that night came easy, for once. His mother, after dragging Catherine to the salon all afternoon, graciously excused herself. “I’ll let the kids have a date,” she said, and made herself scarce. Harry made a mental note to text her thanks later. He took Catherine somewhere in the West Village for pasta, an easy little trattoria she liked for its predictable cacio e pepe and candlelight. The wait had been long, the restaurant a bit crowded, but the food was great, and that was what mattered to Catherine.

She looked lovely. Her new bangs framed her face in that perfect, French sort of way, and she kept adjusting them like she wasn’t used to it yet. He complimented her multiple times and she blushed every time.

They were laughing about something when they left and just as they stepped outside into the cool air, someone across the street lifted their phone and pointed it toward them. It was brief. The flash didn’t go off, but Harry saw it. A quick snap, and then the phone dropped again, like it hadn’t happened. Catherine didn’t notice. She was still talking, looping her arm into his like always. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to ruin the moment.

But it stayed with him, gnawed at the edges. It didn’t happen often, but the times it did, Harry usually noticed. A flash here, a snap there—most likely Orenda’s fans. Word had spread and people figured out who Catherine is. And even though the band never confirmed it publicly, there were theories and accounts tracking her appearances, even an article. He’d seen some of them, mostly the articles. Catherine didn’t mind, or claimed not to. She said they never really approached her directly, just took pictures and posted them online. And Catherine was the type of person who wouldn’t even flinch if they did approach. She’d smile, probably answer them politely.

Harry, on the other hand, had half a mind to sue them. Sue Orenda, that stupid band. Shut down the accounts. He had enough lawyers on retainer to handle it before dawn. But she’d told him not to. She said it would just put more eyes on her, more spectacle. “I moved on. It doesn’t bother me,” she had said, and that was the end of it. So Harry did nothing. Nothing but look over his shoulder every time they went outside. Nothing but quietly seethed when he saw an article about Orenda’s muse.

He didn’t bring it up that night. He let her finish her story. Let her laugh with her whole face, her fingers wrapped around his wrist the way they always were when she was happy. Let her have peace.

She became happier lately—he could tell. There was a steadiness in her now. She still had her moods, still argued over stupid things like the way he folded his towels, but she smiled more since the accident. Laughed easier. Got up early some mornings to practice, to work on an album she said she might never release, but that didn’t matter. She was making music again. That was enough for now.

She said she was taking her time. Sometimes he would sit in the corner of her studio and just listen. She never asked him to go, even when she made mistakes or stopped playing to rewrite a section. She let him be there. Sometimes she played just for him, half-finished songs, little melodies she said didn’t mean anything yet, but they always meant something to him.

She said once, “Have I ever told you I made a song for you?”

“You did?” he feigned ignorance. He knew the song too well. Memorized it on the way to California.

“Yes. I was jealous because your favorite song isn’t mine, so I made one just the way you liked it. Well, I did add some progressions I liked, but you’ll like it. You can’t listen yet, though. It’s on hold,” she said. “I need to record it properly and fix a few things.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it,” he said as she continued practicing.

He would watch her from the couch, legs tucked under her chair, bow in hand, eyes focused and furrowed in concentration. That little wrinkle in her brow had become one of his favorite things. And sometimes, when she was stressed out, Emma brought in her favorite tea.

Emma worked for her now. She had taken over the studio’s day-to-day tasks, scheduling sessions, coordinating with musicians, handling administrative nonsense. Sometimes she gave advice to new musicians. She was a natural, like she’d been waiting to run something like this her entire life. 

Catherine had offered her the job directly a few months ago, and Emma said yes before Catherine had the chance to convince her. Harry only found out how happy she was with it a week later, when he came by the studio one night to pick Catherine up for a date after work.

“Thank you for letting me resign,” Emma had said, while packing up her bag. “This is my dream job.”

That was a bit of a blow. He hadn’t realized she hated working for him so much. But he took it with grace. He smiled and nodded and told her he was glad—because he was. Because everything good for Catherine, he would give. Even if it was just for one smile. And if that meant losing the best assistant he ever had, so be it. It was a damn small price to pay.

He had a new private assistant. A young man named James who was too good-looking to be an assistant. He only noticed because Catherine had said he looked like he could be a model. Harry didn’t like that. He even asked Emma if she could find a replacement, preferably a woman, someone older maybe, someone less… genetically blessed. But Emma insisted James was the best candidate. Quiet, respectful, punctual, and needed the job to put his younger brother through college. Harry couldn’t find a reason to protest without sounding unhinged. He settled on giving him less duties. No pay raise for now.

As time passed, James turned out to be better than most assistants Harry had ever had. He worked like he had something to prove, never asked dumb questions, and understood Harry’s silence better than most people understood words. Less chatty than Emma. He kept James busy and mostly away from home, but the jealousy faded. 

Catherine might’ve noticed James’s looks, but her eyes—when they lingered—were only for him. Her touch was for him. Her soft laugh curled against his neck after long days, all for him. 

And once, during a night in, a little drunk on wine and curled up in their new thick blankets, she told him she didn’t even like pretty boys. She liked men with strong distinct faces. “Like yours,” she’d said, brushing his cheek with her fingers. That was enough to give James a key to the penthouse and send him out on longer and personal errands.

James usually arrived in the morning with a newspaper tucked under his arm, a bag of bagels from the place he liked, and sometimes letters. One of them, on a damp Thursday, turned out to be an invitation. Catherine skimmed through it as she bit into her bagel, then asked, “Are you free on the fifteenth, Harry?”

He barely looked up. “I’ll have to check with James. Why?”

“I got an invitation to an art exhibition. From Tomas.”

He glanced over the rim of his mug. The name meant nothing to him, but the tone in her voice did. He tried to remember, but some days it felt like Catherine had too many friends. 

“You haven’t met him yet. He’s an old friend,” she added. “One of the most successful people I knew before I graduated. Helped me out with connections when I was still trying to get into the composer’s circuit. I owe him a lot for that. It’s kind of a big deal—he only sends these out every few years. But…”

“But?”

She hesitated. “Brandon might be there. The whole band, actually.”

That made him look up. “Yeah?” he said, careful. “Do you still want to go?”

“I do,” she said quietly with a nod, “but only if you come with me.”

He folded his paper. “Of course.”

He didn’t let her see how that name still scraped against his nerves, even now. He told himself it didn’t matter—of course it didn’t matter—but he wasn’t proud enough to pretend it didn’t exist at all.

After a long pause, he asked, “You know Brandon visited you in the hospital?”

“Yes. He told me.”

Harry sat up straighter. “When?”

“When I was in California. Before you came.”

Her sister might have mentioned flowers once. He thought that was it.

“I didn’t know he visited.”

“He didn’t. He sent a letter with some flowers.”

“Was it a love letter?”

“No,” she said, unfazed. “It was more of an apology.”

He didn’t answer, only leaned back into his chair. An apology. Harry didn’t press. He never did. But later, after she left the table and he was alone with the folded invitation and the faint clink of water dripping from the tap, he opened his phone and texted James.

Reschedule the fifteenth.

He already had meetings, something with the logistics side of the Madrid acquisition. It didn’t really matter. Even if Brandon wasn’t there, even if it was just a date and not a formal art exhibition from an old friend, Harry would find the time. He’s experienced enough to reschedule meetings without losing credibility.

James sent the rescheduling information ten minutes later, with confirmation from the other people involved too. Harry decided to give the man a raise after all.

⊹

The fifteenth was Mr William’s day off, which meant Harry had to drive his own car. An unspeakable offense, apparently. Catherine looked at him the moment he picked up the keys, suspicion plain on her face.

“You can drive?” she asked, voice light, but not unserious.

He blinked at her. “Of course I can drive. You think I could fly a plane and not drive a car?”

She tilted her head. “When’s the last time you did?”

He thought. Not recently. But he had—around Christmas, that night he drove across half the city trying to find her album. They weren’t even together yet. “A year and a half ago.”

She didn’t look convinced. “I’m sorry if I’m sceptical, but you got a driver in California, Harry. You know a cab is perfectly fine, right?”

“A cab is for casual outings,” he said, already opening the door. “We have a car.”

She stared for a second longer, then shrugged and followed him out. “Okay. Just… go slow. I’d rather be late.”

“We’ll be fine,” he said, but her seatbelt clicked in before his hand even found the ignition.

The roads were smooth, a quiet stretch between their building and the West Side, and Harry found himself adjusting more than necessary—mirrors, volume, posture—like he had something to prove. He wasn’t reckless, but his turns were a little sharper than they needed to be. At a red light, he reached over, resting a hand gently on her thigh, almost without thinking. 

She noticed. “Focus,” she said, her tone clipped and guided his hand back on the wheel. “I’d like to stay alive, if possible. I was just hit by a car.”

“That’s not funny.”

A few minutes later, his hand went to her thigh yet again, but this time she exhaled—quiet, not resigned exactly, but soft. Her own hand slid over his. She didn’t look at him, but her thumb traced the back of his knuckles once, slowly, like punctuation.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. The city passed by in easy rhythm, their hands still resting there—anchored.

The gallery was tucked inside a former industrial space—high ceilings, exposed beams, pale concrete walls that carried sound in a soft, reverent way. It smelled faintly of varnish and old wood. There were surprisingly a lot of people, hundreds. Thankfully the gallery was big enough. There weren’t any specific demographic, really. It was a range of different people, from different tax brackets to different generations.

The crowd was mostly artists and patrons, some easily distinguishable, others styled with intentional ambiguity—quietly wealthy, expensively disheveled. The younger ones were students, he could tell. The lighting was warm and deliberate, angled to make the canvases glow like they generated their own atmosphere.

Tomas’s work was distinct, and Harry recognized it vaguely—thick, almost sculptural strokes, layered over photographic fragments. Faces partially erased, text threaded between brushwork. Political but not preachy. There was one piece near the entrance—an enormous canvas divided into six uneven panes, each one a faded image of a different city, overlaid with oil paint in the same deep vermilion. Something about it stuck with him, though he wasn’t sure why. He liked paintings with cities.

Then Catherine finally introduced him to Tomas.

“We’ve met,” Tomas said, when Catherine led Harry into the circle.

“We have?” Harry asked, politely puzzled.

“You’re one of those investor people,” Tomas said, casually. “A few years ago, I invited you and some other private equity types to a preview for the residency space at Mercer Foundry—back when it was still being restored. Your firm was funding part of it, if I remember correctly.”

Harry blinked. “That sounds possible.”

“I could always tell when someone stood out,” Tomas added, leaning back slightly. “You didn’t ask any of the usual questions. You just stared at the art like it offended you. I liked that. People who have reactions. You’d be surprised how many businessmen look down at art, some just walk past it. I never forget a face.”

“It was the same for me, actually. The first time Harry saw me play, he clapped so hard and gave me so many compliments. You could always tell when your art affected someone. He immediately made an impression on me. It wasn’t so hard to remember him after that,” Catherine chimed in. Then to Harry she continued, “I learned the trick I told you about from Tomas. He remembers everyone.”

“Almost everyone I meet,” Tomas corrected with a small shrug. “People who stood out. Take Catherine, for example. I met her years ago—still at Juilliard then, studying composition. She’d just scored a student play for NYU, some tiny theater project with a broken budget and a director who had no idea what he wanted. But Catherine—she made something better than most Hollywood soundtracks I know. And I’ve heard a lot of them. I introduced her to every connection I had. Now she’s become the connection. The important person. The one I show off to other artists—underground students, composers.”

True to his words, Tomas did know a lot of people. He thought Catherine was friendly, but Tomas was on a different level. He made friends with everybody. Which was probably why the gallery was so packed. Catherine was whisked away to meet some students and underground artists, as well as other successful composers and studio owners.

Harry had assumed, walking in, that he’d spend most of the night trailing after Catherine—hovering quietly at her side, maybe stepping back while she spoke with musicians or former classmates. But that wasn’t quite what happened. Within twenty minutes, he found himself pulled into conversations of his own. A man from another firm—someone who handled arts funding through a family office—recognized his name and made the introduction. Then a few others. A woman with sharp red hair and an overly formal green dress that stood out in the soft-lit room, introduced herself as Jean. She worked at a consultancy he vaguely remembered from a conference years ago. 

They talked, mostly about safe things. Industry rumors. Partnerships. What counted as “ethical” investment these days. Harry listened more than he spoke, nodding where necessary, smiling when expected. But now and then, his attention drifted—not out of boredom, but drawn toward the paintings around him. Maybe Tomas and Catherine were right. Maybe he liked being affected by art more than the average person. There was one piece in particular that held him longer than the others. 

It was a painting of New York, but not one of the obvious views. No skyline. No Central Park. Just a faded intersection somewhere in the East Village—shadows stretched long, storefronts softened with time. The palette was subdued: amber, pale navy, smudges of gray. Harry liked it. It felt real. Lived in. He could already picture it on the wall of the penthouse, above the credenza near Catherine’s books.

“Ah,” Jean said, stepping beside him. “You’re actually here to buy something?”

“I hadn’t planned it,” Harry replied, eyes still on the canvas. “What do you think, Joe?”

Joe squinted. “The colors aren’t right for me. I like loud pieces. Bold. I want something that slaps me in the face when I walk in.”

“This one’s too gentle for that,” Harry murmured.

“I don’t mind gentle,” Jean said, her voice lighter now, as if testing a note. “Gentle’s nice when it’s rare. Though I wouldn’t have guessed you for the type.”

He didn’t know what that meant. “What type is that?”

She shrugged, taking a small sip of wine. “You know. Soft interiors. Thoughtful paintings. Artists with feelings.”

He gave a small laugh but said nothing. She tilted her head slightly, studying him the way someone might study a sculpture—looking for cracks, hidden weight. “You know,” she added, her voice quieter now, “I always assumed someone like you wouldn’t show up to these things unless there was an acquisition on the table.”

“There isn’t.”

“Well, color me surprised.” She leaned in a little. “You’re a hard man to read. I like that.”

He didn’t notice the shift in tone. Or if he did, he didn’t register it.

Before Harry could respond—politely or otherwise—Catherine appeared.

“There you are,” she said, slipping in beside him, eyes flicking between the group. “I was looking for you.”

Jean turned, visibly intrigued. “And who’s this? Your daughter?”

Catherine smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m his girlfriend. Nice to meet you.”

Harry, oblivious to the current in the room, immediately pointed at the painting. “What do you think of this?” he asked Catherine, nodding toward the painting.

She looked. A beat passed. Then she smiled for real. “I love it.”

“You think I should get it?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “It’s calm. But not flat. I’d like to wake up to that. We need a painting above the credenza.”

He pulled out his phone, made a note to speak to the gallery assistant, and gently steered them away without another word to Jean or Joe. He didn’t mean to, he just forgot. His mind was already somewhere else.

Catherine didn’t leave his side after that.

Wherever he moved, she followed, closer than usual. When he turned, she was there. When someone called out to her, she smiled and nodded but didn’t stray. Harry didn’t question it. Not at first. But at some point—midway through a wine refill, when he glanced around and noticed she hadn’t let him out of arm’s reach in nearly half an hour—he wondered.

Sure enough, the moment came. Someone called her name.

Catherine turned, and the reaction was immediate. A pause too long to be casual, a blink too slow to be nothing. She flinched—just slightly, barely perceptible—but Harry saw it. She recovered quickly, straightening her spine, smoothing her expression, but her feet didn’t move. If anything, she took a half-step back. Closer to him.

The man approaching her smiled with a kind of warmth that felt just a little too familiar. He wasn’t alone—two others trailed behind him, then another, and finally, Brandon.

Harry recognized him instantly. He hadn’t seen the man since… Well, since the accident. Since he begged Harry for visitation privilege. Harry gave him ten minutes to meet Catherine while she was medically induced after the accident. He remembered the man cursed at him at some point, requesting more time.

“Catherine,” the first man said again, more gently now. He opened his arms and hugged her without asking. She accepted it, but barely. The others took turns hugging her too, as a greeting. He didn’t really like that. Particularly when Brandon hugged a second too long.

“This is Harry,” she said after, her voice even, controlled. “Harry Castillo.”

She went down the line, introducing the band. Five of them. Names he didn’t retain. Harry wasn’t listening. His attention was on Brandon, whose expression hadn’t changed—neutral, unreadable, but too still. His posture was better now, his clothes less rumpled, his collar pressed. It didn’t match the memory.

“So you do own proper clothes,” Harry said, his tone too mild to be polite. It was generous to be called proper, really. But it was the most appropriate clothes he’d ever seen him in.

Brandon met his gaze. “Funny.”

Neither of them smiled.

“We’ve missed you,” one of the others said to Catherine, in the tone of someone who only half-meant it.

“I don’t believe you,” she said lightly, with a dry laugh. But she didn’t step closer. “I heard you’ve been busy. Congratulations are in order, I think?”

“You heard right,” said Brandon, his voice still flat. “We got a global tour deal.”

“I’m really happy for you,” Catherine said, and for a second, Harry wasn’t sure if she meant it. But her voice softened on the next line. “You deserve it. I always knew you would. From the first rehearsal—I told you, remember? I have a sense for these things. When do you leave?” she asked.

“Three months,” someone else answered. “Europe first. Then Asia. We’ll get another deal if that goes well.”

Her eyes shifted and she gave them her first genuine smile. “Noah would love that,” she said. “Japan’s been on your list forever.”

“You remembered,” said the one she must’ve meant—Noah, probably.

“Of course I do.” She smiled, but it was small, careful. “Well. I hope you have a great night. I’m going to show Harry around a bit more.”

That was the cue. She touched his arm lightly—barely a graze.

“Come visit sometime,” one of them said. “Or at least come to a show.”

“Maybe.”

“We’ll dedicate a song,” someone called. “For the wonder girl with the nose for talent.”

Catherine didn’t stop walking. “Okay,” she said over her shoulder. “Have fun, everyone.”

She didn’t look back.

Harry paid for the painting, gave the gallery assistant his address, and was told they’d be sending over the paperwork by morning. He nodded absently, half-listening, half-watching Catherine as she wandered into the back section of the gallery—a quieter alcove tucked behind the main exhibit, where a handful of sculptures stood like forgotten sentries, half-lit and elegant in their stillness.

He joined her there a moment later, away from the hum of voices and soft jazz and wine glasses clinking.

“Do you want to go home?” he asked, low. “We could.”

“Okay,” she said, but after a second, her voice softened into something slightly more uncertain. “You didn’t like them?”

“Who?”

“The band.”

He let out a small breath, pretending to think, but they both knew he didn’t need to.

“I’m biased,” he said.

“They kept looking at you,” she murmured, close now, brushing an invisible piece of lint from his shirt like it needed handling. “Good thing you look so handsome.”

He looked at her—really looked—and then tugged her gently toward him, hand brushing the side of her face before he leaned in for a quick kiss. No one was near enough to notice, though he doubted he’d have cared.

“I didn’t like that he hugged you,” Harry whispered.

“I didn’t like the woman who hit on you,” Catherine replied, almost shy.

He tilted his head, amused. “Which woman?”

“The one who called me your daughter.”

“Jean?” he said, chuckling. “She wasn’t hitting on me.”

“She was very subtle,” Catherine insisted, a flicker of stubbornness in her tone. “She’s pretty. Sexy, too. Eloquent. Your age. Doesn’t she work in the same field as well? You have a lot in common.”

“You were listening?”

“Of course I was. She was doing this thing with her eyes, even I could see it from afar—”

“Hush,” he said, tugging her close again. He kissed her—soft but insistent. “Why don’t you kiss me back instead of pouting? Put these pretty lips to good use.”

She glanced around, cautious, then leaned in and kissed him back. Her fingers traced the lapel of his coat, then the front of his chest, before settling on his shoulders. The movement was slow, unhurried. Her body relaxed against his like she’d made a decision. She hummed quietly—just a breath of sound, but he knew that sound.

He was glad she felt that way. Because he wanted her too. Probably more than she realized. More than she wanted it, maybe.

They made their way out the back entrance, slipping past the last of the murmuring guests and the scatter of gallery staff lingering near the doors. Tomas caught them on the way out—offering a nod, not a question—thankfully too preoccupied to ask why they were leaving early. The street was quiet, their car parked just a little further down under a sleepy amber streetlight.  

They drove a block or two in silence. Harry didn’t ask where she wanted to go. She didn’t offer. His hand found her thigh again—inevitable now—and she didn’t push it away. Her fingers rested on his, and though she said nothing, she tilted toward him just slightly, like gravity had changed its direction.

He turned the wheel, pulled off the main road, and found a narrow side street lined with apartment buildings and trees, mostly dark. 

“What are we doing?” Catherine asked, but her voice had already changed. Less curious. More knowing.

He turned toward her, letting the engine idle, pulled the seat back, and reached to unclip her belt. She didn’t stop him. She was already moving before he asked, climbing over the console and into his lap, legs folding over him like they remembered the shape.

Their mouths met immediately—no preamble, no words. Just heat. His hands found the small of her back, then her hips, steadying her against him, anchoring her there. Her breath caught once when he adjusted beneath her, and she made a small sound that tightened something low in his chest.

Her hands moved to his collar, to the back of his neck, threading into his hair. Outside, the street remained still, unbothered.

Neither of them was thinking about Brandon anymore. Or Jean. Or the band. Or the gallery.

They weren’t thinking at all.

Harry's hands slid up her back, his touch igniting sparks beneath her dress. He pulled her flush against him, holding her tight as he deepened the kiss. His tongue delved into her mouth, stroking along hers, tasting her sweetness and the wine she'd had minutes ago.

"I couldn't wait until dinner," he murmured against her lips.

He slipped a hand into her hair, tilting her head back, exposing the column of her throat. Harry peppered her skin with hot, open-mouthed kisses, his stubble rasping deliciously against her flesh. She could feel his arousal hardening beneath her, pressing insistently against her core through the fabric of his pants.

Catherine arched into him, a soft moan escaping her lips as he nipped and sucked at her sensitive neck. Her fingers tightened in his hair, anchoring him to her as he mapped out her throat with his mouth. 

"Harry..." she whimpered, rolling her hips against his in a slow, sensual grind. "We should stop.”

“The window’s tinted.”

“Slightly.”

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, pulling back to look at her. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire as he searched her face. “Tell me to stop and I will. I'll take you to dinner like I promised.”

She took her time answering, she rolled her hips and felt his hardness, moaned, then finally said, “I didn’t say I want you to stop. I said we probably should.”

“I say we shouldn’t,” he said, kissing her again.

Harry's hands slid down to her ass, gripping the rounded cheeks possessively as he pulled her harder against him. He rolled his hips up to meet hers, grinding his rigid cock against her clothed sex in a way that made her gasp. The rough fabric of his trousers rubbed deliciously against her damp panties, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her.

"That's right, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive rumble. Harry had no intention of stopping, not when a woman as beautiful as Catherine was grinding on his cock like she needed it as much as he. Not when he can feel how wet she was, even through her panties.

He slipped a hand between their bodies, his fingers finding the hem of her dress. With a wicked grin, he pushed the fabric up slowly, revealing more of her thighs, her hips, the curve of her waist. His touch drifted over her lace-covered mound.

"Fuck, you're soaked, Catherine," he growled appreciatively. 

Harry pushed her panties aside and ran a finger along her slick slit, feeling her hot and swollen flesh quiver at his touch. He circled her entrance teasingly, not quite pushing inside, just stroking her intimately.

"Tell me how much you want it, Catherine," he demanded softly. “Beg me like you always do.”

He punctuated his words with a roll of his hips, grinding his clothed erection against her some more. The rough fabric of his trousers rubbed deliciously against her sensitive folds, making her gasp and squirm.

“Please,” she said.

Harry smirked at Catherine's polite plea. He could see the hunger in her eyes, hear it in her breathy little gasps and moans. But as always, he wanted more.

"Please what, sweetheart?" he purred, his fingers still teasing her slick folds, not quite giving her what she needed. "Use your words, Catherine. I want to hear you beg for my cock like a good girl."

He slipped a finger inside her tight heat, feeling her clench around the intrusion. Slowly, torturously, he pumped it in and out, shallow thrusts that barely touched her hungry cunt. His thumb circled her clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in maddeningly light strokes.

"Tell me how badly you need it, Catherine," he coaxed, his voice a seductive murmur.

Harry could feel his control slipping, his own desire burning hot and urgent. But he was determined to make her beg for him, to hear the desperation in her voice before he gave her what she needed. He wanted her to acknowledge her hunger, her craving for him, before he fucked her senseless.

Then, quietly, she whispered, “Please, Harry, I want you. Please?”

The quiet, polite request sent a thrill down his spine, stoking the flames of his arousal. He could hear the desperation in her voice, the way her breath hitched on the word "please". It was everything he needed to hear.

"That's my good girl," he praised, his voice a low, approving rumble. "So polite, even when you're drowning in need."

He pulled her panties to the side, then pulled her up to free his cock.

It sprang free, thick and hard and heavy against her thigh. Catherine could feel the heat radiating off of it, the way it throbbed with need. She ached to touch it, to wrap her hand around it and feel it pulse with desire for her. With a low groan, Harry pushed the head of his cock against her slick entrance, teasing her and making her wetter. He rubbed it up and down her slit, coating himself in her juices, before pushing forward to catch on the tight entrance to her cunt.

"Fuck, Catherine," he grunted, his eyes dark and intense as he stared at her, "You're going to feel so fucking good wrapped around me, hm? Gonna squeeze me so tight."

With that, he thrust forward, sinking into her in one smooth, powerful stroke. Her pussy stretched around him, accommodating his thick girth as he buried himself to the hilt inside her. Harry groaned at the exquisite feeling of her, so hot and wet and deliciously tight.

She yelped in ecstasy. He stopped for a while, letting her adjust. Catherine, however, was impatient, and started to move her hips. 

Harry's eyes darkened as he realized Catherine was trying to take control. A smirk tugged at his lips, amused and slightly annoyed by her impatience. He was the one in charge here, and he had no intention of relinquishing that. With a low, possessive growl, Harry gripped her hips tightly, holding her down against him.

He stilled her movements of her hips with a quiet, firm “Stop.” His voice left no room for question, his hands anchoring her where he wanted her. “You don’t set the pace,” he said, his gaze dark. “I do.”

She knew this about him—how much he needed control, how deep that instinct ran in him, even here. She might have initiated most of the sex, but it was always him who decided what came next. The rhythm, the movement, the position, the silence between their bodies. And because Catherine was Catherine, she let him. That was the part that undid him most. Not the wanting, but the way she trusted him enough to give up the lead.

And God, she was good at it. He loved that about her—the quiet obedience wrapped in confidence, how she could surrender, how she listened when she was told. Obedient, polite, and so irresistible when she looked at him with submission. How she watched him, patient and willing, like she knew he’d make it worth it. And he always did. 

To punctuate his words, Harry began to move, rolling his hips in a slow, sensual rhythm. He fucked into her with deliberate, measured strokes, pushing himself deeper with each thrust. His cock dragged along her fluttering walls, hitting new spots that made her gasp and moan.

"That's it, take it slow," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "Let me move you. Yes, just like that. Tighten around me just like that."

Harry could feel her struggling not to move, to let him set the tempo. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her body trembling with the effort of holding still. He knew she wanted to meet his thrusts, to fuck him back with wild abandon, but he held her fast, refusing to let her.

"Good girl," he praised, his voice strained with concentration and control. "Just like that. Let me fuck you."

He could feel her starting to shake, her pussy clenching and fluttering around his pistoning cock. Harry tucked a hand between their sweat-slicked bodies, his fingers finding her swollen clit. He rubbed the sensitive nub in tight, hard circles, determined to drive her wild with pleasure.

Harry paused for a moment, taking in the sight of Catherine's breasts spilling out of her dress. Her dusky nipples were hard and inviting, begging for his touch. Unable to resist, Harry leaned down and captured one of the stiff peaks between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make her yelp before soothing it with his tongue.

He sucked hard, his mouth hot and wet around her nipple as he continued to thrust into her. His hand kneaded the soft flesh of her breast, squeezing and massaging as he pleasured her sensitive mound. Harry could feel her squirming on him, her hips rolling to meet his thrusts.

Harry watched her face, his eyes hungry as he drank in every expression of pleasure that crossed her features.

"You feel incredible, sweet Catherine," he praised, his voice strained with effort and desire. "Like you were made just for me. Fuck, the way you're squeezing me..."

His pace increased, his thrusts growing harder and more urgent. He gripped her thighs, pushing them up and apart to open her wider for him as he fucked into her. The new angle let him go even deeper, hitting that special spot inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids.

"That's it, baby," Harry growled, feeling her start to shake, "Cum for me. Wanna feel you milking me. Fuck, yes, just like that. Good girl. Good fucking girl."

He could feel his own release building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in his belly. But he was determined to make her come first, to feel her come undone on his cock before he let himself go. He wanted to feel her pussy flutter and clench.

“You’re so big and rough, Harry,” she breathed out, her lips inches from his. “You do this so well. I feel you inside me.”

Harry grinned at Catherine's breathless praise, his ego stroked by her awed words. He loved feeling her stretched around him, loved knowing that he was the one giving her this overwhelming pleasure.

She tightened, and he drove into her harder. He knew she was close.

Harry could feel Catherine's body tensing, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around his pistoning cock. He knew she was teetering on the brink, her pleasure building to a fever pitch. Determined to push her over the edge, Harry redoubled his efforts.

He drove into her harder, each powerful thrust striking her deepest point. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the car as he fucked her with wild abandon. Harry's fingers flew over her clit, rubbing the swollen nub in tight, frenzied circles.

"Fuck, I can feel you tightening," he growled, his voice ragged with lust. He leaned down to capture her nipple in his mouth once more, biting down just shy of pain before sucking hard.

With a brutal thrust, Harry buried himself balls-deep inside her. At the same time, he pinched her clit hard, giving her the sharp, intense stimulation she needed to fly apart.

Harry felt Catherine's body go rigid as her orgasm crashed over her. Her scream, muffled into his shoulder, was music to his ears - a primal, ecstatic sound of pure pleasure. At the same time, her pussy clamped down around his cock like a vice, the silken walls fluttering and rippling as she came undone.

"Fuck yes, that's it," Harry groaned, feeling her come apart around him. He continued to thrust through her orgasm, prolonging her pleasure as her cunt squeezed and milked his pistoning cock.

Then Harry buried himself to the hilt inside her spasming cunt. He felt his own release surge through him, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he spilled himself deep inside her welcoming heat.

"Fuck, Catherine!" he roared, his voice echoing through the car as he came hard, painting her insides with thick ropes of his seed.

 He peppered her face with kisses, murmuring praise and adoration into her flushed skin. "Good girl," he rumbled softly, his voice hoarse and sated. "Such a good fucking girl, coming so hard on me. You're fucking perfect, Catherine. Absolutely perfect."

Later that night, they enjoyed dinner at a cheap place close by. He didn’t want the night to end with cheap food, but she insisted. She explained that his cum dripping out of her would be uncomfortable, especially if they stayed too long. He immediately agreed after that argument. 

⊹

If Harry had known that giving Emma to Catherine as a dedicated manager specifically for the studio would free up her entire summer, he would’ve done it ages ago. Apparently, Catherine and Talia had been managing most of the logistical thread between the two of them, carrying the weight of day-to-day operations while also keeping up with performances and budgets. Most of the other workers were part-timers. It had worked, somehow. But only because they both gave more than they should have.

With Emma handling studio administration full-time, Talia could finally focus on being Catherine’s personal manager, and Catherine, at last, could return to the one thing she’d built the studio for in the first place: the music.

She had decided to make a new album after all. Just for fun, she’d said, brushing it off the way she did with anything that meant more than she was ready to admit. But Harry knew better. He knew there was still a part of her—the perfectionist, the artist, the girl who still thought she had something to prove—that wanted it to be more than just fun. She wanted it to matter. She gathered songs she'd written during her time in California, half-finished sketches from quiet mornings, ideas jotted down in margins or voice notes she never meant for anyone to hear. 

One afternoon, Harry watched her through the one-way glass of the recording room. She had her hair tied back and was humming, eyes closed, body swaying just slightly to the rhythm of something only she could hear. She looked beautiful, yes—she always did—but that wasn’t what struck him. It was the way she moved with certainty. The way her fingers curled around a pencil mid-notation, the way she stopped and started again without hesitation. The way she was completely herself. Confident. Passionate. Entirely at home. He started to love the studio just as much as she did.

Harry got more involved with the studio, almost by accident, when he helped her organize tax documents. What started as a simple favor became a deep dive—expenses, grant statements, donations. That’s when he realized just how profitable the studio actually was. Not in a loud, scaling-for-growth kind of way, but solid. Sustainable. It surprised him. He knew Catherine was careful with money—frugal, even—but this was more than that. She ran it like someone who didn’t fear failure. Like someone who expected to survive.

He found out then—quietly, in the fine print of an old spreadsheet—that she’d once applied for a loan to start the place. She’d even sold her car to help with the upfront costs. Harry hadn’t known she ever owned one. 

When he asked her about it, she said: “I don’t really like driving anyway, so it wasn’t a loss. I wasn’t even great at driving. I failed my licence a couple of times.”

He then teased her because she gave him a hard time when he was driving a few weeks ago.

Her father had stepped in too, he noticed, somewhere between the insurance paperwork and the early balance sheets. Helped her with some of the initial costs, though she’d paid the loan in full within two years and hadn’t borrowed a cent since. She’d never renewed her license, never bought another car. She walked. Took the train. Kept everything close.

At first, he’d assumed her generosity—the studio’s famously low rates, the open-door policy, the “pay later” or “pay what you can” arrangement—was just idealism. A good heart making bad business decisions. 

“This isn’t sustainable, you know,” Harry used to say whenever he caught her giving free service. “You can’t run a business on favors.”

 And every time, she’d say the same thing: “Think of it as an investment.”

He thought she was just placating him. He believed her, sure. But he never thought that kind of investment would work out. 

Turns out, Catherine had built something smarter than he gave her credit for. People came to the studio with nothing, started small, taught classes, learned from each other. And when they made something—when they booked a tour, got a commission, signed a contract—they gave back. Profit-sharing wasn’t an official rule, but it was the culture. The community. They called it a studio, but it functioned more like a home. Artists stayed. Students returned. Success was shared. Almost a quarter of earnings came strictly from donations.

It was just like Catherine, really. To build something not for profit, but for meaning. And somehow end up with both anyway. Not a lot of people could do that. Not even him. Harry was impressed. Not just with the numbers, though they were better than he expected. But with the quiet system she’d created. 

The more he learned about the studio, the more Harry came to appreciate Talia too. She was sharp, organized, quick with people, and fiercely loyal to Catherine. In recent months, she had become even more integral, helping Catherine transition into something like normalcy again: managing schedules, filtering emails, getting concert deals. And lately, helping Harry.

He’d looped her in for a specific reason. Catherine’s birthday was coming up, and he still owed her a piano. It was something she asked for—one of the few things she asked for—after the accident, when he begged her to move into the penthouse. A piano in the back room, her studio-in-the-making. They were supposed to pick it out together. But he decided it’d mean more as a gift, something already waiting for her on the day. 

So he took Talia instead.

He told her about last year. About the birthday date that turned into a rain-soaked scramble.

“Disastrous?” Talia repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Catherine told me she really liked it. She said you were so sweet.”

“We got caught in the rain,” Harry muttered. “She was freezing all night.”

“She loved that cello.”

“That was your suggestion too.”

“Well,” Talia shrugged. “It worked.”

And so, like any halfway decent businessman, he stuck to what worked.

The piano arrived while Catherine was out shopping for dinner essentials with Emma for her birthday dinner. He’d timed it that way on purpose. The delivery men came early, exactly as promised, and he tipped them both generously when they were done. They placed it carefully in the spare room—formerly a storage for his files, though Harry rarely used it for anything but phone calls and pacing. It was quiet, spacious, and already had good soundproofing. In a few months, it would become Catherine’s private studio.

For now, he locked the doors behind him and left the lights off. Catherine hadn’t asked about the room in weeks, and thankfully, she had no reason to step into it that evening.

Catherine had started letting him actually help in the kitchen—unlike the first gathering at her apartment, when she would quietly nudge him away, correcting his knife grip or redoing his tasks. Tonight, she handed him tasks without hesitation. Chopping. Stirring. Tasting. He was under strict instruction not to over-salt anything. She said it was because of the tricky dish, but he suspected it was also because she didn’t trust his instincts yet. Still, she didn’t hover, and that was progress.

The kitchen felt full but efficient. Emma helped too. She laid out serving dishes, arranged the sideboard with cutlery and wine glasses, adjusted the dimmers to a warmer tone without asking. She even brought tea lights from the office to make the table look softer. Catherine, for once, didn’t micromanage—just peeked at the setup, smiled, and went back to tasting her food.

Sam showed up not long after, balancing two bottles of white wine in one arm and a bouquet in the other.

“I’m here to help. Nice place, man. You should’ve moved in here ages ago, Cat,” she said, brushing past Harry with a quick kiss on the cheek. “But I have to leave before midnight. Staten Island gig. Something last-minute. Not my usual, but it’ll pay.”

Harry helped her out of her coat, and frowned. “Shame. I was hoping to get your opinion on something.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “Raincheck,” she said.

The dinner was meant to be for twenty, maybe more if people brought dates or last-minute guests. When Catherine first called it intimate, Harry laughed. In his opinion, anything past ten was a crowd. But she clarified that intimate meant people from her daily life—people she saw every week. Students, collaborators, colleagues, old friends.

Mr. Williams and his wife were the first official guests to arrive. Harry greeted them personally, led them inside.

“They’re early,” Harry said, referring to the couple.

“We’re on time,” Mrs. Williams corrected gently. “It’s the young ones who are late.”

“That’s what I said,” Harry replied. “None of Catherine’s friends have clocks.”

His driver laughed. “It’s not that they’re young, sir. They just don’t worry about traffic.”

Harry let that one go. He poured himself a drink and helped light the last of the candles.

Some guests started arriving just as the sun slipped behind the skyline. Soft shadows fell across the living room. The apartment, usually quiet, began to fill with footsteps and voices. Catherine moved between them easily, greeting everyone at the door with hugs and stories, letting the music drift in low from the speakers.

It was the most people he’d ever had in his penthouse. Not even his business dinners came close—those were seated, orchestrated, impersonal. People lounged on armrests and clustered on rugs. Coats were draped over a footstool. Someone spilled wine on a napkin and apologized too much. Music played low, and someone brought Catherine a cookie shaped like a cello. She laughed and took a bite.

And then, after dinner, when the plates were cleared and the room softened with that post-meal lull, he asked her to come with him.

He led her to the back room. The door was closed, just as he’d left it, and he unlocked it with a key he’d kept in his pocket all night. She looked at him suspiciously, then opened the door.

It took her a second to understand what she was looking at.

The piano sat in the center of the room, freshly delivered, untouched. No chairs, no shelves yet—just clean hardwood floors and wide windows.

She turned to him slowly. “You didn’t.”

He didn’t say anything. Just watched her expression shift—surprise first, then something closer to disbelief, then something warmer, deeper. She walked to it in slow steps, lifted the cover, ran her fingers across the keys without pressing them down. Then she turned and kissed him.

Right in front of the stragglers who had followed them down the hall. Kissed him once, then again. Not a chaste, polite thank-you, but on his cheek, his temple, his mouth, laughing between each one. He probably turned scarlet. He couldn’t remember the last time someone kissed him like that in front of a crowd—like she didn’t care who saw. The rest of the guests followed when they heard her laugh. 

She played for them, of course. Not for long—there weren’t chairs yet, and the acoustics were still raw—but enough for the room to hush. Enough for Harry to stand a little back, behind the doorway, and just watch her.

She was most herself when she played. Her posture loosened. Her eyes softened. The usual tension that lived behind her mouth faded, and something else surfaced—something private, almost unguarded. It wasn’t performance. It wasn’t even showmanship. It was just her, moving through the piece like it lived in her bloodstream.

She was glued to his side for the rest of the night. She did that a lot lately, ever since they came back from California. He didn’t mind it. In fact, he preferred it. Even after the last of the guests filtered out, even when the apartment was dim and quiet and still littered with dishes and wine glasses and half-folded napkins, Catherine didn’t move far from him. 

They cleaned the house side by side—He found himself calling it the house, sometimes even home like Catherine did. It slipped out easily now, without hesitation. She folded blankets and adjusted candles like they lived there for years. He followed behind her with a dish towel and a glass of wine. While they cleared the table, she mentioned how, excluding last year, she’d done at least one concert a year ever since graduating. A promise to herself, she said—something to keep her connected to the stage, even as her life shifted toward composing, teaching, building.

“Are you planning one this year?” he asked.

She didn’t answer at first. Then, after a long stretch of silence, she said, “I got the same offer as last year. In London. I only need to schedule rehearsals for a week or two. They’re paying more now. Not that I do it for the money, but I’d like to finish what I agreed to.”

He shifted just enough to look down at her face. “That’s wonderful news, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Then why are you sad?”

Her mouth pulled slightly at the corner. “We were supposed to go to Seville,” she said. “You made a whole pitch about it. A PowerPoint, Harry.”

“I did.” He chuckled faintly. “I stand by it. It was a good pitch.”

“You had villa reservations already.”

“We can still go.”

“But London—”

“We can do both,” he said simply. “We’ll change the dates. We’re overdue for two vacations anyway.”

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with the kind of expression he’d come to recognize—the mixture of disbelief and something soft beneath it, like wonder. “We could do that?”

“We could go on three vacations,” he said. “Even four. You pick the places. I’ll find a way to follow.”

She laughed then. “It’ll be a tight schedule,” she said. “We’ll have to celebrate your birthday overseas.”

“Sounds perfect,” said Harry. “You and I are great planners. We’ll figure it out.”

And they would. He didn’t doubt that. They were great planners.

But he had more to plan than just vacations. One of them—maybe the most important—was the proposal.

He’d gone back and forth on it too many times already. Seville? Home? Now, maybe London? A rooftop somewhere warm and golden? A quiet dinner after the crowds disappeared? He didn’t know yet. He only knew he wanted it to be right.

She approached him after putting the last of the dishes in place, the counters wiped, the last candle snuffed out. The apartment was quiet again, clean and dim and finally still.

Her arm was around his waist, her chin brushing his shoulder, her hair trailing the collar of his shirt. She had drunk more wine than usual—one glass too many, he thought—but it wasn’t just the alcohol. He could tell. There was something else pressing beneath the surface.

He didn’t ask. He just held her, warm and steady, and when she leaned heavier into him, he slipped an arm under her knees and carried her to the couch. She let herself be carried, something she rarely allowed unless she’s asleep. That alone told him enough.

She curled into him as soon as he sat down, tugging the hem of his sleeve, resting her cheek against his chest like it belonged there.

“I love you, Harry,” she said quietly, her voice low and a little slurred against the curve of his neck.

He looked down. “What’s wrong now?” he asked, rubbing a slow hand up her back. “Why are you pouting? It’s your birthday. Being sad is not allowed.”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, softly, “You love me, don’t you, Harry?”

He exhaled, forehead tilted against hers. “That’s a stupid question.”

Her fingers tightened in his shirt.

“Of course I do,” he added. “You know I do.”

“Not a lot of people do,” she whispered.

He leaned back to look at her face, trying to catch her eyes. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said. Complete nonsense. You’re the most loved person I know. Have I told you about the hospital? The first few days, Sam and I couldn’t get five minutes of quiet. People were lining up. Visiting hours felt like a parade. The nurse had to keep asking them to wait their turn. You had people. Friends. More than you realize.”

She shook her head a little. “But they don’t love me like you.”

His chest went still.

“And how do I love you?” he asked, quieter now.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her expression wasn’t drunk—it was vulnerable. Raw in that soft, late-night way she rarely allowed herself to be.

“You know how I always ask people things?” she said. “I pay attention. I try to. I ask how they are, what’s going on, what they’re working on. I keep up.”

He nodded. She did.

“But sometimes… I feel like they don’t really do the same gesture for me.”

He tilted his head. “They ask you questions. They know about your life. Your work.”

“Yes. But it’s not about whether they ask—it’s about the kind of questions.”

That made him pause.

She went on. “They ask about the studio, the concerts, what it’s like to be performing again. It’s always the surface things. The résumé. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But you—” her voice faltered slightly, “you ask questions I actually want to answer. You ask things that matter, in the moment, as if you can read what’s already in my head.”

“Like what?”

She smiled a little, but it was quiet. “Like when I was composing last month. And instead of asking, How’s the song coming along?—you asked me to repeat what it was about. Like you knew I was still trying to figure it out. Like helping me say it out loud might help me finish it.”

He remembered that.

“And when I was supposed to go to that event,” she continued, “you didn’t ask, What time are you going? You asked, Do you want to go? No one asks me that. Not really. They just assume I always want to.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a moment. He only touched her face.

“No one’s ever loved me like that,” she said finally.

“I learned that from you, you know,” he murmured into her hair, one hand resting over the curve of her spine. She was curled more in his lap, her legs folded under her, her head tucked neatly beneath his chin. 

And when she fell asleep on his lap that night, he didn’t move.

He didn’t shift her weight or try to carry her to bed, though his legs began to ache and his hand, resting along her back, started to go numb from holding her in place. Still, he didn’t move. He only held her tighter and let it all stay exactly as it was—her warmth pressed to him, the soft rise and fall of her breath, the fragile peace that only seemed to exist when she was like this.

If only Catherine understood what she did to him. What she meant already.

She didn’t even try. That was the unbearable part. She gave him the kind of love he had quietly wanted for most of his adult life—the kind that looked at him and saw something worth returning to. Not because of the suits or the apartment or the name. Just… him.

To be cared for like this, admired like this, seen by someone like her—it felt invaluable. Priceless. It felt undeserved.

Because, deep down, Harry still wasn’t sure he was worthy of any of it.

He didn’t sleep that night. Not really. Just stayed still with her in his arms, half-dreaming and fully awake, thinking of everything he hadn’t said yet. And in the dark, where no one could hear it but him, he admitted it: he was terrified she’d never say yes. Not because she didn’t love him—he knew she did—but because maybe love wasn’t enough. Not for someone like her. Not for someone who gave everything and asked for nothing. But still, he’d try. He’d wait. He’d plan. 

And when the moment came, he would ask anyway—because even the smallest chance at forever with her was worth every quiet kind of ruin.

His mother returned from her cruise, asking about Catherine, asking about him, eager to finally meet the girl she’d heard so much about. The one Harry was supposedly smitten with. Peter had to be the one to tell her.

Harry hadn’t shown up to the obligatory Christmas dinner, hadn’t picked up when Peter knocked on his door. He left unopened gifts in the hallway. No messages were answered. Emma reached out, a few times, out of concern. Eventually, they spoke only through terse emails—brief updates about the studio. The work they used to share had been on pause for so long now it no longer felt like absence, just a new reality.

He had taken a few days off, then a few more. Then a month passed. His team adjusted. People in his office whispered theories. Some thought he’d moved abroad. Others thought he’d finally crashed—burnout, scandal, secretly married then secretly divorced. No one could confirm, and none were brave enough to ask. He never corrected them. He didn’t care.

He had built enough of a career to disappear and still be respected. The firm is called Castillo Asset Management, no one’s gonna make much a fuss of him being gone. He had enough money to never work again. None of it mattered. Work was a distraction he used to cling to when there was nothing else. Now, it was just static. There was only one thing he cared about. And she wasn’t here.

Her things were still in the apartment. Her toothbrush by the sink, her scarf on the coat rack. The half-burned candle she liked to light during her bath had collected a thin sheet of dust, but he refused to move it. He refused to move any of it. Every day he walked past them and didn’t touch a thing. He played her records too often—records she liked, records she composed, records that reminded him of the girl who used to hum as she moved across his kitchen, barefoot and happy.

Sometimes he sat on the couch where she once curled into him and inhaled the scent of her clothes. Once, he tried to clean out the fridge and found a note she'd written on the grocery list: "Buy: Butter. Yogurt. Reminder: Refill first aid kit." He folded it back and left it there. Just in case. On good days, he wandered the apartment pretending she might walk back in. On bad days, he begged the universe to let it all be a nightmare.

He had never felt this way about anyone before. His past relationships—every single one of them—felt like poor rehearsals. Women he liked enough, women who liked him just fine. They came from the same schools, shared the same tax bracket, knew how to fold napkins at formal dinners. They all ended the same way. A text. A resignation. A dinner with polite goodbyes and no second thoughts. He was always composed, always indifferent. If they left, they left. If they cheated, he shrugged. If they cried, he comforted them with detachment and signed the check. He had never fought for any of them. Never chased. Never wept. Not once.

But with Catherine—God. With her it wasn’t just love. He knew it. She changed everything. He used to think love was something people made up, something people used to explain away lust or loneliness. But then she came along with her music, her oversized coat, her ridiculous taste in candles, her unmatched brilliance, and suddenly his world began orbiting something he hadn’t even believed in. He loved her, not in the poetic, metaphorical sense, but in the actual, brutal, bleeding kind. The real way. The one that wrecked you.

He woke up once in the middle of the night, awfully drunk—the drunkest he’d ever been—and for a moment, he simply forgot she was gone. The glass was still in his hand, tipped and warm, and the room around him was quiet in a way that felt unfamiliar. He’d called out to her, barely conscious, slurring her name like it might summon her from the next room.

“Catherine,” he had said into the dark.

He wanted to ask her to play something. Anything. A soft piece, something she kept for herself, something to lull him back to sleep. He didn’t even care if she scolded him for drinking too much scotch again. He would’ve taken it. Would’ve welcomed her voice, her hands snatching the glass from his fingers, her familiar sigh, Harry, you’re too old to drink like this.

But no one answered.

When he woke up the next morning, head splitting, throat dry, he found himself on the living room couch. The apartment felt like it belonged to someone else. It took him a moment to realize where he was. And then another moment to remember that she was still gone.

Across the room, the small painting of them—the one from the street artist in Central Park—was still propped up on the mantle. He stared at it for a long time. Her smile was crooked. He looked at it for a long while and tried to remember the feeling of her close to him.

He could not have her lips so far from his.

The fear—the real fear—was that if she never came back, if she decided she couldn’t forgive him, couldn’t trust him, couldn’t live with who he was, then he wouldn’t know how to be with anyone else again. How could he? He’d been alive for over forty years. Never married. A string of one-night stands in his thirties, a few arrangements that looked like relationships but were mostly just transactions dressed up in comfort. And then Catherine. The real thing.

And once you’ve had the real thing, it ruins you.

It was like luxury goods, he thought—though the comparison felt pathetic even as it crossed his mind. But it was true. Once you knew what quality was, once you’d tasted what fit, what worked, what made you feel known—you couldn’t go back. Not to off-the-shelf affection.

He knew himself well enough to admit: even if twenty years passed, even if she built a life without him, even if she never returned a single message—if one day she called, he would answer. He would board a plane to California. He would knock on her father’s door and take her from her garden, from her family, from whatever soft life she’d built without him, and he would not return it.

Her absence didn’t just ache. It lodged itself into everything. It echoed. In the alphabetized books she once reorganized, in the mugs she favored, in the polished coffee machine she used to wipe clean without being asked. Every morning he poured coffee, he poured her. Every movement carried the shape of her. The house was a shrine. A living space turned mausoleum.

He prayed for her to come back. He’d settle for anything. He would’ve settled for a dream. For a hum down the hallway. For the whisper of a melody behind the bedroom door. Anything that might mean she was still tethered to this place. To him.

Everyday he wondered if she was still angry at him. Catherine hadn’t called. Never left a message. He assumed she wanted to be left alone, and everyday it was a struggle for him.

He tried to stay away. Let her have her peace. That was the idea. Respect the space. She wanted to come home. Don’t be a disturbance. Don’t insert himself into a story that maybe, after everything, no longer needed him. But Harry wasn’t built for silence, not when she’s involved. It gnawed at him.

And so, he called her sister.

Every day. The same hour, the same number. Jane always picked up. Her voice was steady but tired, kind but too careful. He could tell she felt bad for him. The guilt in her pauses, the softening of her tone. She always answered his questions, though.

He asked the same things every time. Has she eaten? How did she sleep? Can she rest? How’s therapy? All the questions were predictable, repeated like clockwork. Jane answered, politely, usually with yes, sometimes with a long sigh. Catherine was conscious. That was the good news. Fully awake now, alert. The heavier pain meds had stopped a few days back. Her physical therapy was going well—she could move, stand, even take a few steps with help. Her appetite wasn’t great, but it wasn’t nonexistent either. A part of him relaxed at those updates, but another part clenched harder. Because recovery was more than physical, and that part Jane rarely brought up.

 Until one day, she did. Unprompted.

“But…”

“But what?” Harry said, too quickly. He heard his own voice crack at the end. Jane took too long to respond, and his mind spiraled in the space she left. His imagination sprinted ahead of her words—an infection, a complication, a regression. He almost cursed at her, begging her to speak faster.

“The others aren’t worried as much,” she said eventually, “but she’s not herself. She seems depressed.”

The word felt clinical, like a diagnosis more than an observation. He didn’t respond. Jane kept going.

“Chester thinks it’s because she had to cancel her plans to London. She lost a job she trained months for. Disappoint her orchestra. He says that’s why. But I don’t think it’s that. She’s lost jobs before. Things haven’t gone her way plenty of times. And it was never like this.”

He didn’t know what to say. The silence tightened around his throat like a knot.

“Sam’s been in,” Jane added. “Even she can’t get through. Catherine doesn’t talk to her. And they talk about everything, you know? She doesn’t talk to anyone. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t react. She just… exists. It’s been months, Harry. I thought she’ll be better.”

He swallowed hard. “Has she asked for me?”

“No. She hasn’t asked for anything. And that’s the part that’s scaring me. Catherine’s always been so vocal, even bossy, especially when she’s sick. From the exact brand of groceries to how someone played the piano, to the time she threw out an entire cake because it wasn’t red velvet. She had opinions, preferences, boundaries. She liked being cared for when she’s sick—liked being doted on, and complaining if she wasn’t. She once cried because someone brought the wrong tea. Now? She doesn’t even flinch. She’s not herself.” 

“I don’t think she wants to see me,” Harry said quietly.

“We don’t know that.”

“Have you asked her?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say, Harry,” Jane replied. “She doesn’t talk. We ask her a hundred things a day. She doesn’t answer. Not to us. Not to her friends. Not even to the doctors unless she has to. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t smile. She didn’t even react when Brandon sent her flowers. It’s not sadness—it’s something else. Like she’s not letting herself feel anything.”

He covered his face with one hand. The ache spiked considerably.

“She asked to come home, Jane. She was mad at me that night. And when the accident happened—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “It was my fault too. I wasn’t there. I could never forgive myself.”

Jane didn’t argue that. She let the silence stretch, then said gently, “About what Chester said… don’t take it to heart. He didn’t know you.”

Harry nodded, though she couldn’t see it.

“He’s been busy with his new family. He didn’t get to see the change. The way she talked about you before the accident. She was different with you. Happier. She doesn’t get upset when she misses things—which sounds bad, I know—but it wasn’t. It meant she wasn’t constantly worried. She had her own plans, certainty. She was more sure of herself than I’ve ever seen her.”

Harry’s chest pulled in tight.

“She told stories about you, before the accident. About your work and your stubbornness and your fancy espresso machine she liked to polish.”

He held the phone tighter.

“She loves you, Harry. I know she does. And if you came… I think she’d be glad to see you again.”

He wasn’t convinced, but he still called the next day, and the day after that, and so on. 

And every time, he braced himself, hoping she asked for him, hoping the answer would be something new, something different, something better. It never was. It had been almost three months since the accident, and still, Catherine hadn’t really come back.

Then one morning, the cleaner found something. She left it on his kitchen counter, tucked beside the bowls of fruits. At first, he didn’t think much of it. A black rectangle, scratched, dusty—he assumed it belonged to the cleaner herself. It kind of looked like a walkie talkie. Until he looked closer. A recorder. He didn’t think it was Catherine’s at first, because she was very neat. But it was a brand he noticed she liked, one of the older models. He hadn’t seen it before. It must’ve been tucked between the bookshelves when she helped reorganize them. He remembered now, vaguely, the day she came over arms full of Mahler and Schumann and some trinkets from the studio. She always re-alphabetized his collection when he wasn’t looking.

He pressed play. The sound of New York City quieted.

Just the slow stretch of a cello, low and trembling. A single note held longer than it needed to be. Then again, adjusted. Then a soft breath. The faint drag of the bow. He stood still in the middle of the kitchen, morning light sharp across the tile, coffee left untouched. The piece restarted. 

She was recording drafts. Take two, take three. No edits. Just her, raw, unrehearsed. The notes stumbled, shifted, reset. Her voice came in a whisper: “Not right yet.” Then silence, then again. She played another track. A few minutes later, another track. “New York City,” she called this one. It started with brass—someone else playing, maybe a studio friend—layered beneath her voice counting in, then jazzy piano. The piece was bright. Messy, joyful, full of wrong notes and laughter at the end. He replayed it four times just to hear her laugh.

The next track started with the orchestra room, a faint sound of other people. He knew that sometimes Catherine recorded when she was on a break with her orchestra. She said ideas came naturally around people.

Then came her voice, clear and unmistakable: “Harry.” He was so startled he paused it.

His hand froze before he hit play again. For a moment, he almost didn’t. The people around her quieted. Then the piano came in. Quiet, deliberate, no opening count. The melody was careful at first, plain, then tender. The ups and downs were just the way he liked. He remembered describing to her once, with his own inexperienced terms. She had gotten it right away. Then the cello joined in. It didn’t follow. It responded. It answered the melody, curled around it. There was something tender about the piece, about how the two instruments collide. It sounded like a conversation. Different voices, but ultimately in tune with each other.

He remembered what she said once, over dinner, without much meaning behind it: “If we were instruments, I’d be a cello. You’re more like a piano—measured, exact, but tender underneath.” He hadn’t understood it then. He thought it would be something only a musician would understand. Now, he heard it. 

He broke.

Not all at once. It started with a small sound. Then another. Until he was crying into the sleeve of the coat she left draped over his armchair, knees shaking on the cold tile. He played the track again, and again, and again, like a man trying to memorize it into his bones. At the end, her voice came in, soft, unsure: “Could be better. Lower, maybe?”

He responded as if she could hear him, “It’s perfect.”

By the fifth repeat, he was already calling Emma.

“I need you to book me something. Today. I don’t care if it’s commercial or private, I need to go.”

“Go where?” she asked.

“You know where.”

Emma didn’t ask more questions. She simply said she’d handle it. He got the ticket confirmation and a driver for when he arrived.

Then he called Peter. Then his mother. Told them he’d be gone for a while. No explanations, no justifications. Just that he had to go. Peter understood right away, though.

The suitcase was already half-packed. Emergency luggage, as he used to call it—business-ready, pre-arranged for last-minute work trips. He added a few things of hers into the lining. The scarf she liked, the sweater he hadn’t washed because it still smelled like her. Then the recorder. He tucked it into a small cloth pouch and slipped it inside.

And after months of sulking, refusing to come out of his shell, Harry Castillo ran out the door.

⊹

He arrived in Palo Alto just under ten hours later. Harry had flown commercial, but it didn’t matter. Emma said it’s faster this way. There was no time to arrange one, and even if there were, he was too desperate to care. His old self would’ve laughed at the sight of him: wrinkled coat, headphones plugged into an old recorder, one song on repeat until the battery died somewhere over Nevada. If you told the Harry Castillo of five years ago that he’d be racing across the country with no plan but to show up at a woman’s doorstep and beg for her heart and forgiveness, he would’ve said you were out of your mind. But there he was, middle seat armrest lifted, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the tray table, listening over and over to something she never meant for him to hear, at least not yet. “Harry.” Just her voice saying his name, right before the music started, was enough to unmake him.

He hadn’t told Jane until halfway through the flight. The message had been brief: I’m coming. When the signal returned, her reply came within a minute—a simple thumbs up. He asked if Chester was still there. She said yes, but it didn’t matter now. Even he, apparently, couldn’t ignore the changes anymore. Everyone had seen it. Catherine wasn’t herself. No one could reach her. No one had made her laugh, nor did she cry. Harry didn’t ask for permission. He just confirmed the route to the house and searched on his phone for any florist nearby. The reception was poor midair, but it didn’t stop him from trying.

Once he landed, he reminded himself to calm down. He still needed to drive from Palo Alto to Los Altos Hills. Emma had managed to find him a driver on short notice somehow. A man named Luis, in his mid-sixties, part-time Uber driver, part-time security at a shopping plaza. Mexican-American, from East San Jose. Retired from something years ago. Maybe a welder. Harry couldn’t remember the details now, just that the man spoke kindly and drove with the windows cracked, radio on low. It wasn’t what Harry was used to, but he’d take what he could get. At this point, if Emma had sent him a pickup in the back of a produce truck, he would’ve taken that too. Luis helped him pick up the flowers—roses weren’t available. The woman behind the counter suggested calla lilies, or white tulips. Luis bought a coffee for both of them when Harry forgot to eat. Didn’t ask anything else.

When he pulled up to the house, Luis asked if he should wait. The logical part of Harry wanted to say yes—just in case she asked him to leave. In case things didn’t go well. But he recognized the lie instantly. He wouldn’t leave. Not yet. Not without trying. Not without saying everything. So he tipped Luis generously, told him to take his time dropping his luggage off in front of the door, and stepped out into the cold with only the flowers in hand and the weight of the recorder in his pocket.

It was a large house—well-maintained, two-story, with tall hedges guarding the front, white-painted trim, and a fence, tall but opened. He stood on the porch and rang the bell once. Chester opened the door.

He didn’t look surprised. Just tired. His face was drawn and unshaven, like someone who hadn’t slept a full night in weeks. He didn’t smile, but he also didn’t shut the door. “You’re just in time,” Chester said, stepping aside. “I can’t take it anymore. The way she sits there. Like a statue. If you can make her react, even get angry—then it’s worth it. That’s the only reason I let you come.”

Harry stepped inside. The house was warm, wooden-floored, full of soft light and muted voices. He followed the sound of movement into the living room where Elaine, Catherine’s mother, greeted him with a hug that caught him off guard. She told him how Catherine was healing well—physically, at least. She could walk now. Her bones had set. The bruises had faded. But something else hadn’t come back.

“When Catherine’s sick, she’s the most demanding person in the world,” Elaine said, half-smiling. “When she was little and had the flu she used to ask for water in a very specific cup. She once threw a fit over a room being too beige. This time, nothing.”

But Harry wasn’t fully listening. He nodded, but his eyes kept wandering toward the hallway, toward any glimpse of a shadow or movement. He was fidgeting, his thumb rubbing the edge of the flower wrapping, his breath slow and shallow. And then Jane appeared and nodded once, leading him past the narrow hall toward the back of the house. The walls were filled with family photos—vacations, birthdays, recitals—and every one of them told a story he didn’t yet know. As they passed the threshold to her room, Mr. Ainsworth stepped out.

“She’s awake,” he said, voice lower than usual. “But don’t be offended if she doesn’t respond. It’s not personal. That’s just how she is now.”

And then the door was open. The air felt heavier inside, quieter. It smelled faintly of lavender and hospital soap. The blinds were drawn halfway, sunlight spilling onto the bed where Catherine sat, propped up against pillows. She wasn’t facing him. She was looking toward the window, blank, the way people look when they’re not really seeing anything. Her hair was down, a little flatter than usual, her skin pale and soft. She looked like herself, and also not at all. Slowly, she turned.

He froze in the doorway, flowers in hand, her family at his back breathing down his neck, heart beating loud enough he was sure they could all hear it. He hadn’t thought about how he looked—probably disheveled, under-slept, visibly trembling. But in that moment, all his thoughts slowed into one repeated pulse: Catherine, Catherine, Catherine.

There was a second where none of them reacted, her face blank. The room was too quiet. Not even breath. Just a single blink, heavy and slow. 

Then, as if a dam was broken, she cried. Tears fell, sudden and unguarded, like something had been waiting for permission to collapse. Her whole body shuddered from it. One sob, then another, then a sound that wasn’t a word, just pain.

Her mother gasped softly behind him. People shifted. But no one spoke. One by one, the family filtered out. A soft shuffle of bodies, the click of a door. Harry didn’t see them leave. He was already walking towards her.

He dropped to his knees by the bed, frantic. One hand reaching, the other pressed against the edge of the mattress like he needed grounding. She covered her face, but he saw everything. The tremble of her shoulders. The way she tried not to cry too loudly.

“Catherine…” His voice broke. “Shh, what’s wrong, sweetheart? Do you want me to go?”

He didn’t know what else to say. He dreaded the answer. Dreaded finding out how she would beg him to go. He would never be able to do it again. Not now when he missed her with his whole being.

But she cried harder. That was her answer.

So he gripped her hand—soft, barely there—but she clung. His next words came out fast, as if they’d been burning inside him for weeks—months.

“I can’t stay away from you, my love. I can’t. Even if you beg me to. I know I said I’d give you anything. Anything. But I can’t do that. I can’t leave you again. That’s the one wish I can’t make true.”

She shook, gasping through tears. And finally, her voice came—cracked, barely formed.

“I would never ask you to leave,” she sobbed. “Where were you? Why’d you leave me, Harry? Why didn’t you take me home with you?”

His whole chest caved. That sound. That sentence. Like a knife through the ribs—slow, deliberate, and he was drenched with regret and joy, mixed together it made his head spin.

He leaned in, gathering her into his arms. She clung to him with everything she had, arms wrapping tight like she was afraid he might disappear again. Her body molded into his chest, face buried, tears hot against his neck. He shook with her. Shaking with joy. With guilt. With sheer unspeakable relief.

“I thought you were mad at me,” he whispered, mouth pressed to her hair. “I thought home was here.”

He kissed her again. Her forehead. Her temple. The bridge of her nose.

“I thought you didn’t care about me,” she said next. Quiet. The words stuck on her throat. “You said… that night you said…you said you let things happen when you don’t care. I thought you didn’t care.”

He pulled back only enough to look at her. Her eyes were swollen, red-rimmed, barely open. Still, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“You underestimated my love for you, greatly. I care so much, it hurts,” he said. “I love you, Catherine. I love you so much I couldn’t breathe without you. I can’t work. I can’t sleep. I walk around my penthouse like you might come back. I’m never not thinking of you. I love you. I’ve never loved anyone like this. Not even close. Please never ask me to leave.”

She didn’t respond in words. She just held him tighter.

He let her cry for several minutes, her tears soaking through his shirt until it clung cold to his skin. Her words came out tangled, quiet things against the hollow of his chest—“I can’t believe you sent me here. I want to be in New York. Where were you? I was so sad. We were supposed to be in London celebrating, having our first vacation.”—and Harry, guilt running raw and bone-deep, could only whisper soft apologies in return.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured again and again, like repetition might stitch her back together. 

He apologised that he didn't get her meaning the first time, he told her he would have never left her side. Not if it’s his choice. Even now, he came because he can’t stand it anymore. He said he was breaking his promise the moment he booked the flight, but he hadn’t cared. “I had a plan. I was going to steal you back anyway. I miss you too much.” He peppered kisses to her hair.

She curled tighter into him, and it was the smallest thing, but it felt like forgiveness.

Then, without lifting her head, she made her first request:

“I wanna go home,” she said, hoarse but clear.

His heart clenched. “I want you to come home too.”

She shifted slightly in his arms. “I want a new blanket. I hate your sheets. They’re too thin. It’s always too cold.”

He smiled despite himself. “I’ll throw them out.”

“No,” she said, voice muffled. “Don’t throw it out. We’ll keep it. For sex.”

That made him laugh—quiet and wrecked and overflowing. He kissed the side of her head again. “As you wish. Anything else? You want a small studio back home? I’ll build you one if you move in officially.”

“Maybe,” she said with a sniffle.

“How could I convince you? Soundproof room? South-facing windows? Whatever you need.”

“With a piano,” she added.

“Done. We’ll pick one together.”

She went quiet again for a few seconds, still nestled into him like she didn’t want to be reminded of the space between their bodies, as if closing the distance could undo everything that happened. Then:

“I want Emma.”

That made him pause. “Emma?”

“Yes. I want her to run the studio. We’ve never had an official studio manager. Talia’s drowning in work most of the time. Emma’s perfect. You have to let me have her. She has a music theory degree. She’s good at her job. I want her.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll talk to Emma. She’ll work for you full-time after she hires and trains my new assistant.”

Catherine’s arms shifted, tightened. “I want to go on a holiday.”

“Anywhere you want.”

“Somewhere warm,” she said. “With a beach. And good music.”

He tucked her closer, her cheek now resting directly over his heart. “Okay,” he said again. “We’ll go as soon as you’re ready.”

An hour later, they were ready to come out of the room. Catherine insisted on walking, saying she needed to move her muscles anyway. It was part of her recovery, she said. He offered to carry her anyway, but she waved him off and held onto his arm like it was keeping her upright.

They heard the noise from the dining room before they turned the corner—plates, chairs, someone talking. But when the family saw them, it went quiet. All eyes flicked from Harry’s wrinkled, tear-damp shirt to Catherine’s tired face and her hands still holding onto him.

Then Catherine smiled.

That was enough to make the room move again. Her mother stood first and crossed the room without hesitation. Her father followed, Chester not far behind. Jane waited near the table, her mouth already starting to curl into something like relief. The next few minutes were crowded—everyone touching her, hugging her, kissing her cheeks. Her dad muttered something about getting her anything she wanted. Her mom teared up again.

Chester let out a tired sigh and muttered that if Catherine had just told them what she wanted, he would’ve dragged Harry there himself. Would’ve saved everyone the trouble.

Her father asked again what she wanted. Anything. She asked for vanilla tea. Two spoons of sugar. Red velvet cake. A specific brand of noodles. Simple things.

Dinner followed not long after. Someone set the table fast, and the food arrived quicker than expected. Takeout and leftovers, a few dishes cooked earlier in the day. No one commented on it. They were just glad to sit.

Harry sat beside her, close enough that their knees touched. She kept reaching for the salt, passing napkins, leaning slightly toward him. Not saying anything, just being close. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

It was his first time seeing her with family. Not through a screen, not through stories, but in real life—how they moved, how they talked, how much they adored her. Mr. Ainsworth spoke the most. He barely came up for air. Something about traffic in the Bay, a memory from Jane’s childhood, a rant about someone’s driving. Harry only caught half of it. He was still trying to get used to Catherine sitting next to him again. Still trying to wrap his head around how quickly everything had shifted. Just hours ago, he was still in another state, half alive.

Catherine smiled again when Chester talked about his daughter, now two years old. She was with his wife, for now residing forty five minutes away from here, in his old home.

At one point, Catherine joined the conversation. Just a comment here and there, but it was enough to turn heads. Jane watched her like she was a stranger—like she couldn’t believe the difference. Her mother got up at least twice to bring something Catherine hadn’t even asked for. A warmer blanket. A different chair cushion. Someone brought out old photo albums. There were pictures of Catherine with missing teeth, Catherine in a tutu, Catherine with a pageant tiara and a sour face. Jane’s graduation photo made it around the table, and someone made fun of the dress she wore that day. Catherine laughed. A real one, which made everyone stop and listen.

It felt like the last three months never happened. Like someone had pressed pause, then play, and everything was slowly catching up.

⊹

Harry stayed in Los Altos Hills for a month. He hadn’t packed for it. In his mind, it was a week at most. Fly in, fix what was broken, bring her home. But the first time he followed her to physical therapy, when he saw how slow her pace was, how one misstep made her wince—he couldn’t imagine asking her to fly or live in New York City where walking and stairs were such a necessity. She said she was fine. She insisted. But he knew she wasn’t. And he wouldn’t let her come back until she could walk comfortably, without needing to stop every twenty minutes.

She had rolled her eyes when he decided on that, annoyed that her request to come home got rejected. He corrected her and said it was only delayed. He told her he wanted nothing more than to come home and make her move to his penthouse, having her things next to his. But she’ll need to be healthy, be able to climb the stairs in her studio at least. After he used his serious business voice she eventually agreed.

He knew another side of her, the ones with family, like how she is with her nieces—Chester’s kids who wanted nothing to do with him, much like their father. But even Chester started being nicer with time, especially when they talked about work.

 He also found out her parents didn’t know about his age. Harry thought her parents might be against it, but they treated him pretty much the same way. One evening, her father joked that once you’re past sixty, everyone younger just blends into one long, clueless generation. Catherine had laughed, and Harry took the win. Whatever quiet concern they had, they kept it to themselves.

He slept beside her in her childhood bedroom. She claimed it had been renovated years ago when she moved to New York so she lost most of her posters, but some of her things were still there. The bookshelves were crowded with old paperbacks and concert programs. There were tiny trophies, not for winning but for “participation” in everything from spelling bees to science fair. The bigger trophies were for winning, almost all for music, few from her pageant days. She still kept an old metronome by the desk, next to a worn-out stuffed bear that had clearly seen better days.

She had only brought one cello back home, a travel one she called “stubborn,” with tuning issues and a scratchy G string. Harry bought her a new one. Nothing fancy—he let her pick it out herself. He just paid. It arrived two days later, and she started composing again. He wasn’t sure what made this new music different. He didn’t understand composition or music theory. But the pieces were quieter, slower. More fragile, even when they built up. She swore it would sound better with a whole orchestra. He asked once if her pieces had names yet. She said no. Not yet. He told her to make a new record, a full album. She shrugged and said maybe.

As time passed, the rest of her family peeled off. Chester had to fly home with his wife and children. Elaine and Mr. Ainsworth stopped hovering. They still checked in, of course—showed up with tea or oranges or homemade food—but the constant vigil broke. Jane stayed the longest, her modeling gigs lining up in LA, only six hours away. But even she left eventually, and then it was just Catherine and Harry again. Like it used to be. Except now it was California.

He came with her to physical therapy most mornings, partly because he insisted, partly because she couldn’t drive yet, but mostly because he knew she liked the way he waited for her. Patient, steady, even when he was just tapping some work things quietly into his phone while she worked through balance exercises and strength reps. He asked questions to the doctor—how long until she could go up stairs? Would her leg ever hurt again if she stopped exercising regularly? Was there anything she should avoid? And when he ran out of questions, he just watched her. Observed the way she powered through each stretch, the determined expression she wore when she thought he wasn’t looking.

They made a habit of walking after lunch. Just fifteen minutes. Around the neighborhood, or sometimes a little farther if the weather was good. It was the rainy season by then—warm enough when it’s not raining, breezy in the shade. The blossoms hung low over the sidewalks. Harry carried her water bottle. She once joked he looked like her personal trainer. Luis, his new driver, would wait at the curb when needed. She made friends with him quickly. Asked questions. Called him “Luisito” once and it stuck. They drove past her old high school one afternoon, and she pointed it out like it was a landmark, laughing at how much smaller it looked now. He didn’t laugh. He just watched her face, the way it softened. She said she wasn’t a good student. Always too distracted. He said he didn’t believe that for a second, mostly because he had seen her grades the first week he came here and found out she did pretty well. Only A’s and B’s.

One night, while making tea, she told him that she still loved California. She loved the air, the hills, the way everything felt familiar. But New York was her home. That’s where her work was. Her friends. Her rhythm. “It’s where I feel like myself,” she said, not looking at him. He didn’t say anything back, because he knew too well how much she loved New York with all its bustling energy and chaotic crowds.

When it was finally time to come home to New York, there wasn’t much fanfare. No grand sendoff. Just a late breakfast, some light packing, and a few quiet goodbyes. Her parents had begged her to stay longer, to come live with them for a while, at least until summer. But Catherine, now halfway through her healing, insisted otherwise. Her words had always carried a kind of quiet authority when she wanted it to. It made people listen. She reminded them they had lives to get back to, retirement plans to enjoy, friends they hadn’t seen in months. She said it with warmth, not dismissal. And so, they listened.

The flight home was private. Emma arranged it the moment Catherine confirmed she felt strong enough to travel. He didn’t mind commercial flights, but he liked the quiet and appreciated the lack of hassle. He also liked the privacy of being with Catherine, letting her rest, having space to hold her. The jet was quiet—comfortable leather, soft light, snacks in neat jars—and Harry did what he always did when he wanted to make her feel calm: offered his lap and stayed still. Catherine curled into him somewhere after Utah. Her head rested on his chest like it belonged there.

She listened to the rhythm of his heart as they cruised above, and somewhere in that stretch of skies, Harry had the need to tell her everything. About the women before her. The ones who tried to love him, or claimed they did.

He didn’t make a performance of it. He just told the truth. His manager, back when he was in his twenties. His college girlfriend—pretty, spoiled, the kind of girl who only saw him when he wore suits. His longest relationship with a woman who’s too much like him, and how their whole relationship felt like a business merger. Lucy, who ran love like it was a startup, who told him he was a safe choice. He admitted some of it was his fault. Most of it, actually. That he didn’t ask enough questions. Didn’t fight enough. That back then, he didn’t know how to show up for someone properly. That he thought offering his life—his apartment, his bank account, his name—was enough.

He said all of it plainly. Nothing polished. Some of it felt stupid when he said it out loud, but he didn’t care. She didn’t ask him to explain. He didn’t look at her while he talked. Just stared at the seat across from them and kept going. A part of him would have never said any of this months ago, but time had flattened the shame. And Catherine had seen the worst of him already. There was nothing left to hide.

She didn’t say anything for a while, just kept her face buried in his chest. Then, after a few minutes, she said how she was selfish, that she didn’t feel sorry for him at all, and most of all, she was glad none ever worked out because now she can have him all to herself. He didn’t reply right away. He kissed her forehead instead.

When they got back to New York, nothing resumed the way it had been. Routine didn’t snap back into place like she imagined, but as always, Harry prepared for it. Catherine still needed daily walks, slow and measured, her steps uneven depending on the time of day. Mornings were better. Afternoons brought a dull ache in her hips that she tried to hide. She didn’t limp exactly, but Harry noticed the difference—the hesitation in her stance, the short sigh she let out when she lowered herself onto the couch. She claimed it was nothing, but he could see it. And he hated it.

He worked from home by default. His team barely blinked. Most of them had assumed he’d resigned anyway, given how long he’d been out. He answered emails from the study, took a few investor calls from the corner chair Catherine cleared for him, and that was the extent of his workday. The rest of his time was spent watching her—monitoring, really—like she might tip over at any moment. She was annoyed with his hovering at first, then resigned to it. She still whined about missing the studio, about wanting to see people, play with her orchestra, get her hands on the piano keys again. He relented eventually, but only after setting parameters. No leaving the penthouse except visiting the studio, no stairs or too much walking. Anyone who wanted to see her could come here.

She agreed. Begrudgingly.

It started slow: Emma first, then Sam, then the rest of her musician circle in loose rotation. They brought gossip and pastries, and left with stories Harry only half-listened to. But he liked seeing her entertained. Liked seeing her sit straighter, smile wider. Some days, the pain in her hips didn’t show at all.

The first real change was the sheets. Catherine had always clung to him when they slept, and for the longest time he assumed it was affection. It still was, mostly. But one night she admitted it was also because she was cold. His penthouse had floor-to-ceiling windows and even with heating, the room felt drafty in winter. She said his blankets were too thin.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “We’ve been dating for over a year.”

She shrugged. “Didn’t want to sound demanding.”

He laughed at that. Catherine, who barely asked for anything unless absolutely necessary. Catherine, who apologized for drinking the last of the oat milk and folded his laundry without saying a word. She was the least demanding girlfriend he’d ever had, even when she was sick. He bought three thicker sets of blankets the next day. And tucked the old ones away in the closet, just like she asked. If this was what her family called bossy and demanding, then they would have thought his previous girlfriends were dictators. 

When she moved out from her apartment, she said goodbye to her apartment, hugged every neighbor like she was leaving for exile. Harry thought it was a little too dramatic, mostly for the neighbors. The building manager cried. Someone gave her a casserole. The older man from 2B hugged her a second too long and Harry had to physically look away. He hated seeing her pulled at, jostled. Didn’t her neighbors know she was in an accident? 

Once they were back, she bought a book about feng shui and took over the penthouse in quiet, sweeping motions. His once minimalist place—clean, cold, and expensive—grew warmer by the day. She didn’t clutter it, didn’t disrupt its lines. But the tone changed. There were colors now. Textures. A blanket on the couch that wasn’t just for display. A book opened mid-chapter on the side table. Her perfume on the dresser. She replaced his armchairs with softer ones she claimed were “more humane.” She brought a diffuser for the bathroom and new dishware for the kitchen. She labeled the spice rack, reorganized his storage, folded his laundry in quarters instead of thirds.

He let her. Gladly.

The office changed too. She didn’t ask. Just one afternoon while he was on a call, she went in and moved things around. Alphabetized his bookshelf. Adjusted the lighting. Added a small plant in a pale blue pot she said looked calming. There was a ceramic figurine on the edge of his desk now—a bear holding a cello. He asked her where it came from. She said she found it in a vintage shop years ago and always wanted to give it to someone. “It’s either that or your horrible stock ticker clock,” she said.

Remote work became easier after that.

There were small conflicts here and there—he liked the towels folded one way, she preferred another. She left mugs everywhere. She couldn’t function unless the counters were wiped down by nightfall. He got annoyed when she walked more than she should. But she didn’t mind being told things, and he didn’t mind being corrected. They fought less than most people he knew. He said it's because of Catherine, because she was such a people pleaser, but she said it’s because it was them together, because they had a quiet understanding.

Catherine’s presence had rewired something in the space—less like a bachelor’s museum, more like a place people lived in. He would have moved out if she’d asked. Would have bought a new place, sold the furniture, lived in a one-bedroom box if that’s what it took. He said that once, in jest. She didn’t laugh. Instead, she just cleaned the desk again, added new coasters, and kissed the side of his head before walking away.

On lazy afternoons, the quiet kind, when lunch blurred into wine and the city moved slowly outside their windows, Catherine liked to curl into him. They’d sit on the couch, the record player humming some half-forgotten jazz, and she’d climb into his lap like she was always meant to be there. Harry liked the weight of her. The way her body fit into his like a secret only he knew. Small, soft, fragile still—but familiar. He’d trace her spine lightly, memorizing her again. After the accident, he’d been too careful. Too aware of her healing hips, of the pain that sometimes crept in after long walks or stairs taken too fast. So they hadn’t touched much. Not in the way he wanted. Not in the way she used to beg him for. And he did what he hated to do, but always did for her—he waited.

But lately, she seemed to want more.

That day, she shifted in his lap, slow and purposeful. He guessed she could feel his hardness pressing against her and it somehow turned her on too. Her hips moved against him and he stilled completely, startled by the movement, the pressure. She rolled again, lips near his neck, and he could feel her breath before he heard the sound she made—a soft, broken sigh that snapped whatever restraint he had left. He didn’t move, not at first. He didn’t trust himself. He was always rougher than he meant to be. Always lost in the way she responded to him. And he couldn’t bear the idea of hurting her.

But she didn’t stop. She pressed closer, fingers sliding into his hair, her body grinding slow and hard against him until he cursed under his breath and tightened his grip on her waist.

“Catherine,” he warned, but it came out as a plea.

She just kissed him. And everything in him went hot and desperate and aching. He’d missed this. Missed her.

She broke the kiss first, her mouth still on his, whispering something about how he didn’t need to hold back. That she wanted this. And god, he wanted to believe her. Wanted to give in. But still—he paused. Still he looked for any sign of pain.

“I’m fine. It barely hurts,” said Catherine. “Think of it as exercising my newly healed hips.”

“That’s not funny,” he said, and she rolled her hips again and he groaned.

“But I want it, Harry,” said Catherine. “Please?”

He tried to think, tried to respond to what she just said, but his mind was preoccupied with the feel of her. He groaned again, louder this time, his head looking up at the ceiling, touching the headrest, as if in agony. If only Catherine knew how much he wanted her, how hard it was everyday to hold back, she wouldn’t have tortured him so.

“You like teasing me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said. “But I really want it, Harry. I really do. Pretty please?”

Catherine's lips met his, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body undulating against his reawakening arousal. He groaned into her mouth, his grip on her waist tightening as a bolt of raw, primal need surged through him. When she rolled her hips, grinding down against his hardening cock, Harry knew he was lost.

Harry tangled a hand in her hair, gripping it firmly as he kissed her back with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He licked into her mouth, his tongue delving deep to stroke along hers, tasting her, consuming her. His other hand slid down to squeeze the globes of her ass, urging her harder against him. He could feel himself throbbing, his cock swelling to full hardness beneath her. The way she felt pressed against him, soft and pliant and eager, ignited a fierce, possessive heat in his gut. He wanted to touch her everywhere, to map every inch of her silky skin and worship her with his hands and mouth until she was trembling and begging for more.

Breaking the kiss, Harry trailed his lips down the slender column of her throat, pausing to suck at the sensitive skin just above her collarbone. He could feel her pulse jumping beneath his lips, could hear the breathy little gasps and sighs spilling from her mouth as he marked her.

“You feel me don’t you? Feel me against you,” he said, urging her on.

She nodded earnestly.

Harry's hands slid up her back, skimming along the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, could feel the blood pounding through his veins as his desire for her grew more urgent. He knew he needed to slow down, needed to be gentle, but god help him, he wanted her so badly.

He hadn’t had sex for months now, not since before the accident. And although Harry was old, he was still a man. And he could argue that having one taste of Catherine could ruin any appetite for other women completely. He could almost feel it. He imagined her, how tight she was, how wet and pliant and soft.

Harry's hands grew more urgent, more demanding as he conquered her mouth with a searing kiss. His fingers deftly unbuttoned her blouse, slipping it off her shoulders to reveal the lacy bra beneath. He groaned against her lips as he palmed her breasts, feeling their weight and softness in his large hands.

"I need to see you, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "I need to touch every inch of you."

With a flick of his fingers, Harry unhooked her bra, freeing her breasts from their confines. He leaned down to capture one rosy nipple in his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue around the stiff peak until she arched into him with a sharp gasp.

He recalled this, how perfect her breasts were in his hands. The taste, soft and warm. Perky, just the right size. And most importantly, how it feels in his mouth. It was heavenly. Her nipples hard against his tongue. He sucked happily, earnestly.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties and slowly, teasingly, dragged them down her long legs, baring her completely to his hungry gaze.

Her body was so perfect it sometimes made him breathless just thinking about it. And to think she wanted him too, to think her body grinded against his, made his head spin. A man could only take so much pleasure in life, and Harry was the most spoiled man in the world just by having her in his lap, pleading for him to take her. Harry took a moment to drink in the sight of her naked body on him, his eyes darkening with lust at the sheer perfection of her form. He could feel his cock throbbing, aching for her touch, for the feel of her soft skin against his.

He knew he couldn’t resist, not when she begged so prettily. “Pretty please?,” she said, over and over again. But he had to set a boundary somehow.

“But no more moving your hips,” he said. “You’ll listen to me, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

He didn’t know why that did something to him. He loved her easy obedience, loved how easily she said yes, how she immediately listened to him when he used his deep voice, like she wanted to please him.

With a low, approving growl, Harry lifted her hips, just enough to free his throbbing cock from the confines of his pants. He didn’t have the time or the patience to remove his pants completely, or his shirt. He wanted to be inside her. He stroked himself a few times, groaning at the feeling of finally being able to touch himself without restraint. His cock was hard as steel, the thick shaft pulsing with the need to be buried inside her tight, dripping cunt.

Harry's strong hands gripped her hips as he began to lower her down onto his thick, hard cock. He guided her with a firm, steady pressure, praising her responsiveness and eagerness to take him deep.

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low, approving rumble. "Nice and easy. You're being such a good girl."

Inch by inch, he sank into her hot, tight depths, stretching her around his impressive girth. Harry's breath caught in his throat at the exquisite sensation of her silky walls clenching and fluttering around his sensitive flesh. He had to focus on not losing himself completely, on maintaining the steady, controlled pace he set.

As he bottomed out, fully hilted inside her, Harry released a guttural groan of pure satisfaction.

“You’re taking me so well,” he said.

He held her there for a long moment, savoring the feeling of connection, the pulse of her heartbeat around him. Then, with a flex of his hips, Harry began to move, lifting and lowering her on his thick shaft with a rhythm as old as time.

His hands gripped her hips with just the right amount of pressure, guiding her to meet his deep thrusts. He watched her face, drinking in every expression, every breathless sigh and gasp that spilled from her lips as he filled her again and again.

Harry leaned in to capture her mouth, kissing her with a hunger that bordered on feral. He licked into her, his tongue stroking along hers in a filthy imitation of how he was fucking her. All the while, he praised her, murmuring words of encouragement and awe into her ear.

Harry's desire mounted with each passing second as he lost himself in the slick, hot grip of Catherine's core. The urge to drive into her faster, harder, consumed him. With a sudden, urgent need, he stood up from the couch, holding her body against him as if she weighed nothing at all.

He could feel her melting into his arms, pliant and yielding, allowing him to guide her with ease. She was so light, so delicate, and he felt a surge of masculine pride at being able to manhandle her so effortlessly. Harry's grip tightened on her hips as he began to lower her onto his cock with more force, more intensity.

"Fuck," he snarled, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. He knew he should savor this, should make it last, but the way she took him was driving him wild. "You're so fucking perfect, sweetheart. So tight, so hot around me."

Holding her aloft, Harry began to piston his hips, slamming her down onto his thick shaft with abandon. The wet, obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room as he fucked up into her, each powerful thrust striking deep and hard. He could feel her starting to tighten, to ripple around him, and it only spurred him on.

Harry captured her mouth in a bruising kiss, fucking his tongue into her mouth in time with his relentless thrusts. He nipped at her bottom lip, soothed the sting with his tongue, before trailing open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat. He sucked at her pulse point, knowing he'd leave a mark, a brand of possession on her flawless skin.

“I want to come, Harry. Please,” she said in between moans.

“I know… I know you do, sweetheart. You’re being such a good girl.”

Harry captured her mouth again, swallowing her desperate moans as he fucked into her harder, deeper. He could feel her starting to flutter around him, her body coiling tight like a spring ready to snap. He knew she was close, could feel her teetering on the brink of ecstasy.

With a low, fierce growl, Harry reached between their sweat-slicked bodies to find her clit. He rubbed the sensitive nub in tight, swift circles, knowing exactly how to touch her to send her flying over the edge. At the same time, he bit down on the tender spot where her neck met her shoulder, marking her, claiming her as his.

Harry could feel his own release barreling towards him like a freight train, but he was determined to make her come first. He wanted to feel her shatter in his arms, wanted to hear her scream his name as she came undone. With a final, brutal thrust and a twist of his fingers on her clit, he sent her hurtling into oblivion.

Catherine's body seized up, her back arching as the coil of tension inside her finally snapped. A sharp, ecstatic scream tore from her throat as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave, drowning her in a flood of sensation.

"Harry!" she cried out, her voice raw with pleasure, as her inner walls clamped down around him like a vice.

Her nails raked down his back, leaving red welts in their wake as she clung to him, trembling and writhing in the throes of her climax. Harry could feel her coming undone around him, her pussy spasming and fluttering wildly as it tried to milk his cock for all it was worth.

With a final, brutal thrust, Harry buried himself to the hilt inside her, grinding his pelvis against hers as her pulsed around him. The feeling of her coming apart in his arms, the way her cunt gripped him like a hot, slick fist, sent him careening over the edge of his own release.

With a roar of her name, Harry came hard, his cock jerking and throbbing as it emptied inside her. He painted her walls with thick ropes of his hot seed, pumping her full to the brim until it seeped out around his shaft, covering his balls with it. His hips stuttered and bucked, riding out the intense waves of his climax as he held her close.

As the aftershocks began to subside, Harry sat down on the couch again, captured her mouth in a deep, languid kiss, pouring all of his desire and satisfaction into her. He stroked her hair, her face, murmuring words of praise and adoration against her skin.

"That's my good girl," he whispered, his voice rough and sated.

And it was something in the way she cuddled closer, wrapping her arms around his body, that made him wonder how he got so lucky. He thought about what Lucy said, about the math being right between them. Same family, same economic background. But he knew, even if Catherine looked differently, if she didn’t grow up with money, she would still be the same kind person that she is. She would still love music. And he would still love her, just as he loved her since always. There could be no other outcome.

⊹

The Castillos, the financier family, rarely broke tradition. But for Catherine, somehow, they would.

They hadn’t seen the family since returning from California. Catherine had healed well—her limp barely noticeable now, her hips no longer sore, her movements easy. She had stopped taking the painkillers on her own, and only flinched when she turned too fast. She wanted to go back to work, to the studio. He told her to wait one more week. She argued. He used his voice—the one she always listened to. They compromised. She would rest from work for another week, but they could go out. Something low-energy.

And somehow, low-energy became a Castillo family gathering.

There was no occasion. Just a quiet dinner invitation from Charlotte, meant to be intimate. Harry assumed his brother would come, maybe their mother. But the plan unraveled the moment word spread. First his mother invited herself, then she invited her brothers. With the brothers came their wives, their children, and their children’s children. The list grew until it looked more like a celebration than a dinner.

By then, it was out of Charlotte’s hands. She apologized to Catherine in private, but Catherine didn’t mind. She loved people. She’d been excited all week.

It was held at his mother’s new home—an apartment that spanned the entire top floor of a building on the Upper East Side. The kind of place that pretended to be understated but cost more than a lifetime of salaries. Glass doors opened to a wraparound terrace, where long tables were set beneath strings of warm lights. There were flower arrangements at every corner and a hired magician for the children. It was Christmas dinner all over again.

It wasn’t subtle. But it was the Castillos. And Catherine—standing beside him in a navy dress, smiling like she belonged there—fit in more than he thought possible.

The first time his mother saw Catherine, she smiled her old smile. The real one. Catherine had complimented her hair, something Harry didn’t even notice had changed. But Catherine noticed. She’d only ever seen his mother through a photo, but somehow she still noticed. His mother beamed and took her hand, guiding her across the room like she’d been waiting for this.

It didn’t stop there. The family descended. His uncles asked about her salary, her career path, her prospects in music, her relationship history. One asked how long she thought she’d last with Harry. He should’ve warned her—prepped her, at least. But she didn’t need it. Catherine handled it like she’d done it a hundred times before, answering in that calm, deliberate way she always did when she was trying to be polite without giving anything away. She treated every question like it was about the weather. Answered with ease, smiled when needed. He stood beside her the whole time, feeling simultaneously proud and protective.

One of his younger cousins—closer to her age than his—had googled her and blankly asked if she was that Catherine. The one from Orenda’s album. He was a bit annoyed that she had the audacity to even ask it.

Catherine gave a small shrug. “Maybe. I do know them.” Then, before the next question could come, “Maybe I’ll get you a ticket sometime.” Just like that. She redirected the conversation so neatly the girl barely noticed. He didn’t think Catherine had spoken to Brandon lately, but she probably would buy the tickets herself. Just because she could.

The younger kids—his cousins’ children—loved her instantly. They hovered around her legs like satellites.

Catherine had that effect. Some unteachable instinct with children. He watched as she knelt to their level, asked them questions like they were equals, laughed at their stories. Peter had always been better with kids than Harry. He at least made the effort. Harry didn’t dislike children—he just didn’t know what to do with them, other than occasionally asking them to dance during weddings. And kids picked up on that. They kept their distance.

Catherine noticed. She nudged him during one of the breaks between courses and handed him a small pouch of candy from her bag.

“Give it to them,” she whispered.

So he did. One by one, with Catherine beside him, he handed out candy to the kids. They took it shyly at first, but then they giggled and clung to Catherine’s side like she was a favorite aunt. He didn’t expect it, but one of them even hugged him. 

He should’ve known children were cheap and simple, really. He didn’t know why he didn’t think about it before. He was an expert in exchanging gifts for affection. It’s right up his lane.

When it was time to play, something in the air shifted. The conversation softened. Even the children, still sticky from dessert, fell quiet as Catherine stood and moved toward the cello they’d propped in the corner earlier. She didn’t announce anything, didn’t look for a spotlight. Just settled into the chair like it was the most natural thing in the world. Harry had heard her play many times, both in private and on stages larger than this room, but each time she began, he felt something settle in him. As if all the air realigned. Like gravity itself paused to listen.

There was a moment of stillness—Catherine’s fingers finding their place, her bow poised above the strings. Then music filled the space, slow and deliberate, like sunlight unfolding across a winter floor. He heard a gasp from his mother, but his eyes stayed on Catherine. It was a piece he recognized. Something from the 60s, his mother’s favorite film score. Charlotte must have told her—he vaguely remembered Charlotte telling her when they first had dinner together, last year. She’d practiced the piece quietly in the penthouse, never asking for feedback, never drawing attention to it. Not that she needed to. Her playing had always struck him as complete, without excess or flourish. As if the music came from somewhere deeper than skill—somewhere elemental. Maybe he was just biased, but he didn’t really care.

When the last note lingered, fragile as breath, there was silence. Then his mother stood without a word and crossed the room to hold Catherine close, her arms wrapped tightly around the girl like gratitude itself.

That broke the room open. Someone requested a song immediately after—Harry’s uncle, loud and red from wine—and then another from his cousin, and then a third, shouted across the table with a half-apologetic laugh. Catherine obliged them all, laughing softly as she adjusted the cello, bow moving easily, never tired. It became clear quickly that this wasn’t just a moment anymore. It was now the event. Even the children took turns pointing at her, asking for movie themes and songs they’d only heard in passing, songs she somehow still knew.

Harry let it go on longer than he should have. He watched them adore her, saw how his mother beamed every time Catherine played, saw how easily she slipped into the shape of this family without needing instruction. But after she shook her hand from fatigue, he finally stood.

“All right,” he said, gently but firm. “That’s enough. She’s not a jukebox.”

There were groans. Playful ones. Someone shouted one last request, and Catherine laughed, pretending to threaten them with her bow. The cello was carefully returned to its case. Someone poured her another glass of wine.

For the rest of the night, Catherine stayed close to Charlotte. Harry didn’t know what they talked about, but from across the room, he could see Catherine laughing quietly, leaning in like they’d known each other for years. It was comforting—seeing her like that again. Steady. Warm. Herself.

That was when his mother approached him.

She wasn’t holding a glass of wine, or a tray, or even that signature expression of disapproval she often carried. For once, she wasn’t leading with a proposition. No "So?”. No matchmaking suggestions or comments about age and timing. Just one, simple question, more curiosity than anything else:

“She is it, isn’t she?”

Harry could’ve played dumb. Could’ve asked what she meant, pretended he didn’t know—but he didn’t. He just smiled, soft and certain. “Yes.”

His mother looked at Catherine again, as if seeing her for the first time. “I should’ve known. I should’ve known you’d find her on your own.”

Harry said nothing.

“It was wrong of me to force you to be Peter,” she said. “To try and make you like us. You were always kinder.”

He snorted. “Really, mother? Kinder?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “You were. Even when you were young. You cared about things the rest of us didn’t. You were always a bit of a dreamer—visionary, really. That’s why you did better than Peter in school. And business. You knew how to look ahead. You know what works and what doesn’t.”

He didn’t know how to take the compliment, so he didn’t.

“You never settled for less,” she added. “Not even when I told you to. Not even when you tried.”

They stood together for a moment, watching Catherine from afar. Her hand touched Charlotte’s wrist lightly, gesturing to something she was explaining. That’s how she always told stories—half with her hands.

“When are you planning to ask her?” his mother asked.

Harry glanced at her.

“Soon,” he said honestly. “When the time feels right. She’s still young, mother. Sometimes I wonder if it’s unfair.”

“Nonsense,” she said, almost scoffing. “When I was her age, I’d already—”

“You’d already birthed me. Yes, yes, I know.”

She gave him a look, but let it go. “You’re turning forty eight this year,” she added, softer. “I’m not going to tell you what to do. But I see the way she looks at you. She loves you. You’ll do no better than her.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I want to ask for your ring.”

She blinked. “My ring?”

“Yes.”

The Castillos were rarely sentimental. They didn’t pass down rings—they bought them. Peter had chosen one for Charlotte, his father for his mother, and so on. It was practical. That word had followed the family for decades. Harry used to be worse. The ring he once planned to give Lucy had been purchased before they even started dating. There was no story behind it. Just good timing and a respectable price point—expensive enough to impress, but not enough to regret.

So this request—asking his mother for a ring—was strange. Out of character. Not something he ever imagined doing.

She went quiet. He thought she might say no. She didn’t look at him right away, just turned slightly, lost in her own thoughts. Then she said, simply, “You’ll take your grandmother’s ring. Not mine.”

He waited, not sure what she meant.

“Your father and I were practical,” she added. “We had plans. A partnership. But my parents… they loved each other from the start. The real kind. You should have that.”

She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. That was her version of a blessing.

And so he went home that night with Catherine asleep beside him in the car and a ring in his pocket. Her fingers were small, so it needed resizing, but the diamond didn’t need changing—it already looked like her.

Harry was a planner. He planned things ahead. But for this one, he didn’t really know where to start. He’ll have to ask Sam. And Peter. Figure out what kind of proposal she’ll like. And as much as he hated waiting, Harry didn’t mind it at all. Not when it’s for her. He’ll wait until she says something. Until there’s any indication, any at all, that she’ll say yes.

READ CHAPTER ELEVEN A/N: A treat for my lovely readers! Support an amateur writer by supporting this fic. Trying to share talented artists as well as giving my readers a good experience. Now the credits for the song:

Catherine had been quiet since the run-in with Lucy. He noticed it. She’d been asking questions. Not confrontational—just quiet questions, things that didn’t sound like insecurity unless you were listening closely. And Harry always listened closely to her.

He wasn’t keen on talking about Lucy. Especially not to his Catherine. He didn’t want her picturing Lucy, comparing herself. It felt insulting. Catherine was miles ahead—brighter, warmer, more alive. But when she’d said, “She’s pretty,” there was a hesitation, the kind of tone that made him pause. That made him think maybe she did compare. He laughed at her words because Catherine was the most perfect woman to ever walk the earth.

He wanted to fix it the only way he knew how—by giving. He had been looking through the auction paper earlier. He wanted to buy her something beautiful and rare. A violin from the early 19th century, handcrafted in France. It wasn’t even a cello—she liked cellos more—but he didn’t think that far. She could play any instrument anyway. It was instinct. A desperate fix disguised as generosity. Or maybe of habit.

He also thought that maybe it was Lucy, still echoing in the back of his mind. He had spent extravagantly on women before—gold, diamonds, designer things wrapped in tissue. And with Catherine, it had always been simpler. That had been fine at first.

But he had to admit—he wanted this one. He wanted to spoil Catherine, and he wanted Lucy to watch. He fought for it harder than he should have. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure why. Catherine had already said she didn’t want it. And it wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t smart. 

Some hedge fund idiot dropped out halfway. The last bidder was a politician’s son, the type who didn’t play but liked collecting prestige. The price doubled, then tripled. It became ridiculous.

And still, he kept bidding.

That was his flaw—his oldest one. The quiet compulsion to prove himself with wealth. Not to impress Catherine. But maybe to feel worthy of her.

It ended up going to the spoiled kid. Which was bullshit, in Harry’s opinion. The boy shouted the last price and the auction ended just like that. “Sold,” said the man, without giving him a chance to make an actual offer. But the anger didn’t last long. The applause was polite. The moment ended.

The violin was wheeled away, and with it, the last trace of the night going right. He looked at the other art pieces and instruments. None as great as the violin.

He was already in a bad mood as it was—irritated, half-drunk, embarrassed by the auction. His instincts were off tonight, and that unsettled him more than anything. He told himself he’d fix it. That he’d make it up to her. He’d take her home, apologize for being an idiot, and maybe they’d laugh about it tomorrow.

But she wasn’t in the hall.

He scanned the room once. Then again. No Catherine. No familiar gold of her dress, no curled hair, no soft, tired smile waiting near the edges. The auction crowd had thinned, guests filtering out into the sharp Manhattan night. Waiters cleared silver trays. Music played at a polite, meaningless volume. He tried not to overreact. Catherine often wandered. She liked walking around and talking to strangers, especially in rooms where there’s artists. He asked a server if they’d seen her. No luck. He walked the full perimeter. Checked the bar. The hallway. The bathroom lounge. The back terrace. Still no sign of her.

His irritation started to bleed into something worse. He pulled out his phone, texted her. No response. Called. No answer.

Then he thought of the car. Of course. She was probably in the backseat, curled up and half-asleep. She’d had wine, and she was always tired after long nights. That would be just like her—to slip away quietly. To not want to bother him while he was busy, something she thought was important. It was like that usually.

He made his way out. The night was sharp, wind slicing through his coat as soon as the door opened. He was halfway down the steps, heart beginning to race in quiet, contained increments, when the phone rang.

Unknown number.

He picked up without thinking.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Castillo?”

“Yes.”

“I’m one of the EMTs. We just responded to a pedestrian accident near 55th. The woman involved… she’s being taken to the hospital right now. We found a phone. You were the last call and emergency contact.”

Harry didn’t say anything. The words struck one by one, and he caught each of them like slow punches to the ribs.

His feet slowed. His breath did too.

Across the street, Mr. Williams turned, walking toward him in a hurry, as if he’d been looking for him—his expression uncharacteristically pale. The man never flinched. Not once in all the years Harry had known him. But now his jaw was tight, his hands tense. Mr Williams looked worried.

“What?” Harry said finally. “What hospital?”

The voice gave him the name. He barely heard it.

Everything around him dulled. The city, the lights, the echo of late music from inside. All of it muffled. Distant. Like his world had dropped underwater without warning.

⊹

Harry was rarely unprepared for anything.

He had a vault in his penthouse for emergencies—enough cash to last a blackout, a fire, a minor apocalypse. A security team on call. Two lawyers on retainer. His driver had backup fuel in the trunk. His building had triple-redundancy generators. He kept spare cash in multiple currencies and had a private banker on standby. His suits were tailored to exact millimeters and his elevator never malfunctioned because he paid for its quarterly maintenance himself.

But preparation didn’t mean a damn thing when someone called you to say Catherine had been hit by a car and was being wheeled into trauma.

Life didn’t care about good planning.

He arrived at the hospital before he could remember how. Mr. Williams had driven like something was chasing them. He told him she went out for a walk, and how he started getting worried when she didn’t come back. Williams had looked for him, even drove around the block, quietly hoping she went back inside. Harry didn’t know how to react to that story. He was too preoccupied with his mind, thinking what might’ve happened in the short time she was out of his sight. At one point Harry had shouted at a red light and hit the dashboard with the heel of his palm. Now his throat felt raw and his limbs hummed with a dangerous static. He walked straight in and demanded answers like they owed him blood.

He described Catherine to the desk nurse, barely managing to stay calm. “She was brought in. Car accident. I need to know if she’s here—what her condition is—if she’s—” He couldn’t say the last part.

The nurse told him to wait, told him someone would update him, told him she was being evaluated. That she was in surgery. That someone would come. That was all they ever said.

He turned away and paced the entire length of the waiting corridor, checked his phone, unlocked it and relocked it, again and again. Called Emma. Told her sorry for calling on her day off. That he needed her to do something. Check with the police what happened. Send someone to find out who called the ambulance. He needed information. He needed to do something, otherwise he would claw the floor open.

A nurse returned briefly, took down her name and his. He filled out a few forms as the nurse asked for any known medical conditions. Harry could only shake his head. “She’s healthy,” he said, hoping it mattered. “She’s twenty-eight. She eats well. She doesn’t smoke.”

The nurse nodded. “We’ll let the trauma team know. She’s stable enough to go into surgery. Internal bleeding from the abdomen. Possible liver laceration. We’ll know more in a few hours.”

He sat down, stood back up. Paced again. His coat was still on. He hadn’t taken it off since the event. His tie was still knotted, his shoes loud against the floor. The cold from outside had long since faded, replaced by a quiet thrum of fear in his blood.

There was a boy nearby. Teenaged, at most. Hoodie splattered with red, hands shaking. One of the trauma nurses had spoken to him earlier. Harry turned to look. The blood on the boy’s chest wasn’t his. It was too much. The boy looked up and caught Harry’s eyes, then lowered his head again.

Harry walked over. Asked him quietly if he’d seen it.

“Yeah,” the boy said. “I was near. On the sidewalk. She—she was picking something up. Some litter, I think. A drink cup. She bent down and then the car came.”

“What car?”

“Some guy ran a red. Hit another car, that one spun then hit her and me. But I didn’t really get it bad.”

“What happened to the driver that got hit? Do you know their name?”

“I don’t know. She died on the spot,” he said. “Police said the guy who started it was high. On something. He didn’t even slow down. Just… full speed. An officer gave me his number, here you can have it. ”

Harry took the piece of paper the boy gave him, his eyes fell to the blood on the boy’s hoodie again. “She didn’t move much after,” the boy added quietly. “I think she hit her head. She was breathing, though. Barely.”

Harry didn’t thank him. He just nodded and walked away before he lost it.

He pressed both palms to the cold wall outside the waiting room and tried to breathe. It wasn’t working. He couldn’t cry here. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Harry was born into privilege—everything he needed, he had. He worked hard, yes, but privilege dulled the edges of fear. It protected him from worst-case scenarios, from the chaos of true uncertainty. His father was old when he died, so it wasn’t much of a surprise. It was expected. Now, sitting outside a trauma ward with his tie still knotted and his hands shaking, he felt something he rarely had to face: helplessness. Cold, gnawing, unfamiliar. Like standing in the middle of a crisis with no exit, no checkbook, no strategy to outthink the grief pressing down on his chest.

He called Emma again. Asked her if she found anything. Told her to contact Catherine’s sister. Tell them what happened. Get them on the next flight if they weren’t already on it. Emma asked if she should come. He said tomorrow after she rests. He needed someone outside. Someone who could do what he couldn’t from here.

He sat. Waited. Got up again. Found the coffee machine. Didn’t drink it. Forgot where he placed it. Time stopped meaning anything.

Around dawn, Peter arrived. He looked disheveled—his coat thrown over his shirt like he hadn’t buttoned it right, hair still pressed from sleep. He said he heard from Emma, and held up a paper bag with coffee and something wrapped in foil. They didn’t say much. Harry hadn’t eaten in hours but forced himself to chew through a half-soggy sandwich Peter handed him. He accepted the drink, nodded in thanks, and they sat there, silent. The hallway buzzed faintly with movement—nurses rolling carts, someone coughing behind the next curtain.

Peter tried to distract him with updates about work, said something about Charlotte texting her prayers. But it was hard to listen.

Somewhere between the chewing, the silence, and the background noise of shoes squeaking and monitors beeping, he saw the teenager from the crash. The boy was walking out now, wrapped in a spare coat, flanked by friends. Harry caught a flash of red on the hem of his jeans—Catherine’s blood, dried and staining the fabric like rust. The nausea hit him fast. He doubled over, nearly dropping the drink, breath catching in his throat. He didn’t throw up. He cried instead. Hunched forward, shoulders shaking with quiet, stifled sobs he would never allow in daylight. Peter said nothing, just placed a hand on his back and pulled him in like they were kids again. Harry let him.

About an hour later, a nurse came up to them—calm, like the worst had passed. Surgery would be over soon, she said. They were going to monitor her in the ICU for a while, and someone should get clothes, toiletries, anything that’s necessary for a hospital stay. Peter stood immediately, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Charlotte and I’ll be here first thing in the morning.” He placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder before he left. “She’ll be fine, Harry. Text me if anything changes.”

Eventually, a trauma surgeon came out, his scrubs stained faintly pink.

“She’s in recovery,” the doctor said. “We stopped the bleeding. It was a laceration to the right lobe of the liver. Clean but deep. We sutured it internally, closed the abdomen. Her vitals are stable.”

Harry nodded once.

“She has broken ribs. Also a fracture on her hips. That’ll need time. And a TBI. She hit her head. The CT showed no swelling in the brain, but we’re keeping her unconscious for now. Light sedation.”

“She’s in a coma?” Harry asked.

The doctor hesitated. “Not exactly. We’re giving her time to rest. Medically induced, precautionary. Either way, she’s not in pain. We’ll monitor for signs of response in the next twenty-four hours.”

“And after that?”

“If she’s well, she’ll wake up,” the doctor said, “eventually. Then it’s recovery. Rehab. Physical therapy. She’s lucky. She’ll survive.”

After fully understanding the extent of her injuries—after the surgeon explained every bone, every stitch, every hour of surgery and sedation—Harry sat alone with the hospital phone in his hand for nearly fifteen minutes. He stared at the screen, her mother’s number already pulled up from the contact list where it had sat unused for months. He had saved it back then, but never thought he’d need to call for something like this.

Emma had already contacted Jane hours before, enough to soften the first wave of panic.When he called, the family was already gathered at their home. All except Chester, who lived out of state. They were waiting for updates, clinging to each other, trying to piece together the bits they’d been given. Harry’s voice carried the rest.

He told them what happened. The accident, the emergency surgery, the fractures, the blood loss, the sedation plan. He relayed every word the doctors gave him like scripture. Jane kept asking questions, her father too, and their voices overlapped in urgency. But it was her mother who cut through the noise—stern and frightened, her voice higher than he’d ever heard Catherine speak.

He didn’t try to calm them. He didn’t pretend to have control. The truth weighed too heavily on him. He tried to speak steadily, to reassure, but his voice betrayed him: breathless, raw, splintered around the edges. It was a devastation that matched theirs—unspoken, but shared. But he told them the one thing he’d been telling himself: That everything was being handled. That Catherine wasn’t alone, not even for a second.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said quietly, when they had nothing left to ask. “I’ll take care of everything.”

⊹

The first time Harry walked into her hospital room, he stopped in the doorway. His hand still gripped the doorframe like he wasn’t sure if the world inside was one he could survive.

Catherine was there, in the center of the whitewashed room, wrapped in pale sheets and wired up like something out of a war novel. She was barely visible under the oxygen tubes and IV lines, her usually animated face emptied of color, her lips dry, a small bruise shadowing her temple. Her ribs were bandaged—he knew because they had to cut her dress off. He had it saved in a bag somewhere, though he wasn’t sure why. A piece of golden silk, ruined and bloodied. He stared at it once, then couldn’t bear to open it again.

The whirring machines beeped steadily, with a precision that made him sick. He had lived his whole life chasing control, certainty, outcomes. But now, he would’ve given anything to hear her cough or shift or say his name. Anything but this stillness. He could barely recognize her in it. Catherine, his Catherine, who filled every space she occupied. Who couldn’t even walk past a musician without giving money or an offer to record. Now silent, as if the city had stopped humming in her absence.

He moved slowly, as if too much weight on the ground might disturb her. He pulled the chair beside her, not even daring to sit yet. His eyes swept the blanket, the wires—there was no clear place to touch her. Her hands, maybe. Her hands weren’t broken. He took one gently in both of his, lips pressed against her knuckles, and whispered the only thing that made it past his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Over and over again. The apology formed a rhythm. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice broke, but he didn’t let go.

He didn’t remember crying, only that he looked down and found her hand wet, and only then noticed the tears falling freely down his face. He tried to breathe through them. This was not a time for falling apart. But watching her like this, pale and impossibly still, broke something in him. He had never known a love like this. Never felt so powerless. Never hated himself more.

He sat there for hours, holding her hand. At one point, he rested his forehead against her arm, wishing she could feel it, could know he was there. He told her about everything she missed. How it was still freezing outside. How Mr. Williams felt guilty to the point Harry had to calm him down and tell him to go home. That he had her favorite album queued up on his phone, just in case she woke up. He wanted to say more but choked on the words. His body, trained for boardrooms and negotiation rooms, had no vocabulary for this kind of pain.

In the hours that followed, people arrived. First Peter and Charlotte, with clothes and food. Then word got around— he didn’t know how— and some of her friends arrived. First came Sam. She stayed for a few hours then helped Harry by going on errands, like going to Catherine’s apartment and picking up essentials. Then the people from her orchestra, a few colleagues he vaguely recognized from photos on her studio wall. Then more. The nurses joked that it looked like a parade. Harry didn’t laugh. He couldn’t feel anything but remorse.

Emma came in the afternoon with a paper bag full of magazines and takeout. She arrived just as Catherine’s manager was leaving, and they had an impromptu meeting by the nurse’s desk while Harry waited in the room. He asked Emma to take charge and help with the studio. The contracts. Whatever she could handle.

Sam stayed longer than anyone aside from Harry, letting him rest while she watched her like a hawk.

But her condition didn’t improve like he hoped. Her doctors explained something hadn’t gone down as quickly as they liked. One of her ribs, fractured clean through, was causing shallow breathing—she winced once during a checkup, and they immediately adjusted her medication. Her body needed rest, they said. She’d been unconscious for a while.

Brandon Dahl showed up too, thankfully when everyone else left. No warning, just a knock at the nurses’ station and a long, awkward wait by the glass. He had driven hours, he said—canceled a show, rerouted the tour van, told his manager not to reschedule. He looked wrecked. Pale, clothes wrinkled from whatever motel he’d slept in. Hair uncombed, fingernails bitten down. Harry didn’t want to see him. He had no intention of making space for anyone else’s grief, especially not Catherine’s ex. But there was something in Brandon’s voice that made him pause. He was pleading, and misery recognized its own shape.

So Harry let him in, but he made a point that it was only for ten minutes. Brandon didn’t look particularly happy at that.

He didn’t speak. He stood in the corner while Brandon crossed the room, slower than he probably meant to. When he saw her, he blinked like he couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t accept it. Catherine was still under sedation. Her cheekbones were sharper now, her skin colored slightly from the bruises. She looked smaller. Brandon crumbled into the chair like the wind had been knocked out of him.

He didn’t cry. Not exactly. But his body deflated. Shoulders hunched, face slack. He stared at her like he was trying to memorize what hurt. Harry tried not to listen. Frankly, he hated Brandon’s voice and if it were up to him, he would never see the man again. But Harry also recognized the hurt, the pain, and the regret. The man said I love you a hundred times over, which should anger Harry, but it didn’t. Harry was too preoccupied with his own sadness.

“She’s my muse,” Brandon said to him eventually, voice rough from hours on the road and too much silence. He looked at Harry with hatred, like it wasn’t fair, as if he should be the one hit by the car. He didn’t disagree. “And I love her. So much. So much. We should’ve been together. You know she breaks it off for something so small—”

“It wasn’t small for her. You know that,” Harry said, still not looking at him.

Brandon swallowed. “I’m still in love with her,” he said. His tone bitter.

“That didn’t matter. She was hurt.”

The room fell still again. Machines hummed. The smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint smell of Catherine’s hand lotion, which Harry applied in the morning, just in case she could smell it too.

“You speak exactly like her,” Brandon muttered. “It disgusts me.”

That almost made Harry smile. Almost.

Brandon leaned back, his knee jittering. “She always expected too much. From everything. From me. I was in my twenties. What did I know? She wanted all of it. Not just attention. Not just loyalty. Like she had this image in her head and if you didn’t fit it, you weren’t the real deal.”

“She never expected too much,” Harry said.

Brandon let out a dry exhale, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “You think you’re better than me?”

“No.” Harry’s voice was even. “I think she deserved better than both of us.”

That hung in the air for a moment. Brandon stared at her again, his jaw clenched, eyes unreadable.

“You should leave,” said Harry. “Her family might arrive soon.”

Then he stood.

“I’ll come back another day,” he said.

“Don’t,” Harry replied.

There was no malice in his tone. No anger.

Brandon hesitated, waiting for something, but Harry gave him nothing.

That night, when her hand twitched and her eyelid moved the faintest fraction, Harry jolted upright with such force he nearly tipped the chair. His heart surged—brief, desperate hope—only to be met with stillness again. He leaned closer, checking the monitors, her pulse, her breathing. Nothing had changed, not meaningfully. But he stayed that way for a while, forehead almost touching hers. Her parents were due in the morning, maybe even sooner. He hadn’t told them he was sleeping beside her every night, or that he hadn’t been home in two days. Part of him wished the world could freeze a little longer, just long enough for her to wake with only him there.

In the quiet, he started talking to her—low and one-sided, like he was confessing something rather than expecting a response. He told her his favorite memory, the first time they met. That rainy day in Cold Spring when she looked too young to be walking alone, her hair slicked to her cheeks, no umbrella, just a cello case on her back, a green oversized coat, and a smile like she’d been waiting for him. She had listened to him—really listened—not the way people do when they’re looking for something to gain, but like she was interested in the shape of his thoughts. She had given him her coat, and years later, he still kept it in his closet, buried next to his favorite jackets. Sometimes he wore it when he was cold, or when he was lonely. It had stopped smelling like her, but the sleeves still felt familiar. That coat was his proof that she’d been real once. His Catherine. And when he saw her again, on Emma’s laptop of all places, it had been like watching a ghost walk into focus. She had changed, sure—older, sharper, far more composed—but she still looked like the girl who was tattooed in his memory.

He told her about their third date. How ridiculous the night had been—overcrowded, too bright, too loud. But she had insisted on seeing the giant piano at the toy store, so they went, and she stepped on the keys barefoot in her black dress while a security guard half-laughed, half-scolded her. They’d eaten overpriced pretzels, wandered into one of those twenty-four-hour diners at midnight, and she made him try her milkshake. He remembered thinking she was too young for him. Then thinking he didn’t care. Because she’d told him she liked him and had laughed with her whole body and curled into him like she belonged there. That was the night he realized he didn’t just like her. He needed her in his life, whether or not it made sense on paper. He hadn’t told her that, of course. He was still pretending to be composed.

Then came the night of the small party in the West Village, someone’s loft, jazz playing from a record player, champagne in mismatched glasses. He hadn’t wanted to go, but she convinced him. They ended up slow dancing in the middle of the room, surrounded by strangers. She had worn that long velvet dress, hair swept back. Her eyes were shining—no makeup, just wine and excitement. He remembered touching the small of her back and thinking how terrifying it was to feel that much for someone. Not passion, not lust—although he felt all of those too— but something heavier, quieter, more rooted. He hadn’t kissed her that night, not until they were home, but he knew then.

He told her all of that. Everything. His voice low, the air in the room too still. He told her about the night they cooked pasta from scratch in his penthouse—how she made a mess of the kitchen, flour everywhere, and how he didn’t care. She had worn his shirt that night, her bangs tucked behind her ear, her bare feet tapping on the floor as she tried to remember a song. He had never been that soft with anyone, never felt that domestic. She had rinsed her hands and kissed him behind the ear and said nothing. Just pressed her face to his neck like it was a known place. He held her now like he did then. Tenderly. Carefully. As if she could break again if he moved too fast. His thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist. Still warm. Still there. And all he could do was wait.

He hated waiting.

⊹

After a few delayed flights—New York in the winter was a logistical nightmare—they finally arrived. Her mother, father, and Jane. Too many travelers, too little runway space, and too much wind. JFK had been a mess, so had LaGuardia. The snow had been light, but too early in the year, enough to snarl traffic and reroute planes. Chester’s flight was still stuck somewhere in Illinois. First weather, then a mechanical issue. He wouldn’t be in until the following day, if he was lucky. Harry had checked for updates every hour, even though it wasn’t his place.

He had heard enough about them to paint a picture before they ever walked through the hospital’s front doors. Elaine Ainsworth: the charming woman who liked beauty pageants and ambitions for all her children. Jane: the protective older sister, sharp-edged but deeply loyal. Mr. Ainsworth—Edward—who had a tendency to monologue and assume others were listening when they weren’t. Their voices had floated in and out of Catherine’s speakerphone calls for months, so Harry had grown used to the cadence of their lives. But nothing about them prepared him for the sight of them now.

They arrived pale, with suitcases still half-zipped and eyes too wide. Elaine looked older than she should’ve. Harry had never met her before, but even he knew she was usually composed. She walked into the hospital room like she had been holding her breath the whole flight, then exhaled in a sob as soon as she saw her daughter. Without hesitation, she sank into the chair beside the bed—Harry’s chair—and cried. Loud, unfiltered grief. She held Catherine’s hand like she could reverse time by sheer force.

“My daughter,” she said over and over. She called her stubborn, said she got that from her father. She apologized for not letting her pick music sooner. “I didn’t know it would make you so happy.” Harry stood by the wall, still and tight. Each word carved something into him. He looked away when Elaine’s voice broke again.

Her father was quieter. When he first walked in, he said thank you to Harry. Just a quiet pat on the back and a few words about how he’d heard Harry had been there every day. Then he cursed the city, mumbled something about this being why he didn’t want her moving here. “Too many damn people, too much traffic, always in a rush. I told her it’d catch up to her.” He left after that, only to return twenty minutes later, eyes red. Then left again. Then came back again. Each time, he lingered longer, as if trying to decide whether or not to believe the machines keeping her stable were real.

Jane was the calmest of the three, but it was a brittle calm. She hadn’t stopped crying, not really. Her eyes were puffy, but she was careful, composed. She stepped toward Harry and hugged him. It surprised him—she had never met him before. “I’m sorry we’re meeting like this,” she said, voice low and rough. “I always meant to visit. Something always came up. That’s not an excuse. It just… happened.” Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She didn’t go near the bed, not at first. Just looked from a distance, arms crossed, biting her lip.

The room felt overfilled, like grief had changed its volume, taking up space. Harry stayed quiet, shifted to the edge. He gave them the room. He didn't know what else to do. Her mother held her hand. Her father sat, then stood. Jane paced. And Harry watched—watched the woman he loved sleep beneath white sheets and wires, unable to speak for herself. Watched the people who had known her longer try to make up for things they never said. And he stood at the perimeter, feeling both included and not. Helpless. Like a placeholder in someone else’s tragedy.

Somewhere along the way, he’d fallen asleep in that overcrowded room. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the stillness of her breathing, or the sheer weight of not having to answer another question. He didn’t remember lying down, just waking to the sound of a voice—her voice. Muffled. Slurred.

At first, he thought he was dreaming. Catherine mumbled something in her sleep. Incoherent. Just fragments, consonants without shape. He jerked upright. His whole body tensed, breath sharp. She moved. Her head turned slightly. Her eyes blinked open and rolled half-shut again. Then she moaned, as if in pain. He was already pressing the call button, already shouting down the hall, but by the time the nurse arrived, she was still again—peaceful, eyes closed, barely a crease in her brow. He looked back at her like he had imagined it. The nurse said it was normal. Her sedation was light. She’d drift in and out. Still, he looked wrecked.

Elaine motioned for him to sit. Back in his usual chair. Back at her side. She didn’t say anything, just gave a quiet nod and slid over. Maybe it was mercy, or maybe she could see that the not knowing had been killing him more than anything else. He sat.

Chester arrived the next morning.

He walked into the room while the doctor was mid-sentence. Catherine was half-awake again, eyes fluttering, head tilting slowly at whatever was being said to her. Chester paused by the doorway. Tall, square-shouldered, looking like he hadn’t slept. He scanned the room quickly. His eyes landed on Harry, slumped at the edge of the bed, shirt creased, hair in disarray. His face gave nothing away, but the pause said enough.

“She’s stable,” the doctor had said. “No signs of further complication. She’s still groggy, but she’s responsive. We’ll need a few more days to monitor her before we consider a discharge. Then she’ll need a full course of physical therapy. Her left hip will need supervised rehabilitation. It could be done here, but it depends on what your family prefers. There are excellent programs out of state as well—slightly less pressure, better recovery environments.”

And just like that, the room turned serious again. Jane shifted in her seat. Elaine rubbed her temples. The doctor left. Mr. Ainsworth muttered something about options, but it was Chester who took control of the conversation.

“I know a place back home for physical therapy. In California. Quiet. Private. Excellent staff. I can send the info. We’d be closer, we can all take turns watching her,” said Chester. “There’s space at my old house too, if we need it. But home is fine. About a 30 minute drive. She can convalesce without the noise here.”

Harry looked up.

He said, carefully, “Catherine doesn’t like being away from the city too long.”

“She can’t walk properly,” Chester replied. “What is she going to do?”

Harry swallowed hard. “I know. I want her to get well quicker too. But she’ll want to decide.”

“She’s not in any state to make decisions,” Chester snapped.

Elaine interrupted before it turned into something worse. “It’s temporary. Just for a while. Until she’s fully mobile again.”

Harry didn’t argue after that. He didn’t know if this was best for her, or just what was best for their peace of mind. But he wasn’t her family. And in that moment, all he could do was nod.

When the decision was brought up—about moving Catherine to a recovery facility outside the city, closer to her childhood home—her mother looked directly at Harry. There was something kind in her eyes, a softened version of grief, and she spoke with care, even gratitude. “We’d like you to come too, if you can.”

But before he could answer—before he could even shape the beginnings of a nod—Chester stood.

“And who the fuck is he?” he said, loud, jarring, his voice slicing through the cold hospital air. “The guy that let her get hit? Where the fuck were you, by the way?” His voice cracked around the last word, and Harry realized how much of it was anger and how much was just fear.

“What were you doing that was so important? Were you in a fight and let her walk at night, drunk? Did you two have a little spat and you decided to sulk and let her go out by herself?”

Elaine was already standing, face twisted with tension, but Chester didn’t stop.

“She’s in her twenties. She’s a fucking kid. She’s too young for this,” Chester snapped. “For hospitals and trauma and all this shit. She should be writing music and dating some violinist, not being half-comatose because some old asshole didn’t notice she was gone.”

Harry didn’t respond. Not even a blink. His heart was a stone that thudded hard once, then dropped. Because a part of him—however small, however cruel—agreed. He was older. He did let her go out alone. He had chosen pride, blind and stupid with the kind of male instinct that never served anyone well. He had let her down. And Chester, for all his blunt fury, wasn’t wrong about that.

Harry didn’t remember sitting down, but he had. The chair felt stiff and cold beneath him. His hands had curled into fists, not from defensiveness but because Chester was right. Every word of it. 

Catherine was too good. Too good for this, for him. Too bright to be wasted on a man like him; insecure, prideful man who’s only good for his money.

Elaine snapped then—sharp and sudden—and ordered the entire family outside. There was a pause, the kind that made Harry feel like he was fifteen again, listening to adults argue about things they thought he couldn’t understand. He gave her a quiet nod, an unspoken thank-you, and watched them file out one by one. The door closed behind them, muffling their voices into a soft blur. He didn’t need to hear every word. The shape of it was clear. It would be better for her, they said. She would be surrounded by people who knew her best. She would heal faster in familiar air. No matter how much she loved the city, how many times she refused to come home, New York was chaos. New York was noise.

He was still listening—half-listening—when he heard a rustle from the bed. Something small. Movement.

He was on his feet before he even registered it, already beside her, already reaching. Her eyes didn’t open fully, but her mouth parted, and a small, broken sound came out.

He took her hand gently, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. “I’m here,” he said, barely a whisper.

She moved her lips again—words trying to form, but not quite. He leaned in closer. “They want to move you,” he said. “To California. Back home. They think it’s better for recovery. Do you want to go?”

Another sound, just a breath this time. Her eyes flickered beneath her lashes, her fingers twitching against his palm.

“Are you in pain?” he asked.

She shook her head. It was slow, but definite.

He breathed out, not relief, but something close to it.

He stayed beside her, speaking softly, the way people do when they’re trying to reach someone underwater. He told her what she’d missed. About Sam, who came every day and brought her favorite tea even though she couldn’t drink it yet. About her friend, who cancelled her trip to Brazil just to visit. About the string player from that one ensemble she liked—he came, too, and stayed longer than anyone expected. He recited the names of each one, slowly, as if it might anchor her back into the world. “Your studio’s taken care of,” he murmured. “Emma’s been helping, along with your manager. They talked for hours and seemed to handle everything. They said they’ll email you progress and you can open it when you're healthy. ”

He paused, then added, “The driver was arrested. The one who caused the crash. Some druggie, they said. No alcohol, just pills. The family of the woman who died is pursuing the case—I’ve got a lawyer keeping me updated, but it’s not something you’ll need to worry about. I’ll take care of it.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, careful not to graze the bruise beneath her eye. “You survived,” he said, voice cracking. “God, you survived. I was so fucking stupid, Catherine—”

He stopped, exhaled, lowered his head against her hand.

“Whatever you want. I’ll give. Anything.”

And then, faintly, he felt her stir. She pulled her hand from his, slowly. He looked up just as her eyes fluttered half open.

“I wanna…” she said, barely audible.

She faltered. A pause.

“I wanna go home,” she whispered. And then, she cried. He saw the tears before he felt the weight of them.

Then she winced, and it made his heart break. Her eyes fluttered shut again, and she didn’t open them.

And maybe it was the hospital. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the part of him that believed Chester had a point—but Harry didn’t argue. He didn’t beg. He didn’t ask for more. He took the flinch of her hand as a form of rejection, an angry reaction.

He just nodded, but inside, Harry’s heart was breaking.

He would not have parted with her, but one word from her and he will do it. Just like he promised. Anything. And if what she wants is to go home, away from New York, away from him, then he will grant that wish. No matter how much it kills him.

It was after that she realized, truly and thoroughly, what Brandon had been all along. Not a monster. Just a man who loved the idea of her more than her wishes. He didn’t care enough to ask if she wanted her name on an album. Didn’t even consider it. That realization—more than any song lyric or whispered insult—was what did it.

The anger, once so sharp and specific, dulled. Then it softened into something like boredom. And finally, into apathy.

She stopped caring. Didn’t flinch when someone mentioned him in passing. Didn’t pause when his name showed up on a playlist. Even when he covered Silver Springs at BBC Radio 1—vocals raw, almost cracked, so filled with something bitter that it accidentally went viral—Catherine only sipped her coffee.

She had avoided the album at first, but indifference made listening bearable. She and Harry sat on some balcony after brunch in the morning sun and played the tracks like it was just another album. Harry was stubborn and had decided he didn’t like it, even before he listened to it fully. Catherine, who knew more about music, was more objective. From a musical standpoint, she almost congratulated Brandon. It was good. The notes were clever. The emotions well-arranged. His work paid off.

Sometimes she’d hear his voice over the grocery store speakers. A familiar melody bouncing off rows of cereal and canned soup. But it didn’t register anymore. She just laughed while picking up some plain greek yogurt for Harry— an attempt at making him eat better breakfast— with Mr Wiliams trailing behind her to keep her company. The song, there, but ignored. Her ears had detached. It was like hearing someone hum in another room—you notice the noise, but not the message.

His band, Orenda, had gone global. The album topped charts. He went from two million listeners to six million monthly very quickly. Critics used words like searing, confessional, anthemic. Catherine didn’t care. She had Harry.

Harry Castillo, who didn’t ask for details. Who never once told her to move on or forgive. He just made sure she felt comfortable and the lights were warm and that her cello had space in the corner of his penthouse, right where the sun hit. He held the cheat code to her without trying to. Knew her mood by the sound of her footsteps. Guessed what she wanted before she knew it herself.

And surprisingly, she understood him too.

She knew what he liked. Knew when his work was frustrating even when he said nothing. Brought him the exact kind of coffee that didn’t give him a headache. Told him to rest, not because he looked tired, but because she could tell when he started blinking slower. There was no need to talk around things. They both spoke the same private language.

She was in love. Not the aching, breathless kind she thought love was supposed to be. But the kind that made space for her. The kind that slowed itself to her pace, that folded itself around her without cutting off her air. Though, he also did take her breath away, making her heart beat faster when he kissed her.

Catherine had always been a picky child. Picky with food. Picky with notebooks and shoes and the exact kind of rosin she used on her bow. It made sense she’d be picky with men too. She didn’t think she was hard to love, but she knew herself well enough to know that not everyone would fit her. With Brandon, some parts fit; their ambitions, their love for music, their friends, the way they see life. Other parts don't. They didn’t speak the same language of understanding, Catherine had to spell a lot out to Brandon, and still she was loyal. She had settled, and it turned out to be the wrong choice.

Harry stayed. And with him, she didn’t have to pick anything apart. She didn’t have to make excuses on why it worked. He just fit, wholly, completely. 

Being in a relationship has its conflicts, naturally. Some days, they have their arguments. Like how Catherine would get irritable after a rough day at the studio, and Harry would overanalyze her silence like it was a memo left unsigned. Harry would sometimes forget to eat breakfast— only had bagel for the whole day, which made her pretty upset. She also gets annoyed when he forgets stuff about Emma, or tuning out Mr Williams, the driver, when he clearly needed to talk about some day off or other.

But it was never catastrophic. Their arguments were arguments—quiet, reasoned. It never turned into a fight. No raised voices. No slammed doors. He'd sit beside her, or across from her, and the words would come out carefully. She’d speak more slowly, less like she was defending herself and more like she wanted to be understood. The solutions were always easy. They never went to bed angry. She always curled up beside him, and he always put a glass of water on her bedside table and turned off the lights.

They mostly slept in his penthouse. It became their shared center of gravity.

Catherine was sure about Harry. There was a calmness to it, a certainty that didn't need to be said out loud. But certainty didn’t stop questions. One in particular tugged at her sometimes—his ex-girlfriend.

He never mentioned her name. Not once. Not even a slip. Catherine had tried to notice. In stories he told about the past, the timelines blurred at that specific point, like an old VHS with a section taped over. He was careful. Too careful.

She was curious, of course. She wasn’t insecure, not really. But it gnawed at her anyway, the way old melodies do when you can’t remember the name of the song. Who was she? What had happened? Why did it hurt him so much that he still couldn’t speak of it?

But Harry had never pushed her to talk about Brandon. Not once. He’d waited, made space. So she returned the kindness. She waited, too. And maybe, one day, he would tell her. Not because she asked, but because he’d want her to know.

Meanwhile, slowly, their lives became more intertwined.

Catherine met his brother and his sister-in-law for dinner one cold Tuesday evening. Catherine wore something modest but charming, coincidentally the same color as Harry’s shirt. His brother, Peter, noticed—immediately commented on it and made Harry laugh. Over wine and sea bass, they asked about her. Concerts, her studio, her awards, her documentary deal a few months ago. She’d told some, but Harry had already mentioned most of it. It was strange, watching her be discovered by people who were close to him but didn’t know her yet. They liked her. They looked at Harry differently after that. Catherine promised, half-jokingly, to play at the next family function—whatever it might be. She said she’d bring her cello and would play everyone’s favorite song. His brother’s wife, Charlotte, clasped her hand, giving her hints about what songs to play, one in particular what Harry’s mother liked. She said it would make a perfect first impression. Catherine agreed and thanked her.

She secretly, throughout the months, listened and practiced the song, so when the time comes, she’d be ready to perform perfectly.

Catherine’s parents, who usually stuck to their own time zone and preferred emails over FaceTime, eventually asked for a video call. She told Harry not to panic.

“They can be intense… and judgy,” she said, brushing her hair into place before the screen lit up. “Just… don’t take anything seriously.”

Harry, of course, didn’t panic. He acted like it was another board meeting. The same look he wore when closing deals. His calm voice, practiced posture.  She knew because she paid attention to him when he worked. She liked hardworking people. He faced her parents with the kind of ease she never had. He looked them in the eye— through the screen— and answered questions plainly.

“What do you do, Harry?” asked her father, Mr. Ainsworth, all charm and calculation.

“I’m in private equity,” Harry said, voice even. They don’t look too impressed.

“Ah,” said Mr. Ainsworth. “You know, we tried to put Catherine up with some lawyers—”

“Dad.”

“What are you good at?” her mother asked. Less blunt, but more surgical.

Harry didn’t speak at first, but Catherine did. Her voice was bright. Proud.

“I think I should answer this. He’s good at managing and reading people. He knows how to network, he has foresight—he’s really smart too. He’s really kind. He’s not a musician, but he’s learned so much about music so quickly. Genres, styles, composers.”

Harry shook his head. “Catherine mostly taught me.”

“Yes, but you do your own research. And, oh, Dad—I found this out just yesterday. He knows how to fly a plane.”

“You’re kidding!” said Mr. Ainsworth, sitting up.

“I took some lessons in my 30s,” Harry admitted. “Haven’t flown one in five years.”

“Well, I travel too much to finish my license. You know how it usually goes, when the kids are all grown,” said Mr. Ainsworth. “What do you fly?”

“Cessnas. Once tried a Cirrus, didn’t love it.”

And that was it. They were off. Aviation talk. Flight hours. Hangar spaces. Catherine watched, amused. Her mother smiled in that slow, approving way mothers do when the impossible happens—when their daughter chooses someone they might actually like.

Before the call ended, Harry had been invited to fly with them. There was talk of a plane purchase, something about how Harry was qualified enough to be their consultant. There was also talk of a little partnership. Catherine blinked slowly, quietly stunned. Harry just leaned back in his chair like nothing had happened. Like it was just another piece of business deal gone right.

The days passed quickly, in that slippery way time does when you’re happy and not trying to measure it. It was late summer when Catherine noticed Harry started giving her more flowers than usual. Roses. Red ones. She had mentioned she liked them once,even though they were boring—just once, in passing—and suddenly he was delivering them in arrangements that could have emptied entire florists across the city. He never said anything about it. Just sent them. In vases, wrapped in paper, sometimes just left on the piano. Her studio was filled with roses to the point she had to move most of it to her apartment.

Eventually, she had to sit him down for an intervention. Something about how she only had so many vases and was running out of counter space.

Still, her favorite gift from him came later, for her birthday. It was a day he planned down to the hour. First, brunch at the little French place she once pointed at and said, “Someday.” Then a walk through the botanical gardens—something simple, green, and quiet. There was an unexpected downpour around four, of course. A real movie-scene kind of rain. They had to run to the nearest shelter, clothes soaked, hair dripping. He apologized a dozen times. She said it was all right, that this was the best birthday she had in a while, but she was shivering as she said it and somehow that made it worse.

He still looked guilty until they got back to his penthouse, where the final surprise was waiting—a cello. A new one. Handmade, rich wood, deep polish. The kind of instrument people write love letters about. She touched it like it was glass, then played for him the song he liked the most. Unfortunately it wasn’t any of her originals—she’s working on changing that—but it was the first song he ever heard her play. And he listened like it was scripture. He always did.

During the summer, Harry had some days off. He spent most of his time glued to her side. If she was in the studio, so was he, reading emails on the worn couch across from her mixing desk. If she had brunch with her manager, he came too, always respectful but increasingly comfortable. Sometimes he gave insight on licensing or royalties, things she hadn’t even thought about. She appreciated that. Other times, when he thought no one was looking, his hand would rest on her thigh beneath the table.

It was surprising how easily he adapted. Even her friends stopped whispering about how serious they’d gotten. It just became fact. That Catherine and Harry were... Catherine and Harry.

He had asked her once, softly and out of the blue, if she’d want to go away somewhere. Somewhere far. Warm. Quiet. He’d pulled up flights to the Amalfi Coast on his tablet and showed her a boutique villa facing the sea. She wanted to say yes. She almost did.

But work had a way of clutching at her ankles. She had promised to finish composing something new, a sample to send someone for a performance deal abroad. She couldn’t go. He didn’t complain.

“Why would I want to go alone?” he said, like it was obvious. And that was that.

So he stayed. Filled his days off with her instead. If she was working, he found other things to do. Mostly at home. One morning, she found him watching cooking videos on the internet with the focus of a man who once managed million-dollar acquisitions. That week, he bought a cast iron pan. Then a meat thermometer. Then saffron. She didn’t even remember mentioning that the MasterChef guy looked attractive while chopping onions, but he remembered.

It became something of a ritual. When she had long days, he made her simple dinners. Pasta. Soup. Risotto. Nothing showy. Just edible and warm and thoughtful. He was actually getting good at it. Not as good as her, but still.

It became a sort of game. She’d mention a dish in passing, and days later, it would appear on the kitchen counter, steaming and real. The first steak was overdone. The second was perfect. He wanted to make a beef wellington next, until she convinced him to graduate slowly from searing to baking.

It was domestic. Strangely intimate. Like they’d skipped a few years and stumbled into something far older, more rooted.

She came home one night—late, tired, mentally drained—to a loud clang and a curse from the kitchen. A metallic scent. Then a splash of red.

Harry had blitzed the edge of his finger in a food processor.

Panic flared in her throat before she could say his name. He waved it off, already reaching for a dish towel with the wrong hand.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I have a first aid kit somewhere.”

That was more worrying than the blood.

She ran all over the penthouse while he sat like an idiot on the stool, hand raised, mumbling things like: “maybe the cabinet under the mirror?” or “I’m sure I bought a spare one too last year.” 

“Where somewhere?”

“Maybe the bathroom. Or the laundry cabinet. Or the—uh—hallway closet. I remember seeing it.”

“You remember seeing it? You live here.”

“I don’t get injured often. I’m very responsible.”

“Really?” she said, unconvinced.

And even though she technically knew he really was responsible, she also knew him enough to know what scotch could do. She saw the glass on the table and took a mental note to scold him later. She didn’t get to scold him much, so she tried to keep count.

What followed was less first aid and more chaotic scavenger hunt. She tore through cabinets like a burglar, cursing under her breath while Harry sat at the counter, mumbling suggestions that made less and less sense. “Try the wine rack? Maybe under the guest towels?”

Eventually, she found it. It was hidden behind his pile of magazines about planes. Where no first aid kit had any right to be.

They didn’t have time to process that stupidity. She opened it, unrolled the gauze, sanitized the wound, wrapped it like she was bandaging a soldier in war. Harry didn’t flinch. Just watched her with that same quiet, reverent stare he gave her in the studio.

“You were calmer about this than when you had the flu last month,” she muttered.

“That flu was hell,” he said, deadpan.

Later, as she was washing up the bloody towel, he leaned against the counter and told her, unprompted, that he can’t really pay people to care like that. With panic, with genuine concern. It was an offhand comment, but she knew what that meant. They’d had a whole conversation about that once—about nurses and hotel staff and who really cares when they’re paid to—but she knew what he really meant. Real care, the unspoken kind. The one born from love.

He made her feel necessary. Not just useful, but needed and loved. Like she was part of a puzzle. And Catherine, who had spent her whole life making art to be understood, liked being known like that instead.

So when his birthday came in the middle of autumn, Catherine knew she had to get it right. It was a weekday, which worked to her advantage. He’d be in the office until six. She’d enlisted help from Mai, the baker she’d met at the gala, the wife of one of Harry’s colleagues. They spent two weekends testing and adjusting the recipe. Perfecting the chew, the crust, the slightly sweet note he liked in his bagels.

Catherine didn’t just stop at baking. She arranged everything. Set the table, lit the right candles, ironed the cloth napkins. Made the room glow. She wore a dress he once complimented offhandedly—a deep green one that matched her eyes. Her hair was loose. She even tried out a couple of records, deciding on what she wanted the mood to be. Catherine was a perfectionist after all, and she designed the table just so, covering most of the surface with bagels until it looked as ridiculous as her apartment miles away, filled with roses.

When he came in, she turned to face him. Beaming. Just standing there like a secret kept warm all day.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her, then down to the table full of bagels.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

Harry didn’t answer. He just laughed.

Catherine ran to him and laughed with him too. 

Dinner was simple. She noticed throughout the months how he changed his bagel order. She prepared all of them. Bagels with three kinds of cream cheese—herbed, scallion, and one sweet, some with none at all. A bottle of white wine he kept for work dinners. She had set little touches around the room: a folded napkin in his favorite color, a record playing jazz in the background, candles flickering low. She served him like it was the most natural thing in the world, cutting the bagels in halves, explaining the flavors, asking which one he liked most before he’d even swallowed.

He kept looking at her. Noticing the way she smoothed the tablecloth when she sat, the way she tucked her feet beneath her chair, how she leaned in when he talked even though they were only inches apart. She didn’t make a big speech. Just told him, quietly, that she’d wanted to celebrate with him. She was surprised no one did, she said.

“So I was thinking…” said Catherine as she poured him wine and served him actual dinner.

“My answer is yes,” said Harry immediately.

“I haven’t even said anything,” she laughed.

“Whatever you want, yes.”

Catherine laughed again as she cut his steak, pouring the gravy slowly. She also turned the music down, 

“I got invited to play in London at the Royal Albert Hall. The invitation looked promising and the pay is very generous. It’s a very sophisticated event, someone with a title, part of the royal family. Not the main one though. Some cousin or a distant relative. I can’t remember the name.”

Harry stopped eating, “How long will you stay?”

“I only need a week, but I’m thinking of staying the whole month. More if I feel like it.”

He sat back. “When?”

“February.”

“Did you take the job already?”

“Yes, I think so. I think Talia sent the email today.”

He took a breath. “Well a month isn’t that long… Why are you staying a month?”

“I thought you wanted a vacation,” said Catherine. “You told me about the Amalfi Coast and Greece and Portugal— and I know London isn’t as warm. Well, it’s not warm at all, actually. But we could have a little vacation.”

Harry’s face completely changed, now with relief. “You’re inviting me, then?”

“Of course. I mean, if you’re not busy. It’s not obvious?”

“I thought you’re leaving me for a month,” he said. Then they both laughed.

Later, he watched her put the leftovers neatly in containers like she lived there. She explained she would have to give most of the bagels away, much to his dismay.

He met her in the bedroom, wordless, kissed her softly first, then not so softly.

"I love you," Harry murmured against her lips, his voice rough with emotion and want. "I love you so much, Catherine." With that declaration, he claimed her mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep to taste her sweetness as his hands roamed over her silken skin, reacquainting himself with every dip and curve.

Catherine could always tell when Harry wanted to have sex, and it’s not just the wandering hands. It was something in his eyes, a look so hungry that it made her hungry too. It was like he was pleading sometimes. His brown eyes rich with lust, looking over her face, slowly down to her mouth, then down again to her curves. It always stayed longer looking into her eyes, though, no matter how handsy it gets. And that, somehow, made her feel more beautiful.

There was also something about the way Harry touched her. Gentle at first, then slightly rougher. She could always tell when he’s holding back. So she made sure he knew that he didn’t have to. She wanted him the same way he wanted her— She’s been celibate in between Brandon and Harry, for god’s sake. She wanted him.

Wanted him in the primal way a woman wants a man. Even back then, in the first month they were together, Catherine held back from her needs. She always waited to give men the deed, but with Harry she struggled. 

Harry, in all his glory, was a man worth the wait. She loved strong distinct faces like Harry’s, his long nose and jaw and cheek bones. So different from her own. He was tall, yes, but that didn’t matter. Not as much as his strength, as his thick arms, large hands that insisted on touching her every chance it gets. Lips that kissed her like she was air itself. Rugged, scratchy face that tickled her in the best way.

She liked touching him too. Not as bravely as he does to her, but it was still more than she had ever given any other man.

Catherine slid her own hands up Harry's chest, feeling the hard muscles flexing beneath her fingertips. She tugged at his shirt, urging him to remove it, to bare himself to her hungry gaze. At the same time, she rolled her hips against his, feeling the thick ridge of his erection pressing insistently against her clothed core. She liked feeling him like that.

“Please,” she asked. 

And Harry… Harry loved submission. 

Catherine remembered Sam, her best friend, saying something about powerful men being submissive in bed. Powerful men, business men, politicians, rich men… men like Harry. It was a theory Sam swore to be true. At the time, Catherine couldn’t argue. She had only been with Brandon, and at the time he was not a powerful man; he was a musician, poor and in need of control. If she knew then what she knew now, she would have argued that theory to pieces, because Harry, with all his power and strength, reveled in the way she begs in bed. She knew he liked the way she said please. He was always rougher every time she did. Not that it mattered. Catherine would have begged either way.

He rolled his hips forward, grinding the thick bulge of his erection against her, looking into her. The rough feeling of his pants created a delicious friction against her sensitive skin, a tease of the pleasure to come. Harry's fingers dug into her hips, pulling her harder against him.

She slipped her dress off, then finally, kneeled on the floor, something she rarely ever does for a man.

Harry's hand slid down to the waistband of his slacks. He undid his belt with deft fingers and shoved his pants and boxers down his thighs, freeing his throbbing erection. It sprang up, long and hard and dripping with need. She always forgot how large he was. It always amazed her, aroused her, to look at his length. To think he wanted her that much. He gripped himself, pumping his length a few times as he watched her face, gauging her reaction.

It was times like these when Harry looked the most powerful. When she let him stand tall in the dim lights of his bedroom, where he looked down at her with eyes that devoured, that almost demands submission. She was in awe, looking up at him with eyes that beg, that made her forget the cold floor she was kneeling on. But Harry, of course, wanted more.

“Say it again, sweetheart,” he said in his low voice as he gripped his length and moved it on her cheeks, leaving precum on her skin, as if branding her.

“Please,” she said again, this time more breathless.

Harry groaned, low and deep, whispering under his breath a sentence she heard all too often now from his mouth, “Good girl. So polite.”

Catherine can’t help but flushed at Harry's praise, a deep blush staining her cheeks. She reacted more when he gave instructions, which encouraged him to be more vocal. She was sure by now he knew how much she loved his voice. The deep one. It wasn’t out of character for her. Catherine was a composer after all, and sounds always affected her more. So whenever he moaned, she made a point by moaning louder. Whenever he gave her instructions, she listened. Whenever he said something dirty, she became more eager. He picked up on that very quickly.  

He pumped a few more times, then: “Open your mouth, Catherine.”

He pressed the tip of his cock against her lips insistently, demanding entrance even as he spoke. She could feel the heat radiating off his skin, and could practically taste his arousal in the charged air between them.

Catherine didn’t hesitate. She parted her full, lush lips, revealing the glistening pink interior and her tongue, already slightly moistened in anticipation. Her eyes gaze up at him, half-lidded and hazy with a building, desperate need.

Harry pressed the swollen head of his cock past Catherine's parted lips, pushing forward until he felt the tip brush the back of her throat. He groaned at the sensation of her soft, wet heat enveloping him, her tongue instinctively flickering out to taste the salty essence of his arousal. Harry's grip tightened in her hair as he held her in place, his hips rocking slightly to push himself a bit deeper.

"Fuck, that's it," he rasped, his voice strained with pleasure. "Your mouth feels incredible, sweetheart."

Harry began to slowly thrust his hips, driving his thick length in and out of Catherine's mouth. He set a steady, deliberate pace, giving her time to adjust to the feel of him filling her throat. The sight of her lips stretched around his girth, cheeks hollowed as she sucked, was making him rougher.

He was so large inside her mouth. So hard. His hands were so insistent, guiding her to take him deeper each time he pushed forward. Harry growled his approval, his fingers curling tighter in her hair.

Hollowing her cheeks, Catherine began to suck harder, her tongue swirling and dancing along Harry's hard shaft. She's determined to prove herself, to worship his magnificent cock with the devotion of a true supplicant. Drool began to leak from the corners of her stretched lips, dripping down onto her heaving breasts.

Catherine's mind was hazy, lost in a fog of lust and a desperate need to please Harry. Nothing else mattered in that moment except the feel of him, hot and hard and pulsing, sliding in and out of her greedy mouth. She's a woman possessed, consumed by the primal urge to bring this powerful man to the heights of ecstasy.

"Good girl, Catherine You're being such a good girl, taking my cock so well," he praised, his voice a low, dominating rumble. "Such a pretty mouth. You feel amazing wrapped around me."

Harry picked up the pace a bit, his thrusts becoming a bit more urgent as his arousal grew. He could feel himself getting closer to the edge already, the slick heat of Catherine's mouth driving him wild with lust.

"Play with my balls, sweetheart," he commanded, his voice a low, seductive growl. "Roll them in your hand while you suck me off like a good girl."

Harry knew she would do everything he asked without hesitation, so desperate was she to please him. And as expected, Catherine did as she was told.

Harry groaned, his grip tightening in Catherine's hair as she gently rolled his heavy balls in her soft palm. The dual sensations of her hot mouth engulfing his cock and her delicate fingers caressing his most sensitive area made him jolt and grip her tighter.

"Fuck, just like that," Harry grunted, his hips starting to move with more urgency.

He began to thrust faster, driving his thick cock in and out of her mouth with growing intensity. The obscene sounds of wet, sloppy sucking filled the room, mingling with Harry's guttural groans and Catherine's muffled moans.

Catherine's eyes fluttered shut as she felt Harry's thickness slid past her soft lips, filling her mouth with his hot, musky scent and taste. A low, muffled moan escaped her as she took him deeper, her tongue instinctively stroking along the sensitive underside of his length. The sensation of being so thoroughly filled, so completely at the mercy of Harry's desire, sent a surge of heady excitement through her body.

She was wet too. Overwhelmed by the sheer depravity of it, how hot and hard his cock felt. And most of all, the way his hand caressed her, almost absentmindedly, while he was praising her. She can’t help but buck her hips, feeling the emptiness of her cunt, almost dripping to the cold floor. It made her took him deeper each time, her throat relaxing to accommodate his girth as he fucked her face with abandon. The sight of her lips stretched taut around his shaft, saliva dripping down her chin, only inflamed his lust. She could tell because Harry kept his eyes on her almost the entire time.

"You love choking on my big cock, don't you, sweetheart?" he taunted, his voice a low, lust-drunk rasp. "I can feel you begging for it, craving the taste of my precum on your tongue. That’s it. Just like that. Good girl."

He pulled her head forward, burying his cock to the hilt in her throat. He held her there, looking down at her with dark, hungry eyes as he ground his hips against her face. Catherine moaned wantonly around Harry's thick shaft as he fisted his hand in her hair, guiding her head to take him deeper. The slight sting of her roots being tugged sends a thrill of pain-pleasure zinging down her spine, igniting the nerves already alight with arousal.

Then suddenly, right before he came, he stopped her. Harry pulled his spent cock out of Catherine's mouth with a low groan, a strand of saliva and precum connecting her lips to his shaft as he retreated.

“I want all my cum inside you, sweetheart,” he said, breathing heavily, he hauled her to her feet and swept her into his strong arms, carrying her towards the king-sized bed dominating the center of the lavish bedroom. “I want to be buried in your tight cunt.”

And although she wanted to taste his cum, Catherine can’t complain. She loved having him inside her even more.

He tossed her onto the plush mattress, watching hungrily as she bounced slightly. He crawled over her, settling his muscular frame between her spread thighs. Harry's eyes raked over her body, taking in every curve and dip, committing the sight of her naked and wanting beneath him to memory. She looked at him too. Catherine loved looking at his body, how large it was compared to hers. Then he went to her neck, licked and sucked on her skin. His hands roamed her body again, now rougher.

“Harry,” said Catherine, breathless. “You’re taking forever.”

“I’m taking my time,” said Harry, kissing her chest. “You’ll listen and wait, won’t you, good girl?”

Catherine moaned and nodded quickly.

He rubbed the swollen head of his length against her slick folds, coating himself in her juices. The sensation made him hiss through clenched teeth, his hips twitching forward slightly. She could feel the hardness, the heat radiating off it, the spark it made, traveling through her body like electricity.

He pressed forward, sliding the engorged head of his cock teasingly between her slick, swollen lips, not yet penetrating her, but giving her a taste of what was to come.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her ass, gripping her hard enough to leave bruises as he grounded his hips forward, letting her feel the weight and heat of his heavy balls against her. The coarse hair on his thighs brushed against her smooth skin, a delicious contrast that made her shudder with anticipation. Catherine's ample breasts heave against Harry's chest, the stiff peaks of her nipples brushing against his skin like livewires of sensation. She can feel every throb and pulse of his magnificent cock pressing against her, hot and hard and insistent against her.

He kept sliding his cock on her pussy lips, between her thighs, not quite penetrating. Her juices flowed, coating his length until it was drenched. It was times like these where she remembered how large he was, not just his cock, but everything else. 

Harry had the same thoughts, she knew, because not a second later he whispered it. “You’re so small against me, sweetheart. Always so tight. But you’ll take me won’t you? You always do. You want me inside you, hm? Answer me, Catherine.”

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice husky and laden with a desperate, aching need she can no longer hide. Catherine's hands trembled slightly as she reached up to gently grip Harry's strong shoulders, her fingers sinking into the firm muscles. “I want it, Harry. I want it inside me. Please give me.”

Finally, he did.

Catherine let out a guttural, animalistic moan as Harry finally penetrated her, his thick cock spearing into her soaked, clutching heat. Her eyes rolled back, fluttering shut in ecstasy as he stretched her impossibly around his girth, filling her so completely that she felt split open, claimed utterly.

As Harry started to move, to thrust into her with deep, powerful strokes, Catherine matched his rhythm. She rocked her hips up to meet his, her round ass lifting off the bed only to be slammed back down by the force of his thrusts.

"Harry!" Catherine screamed, too lost in sensation to care about the volume of her cries. Her fingernails rake down Harry's muscular back, leaving red lines in their wake as she clinged to him desperately. She needed to be marked, claimed, ruined for all others. Desperate for a man to take her. And not just any man, but Harry.

“Fuck. Always so tight,” he said.

"Oh god, Harry... I can feel you... you're so deep... so big..." Catherine whimpered and moaned beneath him, her eyes glazed over with a cocktail of pleasure and awe. She had never taken a man as large as Harry, and the sensation of being so utterly claimed sent shockwaves of ecstasy rippling through her trembling form.

Catherine can feel Harry's cock throbbing and twitching inside her, the thick veins and ridges stroking her sensitive walls with every deep, powerful thrust. The way he's splitting her open, stretching her beyond what she thought possible, sets off sparks of raw, primal bliss that ignite every nerve ending in her body.

Her hands clutched desperately at Harry's shoulders, nails digging into his skin as she clung to him for dear life. The sensation of his sweat-slicked muscles flexing and rippling beneath her palms only heightens her lust and desperation. Catherine felt like a virgin all over again, being taken and owned and ruined for all other men by Harry's magnificent, overwhelming cock.

Catherine gasped sharply as Harry suddenly flipped her over, leaving her on her hands and knees. The cool air of the bedroom hit her heated skin, making her shiver and her nipples stiffen into aching peaks. She wiggled her hips instinctively, jutting her round ass back towards Harry in blatant invitation.

"Oh god," Catherine whimpered, looking back over her shoulder at Harry with hooded, lust-drunk eyes. The new position left her feeling even more exposed, even more vulnerable to his dominant touch and ruthless lust. She can feel his cock, slick with her juices, sliding between her ass cheeks and nudging at her dripping entrance.

Then he entered her again. She screamed into the pillow with relief. It always felt deeper this way. Her fingers clutched at the sheets as she felt the overwhelming pleasure. She pushed back gently against him, encouraging deeper penetration. Harry went deeper. 

“Say my name, Catherine,” said Harry.

And she did. Her voice became breathier as she repeated his name over and over again. “Harry, it’s so deep.”

“I know, sweetheart. I can go deeper. Do you want that?”

She moaned, her voice dropped lower, needier. “Yes, please.”

She could feel Harry's hips slapping against her rear with increasing fervor, the obscene sound spurring on her rapidly building climax.

Her inner muscles clenched and rippled around Harry's pistoning length, trying to draw them impossibly deeper. Catherine's nails raked down the sheets.

"Harry... Harry... it's... I'm... I'm so close..." she panted out, her voice barely above a whisper. Her hair clung to the sweat-slicked skin of her neck and back as she arched and writhed beneath Harry's powerful thrusts.

“I know you are,” he said with his low voice, the one she liked. “I could feel you tightening every time you’re close. So tight.”

Catherine could feel the tension in her body reaching a fever pitch, her nerve endings screaming for release. The pleasure was almost too intense, almost too much to bear, but still she arched her back, offering herself up to Harry completely. "Please... please let me come... I need... I need you..."

Her breathless pleas turned to wordless cries of ecstasy as the tension finally snapped, and Catherine's climax crashed over her. Wave after wave of searing bliss consumed her body, her inner walls clamping down on Harry's driving length as she shuddered and trembled through the aftershocks

Even as Catherine's body shuddered and quaked with the intensity of her climax, Harry showed no signs of slowing down. If anything, her own rapidly approaching orgasm only spurred him on, his thrusts became more urgent and demanding. Catherine could only cling to the sheets for dear life, her nails digging into the fabric as she rode out the aftershocks of her own release. Each snap of Harry's hips sent fresh bolts of pleasure coursing through her over-sensitive body, stretching her pleasure to new heights.

“Just like that, Catherine. Just like that. You’re so wet. So tight,” he said. 

"Harry!" she cried out, her voice ragged and hoarse from her earlier moans. "I... I can't... it's too much..." but even as she spoke, she pushed her hips back to meet Harry's, instinctively craving more of that delicious friction, that incredible fullness.

“You like this don’t you sweetheart?” he asked in between thrusts. “You’ll take it, even if it’s too much for you?”

“Yes,” said Catherine with another moan.

She could feel Harry's length throbbing inside her, feel the way his rhythm began to falter. Catherine's heart raced with excitement, knowing that Harry was close, that her own pleasure was about to be the catalyst for her lover's release.

With the last of her strength, Catherine clenched down hard around Harry's pistoning length, her inner muscles massaging and squeezing, urging him towards the end. She wanted to feel Harry come undone, wanted to be the one to push him over the edge into blissful oblivion.

"Please, Harry," she gasped out, her words barely audible over the pounding of her own heart. "Come inside me... fill me up... I want to feel you... I need you..."

“Fuck!” he said with a roar, going faster. “Such a good girl.”

With a low, guttural moan that seemed to rumble from the depths of their being, Harry finally found the release he had been chasing. Catherine felt Harry's length throb and pulse inside her as he began to come, his hot seed spurting deep into her waiting womb.

The sensation of Harry's climax triggered a second, lesser peak in Catherine. Her inner walls fluttered and clenched around Harry's twitching cock, milking every last drop of his essence. She gasped and shuddered, loving the way it felt inside her.

"Harry... I feel you... I feel you coming inside me..." Catherine whimpered, her voice choked with feeling. She could feel Harry's powerful body trembling against her back, could hear his ragged breathing in her ear. It filled her with a profound sense of satisfaction and contentment to know that she had brought Harry such intense pleasure.

As the final waves of their shared climax washed over them, Catherine went limp beneath Harry, her body pliant and soft. She rested her cheek against the sheets, her golden hair fanning out around her in a halo. Harry's hips continued to press against her rear, his softening length still nestled deep inside her, a delicious reminder of their intimacy.

He moved next to her and pulled her to his embrace. This was their favorite way to rest, Harry as the bigger spoon and Catherine taking all his heat. Somewhere between the quiet breathing of them—which was a melody in its own according to Catherine— he kissed her head and whispered his love for her. She whispered back the same.

Catherine's heart swelled with a warmth that had nothing to do with physical exertion, and everything to do with the depth of her feelings for Harry. In that perfect, shining moment, she felt a sense of belonging, of being exactly where she was meant to be. She was Harry's, utterly and completely. She was a woman in love.

⊹

The invitation came later in the year, around November. Lincoln Center’s Winter Benefit—one of those glittery, overly-structured, high-donor events where music and money made polite conversation—had extended a formal request to Catherine Ainsworth. She had never been on the attending list before, but this year they wanted her face. Her name. Possibly a performance next year, if her schedule allowed it. The email used words like emerging cultural icon, next season’s spotlight, and an honored guest, which was a polite way of saying: we’ve finally decided you’re worth inviting.

She didn’t want to sound too excited about it, but Harry had noticed it anyway. He knew her too well. She had been keeping the invitation for herself, letting the excitement die down before inviting Harry as her date. But somewhere between the way she made breakfast and the way she giggled before bed, Harry had figured something was up. She told him around two weeks before the actual event and he connected the dots very quickly. 

The event was a way for old patrons to feel important, for new ones to mingle with the names they fund. You could tell how expensive someone was by the sharpness of their tailoring. You could measure their net worth by how unimpressed they acted about being there. Catherine had never been on the guest list before. She used to sneak glances at the press releases, study the names and dress like artifacts behind museum glass.

This would be her first big event with Harry. Not a quiet dinner with artists. Not a gallery opening packed with jazz musicians and free wine. This was tailored suits, diamonds, and orchestral quartets playing softly in between fundraising videos. This was where people discussed season programming like stock options, and asked for your next album like it was an investment. Catherine said yes immediately.

She didn’t tell Harry how excited she was about it—he always looked so natural at these things, like he’d been doing it since birth—but she planned her outfit a month in advance and googled every past  benefit for context. She knew who would be there. What they drank. How they smiled for the press. She wasn’t nervous. Not exactly. But she wanted to be ready.

She wore gold, simple, tailored, but hugged her figure well. Harry offered to buy her something new but she refused, not out of pride, but because she liked the ritual of preparing herself for something that mattered. She wore the earrings he gave her in June and curled her hair like his mother did in the wedding photo he once showed her. There were no stylists involved. Just her, and a full-length mirror, and a quiet hour of perfectionism. She watched his expression closely when he saw her by the door. It was subtle—just a breath, a delay in speech—but it meant everything. She liked looking at Harry admiring her. She felt beautiful.

He wore the good tuxedo. The one with the hand-stitched lining that only someone like Harry would call “unremarkable.” He let her fix his cufflinks. She let him zip her dress. They took the car, like usual, and she noticed that he held her hand even before they reached the venue. 

The Lincoln Center glowed gold that night. She paused for a second when they walked in. Not because she was nervous—but because it was beautiful. Because she’d imagined this room from photographs for years, and now it felt like walking into a painting that had always kept her out.

They moved through the crowd slowly. Greeted a few musicians, nodded at familiar patrons, offered polite laughter when someone made a half-charming joke. People looked at her—some recognizing her name. A very old man told her she was one of the few young composers he actually liked.

When the noise got too thick, she leaned into Harry. Not obviously. Just a slight angle of her body, a shift in the way her shoulder brushed his arm. He noticed. He always did. He didn’t say anything. Just held her hand under the table when they sat down, out of sight, like it was something private. She loved him for that.

The food came in layers: tiny plates passed around with surgical efficiency. Caviar on toast points. Chilled soups in glass shot glasses. Beet tartlets. Something involving truffle oil and a flower. Catherine tried not to look like she was counting the bites. She complimented the server. Asked questions about the dish. At one point, she turned to Harry and whispered that she didn’t know whether to eat the garnish or keep it as a souvenir.

She found herself liking the dessert— tiny puffed pastries with just enough sweetness. When the tray came back around, she smiled at the server and asked if they’ll serve another. She meant it as a compliment, but the server looked like he might cry from gratitude. People here weren’t used to being thanked for good service. It was already expected.

A donor leaned over to ask Harry how he liked the venue. He introduced Catherine as “his partner.” That word again. She heard it like music every time. The donor smiled at her. “You’re the composer?” Catherine nodded. He said he’d heard of her. She smiled politely, unsure if that was true. It didn’t matter. It was a good night.

Later, when someone asked how long she and Harry had been together, she said, “It feels like a long time.” It wasn’t a lie. They’d packed years into weeks. What else could she say? That she’d fallen in love with him while he was ironing her coat? That she still checked for his scent on her pillow when he stayed at her place?

Somewhere in the program, a quartet played Vivaldi. She let her eyes close for a moment. The music filtered into her bones like heat. She almost forgot where she was. Almost.

They hadn’t stayed together the entire night. That was the rhythm of these things—people drifted. Catherine had been talking to a patron about archival restoration and the acoustics of the newly updated hall. They were standing near a long marble corridor just past the velvet-draped theater entrance, admiring some mid-century sketches on display after the performance.

Harry had been nearby earlier, speaking with someone she assumed was from his industry—a tall man in a tux who laughed like he’d bought the building. She was just about to make her way back toward him when a woman approached her.

Catherine had noticed her earlier. Dark hair, pulled back in a clean twist. Very polished. Her eyes were bright. Smile, almost too warm.

“Hi, are you single?” the woman asked with an ease that made Catherine pause.

Catherine blinked. “Oh—no. I have a boyfriend.”

“Ah,” the woman nodded with a smile, reaching into her clutch anyway. “Still. Take my card. Just in case it doesn’t go well.”

She handed it over. Heavy cardstock. Fancy letters, Lucy Mason / Senior Matchmaker. Catherine turned the card between her fingers, amused. The company name etched prettily, Adore.

“Oh, I know this company. One of my patrons worked with you. Audrey. She really insisted but I—”

“Harry?” said Lucy suddenly, cutting her train of thought.

Catherine turned, only then realizing Harry had arrived behind her. He wasn’t smiling. His jaw was tight in the way that made her stomach tense, though he tried to soften it as he met her eyes.

“You know each other?” Catherine asked.

“Yes,” said Lucy.

Catherine smiled, still unaware. “Did you use her service? She’s a matchmaker. She gave me her card.”

That did something to Harry’s expression. Barely, but enough. A flicker of discomfort that spread through his shoulders like static. If she had to guess, it was probably a look of disapproval.

“Don’t worry,” Lucy added, too brightly, turning to him. “She turned me down.”

Catherine tried to laugh it off, sensing the oddness now. “Well, it’s not right to even consider it,” she said lightly. Then to both of them, “So how do you know each other?”

There was a silence, almost an uncomfortable pause.

Harry answered first, with a kind of sigh-turned-smile. “We used to date.”

“Oh,” Catherine said, as neutrally as she could. Her lips still formed the polite line of someone who hadn’t quite processed what they heard. She looked at Harry, who was already trying to steer her away with a hand on her back. But Catherine stood her ground, unwilling to seem rude.

“I’m married now,” Lucy added.

Catherine looked up at Harry again, searching for some expression—anything—but he was unreadable.

Lucy’s tone shifted, just slightly.

“So, I heard you’re a musician? Audrey told me about you. I could hardly believe it. Catherine, right?” she asked.

“Yes. Composer, actually.”

“Yes, I’ve heard. That’s wonderful. You must still be quite young, though.”

Catherine smiled, still polite. “I’m twenty-eight.”

“You look younger. Anyway, Audrey flagged you as a ‘unicorn’ early on, Catherine. But I understand why you turned it down. Makes sense—you’re young, successful, still forming your worldview.” She paused, letting the words land. “Potential clients like you usually wait a few more years before they’re really ready for long‑term, so we never pressed.”

Catherine’s stomach clenched. She didn’t know what that meant.

Lucy probably didn’t mean anything by it. In fact, she seemed nice. But that didn’t change the fact that Catherine felt belittled. Still forming your worldview, as if she’s not yet an adult. She felt Harry’s hand drifting from her back to hover at her side. There was tense electricity in the space between them.

“I told you I was right,” Lucy continued, glancing at Harry. “The math never lies.”

“You’re the professional,” said Harry.

“Sorry?” she asked.

“I told Harry to find someone with the same background. He didn’t believe me.” Lucy turned deliberately, addressing him next. “Took you long enough to follow my advice. To pick someone whose profile matches yours. Family, ambition, economic background…” She let the sentence falter, then laid it down flat: “It’s almost textbook.”

Catherine kept her smile with great difficulty. She didn’t like any of that. Not what Lucy said, not how Harry answered. She didn’t like the implication that things between her and Harry worked out because of her background. It was a hell of a lot more than that. She liked Harry, even before she knew how successful he was. She liked ambitious people, not rich people. Someone passionate, with purpose, kind. It was certainly not  textbook math.

“Anyway, these events can be a lot when you’re new. It’s hard to keep up with all the names, isn’t it? I’m here just for business. Scouting, really. One of the event planners is a client of mine.”

“I tend to remember people based on what they say. That helps.” said Catherine.

Lucy blinked once, smiled again. “Well, I should let you two enjoy yourselves.”

“Of course.”

Lucy gave Harry a look that Catherine didn’t know how to read—fondness? Regret? Triumph?—and then walked off, heels clicking cleanly against the floor.

The silence between them stretched.

Catherine waited for him to speak. He didn’t.

“Harry?”

“Yes, sweetheart?” 

“Was she your ex before me?” she asked.

There was a silence that stretched. Catherine didn’t know why it took so long to answer. It was a yes or no question.

“Unfortunately,” he said finally with a small insincere chuckle.

They stopped in front of a painting. No one seemed to be nearby and the curiosity and insecurity started to gnaw at her.

“She’s pretty,” she said.

Harry chuckled again, pulled her close and kissed her temple. All the while, Catherine’s mind was racing: What was that reaction? Did he agree? Was he reminiscing? Catherine was a confident girl, yes, but she liked reassurances, and as much as she wanted to act like Harry— confident, barely even curious about her past relationships—the curiosity was eating her alive.

“She seemed…” she paused, trying to choose a word that wasn’t insecure, “composed.”

Harry made a sound—noncommittal, barely a shrug.

She glanced at him. He was staring straight ahead, unreadable. And that was the worst part.

“You’re quiet.”

“I didn’t think we’d spend the night talking about her.”

“I didn’t plan to,” she said. “But I didn’t know she’d be here.”

Another silence. This one’s heavier.

“You never told me,” Catherine said. “Not even her name.”

Harry looked at her then. He didn’t frown or soften. He just… looked. Like he was trying to decide how much of this conversation was worth having.

“She’s not important,” he said.

“You dated.”

“A while ago.”

“But you didn’t tell me.” She stopped walking.

Harry exhaled, tired already. “What do you want to know?”

She didn’t answer right away. She didn’t know what she wanted. Only that his distance was making everything worse.

“What happened?”

“I don’t really know. We weren’t in love, but I think she was already talking to someone. Something must’ve happened because she broke up before our trip.”

“She was talking to someone? She cheated on you?” she finally asked. “I just figured… You said you were embarrassed and I know you’re not the type to quit.”

Harry turned to her. His expression didn’t change. “Why does that matter?”

“Because out of all the people, I could understand. It matters because you won’t talk about her. You act like it never happened. You flinch when she looks at you, and you pull away when I ask questions. It matters because I don’t want to find out who she was or what happened from someone else.”

Harry didn’t respond. Catherine stared.

“Did she?”

He rubbed his jaw, jaw tight again. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I mean, I didn’t ask,” he said. “I didn’t press her.”

That sounded familiar. Harry didn’t press. Just like he didn’t press with Brandon. The pattern was consistent. Catherine blinked. “But if you were dating—”

“I let it happen. There’s not much else to it.” His voice was calm, almost too calm. The words hung. They sank like lead. She hated that he was calm.

Catherine’s chest pulled tight. She didn’t know what she expected.

“So if you don’t care,” she said slowly, “you don’t even ask? You let it happen?”

He didn’t say anything. Just looked away. She took it as a confirmation. She muttered something under her breath—something like “good to know”—looking out into the sea of people clearing out the room.

That silence was worse than any answer.

He sighed and glanced toward the next gallery, where a staff member announced the auction would begin shortly.

“You’ll like what’s up for auction,” he said. “There’s something I want to get you.”

“I don’t really want anything right now.”

“I know,” he said. “But maybe it’ll help.”

And he walked off, nudging her along.

The auction started about twenty minutes after the conversation with Lucy, and Catherine had already drifted back to Harry, now quieter than before. He was still holding his drink, untouched. The room glimmered with that particular kind of excess that only happened when rich people got bored—gilded charity, disguised as culture. The Lincoln Center’s Winter Benefit Auction. Proceeds would go toward their youth music program, or a new wing, or scholarships, depending on which brochure you asked.

She didn’t expect to feel anything after Lucy. But she did. Something sharp and quiet. Harry hadn’t said a word about her—not during, not after. And that in itself said plenty. He just stood there, stiff in the shoulders, too focused on the auction booklet in his hands. Flipping pages like he was trying to find something to blame.

She didn’t say anything either. But that was new. Usually silence with Harry felt warm, not loaded. Not this one.

The bidding opened with a violin, a rare 19th-century French make, valued absurdly high. Catherine looked at the brochure. She knew her stuff and that was too high a price. Catherine admired it but didn’t think much of it—until Harry raised his paddle.

She blinked.

“Wait,” she said, low enough not to draw attention, “what are you doing?”

Harry didn’t look at her. “Bidding.”

“On what?”

He didn’t answer. Someone else upped the offer. Harry raised his paddle again.

Catherine laughed, quiet and confused. “You don’t even play the violin.”

“It’s not for me.”

She looked again. A violin. Rare. Collectible. The kind of thing her peers drooled over. It came with a private provenance letter and a studio session with the last musician who played it on record. The kind of gift you gave a protégé. Or someone you were trying to impress.

She touched his arm. “Harry, come on. That’s too much.”

“You like violins,” he said. Flatly. Like it was reason enough.

“Yes. But I don’t need a hundred thousand-dollar one.”

“You deserve one. We’ll get you one.”

She stared at him. That wasn’t a normal Harry line. Not to her at least. Other women, maybe.

Harry had told her, in pieces, what he used to be like. He didn’t offer the stories easily, but late at night, when their defenses were down and the lights low, he’d mention things. Small confessions, almost like business summaries. That in past relationships, he used to overcompensate. That he believed affection could be translated into price tags, that the shinier the object, the more someone might love him. He’d said it without much drama. Just a quiet kind of honesty, like someone reviewing an old portfolio. This was who I was. Before.

She remembered thinking it was a little sad, but mostly funny. Because with her, he wasn’t like that. Not really.

With her, he’d been thoughtful. Slow. Almost deliberate in the way he gave. The gifts were expensive, yes—but never flashy, never meaningless. There was always a thread. A reason. A callback to something she’d said in passing. The thousand roses because she once said she liked them better than peonies. The earrings because he saw her admire them in a window. The cello on her birthday, not just any cello, but one she asked her manager about. It wasn’t about proving anything. It was about her. She could see herself in all his gifts.

And it mattered to her because she could afford nice things. She wasn’t a stranger to luxury. Her family was comfortable. Her work paid well. But Catherine had always preferred restraint. Small pleasures. Things with weight. Meaning. She didn’t wear things just because they were expensive. She wore them because they last, they fit her, reminded her of someone, something. A moment. She didn’t need Harry to buy her love.

Which was why the auction felt so wrong.

This violin—beautiful, yes, and rare—was unnecessary. That was the word that clanged in her head. Unnecessary. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t thoughtful. It was aggressive. Tense. A performance, not a gesture.

And the worst part? It probably wasn’t about her at all.

Catherine guessed he was bidding because he’d been seen. Because his past had stood right in front of him, elegant and composed, handed Catherine a business card and practically called her a kid. At least that’s what Catherine thought. And maybe Harry hadn’t found the words to say what that did to him. 

The number jumped again. Harry lifted his paddle.

“Harry, you’re not listening.” Catherine’s voice tightened. “I don’t want it.”

“You’ll like it.”

“Harry,” she said under her breath, “come on. Let’s just go home.”

But he didn’t answer. His jaw was set. His eyes stayed forward. He was bidding like a man trying to bury something under the weight of money. Catherine glanced across the room—and there she was. Lucy. Still in the corner. Still watching.

It was quiet around them except for the auctioneer’s rhythm, the occasional clapping. Catherine couldn’t hear herself think.

She leaned in closer, repeated her words again. “Harry. I don’t want it. I want to go. The event’s basically over. Some people had gone home already.”

“You’ll get it,” he said. “I did promise you something tonight, didn’t I?”

“But I don’t care. I don’t want it.”

He didn’t look at her.

“Fine,” she said, too calm to sound calm.

She didn’t storm off. She wasn’t angry enough for that. She was just… tired. Disappointed. Sad. She had thought the night would be perfect.

She slipped out quietly.

It was freezing when she stepped out. November air, sharp and unapologetic, bit through the silk lining of her coat. She hadn’t meant to leave the building entirely, just to breathe. “I need a minute,” she told Mr. Williams in passing, handing him her purse without thinking. “Just some air.” He nodded, gentlemanly as ever, and she kept walking.

She walked, and walked. Further and further.

She saw jazz musicians, stopped and cried while listening to their melodies. An old lady asked her if she was okay and she just shrugged and laughed.

She thought about Harry. How guilty she felt for wanting to be angry, wanting to scream at him for not letting her know about Lucy, about what happened. As if she couldn’t be trusted. She really tried to be like him. Tried to give him time like he gave her with Brandon Dahl. She didn’t press. She thought about Sam and how she told her to interrogate him. She thought about how Lucy looked at her up and down, telling her how she’s too young, making her feel silly.

She walked again, leaving the musicians behind. Tried to call Sam, but she didn’t pick up.

She spotted something on the ground. A fast food cup, knocked over, lying crooked on its side like a lazy insult. A few feet from the trash can, not even a real attempt. Something about it made her stop. She picked it up. Because of course she did. Because that’s who she was. Because someone should care enough to put things where they belong. She turned.

She didn’t hear the car until it was too late.

Just a blur. Headlights that curved instead of stopped. The sharp screech of tires against concrete. The sound of something colliding with something else—first another car, then her body, a sickening second later. She didn’t even get to scream. Her hands still held the cup.

And then nothing.

Like someone pressed mute on the whole city.

And for a split second before her thoughts gave out, she remembered her last coherent one: that she hated silence in music, the one that’s written in but felt intrusive. A misplaced caesura.

And then the world disappeared.

Catherine explained, mid-slicing figs, how her first gathering was thrown in a friend’s half-furnished apartment in college, with paper plates and a badly-tuned cello, and she’d been so scared before everyone came, convinced no one would want to come. Everyone did. It had become one of her favorite memories. She wanted to recreate that same warmth, that same ease.

Harry, for all his wealth and event experience, had never heard someone speak about hosting with that kind of reverence. His opinion was to pay someone to do it, but Catherine seemed to find the joy in picking out the details. He smiled at her back, told her he could handle more if she needed it. She dismissed him quickly.

“Emma’s faster,” she said.

So he let it go. He wandered to the couch instead, the one by the bookshelf. He hadn't been to her apartment often. She usually stayed with him, where the espresso machine worked and the pillows were fluffed on lazy days by someone paid to care. But here, in this little pocket of the city, there were always new things to notice. The way her light fixtures leaned slightly, like they were hung by an artist. The chipped ceramic mug filled with paint brushes. A stack of handwritten letters bound by a hair tie.

And then, the journal.

It was thick, leather-bound, frayed at the corners. Something about it struck him—familiar, maybe. He picked it up, careful not to tear the binding, and opened to a page lined with scribbles. Sheet music. Snippets of melodies. Ticket stubs. Receipts. There was an old one from a museum he remembered taking her to on their fifth official date, when she’d spent twenty minutes staring at a painting of two lovers brushing fingers, saying it reminded her of a song she hadn’t written yet. His thumb brushed the music sheet beside it, clipped neatly. Her handwriting. The title of the music on the pages.

His name.

He stared at it for a while. Not long enough to intrude, just long enough to feel it. To let it bloom something quiet in his chest.

He didn’t need to know what the song sounded like to know how it felt.

By the time the candles were lit and the charcuterie was in its final form—balanced, colorful, too beautiful to eat—the earliest guest showed up half an hour past the invitation time. Harry, whose upbringing and work culture demanded punctuality like a moral imperative, had been complaining since the hour struck. Catherine, in her usual unbothered calm, declared, “They’re early,” with a wink that meant he was being dramatic.

He didn’t argue. Not really. He just found it vaguely hilarious that he, a man who had spent his adult life in conference rooms and gala halls, was now learning the informal laws of twenty-something dinner parties from a woman who once had to Google what a W-2 was.

The first knock belonged to her neighbor. Then came Talia, her manager, arms full of gifts she refused to call gifts. “Just essentials,” she said, which apparently included a scented candle, three wine bottles, and a tiny potted plant named August. The young man who once called Harry out of sheer panic and Catherine’s friend from the Cold Spring meeting arrived soon after, grinning sheepishly when he mentioned the time. Then came the new wave—friends Harry hadn’t met before. Catherine introduced him carefully, thoughtfully, to each one. It was endearing to see her introducing him to her friends. There was a guy from her high school, someone from her first show, another from her Juilliard days. Some of her orchestra friends filtered in after that, people Harry recognized vaguely from studio visits. Kienan, the man who played a solo the first time Harry visited the studio, arrived with a guitar case and a grin, clasped Harry’s hand like they’d always been part of the same room.

And then came Sam. Dark curly haired, dressed like she just stepped out of the 90s. Her voice gave her away before she finished her second sentence. Harry tilted his head, listening. He heard the heavy twang of her voice and recognized her right away.

“You must be Sam,” he said.

“Recognized me by my odd sense of style?” she said, giving him a look. “A man of culture.”

“She mentioned you,” he said. “Brooklyn?”

“Yes, but I travel around so I don’t see Cat as much. That’s why we’ve never been properly introduced. She talks about you, though.”

“Does she?” he perked up. 

Conversation came easy after that. Harry didn’t expect it. He was years older than anyone in the room and his last party had involved donor badges and curated menus. But Catherine’s friends, surprisingly, were good conversationalists. Curious, self-aware. No one asked him for investment tips or mentioned IPOs until later in the night. They asked if he liked Radiohead, or had ever seen Les Mis live. He hadn’t, but he did tell them he saw Newsies. That seemed to garner a reaction, though he wasn’t too keen on being called “old”. One girl wanted to know how he handled his taxes. A guy with a violin case debated the decline of jazz in modern scores. Harry found himself, oddly, in the thick of it—laughing, sipping wine, keeping up.

Somewhere along the evening, the conversation shifted to music genres. Predictably.

“I don’t really like the club,” Catherine confessed during a back-and-forth about favorite venues. “It hurts my ears.”

“Oh, she’s such a snob,” said Sam, grinning. “You think club music isn’t good? I thought you said you like all music.”

“I said I appreciate every genre. Doesn’t mean I like all of them. Music is subjective,” she added, calmly.

Harry, who had been quiet for a stretch, finally laughed.

“Don’t act like you go clubbing,” Catherine said, nudging his side.

“I don’t go clubbing,” he admitted. “I’m old.”

“Do you go to bars?” someone asked from across the couch.

“Only when depressed,” said Harry, deadpan.

That earned a ripple of laughter around the room, even from Catherine, who shook her head and poured him another glass of wine.

Of course it had to come out eventually. The question was inevitable. After a few drinks, and now that the mood had softened into laughter and shared glances over cheese plates and old stories, one of her friends leaned in with that expectant gleam in their eyes and asked, “So how’d you guys meet?”

Catherine barely blinked. “Oh, we met in the rain in Cold Spring. About five years ago?”

“Six, now,” Harry said.

“Well technically still five,” she quipped.

There was a ripple of amusement around the room, but the friend pressed. “And? That’s it?”

“And I dragged him out of the rain,” Catherine said, nonchalantly, as she reached for her wine. “Because he was just walking so slowly. Like he’d given up. I could tell his suit was very expensive. I thought he must be very sad to let a good suit get ruined like that.”

“Oh, you and your savior complex,” someone groaned. “She once fed a rat on the subway because it looked hungry.”

Harry nearly choked with disbelief. “Why would you do that?”

“I didn’t really like my lunch, it smelled funny,” Catherine replied easily. “Plus, they’re hungry too.”

“Yes, but they’re pests, Cat. Not pets. There’s a difference,” her friend argued, exasperated. “Don’t even get me started on the guy who tried to rob her. She gave him fifty dollars.”

“Catherine,” Harry said, blinking, “now that’s just crazy.”

“It was more of a bribe,” she explained, as though it made perfect sense. “To inspire him not to do it again. I know they probably won’t stop but hey, if they see me next time, they won’t rob me again, would they?”

“Yes, but now they’ll ask for more money,” Sam chimed in.

“But they didn’t,” Catherine replied, grinning. “Anyway,” she went on, as if all of that was par for the course, “Harry then came to my concert last Christmas. In Carnegie.”

Someone perked up. “Right. You didn’t come to the afterparty, I remember now.”

“Yeah, I fell asleep in his car and he didn’t wake me up,” Catherine said.

Harry didn’t say anything, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth said enough. He watched her slip through her crowd of friends like she was made to fit into every room she walked into.

When Catherine floated away into the crowd, pulled gently by familiar hands and excited voices, Harry remained near the kitchen with a cluster of her older friends. They asked about his work—private equity, Tribeca, the usual—and he answered plainly, no embellishments. A couple of them knew someone in the field. One said he’d read about his work in a column. Another asked about returns in the current market. It was polite conversation, no real pressure, just a low hum of curiosity. But even then, Harry felt it rising in him: the impulse to defend her.

He wasn’t sure where it came from, exactly. Just that it was different this time. He’d never stopped people from thinking what they wanted before. 

When you’re rich and you’re dating a younger woman, the narrative writes itself.

He'd heard it behind his back: pretty girls and their pretty motives. He hadn’t cared then, not really. It came with the territory. But now? The idea of someone mistaking Catherine for a gold-digger made something in him twist unpleasantly.

She was the farthest thing from that.

So when the wine had settled comfortably into everyone’s bloodstreams and they all started to eat everything on the table, when it was just him and Sam sitting on the worn green velvet couch near the window away from everyone else, he finally said it. Blurted, more like.

“She’s not with me for the money.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

He gave a shrug. “People assume.”

Sam looked at him, then laughed. “Trust me, none of us are thinking that.” She gestured vaguely at the apartment. “Man, how many people under 30 have gatherings with charcuterie boards? You think we can afford this? Us musicians and actors and painters?”

He chuckled, relief bleeding into the motion.

“She’s successful, sure. More successful than any of us,” Sam continued, leaning back. “But her family’s loaded. Like—loaded loaded. She’s had the best teachers, tutors, her mom used to fly her out for masterclasses before any of us could afford a subway pass. And less worry, which is rare. You can hear it in her music—this polished, perfect clarity. Not like us common folk who scramble for gigs and bet our rent on open calls.”

Harry nodded, but stayed quiet.

Sam didn’t. “Her dad tried to bribe me once, by the way. To keep him updated on her. I did it for like two weeks, and it covered my rent for two months. He wanted to know how she was— making sure she’s not working herself to death. You know she tends to disappear when she has a project or a concert, then gets really sad when she finds out she missed out on a lot of things.”

Harry nodded again, wanting to show that he too was familiar with her.

“Believe it or not, she had also been pursued by men who wanted her money and connections. I think she can sniff out men really well, but honestly, she’s always been picky,” Sam added. “Years of talking with subtext, reading motives. I’ll tell you the full story some other time. I’m not saying she’s paranoid, just—perceptive. But you?” She looked at him closely, eyes narrowed in something like approval. “If she wanted to date you only weeks after you met, you’re doing too well my friend. She really likes you.”

Harry smiled.

It all made sense now. The way she never blinked at his wealth, never asked about his apartment’s price tag or his car’s make, never tried to pry or marvel. She didn’t treat money like a trophy or a measure of a person’s value. Unlike Lucy, who couldn’t help but tally costs and compare, as if price tags translated to worth, Catherine seemed almost immune to it all. Indifferent. Now he knew why. 

Catherine was born into wealth.

He should have known. Really, he should have. Should have caught it from the very first moment they met, but pride and his own self-absorption had clouded his senses. There were signs, if he’d only paid attention. The way she recognized the craftsmanship in his suit immediately—details most people missed even when it was dry and pressed, let alone soaked through and rumpled by the rain. It took her only a glimpse to know it was expensive. How she moved with a posture so impeccable, so effortless, that it spoke of years of being taught not just how to stand, but how to belong. 

The little things, he realized, were the real giveaways. The way she handled silverware from fine dining with the kind of quiet confidence that comes from dinners where every utensil has its place, and every movement is second nature, how her hands moved gracefully but without pretension when she held a glass. How she never flinched at the complex, sometimes strange flavors of high-end cuisine—the bitter hint of a rare wine, the unexpected bite of an unfamiliar cheese. There were many signs. All those small moments, easily dismissed at the time, now loomed large in his mind. She was a woman who knew the language of privilege, who had been born into a world where money was a quiet undercurrent, not a spectacle.

Yet, despite it all, she lived her life away from the lifestyle. She chose to surround herself with artists in shitty buildings, to take up odd jobs for connections, and to go to dingy restaurants for the culture. She was immune to men trying to impress her with wealth, instead she looked past them and saw people for who they truly are. She measured their worth by the life inside them, which should scare Harry, but somehow she liked him nonetheless

He didn’t mind dating people like Lucy. Women who focused on his wealth, who found safety in it—it almost made him thankful. There was something easier about it. Women who were unfamiliar with that world, who saw his expensive things and his carefully curated life with wide-eyed wonder. He liked watching their eyes sparkle, admiring his apartment’s panoramic views, the gifts he gave, the effortless luxury surrounding him. It wasn’t that they were incapable of seeing him as a man beneath the money. No, Harry was sure some had loved him for who he was, beyond the numbers in his bank account. 

What bothered him was how Lucy had been torn, conflicted between him and her ex, and the cruel irony was that the only reason she ever seriously considered him, Harry, was because of his wealth. As if money could be a contender for her heart, as if love could be weighed against a balance sheet. She had settled on John in the end, and he was happy for her—truly. 

But Catherine, as always, was a different story.

If Catherine had been in Lucy’s shoes, Harry thought, his wealth wouldn’t have even entered the equation. With Catherine, what mattered was that Harry was just Harry. Not the man with the sprawling penthouse or the luxury cars. Not the billionaire who could buy anyone’s attention.

With her, there was no need to impress, no need to calculate, no need to buy affection. She saw him. She listened to him. She spoke to something in him that no one else had noticed. What she felt for him—he knew—was something real. Unshakable. Quietly extraordinary.

And if Harry had nothing—if he was just a man on the street, soaked to the bone, without a name or a suit or a car—she would’ve still looked at him the same way. Still stopped in the rain, still dragged him to the bookstore and played a song. She still would’ve given him her coat so he could walk back less cold. She would still speak his language—the one where souls recognize each other long before words ever had a chance. Somehow he was sure of that.

Throughout all of this, Harry had been watching her. And at one point, someone whispered something in her ear. Her expression shifted. Subtle, but undeniable: a quick blink, the tiniest tilt of her head, concern blooming across her features like a bruise. And just like that, he was on his feet.

He left Sam mid-sentence. Sam, surprised at first, followed him with her eyes, then her steps. By the time he reached Catherine, she looked more upset. Voices hushed but urgent. One of them was talking fast. Catherine was still, one hand slightly out, as if reaching for some truth she didn’t want to catch.

“That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you, Catie,” her friend said. “I thought you knew.”

Catherine’s face had gone pale, but her voice stayed even. “Please say you’re lying.”

Harry didn’t ask what was happening—he didn’t have to. He simply hovered close enough for the details to find him. 

Brandon’s new album is titled after her. It’s already gone to the label. There’s a tracklist, one song with her name too.

Someone tried to explain it was supposed to be a gesture. A tribute. “We always thought you broke up because he never acknowledged the relationship publicly to his supporters,” one of the friends offered, awkwardly.

“Well, it’s not.” Her tone was clipped now.

Her friend’s eyes widened slightly. “Well, shit.”

“Could you tell him to change it, please?”

“I don’t know if I can.” She sounded genuinely apologetic. “I’m just his friend, I don’t know if he’d listen.”

“Julia, please.”

“I’ll try, okay? But… I don’t know.”

Harry gently took Catherine’s hand and guided her out of the room, toward the kitchen. People noticed, but no one said anything. New York politeness, refined and tight-lipped. Sam stayed behind, likely making a distraction.

In the kitchen, Harry leaned against the counter while Catherine stood near the sink, holding her glass but not drinking.

“Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she replied. “I don’t want people to speculate and know what happened—”

“We’ll talk to him,” he said. “We’ll ask him to change it. And at least he didn’t show up tonight, crashing the party.”

She smiled weakly. “Not yet.”

“If he does, I’ll take care of it.”

Catherine’s laugh was hollow, a little shaky. “What are you going to do? Buy him off?”

“I’ll throw a guitar outside and close the door while he runs and fetches it.”

That pulled a small real laugh from her, and he was glad for it.

After that, she pulled herself together like only she could. The party continued. She greeted guests again, made jokes, and poured wine. But Harry saw it—how her shoulders didn’t quite relax, how she held smiles a second too long, how her mind drifted even when she was listening.

Sam noticed too, shooting Harry a look from across the room, a silent question—should we do something?—but he shook his head gently. Catherine didn’t want to cause a scene, he knew. Not tonight.

It’s not enough to kill the evening, he didn’t think her other friends noticed, but it was enough to tug at the margins. Like a violin string, pulled just a bit too tight. It hummed beneath her movements. It lived in her glances toward the door. It weighed in Harry’s chest, heavier than he wanted to admit.

⊹

That night, after the last guest left and the door finally clicked shut behind them, the silence settled like snow. Soft. Heavy. Unavoidable.

They didn’t say much as they moved around the room, tossing used napkins and corked bottles, resetting chairs and gathering plates. It was like a slow ballet, each step a gentle punctuation on a night that had spun a little too fast.

Harry took the trash out while she cleared the glasses. She didn’t let him touch the charcuterie board, and said she wanted to arrange the leftovers into something nice for tomorrow. And when he returned, she was already folding one of the jackets someone had left on the couch.

It wasn’t until they were both in the bathroom—standing shoulder to shoulder brushing their teeth— that he realized she prepared for him to spend the night. There was a new toothbrush in the holder, still in its wrapper. A towel, warm from the dryer. Even a robe folded neatly on the edge of the bed. He didn’t know when she had time to prepare it, but of course she did. Of course Catherine would prepare for someone staying, even if he hadn’t planned to. She thought of things before they needed thinking about.

She handed him a face towel and then sat down on the edge of the bed, finally letting her shoulders drop. Her eyes looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with the hour.

Harry moved to kneel in front of her, next to the bed, his hands gently resting on her knees.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes welled up again.

“I’m not being reasonable,” Catherine said, blinking too fast.

“You are,” he replied.

“I don’t think I can ask him to change it. I don’t really want to speak to him.”

“Then don’t.” He shrugged. “We’ll avoid it like the plague. The bulbonic kind.”

That made her laugh, though it came out watery. “You and your plagues.”

She laughed and cried at the same time, like it leaked out of her from all directions. Harry reached up and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“I just don’t want people to connect me to him,” she murmured, quieter now. “I don’t want people to hear that album and wonder who Catherine is, or start whispering about what happened.”

“Then I’ll talk to his label,” Harry said. “Or we’ll meet with him together.”

Her eyes met his then, tired but searching. She ran her fingers down his cheek, the backs of her nails grazing his skin.

“Aren’t you curious?” she asked. “About what happened?”

“Of course I am,” he said. “But I’m not going to force you to tell me. Only if you want to.”

She told him everything. Not all at once, not like a confession, but slow. Hesitant. A small truth here, a longer breath there.

Brandon had been nice. Charming, even. The kind of artist who caught your eye because he looked like he meant every word he sang. Catherine, being Catherine, liked that about him. She liked people who were full of conviction. People who worked hard at what they loved. And he did. For a while. He pursued her with that same conviction—earnest, affectionate. And she’d believed in that, maybe more than she should have.

Then he became more successful, and finally, went on tour.

Harry didn’t interrupt. He just kept watching her, her eyes trained somewhere over his shoulder like she couldn’t look at him while saying it.

She supported him at first. Bought tickets, sent messages, stayed up just to catch him between shows. And for a while, he said he missed her, loved her, and wrote her songs.

But then the songs changed.

“They were more emotional,” she said. “More romantic. Like he was aching for someone.” Her voice dropped. 

One song in particular—Harry could see it had stuck in her like a shard. A track that got popular fast, about wanting someone so badly it hurt, but being unable to have her because he was already with someone. At first, Brandon said a friend had written it. She wanted to believe that. But then came an interview. Some magazines, some talk shows. One of the bandmates casually mentioned Brandon wrote all his songs from personal experiences. Always had. It was part of his appeal.

She remembered watching it, her stomach dropping. The rush of shame and confusion. She remembered asking him about it, tears in her eyes, still hoping for some rational explanation. Instead, he swore. Got defensive. Didn’t deny it, not really.

“So I left,” she said simply. “Packed up a couple of things and stayed at the studio. Didn’t talk to anyone. Just wrote and rewrote songs that never came out right.”

She didn’t cry while telling him. She had already cried, years ago. But her voice trembled in that particular way that meant the wound wasn’t entirely gone—it had just healed over something fragile.

“I was embarrassed,” she said. “Didn’t want my friends to know. Because how do you explain it? My friends would tell me I overreacted, throwing a four year relationship down the drain for a couple of lyrics.” She exhaled slowly. “He didn’t cheat. Not with his body, at least.”

Harry stayed quiet. His hands found hers. She let them.

“I moved on eventually,” she said. “I made my life my own. I got better. I started my studio, focused on my music. And I was busy and happy—really. As long as I didn’t hear about him. When he was mentioned, I became angry. Remembering how stupid I was. So I avoid him. But he’s everywhere sometimes, through people I love. Through friends who don’t know the whole story. And now this album…”

She shook her head, then finally looked at Harry. “I hope you don’t think I’m pathetic.”

“No,” he said. “You’re not pathetic.”

He took her hand without thinking, pulling her up. They stood in the middle of her room, toes nearly touching, a quiet hum from the radiator filling the silence. Her eyes looked up at him like she already knew, like she'd been waiting.

“Catherine,” he began, quietly. “Since I met you, I felt some sort of kinship. Like you and I were made of the same thing whatever souls are made of. Even before I went to your concert, you left a permanent mark in my mind. I didn’t know what at the time, just that you fit in my life so well. Then when we met again, it’s as if no time had passed at all. Life continued too smoothly, too happily, that I kept looking around waiting for something to go wrong. You make it impossible not to care about everything. You show up in the smallest places—how you talk to strangers, how you never half-listen, how you remember the names of people who serve you food.” He paused, almost faltered. “I think about you more than I want to admit. I thought about you when you were a stranger. And then again when you weren’t. And now that you’re here, I don’t know how I went so long without you.”

He didn’t say the words he wanted to say. What it all meant. But he hoped she understood. He wasn’t ready to risk those syllables out loud—not when the stakes were this high. But he told her the truth, the kind that made his chest ache with the weight of wanting.

“I think about your things next to mine. I imagine running out of soap and using yours. I imagine learning your coffee order by memory, and getting it wrong once just so I could hear you tease me. I think about folding your towels and asking how your song is coming along and scolding you gently when you forget to eat. I want to be so much a part of your life that people have to know me to fully understand you. I want to live there—in the margins of your music.”

He smiled, because it sounded ridiculous when said out loud. But it was true. Every part of it. Every yearning, every softness, every waiting hour.

“I am nothing but longing. I want you so badly,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I desire you, constantly. Quietly. Almost violently. And still—I wait. And I don’t usually wait.”

And she smiled, that soft, soul-crushing smile of hers. The kind that made him feel eighteen again, like the world was just starting.

“I love you, Harry,” she said.

His breath hitched. Time stopped.

“What?”

“I love you,” she repeated, without hesitation, like she’d always meant to say it. “I’m always afraid of missing out—missing life, missing fun, missing people. But when I’m with you, I don’t think about any of it. I don’t care if they’re having fun without me. Because I’m having fun, too. Somewhere along the way, between the way you carried me to bed without asking for anything, and the hospital trip where I cried on your chest even though I was angry—I was falling in love with you. I love you. You take my breath away, Harry.”

It wasn’t dramatic, or even loud. Just true. And something in him gave way—not fear, not even desire, but relief. Like he’d been holding his breath for years and finally, finally, someone told him it was okay to exhale.

“I love you too,” he said, quietly. The words were soft, but they landed heavy, solid. Like home.

She kissed him then. Slowly at first, careful. His lips moved against hers as if memorizing her mouth in small pieces, not rushing the shape of it, not chasing.

He pulled her in closer, hands finding the slope of her back like they’d been searching for it across lifetimes. Her fingers slipped to his jaw, brushing the stubble there, anchoring herself. The kiss deepened—her body pressing into his, the kind of closeness that didn’t ask for permission.

When she broke away just to breathe, her forehead rested against his, and he thought he could hear her heart pounding as fast as his. He kissed her again, this time harder. A little hungrier. Less gentle, more certain.

By the time they made it to the bed, neither of them were saying much. Just the quiet language of hands and breath, of mouths finding skin, of tension melting into warmth.

They undid each other slowly, like unwrapping something precious. He had her laid out beneath him like a secret he finally got to keep.

Harry took his time exploring every inch of Catherine's body, his hands and mouth mapping out her curves with reverent, almost worshipful touches. He lingered on the sensitive spots he'd discovered during their intimate encounters— the hollow of her throat, the underside of her breasts, the inside of her thighs.

As he trailed his lips down her stomach, pausing to dip his tongue into her navel, Harry's hands slid up to cup her breasts, weighing them in his large palms. He was always amazed at her body, how soft it was, how pliant. Her breasts, especially. It was carved by the gods. Perky yet full, pink nipples that seemed to hypnotize. He squeezed gently, his thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks, drawing a gasp from Catherine's lips.

"You're exquisite. So pretty, my Catherine," he murmured against her skin, his voice roughened with desire. "A work of art. I could spend hours just tasting every part of you."

To emphasize his point, Harry took one nipple into his mouth, suckling and swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud until Catherine was arching beneath him, her fingers twisting in his hair. Her breath came in short, sharp pants, a symphony of needy little moans and whimpers escaping her lips.

Harry had known many breasts in his life. He’d seen them all, yet it was the sight of Catherine’s that undid him. It looked so soft, so perfect.

Harry's hand drifted lower, his fingers skimming over the soft curls at the apex of her thighs before dipping between her folds. He groaned around her nipple at the sensation of her slick heat, his cock throbbing with the knowledge that he affected her so deeply, so intensely.

"That’s it, sweetheart," he growled, releasing her breast to look up at her with eyes dark and hungry. "You're dripping already. I've barely touched you and you're already so ready for me."

His fingers slid deeper, stroking along her fluttering walls, feeling her clench around his invading digits. At the same time, his thumb found her clit, rubbing tight circles around the sensitive nub, eliciting a cry of pleasure from Catherine's kiss-swollen lips.

Harry's cock jerked at the sound, a bead of pre-cum leaking from the swollen head. He needed to be inside her, needed to feel her glorious tightness gripping him like a fist. But first, he wanted to watch her come undone, and wanted to taste her pleasure on his tongue.

He licked his way down her body, settling between her thighs. With a wicked grin, he lowered his mouth to her dripping pussy.

Catherine let out a throaty, wanton moan as Harry's mouth closed over her aching sex, his tongue delving between her slick folds to taste her essence. Her back arched off the bed, her hands fisting in his hair as ecstasy coursed through her veins.

"Oh god, Harry!" she cried out, her voice echoing in the spacious suite. "Please, don’t stop. It feels so good. Yes, just like that."

Emboldened by her response, Harry redoubled his efforts, his tongue swirling around her swollen clit before suckling the sensitive bud with greedy intensity. Two fingers pumped in and out of her tight channel, curling to stroke that secret spot deep inside that made Catherine see stars.

He could feel her trembling, her thighs quaking around his head as he drove her closer to the edge. Harry's cock throbbed in time with the racing of his heart, aching to be buried inside her hot, clutching sheath. But he held back, determined to make her come undone first, to feel her gush her release into his eager mouth.

Catherine's moans grew louder, more desperate, her hips rocking against Harry's face as she chased her climax. Harry could sense she was close, her walls starting to flutter and tighten around his plunging fingers.

"Come for me, Catherine," he commanded, his voice a low, seductive rumble against her dripping sex. "Be a good girl and come for me. Let go and come all over my tongue. I want to drink down every drop of you."

With a keening cry, Catherine shattered, her body convulsing as a powerful orgasm ripped through her. Her sex clenched and spasmed around Harry's fingers, her juices flooding his mouth and chin as he licked and lapped at her through the aftershocks.

She looked most beautiful like this, writhing from pleasure he gave her.

Harry's cock jerked and leaked at the taste of her release, the scent of her arousal filling the room and making his head spin with lust. He needed to be inside her, needed to feel her come undone around his thick length as he filled her again and again.

Harry groaned as he crawled up Catherine's trembling body, his chin glistening with her essence. He paused to lave his tongue over her breasts, licking and suckling her hardened nipples again until they glistened in the dim light. Catherine shuddered and moaned, her fingers tangling in Harry's thick hair as he worshipped her breasts with lips and tongue.

"You taste divine. So good, my sweet girl," Harry murmured, his voice rough with desire. “You’re so soft, sweetheart. I want you. I want to feel you around me.”

Harry settled himself between her legs, the broad head of his cock nudging against her slick, swollen folds. He caught her gaze with his, his eyes dark and intense with lust. Slowly, teasingly, he began to push forward, his thick shaft parting her slick walls and sliding deep into her hot, welcoming body.

Catherine was tight. Almost too tight. It hugged him like it was second skin, clinging to his cock.

"Fuck, sweetheart," Harry groaned, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "You feel incredible. So fucking tight and perfect."

Catherine moaned, her head falling back against the pillows as Harry slowly filled her, inch by hard inch. He had to fight the urge to sheath himself to the hilt immediately, to impale her on his thick cock until she was completely full. He went slowly, as a form of mercy, but it required a whole lot of restraint on his part. His breath came out shallow.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Harry bottomed out, his pelvis flush against hers and his heavy balls nestled against her rear. He paused, letting her adjust to the pleasing stretch of his girth inside her. He knew Catherine could feel every throb and pulse of his length, could feel the heat of him radiating into her core.

“You’re so big. I feel so full, Harry,” she said, so low he almost missed it.

"You’re taking me so well, Catherine," said Harry, his voice low. "That’s it. Squeeze me just like that. Such a tight cunt. You want me to move, sweetheart?”

She nodded and whispered, “Please. I’ll make you feel good. Take me, please.”

With that sweet request, Harry began to move, withdrawing until just the tip of his cock remained inside her before slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt.

Harry's lips attacked Catherine's neck and collarbone, suckling and nipping at the delicate skin. He wanted to mark her, to brand her as his own. With every thrust of his hips, he left a new hickey blooming purple against her fair skin.

"Your pussy is too fucking tight," he growled against her neck, his voice strained. "I've never felt anything this perfect."

Harry reached down and grabbed Catherine's thigh, pushing her knee up towards her chest. The new angle allowed him to drive even deeper, his cock kissing her cervix with every punishing thrust.

"You're mine," he rasped, his hot breath washing over her as he claimed her mouth in a searing kiss. "This cunt belongs to me. I'll make sure everyone knows you're my good girl."

Harry's other hand slid between their sweat-slicked bodies, finding Catherine's swollen clit. He rubbed the sensitive nub in tight, hard circles, determined to make her come on his pistoning cock.

"Come on, sweetheart," he urged, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "Squeeze me, just like that. Yes. Milk me dry and I'll pump you full of me. You want that don’t you? I want to feel this pussy spasm around me as I fill you up."

Harry flipped Catherine onto her hands and knees with a sudden, rough motion. Her hair tumbled messily over her shoulders as she presented herself to him, back arched and ass raised invitingly. He groaned at the erotic sight, running a large hand over the curve of her rear before delivering a sharp smack to the supple flesh.

"Fuck, Catherine," he growled, squeezing the reddened cheek hard. "Just like that, sweetheart. Such a beautiful body. So eager for me."

He gripped her hips bruisingly, his fingers digging into her skin as he notched the thick head of his cock at her dripping entrance. With one powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her, hilting deep in her impossibly tight sheath.

"That’s it, sweetheart, you're gripping me so tight, like a fucking vise," Harry snarled, his balls slapping against her clit as he began to rut into her ferociously. "Gonna fuck you so hard, Catherine. I can’t help it."

Harry fisted his hand in Catherine's hair, gripping the silken strands tightly as he yanked her head back. He leaned over her, his chest pressed to her back, and growled filthy words into her ear.

And oh, how she moaned. How she let out that sweet soft voice, breathing hard, sometimes letting out his name out of her mouth. She begged so prettily, moaned so erotically, screamed so beautifully, like a melody with the sole purpose of making him thrusts harder and harder.

"Louder, sweetheart. Let me hear that pretty voice scream for me. Yes, just like that. Let go."

At the same time, Harry doubled his efforts, slamming into Catherine with punishing force. He angled her hips to take him even deeper, his heavy cockhead kissing her cervix with every brutal thrust. His other hand slid around her hip to find her clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in rapid, hard circles. He could feel her body tensing, her pussy fluttering around his pistoning length.

"Come on, sweetheart," Harry demanded, his voice a low, dominating rumble. "Come all over me. You’ll give me one more, won’t you? Show me what a good little girl you are. I'm going to pump you full, my sweet Catherine. Gonna flood you so much, you'll be dripping for days. You’ll like that won’t you?"

Catherine let out a piercing scream as she came undone, her body convulsing violently in Harry's bruising grip. Her pussy clenched and spasmed around his plundering cock, gushing clear fluids that soaked his length and dripped down her thighs. Harry groaned, feeling the hot splash of her release against his skin, spurring him to fuck her even harder through her intense climax.

As Catherine trembled and shook apart, Harry grabbed her nipples roughly from behind. He pinched and rolled the hardened peaks between his fingers, tugging on them in time with his relentless thrusts. The mix of pleasure and pain pushed Catherine to new heights, her screams rising in pitch and volume.

"That's it, take it, my good girl, squeezing me so well," Harry snarled, his hips slamming against her ass with a force that rattled the headboard. "Milk me, squeeze me just like that. You love taking me, don't you? You let me be rough. You love being used by me, isn’t that right sweetheart? You don’t mind that I’m older? No?"

Catherine could only wail in response, her mind lost in a haze of blinding ecstasy as Harry fucked her through one orgasm and straight into another. She could feel the telltale throbbing of his length, knew he was close to his own release.

"Fuck!" Harry roared, his body going rigid behind her. "I’ll fill you up, just like you like it. Just you. Just this tight cunt."

With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her quivering sheath and let go, his hot seed erupting from his cock in thick, heavy spurts. Catherine felt the warmth of his release flooding her, painting her insides with his essence. She shuddered and whimpered, milking every last drop from his twitching length as her own climax crested and broke over her in wave after wave of pure, unadulterated bliss.

She let out a low, drawn-out moan as she felt the warmth of it, the sheer volume of his spend filling and stretching her so deliciously.

"Oh god, Harry," she whimpered, her walls still fluttering and milking his pulsing cock. "I can feel you, so deep inside. You filled me up so much."

Harry's hips gave a few more shallow thrusts, working his release deeper into her core as he grunted and groaned above her. Finally, with a low, satisfied growl, he slumped against her back, pressing her down into the mattress with his weight.

"You did so well, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice ragged and spent. "You took every last drop like a good girl. I knew you would."

Harry's hand slid around her hip, his fingers finding her sensitive clit. He rubbed the tender nub gently, coaxing out a few more feeble flutters from her overstimulated sex.

Harry gathered Catherine close, spooning her from behind as he peppered her neck and shoulder with soft kisses. His lips lingered on her pulse point, suckling the delicate skin until a fresh hickey bloomed beneath his attentions.

“You feel so good in my arms," he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied rumble.

His hand slid up from her hip to cup the soft swell of her breast, kneading the supple flesh gently. He could feel her nipple pebble against his palm, still sensitive from their intense lovemaking. He rolled the hardened peak between his fingers, pinching down just hard enough to make Catherine gasp.

"Such a good girl," Harry breathed against her skin, nipping at her earlobe playfully. “I want you all the time.”

“I love you, Harry,” she said.

“I know you do,” he whispered into her ear. “I love you, too.”

He tightened his embrace, crushing her soft curves against the hard planes of his body. Harry rocked his hips forward, grinding his softening cock against the globes of her ass. Even spent, he could feel a flicker of arousal at the thought of taking her again, of losing himself in her welcoming heat once more. But for now, he simply held her, lavishing her lovely face with kisses and caresses as he drank in the bliss of their shared love and passion. In that perfect moment, Harry knew he would never let Catherine go, no matter what it took.

⊹

"He will never let go of Catherine. That’s the point of the album. There’s no moving on," Brandon heard his bandmates tell a reporter.

It was a month before the album would be out, and critics—some of whom once called them derivative, emotionally juvenile, barely a band—were now lining up to praise it. Orenda’s upcoming release had already landed on Rolling Stone’s "Most Anticipated Albums of the Year" list a few months ago.

Brandon had made the album for himself. That much he could admit. It wasn’t for the label, or the fans, or the charts. It was a poor man’s therapy session. A way to say all the things he’d never gotten the chance to say to Catherine. Or maybe, things he wasn’t brave enough to say to her in person. She’d ghosted him completely, cut the line clean. Her number changed. Her friends became gatekeepers. She'd barred him from her studio—his name blacklisted from even the lobby. But music could still reach her. He knew it would.

Every lyric was a letter. Every track, a confession. It was raw and mortifying. He felt stripped down and stupid. He never wanted to release it—not really. But the label said otherwise. There was a contract. There was potential. There was the email from Rolling Stone that promised a cover spread if they charted for two weeks straight. Two weeks of people chewing on his heartbreak. Milking it. Making it beautiful.

He knew what it looked like: capitalizing on grief. Weaponizing nostalgia. Romanticizing the pain that he, in fact, had caused. But it wasn’t that. Not for him. This wasn’t some ploy for attention or forgiveness. It was the only way he knew how to grieve.

Brandon Dahl was going through all five stages of losing Catherine. Except he was stuck on the fourth: depression. The version where you wake up and can’t believe they’re still not next to you. Where her coat still smells like rosemary and cello rosin. Where your bandmates give you a look that says, still not over her? but you’re not embarrassed anymore. Just hollow.

What gutted him most wasn’t that she left. It was the look on her face when she did. Not rage. Not heartbreak. Just this clean, quiet detachment. Like he’d turned into a painting she’d already decided to walk away from. She cried, yes. But when he admitted—stammered, swore, confessed—that he had feelings for someone else, someone he’d never even kissed, someone who only reminded him of her, Catherine shut down entirely. Like he’d confirmed everything she already suspected. That she’d made a mistake believing in him. That her gut had been right all along.

They were so deeply intertwined, it was hard to believe they were ever two separate people. She’d played on his early demos—uncredited, per her request. She made tea for the band during rehearsals, knew the names of their siblings, had sent his drummer’s mother flowers after surgery. She became part of the myth of Brandon Dahl. And he, the fool, had started imagining rings and apartments and Christmas mornings.

He knew Catherine wasn’t built for long distance. In fact, she was total shit at it. She was always very present in her day to day life and on the rare occasion she’s not, then her work. Always buried in a composition or distracted by some new musical obsession. He didn’t fault her for that—he loved her for it. But it meant she rarely called when he was away. Forgot to reply to his texts. Missed his birthday once and apologized with a song. He forgave her. Because that’s who she was.

He, however, made the actual mistake. On tour, lonely and drunk, he forgot how she smiled when she was proud of herself. He forgot the smell of her shampoo and the weight of her hand when she held his. He let himself forget—just enough that when a girl, a techie who looked a little like Catherine, listened closely to his rants, he let the attention sit a bit too long. He never kissed her. Not really. But he wanted to. That was enough.

And one night, drunk off guilt, he wrote a song about that almost-moment. It was brilliant. Raw. His bandmates raved. The label jumped on it. That song became the lead single.

He should’ve told Catherine. But he didn’t. And when she found out—not from him, but from an article quoting the band saying he writes everything from real life—she went quiet. Then she disappeared.

She’d left him like a professional. No dramatics. Just silence. Moved into her studio. Cancelled plans. Avoided his friends. And when he called, she never picked up.

He thought she’d forgive him. Eventually. They all said it was a minor slip. 

He told their friends she was too demanding, too picky, and it was an accepted fact. She was too picky. Everyone knew. Then they all assumed it was because he was touring, which was partly the reason, but not all of it. No one knew the story behind it, and Catherine never told anyone either. And now, his bandmates knew, his label knew, his managers knew, and finally, the critics knew. He betrayed her in the only way that mattered to her: with words. With the honesty he had reserved for music, and not for her.

He was excited to tell her during New Year’s. Had it all planned out. A quiet moment between celebrations, when the city was still glowing and drunk on resolutions. He’d show her the album before anyone else. Just them, her legs curled on the studio couch, him sitting awkwardly across from her, waiting to see if she cried. Or smiled. Or anything at all. She was always his first audience.

But she didn’t show up.

Not to the party, not to any of their mutual hangouts, not even to the safe little cafe on 83rd that she always swore made the best latte outside of Italy. She didn’t text either. That was the most damning part. Catherine had a terminal case of FOMO—always did. Missing out on anything made her antsy. She wanted to be there—everywhere. But this time, she vanished.

No responses. Just silence. Her apartment lights were always off when he walked by, her phone perpetually “not available.” Julia said she was fine, just working. But that was a lie. Catherine didn’t ghost her friends. So this—this was intentional.

It went on for months. He tried everything. Sent emails she wouldn’t open, had their friends talk to her about the album (none succeeded), even considered crashing one of her studio events just to corner her. But she was a ghost in her own city. All trails led to locked doors and unanswered calls. The only thing he had left were her songs—her previous work and other unreleased pieces she’d posted under pseudonyms years ago—and even those felt distant.

Then one day, weeks before the album was due to drop, Julia called him out of the blue.

“She wanted you to change it,” she said, flat and casual, like she was asking him to return a sweater.

“What?”

“The album. Catherine just got word, and she wanted you to change the name.”

He scoffed, clicking his tongue. “I can’t. Even if I could, I’m not gonna.”

“I told her that. But she was insistent.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Then tell her to come to the studio. Ask nicely. To my face.”

“I don’t think she will,” Julia said after a pause. “She’s got a boyfriend now.”

That stopped him cold.

A sharp punch of silence hit the room. Like the sound had been sucked out.

“No one told me that,” he said.

“I just found out myself. But yeah. It’s real. You should’ve seen them at her party. He’s older.”

Brandon stood up so fast his chair screeched. His heart was suddenly, violently awake. 

“It’s not serious,” he said, but it came out sounding like denial.

“Do you even know Catherine?” Julia said, her voice pointed. “Of course it’s serious. If she’s with someone, she’s serious.”

He ended the call without saying goodbye. Threw his phone into the nearest couch cushion like it had betrayed him. Then he locked himself in the soundbooth. Days passed like blurred brushstrokes. He didn’t know what day it was. Didn't care. He slept on the ratty leather couch in the back room, wrote scraps of songs that didn’t make sense, layered distorted loops just to drown out his own spiraling thoughts.

Then one day—when the weight of the album had finally begun to feel like lead pressing against his ribs—he was sitting in the booth, mumbling fragmented lyrics over his own chords, when the mic came alive.

A voice cut through the static of his headphones.

“She’s here.”

He didn’t ask who. He didn’t have to. The sentence only meant one person.

He stood too fast, knocked over his water bottle, cursed. Then he ran to the bathroom like a madman. Washed his face with cold water. Deodorant. Cologne. The one she liked, too citrusy for his taste but it had made her smile once, long ago. He tried to smooth his shirt down, but he looked like shit. Unshaven. Sleep-deprived. He debated changing, but the thought of her leaving before he saw her made his stomach twist.

He didn’t check the mirror. Just breathed, twice, and pushed the studio door open.

She was already standing there in the middle of the studio lobby, where the afternoon light pooled across the floor in quiet golden streaks. Her hair was the same soft honey-blonde, but cut into bangs now, grazing her brows like a curtain. It made her look even younger somehow—no, not younger, just changed. Time had moved on, and she had let it. She was still herself, still familiar, but newer in a way that made Brandon’s chest tighten.

He stared. Froze. His fingers clenched and unclenched by his sides. When she turned to him—finally, as if drawn by the whisper of her name falling from his mouth—his feet moved forward. He thought he might hug her, instinctively, because his arms still remembered the shape of her. But she stepped back. Barely. A fraction of movement, really. But it was enough to stop him mid-breath.

Instead, a man appeared beside her.

“Harry Castillo,” he said, offering a hand.

Brandon didn’t take it. He just stared. Tall, well-dressed. Impeccably so. Older. The kind of man with clean shoes and precise words. Brandon looked him up and down like he was reading a corporate memo.

“Who are you, her uncle?” he asked, dry.

“No,” the man replied with calm finality. “I’m her partner.”

That word hit like a slap.

“Boyfriend?” Brandon clarified.

“Partner. Boyfriend. Either,” he repeated.

Brandon blinked. Looked closer now. For the first time, really. Saw the way the man stood near her but never too close, how she didn’t flinch when he spoke, how her gaze flicked up toward him like a compass might to true north.

So he said what he always did when he felt small: he lashed out.

“Midlife crisis?” he muttered. “Dating someone half your age?”

Before Harry could answer, Catherine cut in, voice sharp.

“You don’t get to say that. You’re being rude.”

Brandon’s heart rattled in his chest, but he played it cool, like he still had any ground left. “Cat. Be reasonable. Let’s talk. Alone.”

“No. Harry stays.”

“I’m not talking with him here.”

“Then just listen,” she said simply. “I’m here to ask you to change the album title.”

He gave a breathy sigh. “Can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a week before release. It’s printed, it’s done. The name’s out. People pre-ordered. Besides—” he took a step forward, “it’s my album. It means something. It’s all good things, Cate. No one’s gonna hate you.”

Harry tensed beside her, but stayed silent.

Brandon pressed on. “You’d know that if you listened to it. I’ve been trying to tell you. Since New Year’s—”

“I’m not worried about what people think of me,” she said, cutting clean through his voice. “I know I did nothing wrong.”

“Then why—” His voice cracked, too desperate to hide. “Then what is it? You don’t want to be associated with me?”

She looked at him for a long time, eyes unreadable. Then finally: “Not really.”

It hurt more than he thought it would.

She hadn’t raised her voice. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t even crying. It was worse than that. She was done. She’d moved on. And he—he was still frozen at the edge of it, in the middle of the same song, looping the same melody she’d walked away from years ago.

“Believe or not, we spent years together, Cate,” he said, voice raw. “Before our careers even started. I knew you so well and you can’t change that fact. We were in love, and you were a part of me. A big part of who I am and how I grew as an artist.”

“I understand that, but clearly it didn’t work out. You wanted something else—”

“Bullshit. I wanted you—”

“That’s enough,” said Harry as he stepped in when Brandon got too close. Calmly. Not threatening. Just present. A quiet line drawn between t hem.

Brandon ignored him. “I can’t change it. Even if I wanted to. It’s with the label now.”

Catherine looked to Harry, and for a second, Brandon wasn’t even there anymore.

“I’ll talk to the label,” Harry said to Catherine, already thinking five steps ahead. “We’ll find out who made the call. We’ll go through their PR team, legal, whatever’s needed. I’ll handle it.”

Brandon swallowed the lump in his throat.

“You’re not even gonna listen to it?” he asked, voice quieter now. Almost like a plea.

Catherine glanced back. Her tone was gentle, but distant. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. I just don’t want my name to be an album.”

That was the final cut.

Harry placed a hand on her back as they turned to leave, and Brandon just watched. The door opened and closed like a soft period on a sentence he didn’t get to finish.

And he stood there in the lobby, unmoving. Watching the space they left behind, trying to remember the last thing she had smiled at. Trying to remember what it felt like to be loved by her, before it all turned to memory.

A few days before release, the label called the band to ask about the title. Said some important man offered a shit ton of money for them to change the album title.

Harry offered in the millions, which was enough for the label to consider.

But thankfully, Brandon had talked them out of it. That the name was an important part, a transparent part, and it will affect the reviews if changed. Brandon also talked money, promised his album would be profitable with the name because fans are naturally curious.

He didn’t like that part of himself. The ambitious to a fault part. The revengeful part. He knew it would hurt her, but only for a while.

“Mr. Williams is fine,” she had said, slipping into the seat and adjusting her coat. “He’s kind. And besides, he’s saving up for something. He could use the extra hour. I think his wife’s expecting again.”

Harry had blinked. “How do you know that?”

“I ask.”

And she did. She asked people things. How their day was. How they slept. If their mother was still in the hospital. She remembered names and faces and allergies. Mr. Williams—a scary looking man with a small scar on his lips—once told Harry that driving her around was therapeutic. “Talks my ears off,” he’d said fondly. “She reminds me of my youngest niece. One that thinks too hard about the world.”

Harry had laughed at that. “You’ll get a bonus.”

He said he would have done it without the bonus anyway.

It was astonishing, how quickly people opened up if you just knew where to look. Williams needed the extra cash, yes—three kids and another on the way. But more than that, he needed someone like Catherine in the car with him, asking questions that made the day pass easier. Something that Harry knew nothing about.

Catherine had that effect. A kind of soft interference in people’s patterns. She didn’t always mean to fix things, but sometimes she did. Harry saw it on a random Thursday near Times Square, when she stopped walking to listen to a busker with a bent trumpet and a torn glove. Some teenagers were heckling, loud and careless. She gave the musician a fifty and an address—her studio—and told him to come record something, no charge.

“You can’t run a studio giving free services to everyone,” Harry had said later, not unkindly.

“I know,” she said, tying her hair back. “But he’s talented. Think of it as an investment.”

And then he understood. Funny how she could speak his language so easily. She made the world a little more tolerable. For people like him and  Mr. Williams. For Emma, too.

The night Catherine played a private concert for Emma’s anniversary—Harry wasn’t there, but he heard all about it the next day. Emma came into work glowing. She showed him videos, grainy but still lovely, of Catherine in a small personal fancy dining room that they rented, playing an impromptu rendition of a song Emma’s husband used to sing when they were first dating.

“She played it after hearing it once,” Emma had said, eyes a little misty. “And she made us laugh, too. I think she’s magic.”

Harry had nodded slowly, then asked her to send him the pictures—just the ones of Catherine. He said it was for some press kit. It wasn’t.

Catherine still spent nights at his place, though not every night. And most nights ended the same way—him watching her fall asleep mid-sentence, her hair splayed across his pillows, her breath soft and even. She’d kiss him, and they’d kiss some more, and sometimes her hand would slip under his shirt and stay there, and his heart would race, his body would follow. But eventually she’d fall asleep against him, warm and tangled, and he’d lie there, wanting her in ways he didn’t even have words for.

He had taken more cold showers in the last month than he had in the last decade. But he didn’t complain. He wouldn’t have changed it for anything.

Because something in the way she reached for him without thinking, curled toward him in her sleep like he was a constant, made it all worth it. Because this—this was a rhythm he could live with.

And even in his frustrated quiet, he knew what it meant. He was falling in love with her.

Not in the impulsive, blindfolded way of his younger years. Or the way he usually gets attached to someone, with his head and his needs. But slowly. Precisely. Differently than his past experiences when the urgency of getting old got to him. It was a slow process, especially for someone his age, but he didn’t really care. He did it happily. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like there had never been any other outcome.

The first two months were nearly over before either of them noticed. Not because the days went fast, but because they were full. Appointments. Rehearsals. Meetings.

Catherine’s documentary deal was set to begin—her first screen project. She’d turned down films before, but this one felt right. A quiet, poetic piece from the BBC, part of a larger series about the universe. She’d read the project aloud to him once, on the couch, bare-legged and wrapped in his sweater, and he remembered thinking that only she could make gravitational waves sound romantic.

They decided to have a night out before the chaos began. A dinner. A real one.

He took her to Emma’s husband’s restaurant. It was fancier than the usual places he took his girlfriends. There were multiple utensils, arranged according to a specific etiquette that most of his regular girlfriends wouldn’t know, even the upper middle class. It was the kind of fine-dining place that required serious reservations, or at least knowing someone important—which, of course, Harry did. But he hadn’t ever bothered to go before. Not with anyone.

She noticed.

“Why haven’t you been here before?” she asked, between sips of wine. “I know it’s hard to get a table, but a couple weeks' wait isn't the end of the world. You could’ve asked Emma ages ago, or one of your colleagues. I’m sure you have business with important people.”

He folded his napkin with unnecessary care. “I guess I just didn’t like the hassle of putting my name on waiting lists.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t like romantic dinners?”

“I do, but not the hard ones.” He paused. “Not ones that required waiting.”

Her eyebrow rose. “What about your previous girlfriend?”

He took a sip of water before answering. A beat too slow. That slippery territory again. Still embarrassing.

“I guess I haven’t really bothered before,” he said finally. Or wanted to, he thought. “A multi-course meal isn’t just for anyone.”

He didn’t tell her that he used to take women to the same three places on rotation—quiet but forgettable to him. He liked women who thought a couple hundred was expensive. It made him feel like he exceeded expectations by just avoiding food truck meals. Conversations kept surface-level. Nothing that stuck. Nothing that lingered. He wanted the romance just enough to get by, to make them stay. He’d take them to a somewhat fancy place and they’re already looking at him like he’s amazing, like part of his charm is his money. He didn’t mind. Love had felt like something abstract and theatrical then. 

“Besides,” he added, “this is to make up for our first date.”

Catherine smiled. “I love that burrito truck. It’s seen me at my worst.”

He chuckled.

Back at the penthouse, it was late but neither of them were tired. They talked for a while—feet on the coffee table, glasses still half-full—until the conversation drifted to early years. He told her about the time he’d somehow earned a B in high school art by charming his way through a final presentation. Claimed his poorly drawn still life was a commentary on irony in postmodernism. The teacher had blinked at him, probably too tired to argue.

“I had no idea what I was talking about,” he said. “Still don’t.”

She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine. He liked making her laugh. Probably more than he should.

And then, maybe out of some buried insecurity, he asked if she would get bored of him. If it was strange to date someone who couldn’t tell a C major from a D minor. Someone who, despite his power and polish, couldn’t really understand what it meant to be moved by your own creation.

“You think I pick people based on whether they can do art?” she asked, grinning, her voice soft in the quiet.

He didn’t answer. Not directly.

The pageant conversation happened by accident. A thread pulled too lightly, and suddenly it unraveled. One moment they were teasing each other over bad yearbook photos, and the next they were watching old videos of Catherine—aged somewhere between seven and ten—answering questions on a televised stage, her voice small but oddly composed. A pink sash, a tiara, a winning smile that looked practiced.

Harry hadn’t expected to find it so endearing. The clip was buried deep online, grainy and compressed, dug up through some obscure archive website with buffering issues. Catherine was red-faced the entire time, fingers clutching the edge of the couch cushion as if it might help her disappear. She kept insisting it was awful. She claimed her voice was too squeaky, her dress ridiculous, her walk stiff. But what Harry saw was a child who already knew how to charm a room. Articulate, even then. Witty in a way that didn’t feel coached.

“You won,” he said, softly. “Don’t know why you have to be so embarrassed.”

She rolled her eyes and reached forward to close the tab before the video could finish. He didn’t fight her on it—but he bookmarked the link. He’d watch the rest later, when she wasn’t looking.

Later that night, they were brushing their teeth together when her sister called, a picture of a woman who looked a little bit like Catherine but with darker hair glowed on the screen. Jane. The name flashed on the screen just as Catherine was finishing rinsing. She answered it without hesitation, putting it on speaker like Harry was already in the fold—just another pair of ears in the room, welcome to whatever family mess came through the line.

Jane’s voice was sharp, slightly amused. “Heard you accepted a movie deal.”

“It’s a documentary,” Catherine said, mid-spit.

“Same thing.”

“It’s not a movie,” she corrected. “It’s for the BBC. They’re interviewing Ashoke Sen.”

A pause. Then a scoff. “Like I know who that is.”

Harry tried not to laugh.

“I’m with Harry,” Catherine said, grabbing a towel to dry her face. “Say hello, Harry.”

“Hello.”

“The boyfriend, huh?” Jane said, too smoothly. “Heard a lot about you, Harry.”

They talked about some other stuff too, mostly about family. Harry trailed to his bedroom, half listening.

“Anyways, Jane, It’s late here and I’m having a sore throat. Plus tomorrow is my first day doing the soundtrack, so this is my last chance to get a really good rest.”

When she closed the phone, Harry already went rifling through his medicine cabinet, returned with a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“For your throat,” he said simply, holding it out to her like it was nothing. “You have to drink it again tomorrow. Next time you feel sick, even just a little, you tell someone. Alright?”

She paused. Looked at him for a beat longer than expected.

Then nodded, quiet, and took the pill. He watched her slowly, making sure she really did drink it. He then took the glass and went out again to refill it, to put it on her bedside table— at least the one he assigned to her.

She stood in the bathroom doorway, sleeves of her shirt rolled up to her elbows. Her hair was half-damp, soft at the ends. She looked at him the way she always did—like she was trying to memorize him.

Harry waited, silent, the way he often did with her. Some words had to arrive on their own.

“I like you, Harry,” she said.

He smiled, slow. “Well, I should hope so.”

But something lingered behind her voice. A shadow of guilt, maybe, or melancholy. She’d said earlier how emotional she was about tomorrow—how work would consume her, how her schedule would change. That she hated missing things. Her friends, her studio. Him. There was something about knowing what was coming that made her softer tonight. Like she needed to hold onto something.

She stepped toward him and kissed him. Lightly, at first. A cautious hello, a silent sorry. Then she kissed him again. Deeper. Longer. The kind of kiss that said she’d been thinking about this all day. Her mouth tasted like peppermint. Her hands touched his jaw, the side of his neck, slow and certain.

He kissed her back and found her pulse with his mouth, just under her ear. She inhaled, shallow.

“Thank you for being so patient with me,” she whispered.

He laughed under his breath. “Hasn’t been easy.”

Her laugh pressed against his skin. Then she kissed him again, slower this time. Hungrier. Her hands curled into the back of his neck, her breath a pattern he already recognized. Familiar and new. He groaned before he could stop himself.

“You’re trying to torture me,” he murmured.

She smiled, full and amused. Jumped a little into his arms, light as she always felt in moments like this. He caught her easily, carried her a few steps toward the bed. Their routine.

He laid her down to his bed. 

“I want you, Harry,” she said.

His heartbeat stopped. He stared for a moment, eyes refused to blink, dark with desire, looking down at her on the bed. His frame caged her in.

“I want you—”

“Don’t say that,” he told her quietly. “Not unless you really mean it.”

She looked at him. No blink. No hesitation.

“But I do,” she said. “I think about you all the time. I’m going to miss having you around.”

“You're not going anywhere,” said Harry, giving her cheeks kisses. “I’m going to visit your studio everyday. Check if you’re still alive or not.”

“Everyday? That’s an awful lot of time, isn’t it? You’re not busy?”

“Everyday.”

He kissed her again—soft, and long, and grateful. She was starting to kiss desperately, clinging to him harder than she had ever done before.

“Please, Harry,” said Catherine, her eyes dark with lust.

He looked the same way, but he’d argued his feelings were more intense. It was long bottled up and stored away, waiting for her to start the fire. “You don’t need to beg, sweetheart. My beautiful Catherine.”

His hands trailed her body, braver than he ever was before. He touched breasts, slowly at first, then rougher when she approved with her moans.

“I wanted you so much. Would’ve waited a lifetime,” he said. He took his shirt off slowly, then hers. She was eager, raising her arms then wrapping it around him again.

“I’m sorry it took so long. I wanted you too,” she said, bringing him for a kiss again.

He groaned. “Don’t say sorry.”

She moaned, and the sound woke something so guttural inside him that he stopped.

She kissed him still, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m going too fast,” he said, his breathing heavy, inhaling more of her smell that somehow travelled down to his crotch, making his length hard, wanting to be inside her.

He was desperate. Oh so desperate. How long had he wanted this? So long, so long he wanted to touch her, to be inside her. To hear her moan as she writhed under him. The thought was too strong, traveling through his body like electricity.  

“I’m not a virgin, Harry,” she whispered.

“It's not that,” he said hurriedly.

“I’m on the pill. Just started last—”

He groaned, stopping her words. 

“No, it's just… I don’t think I can hold back, sweetheart.” He winced at the surge of feeling. How pathetic he sounded.

“You don't have to.”

It took a few seconds for the words to settle. Then Harry took off the rest of their clothes, and his hand moved rougher, faster. Took off her bra in a hurry, her panties with the same urgency. He touched her there, felt the wetness and groaned again.

“So wet, Catherine,” he said, his voice unfamiliar. Lower.

He touched her clit, his fingers moving in slow circles.

Harry loved touching her, making her sigh. It made him look at her in a different light, like she was older than she is. And when he touched her, he felt intoxicated. His fingers caressed her velvety insides, hot and wet. She was, simply, the most beautiful woman in the world. He’s not exaggerating. Her curves, entirely woman. Soft, lovely.

His lips trailed down her collarbone, then lower to her breasts. He took one nipple in his mouth, sucking gently before biting down softly. She gasped quietly as he moved lower still, kissing her stomach and hips before settling between her thighs.

Harry buried his face between her legs, his tongue licking up her slit before finding her clit. He sucked hard, making her arch off the bed. He was hungry for her taste and sounds. Her moans always urged him on. His tongue worked her with skilled precision, each lick and suck more intense than the last. His hands gripped her thighs firmly, keeping her pinned down as he ravaged her.

“Fuck, Catherine”, he muttered against her. “Tastes so good.”

She moaned, a low sound that made him harder, had him searching for more friction. He groaned against her clit, the sound vibrating through her sensitive flesh. He knew he was pushing the limits of his own control, but he couldn't stop. He needed more of her sounds. More of her taste. His mind repeating the name Catherine like a prayer.

He slid two fingers inside her, curling them upwards to hit that spot deep inside.

Catherine let out a sound. The sound of her nearly screaming his name, but somehow lost in thought, like she felt too much pleasure she forgot. It nearly made him lose it. His fingers went faster, and faster.

He growled low in his throat. A sound of pure primal need.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered against her thighs as he moved back up her body quickly. “You’re killing me, Catherine.”

His cock pressed against her entrance.

“I want you too,” he said, desperately. “So much.”

Without waiting another second, for fear of his growing insanity, he pressed the head of his cock against her soaked entrance and pushed inward. Harry's mind went blank, his pulse inconsistent. It was, simply, the tightest, warmest cunt he ever felt. It made him forget all the others. He was sure nothing came close. He wondered how he went so long without it.

He took his time, savoring the feel of her tight heat enveloping him inch by tortuous inch. Once he was fully sheathed, he paused, his breath coming hard and fast against her neck.

Then in an effort to not pounce her immediately, he bit her neck, sucking, making a mark. He couldn’t even focus on her breath, didn’t even notice when her hands trailed around his back, urging him to move. He stayed there for a minute, holding himself back despite her moans. He couldn’t be too rough, even if he wanted to. Maybe someday, when they were both desperate for each other. But not now when he was sure his needs excelled hers. When it nearly clouded his control.

Harry began to move, his hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm that made her back arch off the bed.

He filled her up slowly, inch by inch, watching as she took him perfectly. He was overwhelmed by how good it felt. How tight, how it squeezed his cock almost painfully. It was a hard fit, but it didn’t matter. He liked the feeling. Revelled in it. It was hot, wet, and perfect. Frankly, he wanted to stay buried in her forever.

She was caressing him, as if urging him to go on. Her soft hands went from his shoulders to his arms.

“Fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart,” he finally said.

With a sound of pure desire, he began to move gradually faster. His hips slammed into her with brutal force, each thrust designed to take her to the edge and beyond. He fucked her harder, his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her vision blur.

She begged, repeating the word “please” but never got to the end of the sentence. There was something about her voice, the way she said it that made Harry hungrier. She was so polite, so soft in her request. And although he told her not to beg, he loved it. Loved the way she said his name like a prayer, as if her desire is close to anything he ever felt for her.

His thrusts became punishing, almost violent. He watched as her breasts bounced with each snap of his hips.

He knew he wasn’t being gentle anymore. He couldn’t. His body took control, claiming her hard and deep like he always wanted to.

Her moans filled the room, pushing him further.

His large hands found her breasts, squeezed it roughly, thumbs rubbing her hard nipples. He leaned down to capture a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as he continued hammering into her. His balls slapped against her ass with each thrust. He was grasping the last bit of control he had left, fucking her like a wild animal.

He switched between her breasts, lavishing them with equal attention. His teeth grazed against one sensitive nipple, making her gasp.

“Such beautiful breasts, sweetheart,” he growled, pinching one nipple between his fingers while he continued to suck the other. His hips still hammering.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. I can’t control myself, I’m sorry.” He went back to her mouth, kissing her again.

Her erotic face looked up at him, her brows furrowed, her voice softer, “It’s fine. I want you to.”

Those words were his undoing. He groaned so hard, his deep voice finally out from its restraints. Somehow, he thrusts faster. If his bed wasn’t expensive, it would’ve made a sound, would’ve moved with them and banged the walls. Internally, he cursed himself for not being able to stay quiet, focus on her body. Catherine, though, seemed to enjoy it. She didn’t mind that he went harder. Even better, she moaned right into his ears. The sound became louder when he groaned too. It was like a song, harmonizing, except it was erotic, filled with need.

His balls tightened, warning of his impending release. He squeezed her breasts roughly, sucked on her neck, marking her with hickeys.

Harry's body was a landscape of hard, coiled muscle beneath her trembling fingers. He could feel her hands. She mapped every ridge and valley, committing it to memory. He did the same, more out of need than to urge her. He explored the soft, yielding expanse of her skin. His hands roamed, possessive and hungry, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He cupped her breasts again, thumbing her nipples into aching peaks, before trailing lower, over the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.

"Fuck, Catherine," he groaned, his voice rough with desire, "You're exquisite. Every inch of you." He settled between her thighs, his hard length pressing against her slick folds, making her gasp. "I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you. Needed you."

She moaned louder.

"You feel incredible," he murmured, nipping at her earlobe and making her shudder. "Like you were made for me. Made to take my cock so perfectly." He began to move again, his thrusts deep and powerful.

Catherine’s fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails leaving red crescents in his skin. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him to go deeper. Harry obliged, pounding into her with a fervor that stole her breath. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin and their mingled moans and cries of pleasure.

Harry felt her tightening around him, her inner muscles clenching, as if close. He redoubled his efforts, determined to bring her to the peak, to hear her scream his name in ecstasy. He was close, so fucking close, and he could tell she was too. He reached between her legs, finding her clit again and rubbing it furiously as he pounded harder and harder.

“Come on my cock, sweetheart. Milk me dry. Squeeze me, just like that,” he said, urging her on.

Catherine let out a sharp cry as she came undone, her body shaking beneath his as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. His name came out in a desperate moan as he felt her pussy clench around his cock. 

That squeeze of her release did something to him. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he found his own release. He let out a loud roar, his hot cum shooting into her pussy. He kept coming. His balls were emptying completely inside her.

Harry collapsed on top of her, still buried deep inside. His heavy breathing filled the room as he tried to catch his breath. His softening cock remained inside her, still leaking cum. God, he felt like he was a few decades younger.

“You did so well. Such a good girl,” he whispered against her neck.

“I could still feel you,” she whispered. “Your cum is so warm.”

He felt her warm breath on his neck and her squirming body against him. His soft cock twitches inside her, still sensitive. He presses a kiss to her neck, then her lips, swallowing her heavy breaths. He remained buried inside her, not ready to pull out just yet.

After some time, Catherine squirmed some more.

A deep groan escaped his throat as his cock started to harden again inside her, slowly. Some of his spent leaked from her, making a sound that sounded too erotic. He tried to tune it out, think of anything but how it good it felt to be inside her.

“Stop, Catherine,” he whispered against her lips, but his hips moved involuntarily, thrusting slowly this time. “You’re making me hard again,” his hand gripped her hips, trying to somehow stop it. Not because he didn’t want to, but because she needed the rest.

He looked at where they were joined. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the slight amount of blood on her thighs.

“Fuck, you’re bleeding,” he said apologetically. “You're sure you're not a virgin?”

Catherine, still finding it hard to speak, whispered, “I’m sure.”

He hissed, looking down at the mess they made. His thick length was almost fully inside her. He withdrew slightly, watching his shaft coated with her juices and a little blood. He was supposed to pull all the way out, but instead he pushed in slowly again. It was arousing, watching her pussy clung to him. He watched as some of his cum from a few minutes ago went down to his balls. The sensation made him want to thrust again.

She was so tight. Tighter than any woman he had ever been with.

“I want you again,” he said and winced as he tried his best to halt any motion.

She moaned, her eyes half-lidded. He couldn’t tell if she was tired or if she wanted more too. Then she squirmed again, and that did it for him. 

"Fuck, Catherine," he growled softly, "you're so goddamn tight." He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside her and making her gasp. "It's like you were made for me, molded to take my cock, aren’t you sweetheart? To take every fucking inch of me. You can take me, can’t you? You’ll stretch just for me, hm?"

“Yes,” she said, breathlessly. “I can take you, Harry. I’ll be good.”

“Good girl,” he said. “So eager to please.”

Harry leaned down and sealed her lips with his in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth to tangle with hers. He devoured her moans and whimpers, swallowing them greedily as he began to move faster, his hips snapping against hers with increasing urgency. The wet, obscene sounds of their coupling filled the room again, spurring him on as he lost himself in the exquisite feel of Catherine's body beneath him.

"That's it, baby," he panted harshly against her ear, "Come for me. Squeeze my fucking cock with your perfect little cunt. I want to feel you come undone again. It feels good, doesn’t it?"

“It does,” she said hurriedly, nodding. “You’re so big. I’ll stretch for you. It hurts so good, it feels so good. I want you deeper. Please, Harry.”

Harry agreed but too busy with ecstasy to say so, almost laughing with relief when she said it.

He flipped Catherine onto her hands and knees, his large hands gripping her hips tightly as he positioned himself behind her. She felt the head of his cock pressing insistently against her dripping entrance, ready to plunge back inside her welcoming heat. With a swift, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside her, making her cry out in a mix of pleasure and slight pain.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, pausing to let her adjust to the depth and girth of him stretching her open. "You're so tight like this. I can feel every inch of your little pussy clenching around me. You like it hard, sweetheart?"

“Yes, please, Harry.”

He began to move, his hips rolling in a deep, sensual rhythm as he held her hips steady. The new angle allowed him to reach even deeper inside her, stroking that special spot that made her knees shake. His balls slapped against her clit with each thrust, the lewd sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the room yet again.

One hand reached up to tangle in her hair, gripping it lightly as he pulled her back against his chest. She was smaller than him, yet still fit perfectly. His other hand slid around to her front, finding her swollen clit and rubbing it in tight, quick circles. Harry could feel her getting closer to the edge, her pussy fluttering and clenching around his pistoning cock.

"That's it, my good girl," he growled in her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine, "Come on my cock. Milk me, sweetheart. Good girl. So wet. Soak me. Tighten, just like that. Yes, just like that."

His words were filthy, dirty, and oh so effective. They pushed Catherine over the precipice, her body convulsing and shaking as a massive orgasm ripped through her for the second time that night. She screamed his name, a guttural, primal sound of pure ecstasy as her pussy clenched down on him like a vice. The sensation was too much for Harry, and with a roar, he slammed into her one last time before exploding, his hot seed spurting deep inside her spasming channel.

They collapsed together onto the bed, Harry's weight pressing Catherine into the mattress as they both struggled to catch their breath. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as the aftershocks of their intense coupling subsided. Harry pressed a tender kiss to her shoulder, letting her finally rest.

⊹

Harry had never known anyone to disappear quite so completely into their work. Not the way Catherine did. She didn’t just work at the studio—she lived there. Morning coffee gave way to late-night tea, which bled into caffeine-fueled dawns. She existed on crackers and adrenaline. When her hand began to tremble, she brushed it off—this happens when I forget to eat, she’d said with a smile. He didn’t find it amusing.

So he made a point by bringing her food. Had asked for her manager’s number to keep track of her when she’s not answering.

A bag dropped off at odd hours. A thermos. A warm pastry in the morning. A full dinner in a box, even if it was eaten cold. Sometimes he sent Emma, always with the excuse that he was running late, but never because he forgot. It became a habit. A quiet rhythm. Nourishing her had become the most important part of his day.

Her replies slowed. A text here, a missed call there. Sometimes silence altogether. He could’ve taken it personally, but he didn’t. He knew the pattern. She usually doesn’t answer when she’s with the whole orchestra. When she’s too preoccupied with other people. He knew how she worked, now that he knew her. 

So he came to her everyday. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Even if it was just for a few minutes. Even if he stood at the edge of the room while she adjusted microphones or ran through a melody again and again until the sound was right. He always made time, because there was always time, if you looked for it. Although, that hadn’t been the case before her.

During spring, when she was supposed to be done, the word done lost its meaning. The BBC sent back notes—two tracks needed to be redone at some parts— higher or lower or more mellow in the parts they needed it to be. At first, she handled it. Smiled. Shrugged. The usual. But then she stopped sleeping properly. Stopped leaving the studio at all. The notes had burrowed in. Perfection became an obsession. He watched her slow down between takes, sometimes staring at the same page for twenty minutes, searching for something only she could hear.

She didn’t complain, but he saw the shift— in the way she tucked her knees into the studio chair, in the clutter around her, in the quiet frustration that lived in her shoulders. She was usually very neat.

Their first fight came during that period of time. Partially, it came from sleep deprivation and cheap takeout. From too many nights curled up on the studio couch, too many cold coffees reheated twice. It also came from a bump on her wrist that had been growing for a few days, under the skin like a second bone trying to form.

Harry walked in just as Talia, her manager, raised the book.

He didn’t register it at first—just the sound of voices, laughter maybe, and then that strange, high-pitched urgency he recognized as Catherine’s voice. He moved fast. His hand caught Talia’s wrist mid-air. The book stopped inches above Catherine’s arm.

She looked up at him, annoyed. “Stop, Harry. I need it to get fixed fast.”

He didn’t answer her right away. Just looked at the bump. It’s not red, it just looked like her joint got bigger in size. Though he noticed how she winced when she moved it. That was enough proof that she was in pain.

“That’s enough, Catherine,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

“But I have to finish this song. And it’s hurting. I can’t concentrate—”

“You’ll finish it later.”

“No,” she snapped. “I’m so close. Just one more day. You don’t know how hard it is to get it right. I can’t get the harp to sound like it should—”

“Let’s go.”

“No.”

They ended up at the hospital anyway.

It was a quiet ride. She didn’t say a word. Just sat with her wrist in her lap, like a child sent to the nurse’s office. Her shoulders curled inward. He kept glancing at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

At the hospital, the verdict was clinical: a ganglion cyst. Harmless, mostly. Common in musicians. Sometimes painful, yes—but not dangerous. The doctor explained the options with the kind of voice that didn’t leave much room for comfort. They could drain it, but it might return. They could operate, but that meant downtime—weeks, maybe. A brace would relieve the pressure, but she wouldn’t be able to play. And then there were medications. Slower, but manageable.

She listened to each option like she wasn’t really there. She chose whatever got her back to the studio fastest without any more pain, which was draining it.

It wasn’t a hard procedure. The needle wasn’t even big, and she didn’t look like she was scared of it. But when it came time for it to be drained, she asked Harry to hold her and he could feel her other hand tightening on his shirt. It must’ve hurt.

When she finally laid back on the hospital bed, exhaustion took her almost instantly. She didn’t argue anymore. She just closed her eyes and folded into sleep like it had been waiting for her all week.

Harry stayed by her side, asking the doctor quiet questions in the hallway about recovery time and some other stuff they should know.

“She’s pushing herself too hard,” the doctor said. “That is a symptom from working her wrist too hard. What she needs is proper rest. If she keeps this up, she’s going to get sick with other symptoms worse than just a ganglion. She could get really sick.”

Like he didn’t already know that. Like he wasn’t already worrying everyday. He wanted to tell the doctor that he knew but the girl is too stubborn and stupidly drowning in her work. Instead, Harry just nodded. Noted it all. Took the pamphlets. When he came back into the room, she was still out cold.

They let her sleep until the nurse finished checking her vitals. The doctor woke her gently. She blinked up at Harry, a little disoriented. He didn’t say a word, just took her coat and helped her get up.

The ride back to his apartment was silent. Catherine had crossed her arms like a teenager, staring out the window with tight lips and a jaw that had locked into place twenty minutes ago. He didn’t speak. He knew her enough now to know it wouldn’t help. Not yet.

When the driver pulled up to the penthouse, she didn’t wait for the door to be opened. She was out of the car before him, stomping ahead like she meant to put distance between them. Her shoes echoed in the marble hallway. By the time he caught up, she’d already dropped her coat on the arm of the couch and was sitting with her legs curled up, arms crossed again, sulking with intent.

He closed the door behind them quietly.

“I can’t believe you didn’t take me back to the studio,” she said, not looking at him. Her voice clipped and fast. “I told you I could finish it in one day. Maybe even tonight.”

He didn’t respond immediately. She wasn’t really asking him. She just needed to release the tension building in her bones.

“The deadline’s a week away,” he said finally. “You have time.”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “I want them to be impressed. I want them to hear it and think—wow, she did it fast and she did it well. I was so close, Harry. You have no idea. I just needed the harp to fall right and I would’ve been done.”

She rubbed her wrist without thinking. The soft bandage made it look more fragile than it probably was. He couldn’t look at it too long.

“I should’ve just hit it with a book,” she mumbled.

That annoyed him. He stopped in front of her. Took a breath.

“That’s irresponsible,” he said firmly. Harder than he ever spoke to her before. “You hear me, Catherine? You don’t do that again. Never— Never do that again.”

She rolled her eyes. “I did it once before.”

“And you’re lucky I wasn’t there,” he said, still pressing, still loud. “Because I would’ve dragged you to the hospital that time too.”

She sighed, deep and dismissive. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No,” he said, walking past her to the kitchen, already reaching for water, maybe something to put in front of her. “I’m being a responsible adult.”

She didn’t argue after that. Just sat there, silent again, sinking slowly into the realization that her body—like time, like deadlines—was something she couldn’t control completely. And Harry, in his stubborn, quiet way, wasn’t angry. He was worried. That was worse somehow.

He walked to the kitchen and reheated the food he’d picked up earlier that afternoon, still in its paper bag from the studio run—untouched, because the hospital detour had gotten in the way. The microwave hummed quietly as he leaned against the counter, watching the numbers count down like they meant something.

He’d probably been too sharp with her. Too forceful. But at least she was here now. Safe, if grumpy. And if she hated him for it—fine. She could hate him while getting one full night of rest. That was the bargain he was willing to take.

Then she was there, padding into the kitchen like someone coming down from a fever. Her posture softer, head low. Like she was ready to surrender but didn’t want to say it out loud.

“I’m so tired,” she murmured.

“I know.”

He stepped in first. Arms around her before she could collapse into herself. He didn’t realize until then how much she needed that hug—how much she had been holding in with caffeine and sheer willpower.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re not being dramatic,” she said into his chest. Her voice cracked just enough to make his throat tighten. “And I missed you. Missed my friends. I’m never taking a screen deal again.”

He smiled, his chin above her head, resting against her hair. “You might change your mind later. You liked the first half, didn’t you? Before the notes came in. You just overthink the rest. That’s what happens when you care too much. It’s harder when you’re making things for other people.”

She nodded against him.

“It’s not like an album,” he went on, quietly. “When the only person you need to impress is yourself. They’ll have notes. Opinions. And you’ll listen, because that’s who you are. You care. That’s not a bad thing.”

There was a pause, and then he said: “Should’ve done an indie film first. They’d be so grateful you could send them an out-of-tune violin and they’d say it’s ‘experimental.’”

She laughed. Her body shook against his. When he looked down, her eyes were wet.

“You just have to learn to balance your life,” he murmured.

“I should,” she whispered. “I get lost in it sometimes. In wanting to do good.”

“I know you do.”

“I was working hard to make it perfect, but the urgency in which I did it, it’s because I didn’t want to miss out. I tried to make friends with orchestra people, but they’d rather see me as a composer than a friend. I sensed it. And my friends, well they’re artists in their own time, with their own schedules, with time to date and party. I’ve spent so many years missing out. Missing everything, getting left out. I’d be the one asking what the joke was, and they’d say, ‘You had to be there.’ And I wasn’t. I was practicing.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t want to miss out. On them, on you. But I keep needing to disappear to make great music. So I try to finish as quickly as possible, no matter how messy it gets, how unhealthy it is. As long as it means there’s no more inside jokes I couldn’t get, or a memory I missed.”

“We’ll make our own inside jokes,” he said. “Besides, nothing’s happening to me. Ever. And if something were to happen, you’d be the first person I’d tell.”

She looked up, smiling faintly through the mess of emotion. “I just want it done quickly so I can go home and not miss out on anything ever again.”

“I want you home too,” he said. “With proper rest. But you have time. What’s one more day?”

And that was that.

She fell asleep early that evening, he changed her into her pajamas while she was barely conscious. She collapsed into bed and slept like she hadn’t in weeks—deep and dreamless. When morning came, she didn’t stir even when he moved around the apartment. He let her be.

He left a note by her nightstand before work, told her to eat something and that he will be checking. That she could ask Mr Williams to take her back to the studio when she’s ready.

And then he was gone, leaving the door softly shut behind him. The penthouse felt warmer with her there, even in sleep. Even in silence.

⊹

True to her words, Catherine finished the piece the day she said she would. The BBC accepted her revised renditions almost immediately, sending a short note of approval that made her breath hitch and shoulders finally relax. She was proud. That much was obvious. And Harry could tell, because she showed up at his office door with wine and flushed cheeks— unannounced, of course.

He didn’t know she was coming. He should’ve. Emma had been acting strange for the past hour, typing with too much energy and dodging questions with suspicious precision. When he pressed, she deflected with unusual efficiency. Only later did he realize Catherine had called to ask for the address, and Emma—predictably loyal—had played accomplice.

“I come bearing gifts!” Catherine announced, pushing open the glass door to his office, her grin already brighter than the last few weeks. “Well, you’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you? If this were my office, I’d work every day.”

He laughed, unable to stop smiling. Still in disbelief that she was actually there, like a bolt of light into a room that didn’t know it was dim. “No you wouldn’t.”

She leaned over and kissed him like she’d always belonged in his life.

“I was going to pick you up,” he said.

“I know. I wanted to see you earlier. See where you actually spend your time.” She spun slowly in the middle of the room, eyeing the bookshelves, the windows, the skyline behind them.

“That’s nice,” he said, his eyes trailing her movement. “You want to go out?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I want to treat you to something.”

Of course she did. He knew he wouldn’t let her, but he let her think she might. That was enough.

“They gave me a bonus,” she added like a secret, and her joy was so unfiltered it made him warm in a way expensive scotch never could. “So tell me, what’s your favorite food? Anything. Your pick.”

He blinked. A strange question. An ordinary one. And yet, no one had asked him that before. Not any of his previous girlfriends. Not anyone. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

“I don’t think I have one.”

“Sure you do.”

He thought. “Bagel?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll get you one tomorrow. But right now we’re celebrating. And you can’t possibly expect me to toast with carbs and cream cheese.”

He laughed, grabbing his coat, reaching for his wallet and phone in one movement. She was already halfway to the door, talking about possible options. He didn’t care where they went. It was the sound of her voice he was listening to.

Downstairs, as they exited the elevator, the doorman— more doorboy by the looks of it— smiled at Catherine with surprising familiarity. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Ainsworth.”

Harry squinted. “How’d you already know the doorman?”

“My heels fell off my feet when I was running in, and he helped me.”

“And you introduced yourself?”

“He asked who I was here for. I told him I was visiting my very important boyfriend.”

He looked at her. She was completely serious.

They settled on steak. Something grounding and simple, because Harry just wanted her to eat something filling and proper. The wine was good, the conversation better. She told him about the BBC meeting, how she finally felt a strange type of peace. Then, in between bites of potato gratin, she mentioned wanting to throw a small gathering. A celebration, with her friends, maybe some musicians. She said she’d need his help setting it up.

Harry mentioned he had a gala to attend tomorrow, some industry networking thing. She should come with him, he said. She’d be happy to, she said.

By the time the check came, Harry had already slipped his card to the waiter. She made a fuss about it for exactly ten seconds before yawning mid-protest. They were barely in the car when her head fell against his shoulder and stayed there.

By the time they arrived at the penthouse, she was fully asleep.

He didn’t wake her. Just carried her upstairs. Still in disbelief, still grateful. The wine, untouched in its bag, sat quietly beside her coat.

He placed it on the table and turned off the lights. And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t thinking about harps or deadlines.

Just sleep.

And maybe—if he was lucky—him.

⊹

His work gala came a day before her celebration party. 

Catherine was the first girlfriend he actually invited in a while. His exes rarely came, and if they did, they never bothered to pay attention to the conversations. After noticing that they might like to stay home, he stopped inviting them. They wouldn't be interested, he knew. He had never minded if his girlfriends were uninterested in his life, he’s convinced few actually did. He had seen relationships differently back then. But now he had the need to show his life to Catherine. And more, he wanted Catherine to go. So he asked her.

Catherine had been excited to go, more than he expected. Maybe it was because he told her that most of his friends were in the industry—men with cufflinks and practiced grins who only saw each other during events like this. 

The afternoon of, a few hours before they had to leave, he stepped out of the shower with a towel around his waist and steam still clinging to his skin. There it was, laid out across the bed like a gift—an unfamiliar suit. Sharp lines. Seamless work. Stitching so fine it was invisible. It was expensive. Probably more expensive than the ones he already owned, and those were nothing to scoff at.

He didn’t ask. He just stood there for a moment, towel dripping, a little stunned. Then smiled.

She must’ve taken one of his suits when he wasn’t paying attention, had copied the custom sizing and improved. She knew his measurements better than he did. He felt it in his gut again—that fluttery, maddening thing she kept making him feel. The one that settled somewhere behind his ribs and just… lingered.

He put the suit on. Of course it fits perfectly. Of course it did.

He found her in the walk-in closet, standing in front of the mirror in the middle of getting dressed. Her reflection caught him and she smiled, real and soft. Then she turned around, not fully zipped up.

“You look so handsome. I must say, I’m pretty darn good at this gift giving thing, huh? Turn around,” she said, biting back a grin, eyes flicking over the suit.

He laughed. It should’ve been the other way around, really. But he did as told, like a good man. Then after a second, he stepped closer and told her to turn instead. She obeyed.

His fingers zipped her up in silence, steady, deliberate. She smelled like flowers and that expensive hair oil she refused to admit was expensive. She hummed under her breath. He wondered, in the space between their bodies, how this became their life. How something this delicate could feel so certain.

The gala was held in a hotel ballroom dressed up to look like something finer. Marble floors, gold trim on the ceiling. A sweeping chandelier that no one really looked up at. It was for something or other—an annual event to recognize client milestones and corporate achievements, mostly a chance for industry types to see who was still around. There was always one or two names missing from the list. The gala was, if anything, a gentle reminder that the game never stopped.

This year felt different. He felt it before they even entered. Before they gave their names at the door and got a nod of recognition, before they were handed drinks. The room looked at him longer. Or maybe, most likely, they were looking at her.

Catherine wore a dark navy gown with a clean neckline and a fabric that glinted when she moved. Nothing loud. Just elegant. A single curl behind her ear. A slight flush on her cheeks—not nerves, just her usual color. She held his arm the way she always did, casual, natural. As if they’d been walking into rooms like this together forever.

The first twenty minutes passed in a blur of names and champagne. Harry shook hands while Catherine smiled and remembered every name. She charmed the bartender within minutes, said something complimentary about the way the napkins were folded. She complimented the color of a passing woman’s shoes. She leaned down to speak to a server holding a tray of miniature pastries and asked about some type of pastry he never bothered to know the name of.

Harry watched from a few feet away, sipping his drink. She made people feel like people. He was used to faces glossing over after the second glass, names forgotten, wives clinging to arms like accessories.

“Who’s this young lady?” one of his colleagues asked.

“Catherine, nice to meet you,” she said, offering her hand.

“Nice to meet you too, Catherine. I’m glad Harry finally found a girl who looks happy to be here.”

“I’m happy to come,” she said with a small laugh. “The chouquettes were so good I asked for the recipe.”

“My wife would love you. She runs a bakery.”

“Really? Is she here?”

“Somewhere. I’ll introduce you.”

And he did. Catherine was whisked away to meet her, and Harry let her go without protest. She was like that. A tide. Moving from one person to the next, leaving everyone warmer than before.

He found her again ten minutes later, deep in conversation with his friend’s wife about sustainable packaging in pastry boxes. And although Harry was huddled with his friends— or colleagues— his eyes trailed to her.

One of his single colleagues, predictably, was two glasses of whiskey in and smirking. He talked to Catherine only briefly a few moments ago, yet she managed to make an impression on him.

“Where’d you find her?” he asked, leaning in.

“Cold Spring,” Harry said.

“Does she have a friend?” Another one of his colleagues asked. One that already has a partner.

“You’re not gonna have luck with that, she befriended the whole of New York already. She already introduced herself to the caterers. Give her a few more hours and she’d memorized all the names in this room.”

They laughed. Someone refilled their drinks. Somewhere between the toasts and the polite speeches, Catherine returned to his side and whispered something about how good the wine was and how she loved that the pianist played actual classical pieces instead of mainstream songs with repetitive melodies. She clinked glasses with someone’s wife, told someone else they had a nice laugh which made them turn scarlet and laugh harder than anyone was supposed to on these occasions, and remembered the name of a woman Harry hadn’t seen in ten years.

He hadn’t thought about it before, but it struck him then— how perfectly she fit with his crowd even with her unusual approach. Not like someone pretending. Just like someone who didn’t need the world to change for her. She shaped herself around it and still managed to remain exactly who she was, and somehow, she belonged. He didn’t know how she did that. But he knew this: they’d remember her long after the next course. Long after the speeches. And if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. He would.

“Morning breath,” she said, placing a mug on the bedside table with a ceremonial clink. She kissed him anyway. Lightly, then not-so-lightly. She already tasted like coffee. Then pulled away just before it could mean too much too early.

He watched her walk out. She moved like she belonged there. Like this had been their routine for months, not hours. It wasn’t just the kiss or the shirt or the smell of toast drifting from the kitchen. It was the ease. The unbearable ease. And he wanted her in that humiliating, bone-deep kind of way you’re not supposed to want anyone once you’re past forty.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she called out from the kitchen, her voice half-muffled under the low hum of a toaster. “I went out and bought groceries. I know you’re a man, Harry, but having actual food in your fridge is a basic necessity for an adult. It’s honestly embarrassing. You had, what—expired orange juice, expired bread…”

“Catherine,” he said, voice still groggy.

“Yes?”

He was already in the kitchen, barefoot with a bed head, when he pulled her in and kissed her again. Properly this time. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask questions first. She kissed him back, smiling against his mouth. His hand cupped her jaw, opening her mouth. 

“Stop, I have morning breath,” she whispered.

“I do too,” he said.

He was hard.  He was almost certain she could feel it—because she moaned, soft and low, the kind of sound that made his chest cave in. It was music. Her kind of music. And god help him, he wanted to drown in it.

He kissed her harder, backing her against the counter like instinct took over. Like last night’s restraint had finally cracked open. She didn’t stop him. She kissed him back with equal want, her fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer like they were both starved.

Harry wasn’t new to this. He’d been with many women—he’s old, for Christ’s sake. He knew how to make it feel good, how to be quiet, composed, in control. This was different. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t planning. He wasn’t even thinking.

When he groaned, it startled him. That was new. He’s usually deadly silent. The sound was real—too real. Raw and unfamiliar in his own throat. Desperate, like a man who’d gone years without being touched right, and now finally had someone who knew exactly what to do with him.

He pressed closer, his body against hers, kissing her like it meant something.

Then he started grinding into her. It felt so heavenly that Harry, with all the agnostic principles he stood by, almost went to his knees and thanked god. The catholic kind his mom liked.

She was soft everywhere. His hand went to her honey blonde hair, deepening the kiss. He was overcome with lust. He groaned again. Then again.

But then—

A sharp scent of burnt toast filled the air.

Catherine pulled away first. “Oh god.”

He blinked, dazed, breath ragged.

“That’s your fault,” she said, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. “Trying to seduce me while I’m cooking. Can’t you see I’m trying to impress you with avocado toast and eggs?”

Breathless and desperate for her to give up on the cooking, he said, “I’m allergic to eggs.”

“No, you’re not. You know how I know?” She pointed to the trash. “Because I just threw out your very old eggs fifteen minutes ago.”

He chuckled. Still breathless.

When they sat down for breakfast, she was looking at him with wide-eyes, trying to take in his reaction to her cooking. He purposely exaggerated his reaction, which made her happy. In truth, he enjoyed it. He wouldn’t have to exaggerate any reactions at all if it weren’t for the hard on that took up all of his attention.

It was like being possessed.

Watching her eating her own avocado toast, licking her fingers slowly. Then his eyes trailed down to her chest. Breathing slowly, relaxed.

So he finished his toast quickly and went to the bathroom.

Harry planned a cold shower, but ended up taking care of himself.

Tugging his cock like he was young, like the kissing and the grinding was the first sexual experience he ever had. It was pathetic, but Harry was desperate. He didn’t want to push her, especially because he was older.

He started thinking about her body pressed against his, how her lips touched his, her tongue danced with his. The way she was squirming while he held her. He gripped his length tightly, imagining her voice, moaning, etched in his memory. 

He came undone without a sound. Okay, maybe he did swear a little.

After taking a cold shower—more necessity than choice—Harry walked back into the living room and paused. The place was… clean. Not just tidied. Cleaned. Every surface wiped down. Every misplaced object quietly realigned. The espresso machine was gleaming. Even the scatter of books on the coffee table had been stacked in a way that looked deliberate.

He found her in the kitchen, humming under her breath as she scrubbed a glass.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said. “I have a cleaner.”

Catherine shrugged without looking at him. “I like it. It distracted me.”

He watched her for a moment. The way her hands moved. The way she always seemed to choose action over stillness, as if sitting too long bothered her. Maybe that’s why she was easily tired, he thought.

He glanced at her phone she’d left on the counter, vibrating. “Your friend’s blowing up your phone.”

She didn’t answer for a while, and Harry didn’t really want to pry. But he could see her slowly thinking about telling him.

“I don’t really want to go back,” she said, drying the glass. “They’d know. One of my neighbors would’ve told them. No sense of discretion.”

“You wanna stay here for a few days?” He asked, silently hoping she immediately agreed.

She blinked at him, the slightest smile tugging at her mouth. “You have a spare room?”

Harry gave her a look.

“You’re kidding, right?” he said.

“I need clothes, though.”

“I can call Emma. Have her get you a dress or ten.”

Catherine laughed, soft and bright. “No, I mean my clothes. I need to get my things. Then I’ll come back.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Okay. I’ll take you.”

She leaned against the counter, studying him like she wasn’t sure how serious he was. “What if you get sick of me and you’re too polite to say so?”

“Impossible.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Promise you’d tell me if you want me to go? I won’t be offended.”

Harry looked at her for a long second, then walked over and brushed a damp curl from her cheek. “I promise,” he said. “But I’m telling you, Catherine, I won’t.”

⊹

He came to her apartment again. The second time always felt more revealing than the first. This time, he saw things he’d missed. The curtain that didn’t quite reach the floor. A chipped tile by the sink. The soft but unmistakable scent of rosin and jasmine, something that seemed embedded in the walls.

The first thing he noticed was the empty vase on her dinner table.

He didn’t say anything, but the thought lingered. He’d been wondering—maybe even quietly hoping—that the flowers he gave her were still alive. Maybe she'd forgotten to water them, too busy spending nights at his place. Maybe she didn’t even like flowers. He had almost asked, gently, something like “Did they die already?” when his eyes wandered to the journal splayed open on the table. Petals that looked familiar.

Pressed and delicate, fragile things tucked into the folds of a page filled with erratic, half-legible scribbles. She must’ve noticed the moment he did, because she stepped over quickly and shut the journal in one motion, muttering something about the mess and how she spent days writing on her dinner table alone. He didn’t tease her. He just smiled—soft and private, the kind of smile he only seemed to use around her.

There were other things he hadn’t noticed the first time. Like the framed photo turned face-down beside her record player. Or the way there was a sheet of unfinished music stuffed under the microwave. More than that, there were instruments everywhere—not conspicuously placed, but hidden in plain sight. A violin half-tucked behind the couch, a flute case beneath a side table. A bowl on the bookshelf filled with bits of rosin, strings, pegs, and other small things only a musician would know how to use.

“Aren’t you gonna bring your cello?” he asked, walking around the room like it was a gallery. “Or a violin?”

From inside the bedroom, her voice echoed out. “I can? It won’t be too noisy?”

“Sure you can,” he said. And then after a breath, he added, “Only if it makes you happy.”

There was silence on the other end. When he turned, she was leaning against the doorframe, holding a dress on a hanger, watching him like he’d said something that rearranged the way she saw him.

“Alright,” she said, a small smile blooming. “I’ll play whatever you want.”

He turned toward her, tilting his head. “People pay a lot of money to hear you play. I think you have more authority on that front.”

She laughed.

They packed together without fuss. He asked if she wanted to bring her funny kettle. She told him to remind her to grab her inhaler. He folded sweaters into her suitcase like he’d done it a dozen times before. When she forgot her toothbrush, he reminded her. She rolled her eyes.

It felt stupidly natural. Like they did this all the time. Like they were packing for a trip. Or like they already shared a home.

⊹

He couldn’t remember how long she stayed.

A week? Two? The days folded into each other like soft linen, impossible to separate. She’d only planned to crash for a few days, but the end of the holidays— at least according to his calendar and schedules— crept closer and she hadn’t brought it up again. And Harry… Well, Harry did nothing to remind her she had another place to be. 

If he prayed, he would’ve prayed she’d forgotten that she had an apartment in the first place.

Living with Catherine wasn’t a transition. It was a slide. A soft shift into something that already felt worn in, like she’d been there all along and he’d just never noticed.

She bought him coffee when he was in the middle of a spreadsheet. She filled the fridge without asking. Every time he reached for something he needed to ask people to refill soon, like soap or toothpaste or paper towels, there it was—like magic. Except it wasn’t magic. Catherine had secretly talked to his cleaners, or sometimes even bought stuff herself. The scent of her shampoo lingered in the bathroom, the throw pillows on the couch had been subtly rearranged, and his place—his sterile, high-ceilinged, echo-prone apartment—smelled like something warm now. Like vanilla and ginger and something faintly citrus. He didn’t know what candle she was using, only that he hoped she never stopped.

He learned small things about her. Private things. She didn’t volunteer them all at once—they came out like stories you tell a stranger when you’re stuck together, drifting between meals and music and half-watched TV reruns.

She’d been in beauty pageants when she was younger. Won them, too. Her mother had dreams—big ones. Miss United States. Miss Universe. All that. Catherine had hated it. She said it like a joke, but Harry could hear the splinter underneath. She told him most of the girls are mean to her, apparently because the competitions were always cut throat. The only thing she got from those years was the cello. Her mother thought music looked good on stage. Talent rounds and all that. It was supposed to be a polished accessory to her smile. But somewhere in the middle of it, Catherine fell in love—with the music, not the pageants. Everything else melted away. She started sneaking practice hours. She didn’t smile as much in photos after that. The fight with her mother came later—loud and final—but by then, she’d already won enough talent competitions to get noticed. The rest was history.

Harry told her things too. He wasn’t always good at it, but she had this way of making it feel like you weren’t being interviewed. Just… seen.

He told her more things about his job— which sounded sleek and untouchable to most people, but to him, it was structure. Logic. Numbers that behaved, mostly. He said he’d always been good at details. At finding the flaw in the system. At fixing it quietly, with no one noticing. The path had been obvious: business school, internships, connections, then firms, and finally, his own. He was good at it. Better than most. But passion? No. Not the way she talked about composing. Not the way she lost herself in music.

She disagreed. 

“I think it is your passion,” Catherine said, her cheek pressed to his chest. “The way you talk about it when you’re not trying to sound bored. The way you always know what’s happening in a room, who’s who, what they want. The way you remember things, patterns, numbers, people—it’s like you’re always composing something too, just in a different language.”

Harry scoffed, not unkindly. “That’s generous.”

She didn’t move. “Just because it doesn’t feel like art, or self-expression, or make you cry into a violin, doesn’t mean it isn’t passion. You work your ass off.”

He chuckled, shaking his head like it was absurd—and yet his chest felt warm. Seen. “God, you make it sound poetic.”

“That’s because it is,” she said, tilting her head to look up at him. “You light up when you explain how things work. When a company clicks into place. When a deal finally lands.”

“How’d you know that?”

“I may have eavesdropped sometimes.”

He smiled. Because she was right.

He didn’t get swept up in beauty the way she did. He didn’t weep over a cello line or walk out of a film quoting its final scene. But he did love clarity. He loved finding a tangle of chaos and making it run. He loved knowing his instincts were sharp. He liked solving things no one else could see. He liked being trusted to fix what was broken—and he was good at it.

At the slower moments—those late afternoons when the city quieted a little and time folded in on itself—Catherine played him songs.

Always originals. Always with a gentle, almost shy kind of deference. “Do you mind if I play something?” she’d ask, even after days of sharing the same space, the same air. As if her music could ever be an intrusion. 

Eventually he told her, with the faintest irritation, to stop asking. So she stopped asking. She just played.

Sometimes she waited until he was knee-deep in spreadsheets and documents, doing the kind of work that required too much of his mind— work he needed done before the holidays came to an end. She’d tune up quietly, the room filling with soft tension, and begin playing. And inevitably, the moment her bow touched the string, Harry stopped.

He set the documents aside and just watched her—how her honey-blonde hair caught the dim light from the window, how her fingers moved with the kind of elegance that was clearly earned, not innate. She always played with her eyes closed, head tilted slightly down like she was listening to something private. It made him feel like an intruder and a chosen witness at the same time.

He said he wouldn’t request anything. That her playlist was hers alone. But eventually, he did.

The song she played that very first night, in Jim’s bookstore, when he had just stepped out of a storm and into something inexplicably important. She didn’t ask him how he remembered. She just played it for him, and he sat on the floor like a man in church.

Music became part of his days the way coffee had always been. Normal. Expected. Necessary.

Sometimes, during particularly good pieces—ones he never knew the name of but eventually remembered—he’d catch her swaying to her own playing, just slightly. 

She bought a few records too, sometimes playing it during quiet nights when the snow hits the window in a romantic way. She listened intently, swaying again, lost in the rhythm. He’d get up from wherever he was and offer her his hand, and they slowly danced. No choreography, just movement. He hadn’t slow danced since… Well, since Lucy.

She had asked him about Lucy once. Or, more accurately, who his last girlfriend was.

He didn’t flinch. Just said, “Someday I’ll tell you the full story. When it stops feeling embarrassing.”

Catherine had nodded, as if she understood what kind of ache that was. She didn’t press.

They watched movies, too. Late nights with dimmed lights and his arm stretched over the back of the couch. One film he didn’t know the title of—about a songwriter and a singer who couldn’t make it work—left her crying quietly. He turned to her, confused and a little concerned, and asked why.

She wiped her eyes and said, “Some other time. When that’s not embarrassing.”

Other films, the less brilliant ones, ended better—for him at least. With her curled into him. With kisses. With fingers tangled and laughter under her breath and the kind of warmth that made his penthouse feel like a place you could actually live in.

They make out a lot, much to his liking. Grinded into each other, trailing kisses and pressing their bodies together, deeper into his couch. Harry wanted more. Of course he does. But he didn’t want to force her, to insist on something she wasn’t ready for.

He knew she wanted it too, though. Could feel her excitement, her wetness sometimes soaking his fingers when they went at it too hard. Had felt her hands guiding his hands, putting it on her breast. He had obliged happily, eagerly. Had squeezed her breast, went inside under her shirt and played with her hard nipples. It was warm and perfect against his palm which always made him groan.

He became extremely vocal since Catherine. Moaning, groaning, whimpering. He had never been like that with any other woman before. He was usually so guarded. There was something about Catherine that made him forget. He tried to be quiet, but one touch of her breasts, he was gone. Too intoxicated in the feel of her, he forgot any plans on staying quiet. It made her grind harder on his lap, against his bulge.  

Sometimes they grinded so hard that they came, clothes still on. They had laughed afterwards, but it left him wanting more. It always left him wanting more.

She slept in his bed. Harry, who usually has restless nights, sleepless nights, now falls asleep easily. Maybe it was because of her breathing, how it acted as a white noise. Or maybe it was because of her warmth, against him so close that he could feel nothing but comfortability. He would trace his fingers through the shape of her, the curves and skin. She was such a beautiful woman.

One day, when his hands became a little active before bed, he heard her moaning. His hand then trailed down to find her damp against her panties. She grinded back against him.

“Catherine,” he said to her ear, softly from behind her. “So beautiful, so warm. So tight.”

“Harry,” she had said breathlessly. 

He groaned. “You want my fingers, sweetheart?”

“Yes, please,” she moaned.

Then he slid her panties off and dipped his fingers inside her. His mouth on her ears, his chest against her back, groaning as if the act of pleasing her was pleasing him too, arousing him too. Which it was.

Harry's fingers delved into Catherine's slick heat, stroking and exploring her most intimate places. He could feel her body responding eagerly to his touch, her walls clenching and fluttering around his digits as he pumped them in and out of her.

Catherine could only whimper in response, her body arching into his touch, seeking more. Harry's other hand slid around to cup her breast, kneading the soft mound and rolling her stiffened nipple between his fingers. He could feel her heart racing beneath his palm, matching the frantic pounding of his own.

“You’re so tight, sweetheart. Squeezing around my finger so well.”

“Your fingers are big,” she whispered. Her body clenched and quivered around the welcome intrusion, her silken walls gripping his digits like a velvet vice.

“Yeah? I think you need more. Stretch you out, hm?” Harry added a finger. He was getting harder, trying to find friction from her back. “You’re doing so good. So pretty. Had me so hard, sweetheart. Made me crazy. Want you all the time. All the time.”

He could feel his cock throbbing with the need to replace his fingers, to bury itself deep inside her welcoming tightness. Harry grounded his hips harder against Catherine's ass, seeking some measure of relief from the ache of his desire.

Her moans were getting louder. Harry could feel Catherine's body tensing and trembling, her slick walls starting to flutter wildly around his plunging fingers. Her breathy plea, the desperate way she arched her hips to take his fingers deeper, told him she was on the very brink.  His fingers moved faster.

Catherine let out a sharp cry, her body stiffening and then convulsing as her orgasm crashed over her. Her pussy clenched and rippled around Harry's fingers, gushing and dripping with her release.

He held her close as the aftershocks faded, pressing a string of kisses along her neck and shoulder, murmuring words of praise and adoration into her skin.

He turned her head to the side, kissing her and groaning again. She felt his bulge, still prominent against her. Her eyes looked at him, darker than usual. Then she moved down.

Down, down, until her face is exactly where he needed it to be.

Slowly he took his length out. It was hard, big on her hands, but that didn’t stop her. She was slow with her torture.

Harry felt Catherine's soft, dexterous hand wrap around the thick base of his cock, gripping him with a confident, almost possessive squeeze. Her fingers closed around his girth, leaving her thumb and forefinger gently kissing as they encircled his shaft. The contrast of her delicate hand against his throbbing, veined flesh was erotic and strangely intimate.

Her fingers began to move, stroking him with a skill and finesse that contradicted her youth. She worked his length with a twisting, pumping motion, her grip tightening and loosening in a rhythm that made Harry's breath catch and his hips twitch forward involuntarily.

“Fuck,” He breathed as he gave up his attempt to stay quiet. “Just like that. Such a good girl.”

Her hand moved lower, cupping and squeezing his heavy balls, rolling them gently in her palm. Harry shuddered, his stomach muscles clenching as a thrill of sensation shot up his spine.

When her soft, pillowy lips brushed against the sensitive head of his dick, Harry let out a guttural groan. The barest whisper of a touch, but it was enough to make him shudder with need. Catherine's little pink tongue darted out, lapping at the weeping slit, and Harry's fingers tangled almost painfully in her hair as he fought the urge to grab her head and thrust forward, burying himself in the wet heat of her mouth.

Harry had never felt more pleasure in the forty-something years he’s been alive. He can’t help but stroke her, pet her, other times guiding her. Her lips went to the top, giving it a kiss. 

Then she opened her mouth, and Harry was sure he entered heaven.

Catherine just smiled, a wicked little curve of her lips against his flesh, before she opened her mouth wider and took him inside. She was slow, maddeningly so, letting her lips stretch obscenely around his girth as she sank down inch by inch. Harry could feel every centimeter of her soft mouth engulfing his aching cock, the wet, silken heat engulfing him like a fever dream.

His hands tightened in her hair as she finally, finally took him to the back of her throat. He could feel her nose pressing against his pelvis, could feel the flutter of her throat as she swallowed around him. Harry threw his head back, a hoarse moan tearing from his chest as the pleasure bordered on pain. A sound he never heard himself make before.

“Catherine,” he said breathlessly. “You’re going to kill me.”

She slowly put his cock deeper, deeper inside her throat.

“Your throat feels so good, Catherine. You’re doing so well. Please, sweetheart. Yes, right there.” He guided her head now, trying to make it easier for her. “You’re killing me, Catherine. So tight. Such a tight throat. You want my cum, sweetheart?”

She hummed, going faster, her hands working him too. He was in utter bliss.

The obscene slurping sounds of her sucking filled the room, mingling with Harry's guttural moans and harsh panting. Catherine could only moan in response, the vibrations of her throat sending shockwaves of ecstasy shooting up Harry's shaft. She could feel him throbbing and pulsing, his cock swelling even harder as she worked him closer to the edge.

Harry's balls tightened, his orgasm building to a crescendo as Catherine's hands pumped his slick, aching flesh faster and faster. Her lips stretched taut around his girth, and she took him to the hilt, burying her nose in his wiry pubic hair as she swallowed around him.

"Catherine, sweetheart, I'm gonna... Fuck!" Harry roared, his head thrown back in utter bliss as his orgasm ripped through him. His cock jerked and throbbed as he shot thick, hot ropes of cum directly down Catherine's eager throat. He held her head tightly in place, his fingers tangled almost painfully in her hair, as he rode out the waves of his intense climax.

"Take it all, sweetheart," he gasped out, "Take every last drop. Good girl." His hips shuddered and bucked, grinding his spurting cock against the back of her throat as he emptied his heavy balls into her mouth.

Catherine swallowed every last drop of Harry's hot, thick seed, her throat working diligently to gulp down each throbbing spurt. She could feel it coating her throat, filling her belly with his essence. As Harry's climax began to subside, she slowly pulled back, her lips sliding deliciously along his sensitive shaft until they slipped free with a soft pop. 

That night, Harry thanked his luck that Catherine was a musician, so skilled with moving her hands. Even though he wanted to fuck her so bad to the point of madness, he would wait. And knowing just how good other acts could be, he was sure he could wait forever.

They both overslept that day. Not in the lazy, indulgent way, but in the we forgot the world existed kind of way. Wrapped around each other like gravity had shifted. There was something about living your life contently—genuinely, softly—that made you forget about clocks and alarms and expectations. The city had been moving without them. And neither of them cared.

⊹

Harry forgot he was supposed to start working.

He stirred first. Not from sunlight or discomfort, but from the sound of his front door unlocking. A soft click, followed by quiet footsteps.

It took a second to register. He blinked awake slowly, his arm heavy with Catherine’s weight, her body curled into his chest like she belonged there, like she’d always belonged there. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to disturb whatever magic had settled in his penthouse overnight. But then there was a knock—tentative but firm—against the bedroom door.

“Sir?” Emma’s voice. Sharp. Professional. “You have two meetings today.”

Right. Reality. So, unfortunately, his holiday did have an end after all.

He groaned. Carefully slid away from Catherine, who stirred only slightly, murmuring something incoherent against the pillow. He pulled on the nearest pair of pants, ran a hand through his hair, and opened the door.

Emma was already making herself useful, as always. She had her coat folded over her arm, was mid-motion in turning on the espresso machine. She glanced at him, blinking once.

“When did you get your life together?” asked Emma.

“What?” Harry rubbed his face. His brain was still somewhere under the blankets.

She gestured vaguely around the space. “Your penthouse. Spotless in the morning, before the cleaner’s scheduled. Groceries—real groceries. The espresso machine’s clean. Polished. You even have fruit in the bowl. Like actual fruit, not the decorative kind that comes in gift baskets.”

“Wasn’t me,” he muttered.

Emma raised a brow. “Finally used the service I told you about, huh? I said it was useful. People shopping for you—it’s not that weird. Plus you already have a cleaner, so I don’t think it’s such a  big deal if you…”

She stopped.

He followed her gaze, already knowing what she saw.

Catherine, half-awake, standing quietly at the edge of the hallway, her hair a soft mess, one sock missing. Blinking like she didn’t realize there was company. Her presence seeped into the room like warmth.

Emma, who was rarely speechless, rarely surprised, stood perfectly still.

Harry had never seen her like that. Not even when the market crashed.

Catherine gave a small wave. “Hi. Sorry. Morning.”

Emma’s mouth opened, then closed. Her eyes darted to Harry, who shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was nothing at all.

“Miss Catherine Ainsworth—oh, god, I’m so sorry. I should have kept my voice down,” Emma said, stumbling over her words in a way that didn’t suit her usual composure.

“It’s fine. I think we overslept.” Catherine said, smiling as she took the seat across from Harry. Her seat. Funny, that. The usual empty seat, assigned to no one, was now hers. “Please. Just Catherine. Emma, right? You wanna sit down, Emma? Have you had breakfast?”

“Oh, no, no, please,” Emma replied quickly, standing a little too straight. She seemed excited to be on a first name basis with her. “We have bagels right here. You can have mine. Or his too, if you want.”

Harry chuckled, flipping open the newspaper Emma had brought like always, with her usual everything bagel and a splash of cream cheese. Predictable. Steady. But now there was Catherine, standing there barefoot in his kitchen, and suddenly even the newspaper felt new.

“Just bagels?” Catherine teased, looking at the table. “I thought Harry was kidding. You really don’t eat much, huh? I’ll make you both a quick omelette. I bought lots of eggs,” she added, already standing up.

“No, please, you don’t have to. I’m his assistant,” Emma said, hands raised, awkward in the way people get when hierarchy meets unexpected kindness.

“You’re his assistant, but you’re also my guest,” Catherine replied over her shoulder, already halfway to the fridge.

That was the end of that. Emma sat, hands folded tightly, glancing between Harry and the woman now humming to herself while peeling apples. She watched Catherine like she was some mythological creature brought to life. Like she couldn’t believe the Catherine Ainsworth was standing barefoot in Tribeca, slicing fruit and singing under her breath. Like she couldn’t believe Catherine Ainsworth was staying here, with him. And not just staying—but happy.

Harry asked about the meetings. Logistics. Timing. Rescheduling. Numbers, names, emails. The usual. But Emma kept glancing toward the kitchen, like she couldn’t help herself.

Not that he blamed her. He also liked looking at Catherine.

“So,” Emma said, lowering her voice slightly, though there was no real need. “Are you and her a couple?”

Harry leaned back in his chair, still watching Catherine in the kitchen as she fussed over something as simple as toast and apples like it was a sacred ritual. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “Hopefully she thinks so.”

There was a knowing smile on Emma’s face—one that had been years in the making. Because Emma had seen it all. The calls from his mother, ringing like church bells every Monday: You’re not getting any younger, Harry. You don’t even have a dog. The way he used to groan, say he’d look for someone at his brother’s wedding. He did meet Lucy there, and he had hoped that was that.

Emma had watched that play out too. The slow build of something hopeful. Then the unraveling. Quiet at first. Then humiliating in that dignified, devastating way Harry did everything. He’d even once muttered that if his mother brought it up again, he’d just hire an actress and get the farce over with.

So now, seeing him like this—warm, a little dazed, blinking like he couldn’t believe this was his life—Emma just shook her head, grinning.

“I can’t believe you managed to convince the Catherine Ainsworth to date you, boss,” she said. 

Harry laughed under his breath. “I’m already planning your raise.”

“Damn right you are,” she said, biting into her bagel, still watching Catherine move around his kitchen like she’d always been there.

Catherine served them omelets, toast, and neatly sliced apples arranged on a plate like it was a brunch spot in the Village. It was warm and unpretentious, with just a touch of care that made it taste better than any overpriced breakfast Harry had been served at a boardroom table.

As they ate, Catherine turned to Emma, genuinely curious. “So what did you do during the holidays? Harry says his work schedule is different, more days off in January than December. I’m assuming you have elaborate plans unlike us.”

Emma smiled, relaxing into her chair like they were old friends. “Oh, just a lot of family time. My husband worked most of it—he’s a chef, so the holidays are kind of chaos for him. I mostly held down the fort.”

Catherine lit up at the word chef. “Where does he work?”

Emma named the place—a well-known restaurant uptown that Harry had heard of a dozen times but never had the patience to wait a week for a table. Catherine’s brows rose, impressed.

“That’s an incredible place,” she said. “You must eat well.”

Emma laughed. “Only when he’s not working himself to death. We’ve got our anniversary coming up and I wanted to treat him, but honestly, I’m not sure how.”

Catherine blinked, thoughtful. Then without hesitation, “Would you let me play something for you? For him? A little private concert? Just cello, nothing dramatic. Or a piano if you like. Whichever you prefer. A couple of pieces over dinner?”

Emma looked stunned. She blinked several times like she hadn’t heard right.

“Oh no—no, that’s too much. That would be—honestly, that would be too kind.”

“It’s not too much,” Catherine said simply. “It’s a gift. I never played music for the money. Not really. I play for moments like that. For people like you, someone who likes my music. Who knows, maybe I’ll get inspired and compose a new song.”

They went back and forth—Emma trying to be polite, Catherine stubbornly gracious. Harry watched it unfold like a tennis match, quietly amused.

Then he cleared his throat. “Compromise. Let Catherine play. But Emma—you give us a dinner date. At your husband’s place.”

Emma jumped on that suggestion. “Would you want that?”

“I’ve been meaning to get a reservation a couple of times, too much of a hassle. The waiting,” Harry said dryly, sipping his coffee. “I had to pretend I liked truffle foam at six other places instead.”

Emma turned to Catherine. “Then at least let me pay you back by giving you the date. You and Harry. I’ll talk to my husband. He’ll make something special. You’ll love it. The restaurant’s very sought after, impossible to get into. Multiple course meals. And Harry here—he’s dying to take you on a date.”

Catherine laughed, genuinely delighted. “Are you trying to convince me or him?”

Emma grinned. “Both.”

Catherine raised her hands in mock surrender. “I can’t say no to a date with Harry. But I’m still not letting you pay me.”

The plates were cleared, the coffee cups emptied. And as the morning stretched into something quieter, something softer, Harry found himself once again watching Catherine from across the table. She was talking about music again, a glimmer in her eyes, her fork moving absentmindedly through the leftover apples.

But he knew inevitably, this part of the story had to end. He had to go to work. He got ready slowly, as if dreading leaving home, which was saying a lot because he loved his work. He was great at it. But, still, it paled in comparison to whatever happened over the holidays.

Harry was getting ready when she came up behind him.

He caught her reflection in the mirror first—barefoot, hair still slightly damp from the shower, wearing one of his shirts like she hadn’t noticed it didn’t belong to her. She reached around and took the tie from his hands, silently undoing the knot he’d already started.

“You need a better knot for this suit,” she murmured. “I can do a windsor knot.”

He didn’t argue. She stepped closer, fingers deft and practiced, brows furrowed slightly as she worked. He looked down at her, catching the way her lower lip tucked in concentration. There was something oddly intimate about the way she did it—this simple act of helping him look like himself again.

“I probably should get back to my own place,” she said casually, like she hadn’t just made his stomach tighten as she slid the knot into the perfect place and adjusted it like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“Why?” he asked, too quickly.

“I can’t stay here forever, Harry.”

“Sure you can.”

She smiled softly but didn’t look up. “My friends aren’t blowing up my phone anymore, which is usually the sign that they’ve forgiven me for missing whatever plans I ditched. And I need to check on my studio. Make sure the place is still standing. That people haven’t forgotten it exists. Also, my fear of missing out is back.”

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving today.”

“I didn’t say I was. I said I probably should.”

Harry watched her fingers straighten the fabric down his chest, then linger a little longer than necessary. “Stay another day. We haven’t had a real date yet.”

She tilted her head like she was considering it, then shrugged. “No, I really have to stop by the studio. Then come home. My manager hasn’t seen me in weeks. I’m starting to feel like a ghost.”

“Let me come with you.”

She nodded. “Sure. But I’ll probably be there a while. Are you busy today?”

“I’ll be home around three,” he said, checking the time. “Meeting I can’t move.”

“Okay, plenty of time to pack and move out,” she said lightly.

He turned to face her fully, the tie now perfect between them. “You’re not moving out.”

She raised a brow. “No?”

“Here’s what you’re gonna do,” he said, his tone mock-businesslike. “You’re going to pack only the necessities. Leave a couple of clothes here. Maybe a book or two. Buy a spare toothbrush. Just enough so the next time you stay, it’s easier.”

“Next time, huh?”

He met her eyes. “Yes. Next time.”

Catherine didn’t say anything for a moment. Just smiled to herself, brushed invisible lint from his lapel, and whispered, “Alright then. Just the essentials.”

And for the first time in years, Harry went to work feeling like he was walking out the door of a home.

  ⊹

Harry knew a few things about Catherine’s studio. Not many—just enough to feel like he wasn’t walking into the unknown. She’d told him it wasn’t advertised. That it was meant to be more of a haven than a business. That she didn’t do any marketing about it. That it was “underground,” though he wasn’t sure if that was literal or just metaphorical. She said it was where artists went when they needed somewhere to just be. He understood that. He’d started to realize that’s what she was to him, too. Somewhere to just be.

He didn’t know why, but he was excited to go. He rarely got excited to go anywhere anymore. The dinners, the events, the endless networking—it was all a blur of names and wine and politely charged conversation. But this felt different. No agenda. No one to impress. Maybe it was the space itself, but more likely, it was just her. Still, there was a twinge of something quieter underneath it all—something like sadness. She was going back to her life. And he would return to his—meetings, numbers, emails, silence.

He hoped she wouldn’t forget to call this time. It was easier when she was just in the next room.

His driver took them north, to a part of the city Harry rarely visited unless someone made a dinner reservation there. When they stopped, the building looked like nothing. Just an old door next to a plant shop. But inside— when they entered the main room—he was surprised.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. Something chaotic? Dusty? Overfilled with passion and no order? But this was different.

The room was warm and uncluttered. The walls were a soft charcoal with brass accents and a scattering of black-and-white portraits—musicians in the middle of their craft. A long sofa faced a modest desk covered in sheet music and stacked notebooks. There were books, plants, soft lighting that didn’t feel like a studio but more like a home with good taste. It was modern, but not sterile. Clean lines softened by velvet textures and faded rugs. On one shelf sat a small plaque with Catherine’s name etched in gold—some music award he didn’t recognize but knew must’ve been hard-earned. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and rosin.

A woman with a sharp pixie cut emerged from another room. Catherine hugged her with familiarity.

“This is Talia,” she said, turning to Harry. “My manager. Sort of.”

“Depends on the day,” Talia grinned, shaking Harry’s hand. 

“Harry,” he offered.

Talia, her manager, gave a brief nod and turned her focus back to Catherine. They were already talking logistics—schedules, bookings, maybe something about soundproofing repairs—he wasn’t really listening. Instead, Harry wandered the front room, eyes scanning the space.

There were framed photos—Catherine with her cello, mid-performance; Catherine accepting an award in a black dress he remembered seeing once on the cover of a classical magazine; Catherine in rehearsal, barefoot and radiant with concentration. She had a different face in each frame. Sometimes serious. Sometimes beaming. He felt oddly proud, like he’d known all of them.

Catherine interrupted his thoughts. “Is there a jam session today?”

“Oh, yeah. Kienan’s in the lounge. They’ve been at it for hours.”

Catherine’s eyes lit up. “You wanna come?” she asked Harry, already turning toward the hallway. As if she wanted him to look into her life, to have a glimpse of what she is. Like a kid showing her stuff around.

He trailed behind.

The lounge wasn’t far—it was just a turn down a narrower corridor and through a sliding door that looked like it belonged in an art gallery.

In the lounge, about fifteen people, maybe more, were scattered around the room. Some on bean bags, some standing, some perched on stools. Everyone held something—a tambourine, a triangle, a drum, a violin, a flute. There was even a girl with a melodica and someone tapping a cajón like a heartbeat. The sound was... alternative indie, kind of. He didn’t really know what to call it. But it was layered, rich, disorganized in a way that felt purposeful. Like everyone was waiting to be surprised.

A man—Kienan, Harry guessed—was in the center with a guitar, half-singing, half-grinning. When he saw Catherine, he didn’t stop playing. He just walked straight up to her, singing the whole way, and nudged her gently into the middle of the circle. Someone handed her a violin. She didn’t hesitate. She just tucked it under her chin and, without so much as tuning, began to play.

Harry stepped back, out of the circle, and watched. It was messy, unstructured, and loud. He saw how happy she was— and how happy all of them are to be there, to see her there. And for the first time that day, he stopped worrying about whether she’d remember to call. Because now, watching her—absolutely alive—he knew one thing for sure: He’d call first.

When the song ended, the room burst into loose, joyful clapping—no formal applause, just the kind of loud affection shared among friends and people who felt something together. Catherine did a small curtsy, exaggerated and playful, and Harry felt a smile tugging at his mouth. It was stupid how adorable he found it. Like she belonged to a different time. Or maybe he did.

He was still standing near the wall, slightly off to the side, when a woman approached him.

“Harry Castillo?”

He blinked. Squinted. The lighting was dim in this room—low, warm bulbs wrapped around exposed pipes—and the music had left his ears a little foggy.

“Yes?” he said, more like a question.

The woman stepped into a better view. She looked vaguely familiar, and she must’ve seen the way he hesitated, trying to place her.

“I’m Audrey. I work for Adore,” she said. Harry still looked confused, trying to place her. “I work with Rose and Lucy. We were introduced once. The whole office knew about you. The unicorn. We hadn’t had those in a while.”

Right. He never really liked the way Lucy and her work friends called him unicorn. He was a grown man, for god’s sakes. But that did click something loose in his memory. He remembered her from Lucy’s parties, maybe—one of the background people, the curated social set Lucy always brought together. Sharp dressers. Good wine talkers. He remembered a face, maybe a laugh. But he didn’t remember being properly introduced back then. Or maybe he hadn’t really cared about who Lucy was working with.

“Small world, huh?” she said lightly.

He nodded. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I donate to the studio,” Audrey replied, waving a hand like it was nothing. “My little sister’s a music nerd. Big on string instruments. She loves this place.”

He hummed politely, but didn’t dig further. He didn’t really want to play catch-up with a footnote from his past. But she leaned in slightly, smile widening.

“And you’re here with the Queen herself?” she asked, nodding toward Catherine.

“Yes,” Harry said, glancing at her from across the room. 

“So that’s why you left us. We were so sad to see you go. Rose particularly. She was supposed to get a big commission. But I get it now. A unicorn with another unicorn. I’ve been trying to get Catherine to join for a long time. She ticked a lot of our client’s boxes. But I get it, she’s too young to ask for a matchmaker,” Audrey smiled. “Am I correct in assuming? You’re her…”

“I’m her antique,” he said.

Catherine laughed behind him—he hadn’t realized she was approaching.

“So a golden ticket winner,” Audrey said.

Before Harry could reply, another woman entered the room. A musician by the looks of it. She made a beeline for Catherine, wrapping her in a tight hug.

Catherine laughed, though her tone wobbled a little.

“Catherine. We didn’t think you’d come today.” The woman stepped back. “I gotta tell Brandon. He was looking for you. I think you’d want to know this—”

“No,” Catherine said quickly, voice sharper than before. “I don’t. Please don’t tell me.”

The room held its breath for a beat.

Harry stepped forward. It wasn’t entirely conscious. Maybe it was instinct, or pride, or the fact that Catherine had just visibly flinched at the mention of someone else’s name.

“Hi,” he said, calm but firm. “I’m Harry. The boyfriend.”

He regretted the phrasing immediately. It felt juvenile coming out of his mouth. Like he was sixteen, not pushing fifty. Like he needed to prove something. The woman looked at him up and down, assessing him. Her eyes lingered on his watch, then his hair. He tried to remember if any of his gray hair showed yet. Hopefully it hadn’t and he looked perfectly normal and… age appropriate.

“Boyfriend?” the woman repeated, brows raised.

“Yes,” he said again, this time with more certainty.

Catherine looked up at him. And she didn’t laugh. She didn’t correct him. She just smiled—quiet, warm—like boyfriend was a word she’d said to herself before, just to see how it tasted. Like she agreed. She returned to his side with a softness he hadn’t known he missed until now, sliding her hand into the crook of his arm again, like they’d done this a hundred times before.

“Sorry I haven’t really told anyone,” she said under her breath.

“Haven’t told anyone?” The woman’s voice rose, half-teasing, half-accusatory. “You practically disappeared!”

“It all happened really quickly,” Catherine said, trying to sound breezy, but there was a quiet hopefulness in her eyes. “Did you have fun without me? Please say not much…”

Harry chuckled. Her eternal fear of missing out—on music, on people, on life—had become something endearing. Irrational, maybe, but human. He didn’t mind reassuring her.

They trailed off together, their arms brushing, until the woman tugged Catherine away with the promise of a quick catch-up. Audrey was already on a call, distracted, and Harry found himself momentarily untethered.

He wandered the room alone, hands in his pockets, pretending not to feel the cold absence of her next to him. The lounge was lived-in. Familiar. Jam sessions frozen in polaroid photos tacked to the walls, napkins with scrawled lyrics, stray music sheets curling on the corners of the table. Artifacts of lives more expressive than his. More open.

He spotted a photo—framed, but not hung. Propped on a side table, half-hidden behind an empty vase. A group shot. Friends, instruments, sweat-drenched from what looked like a rooftop concert. Catherine wasn’t in one of her sleek black concert gowns—she was in jeans and a tee, laughing, hair wild. That other version of her. The one he was still discovering.

His eyes caught the arm. A man’s arm, wrapped around her shoulder, like it had belonged there for years.

He didn’t need a name. He knew. There was always a name you didn’t want to say. The one people refused to talk about, the one that made them avoid whole conversations.

Harry stared a little too long. Not out of jealousy—not at first. It was fear. Something guttural and pathetic. He’d been here before. With Lucy, with his college girlfriend. With the knowledge that love could exist for you, but belong to someone else.

He pulled out his phone. Searched. Paused. Realized he didn’t even know the man’s last name. Just Brandon. Too many results. Tried Brandon and Catherine Ainsworth. Nothing. Catherine Ainsworth boyfriend. Nothing relevant.

His thumb hovered over the screen, annoyed at himself. What did he think he was doing? Internet sleuthing like some insecure teenager? He sighed, locked the phone, shoved it into his coat.

But the thought wouldn’t leave him. It sat heavy in his chest all night, even when he dropped her off and she kissed him like they were the only people in the city.

Back in his penthouse, alone again, no smell of food or coffee, no soft humming from the bathroom, Harry cracked.

He asked Emma by morning. He regretted it as soon as he did. The guilt landed hard, like a slap. He expected Emma to judge him—and she did. But not with disdain. With brutal, pointed clarity.

“Catherine’s not like your other girlfriends,” she said, arms crossed, brows raised. “She’s been avoiding this guy. Hasn’t even let her friends talk about him. She’s glued to your side. I don’t know what you’re worried about.”

“I don’t know,” Harry muttered. “Habit?”

Emma sighed but helped him anyway.

It wasn’t through LinkedIn or official sites. It was on social media. Tags on studio accounts. Someone had posted an old video. And there he was: Brandon Dahl. Good-looking. Wild hair. Tattooed arms. Cool in that rehearsed way that rock musicians always were. One song had gone viral a year or two back. Big enough to tour the States, but not yet global. Not Harry’s world. Not even close.

Emma said he looked eerily like Kurt Cobain. He didn’t like that.

“She likes you,” Emma said to calm him down, sipping from her coffee with unbothered finality. “I may be older than her, but I know women. And she likes you.”

It helped. A little. But what calmed him, what truly settled the noise in his mind, was simpler than that.

It was when she called him first.

He’d known from the first ring that it was her (he assigned a different ringtone the first time she gave him her number), but he had left the call ringing for a few seconds, unanswered. He was savoring the first time Catherine called him first. But that didn’t last too long. He couldn’t help it.

Her voice on the other end of the line, warm and tired. “Miss me yet?”

He didn’t even remember what she said after that. Just the sound of her. And suddenly, none of it mattered. Not even the photo.

Just her. Now. Calling him first.

He had dreamt about her once. Or maybe not dreamt. He wasn’t sure he’d even slept.

By day five, the yearning turned to worry. Maybe he’d misread it. Maybe she was young enough that the kiss had been a flicker, not a fire. Maybe she was busy. Or maybe she was smart enough to see the difference between flirtation and something real—and smart enough to walk away before it became the latter.

Only Emma noticed. She always noticed.

“Your calendar’s been open to the same week for three days,” she said flatly, not looking up from her screen. “You keep refreshing it like it’s going to change itself.”

Harry looked over his coffee. “I’m just thinking.”

“You’re brooding,” she corrected. “Brooding is thinking with worse posture.”

He sighed.

Emma stopped typing. That alone was concerning.

“You didn’t call her?”

He shook his head.

“May I ask why?”

He hesitated. Then, softly, honestly: “She’s young, Emma.”

She nodded once. Professional, composed. “And you’re not?”

“I’m almost fifty.”

“She’s not twelve, Harry.”

He blinked.

“She’s twenty-seven, an adult,” Emma added, not at all sheepish. ”A Juilliard graduate. Runs a studio. Composed for orchestras. I think she can handle her own choices.”

“It’s not just about her. I don’t want to seem too…” He trailed off.

“Desperate?” she offered.

“Eager,” he corrected.

Emma turned back to her screen. “Well, if it helps, you’re already both.”

⊹

The call came on the thirty-first of December.

Harry was at a New Year’s gathering with people he barely tolerated—partners, old colleagues, men with ties too loud and drinks too expensive. It was a chance for rich people to show off their family and put on a face— saying stuff like “my wife, the stock broker”, or “my son, the architect.” It helped him sometimes, to know which businesses are worth investing in. Other times, however, it served as a distraction from his life. Distraction from the fact his family never gathered for the holidays except for Christmas dinner, distraction from his empty social life, or distraction from a certain blonde. Emma was there too, perched beside him, paid generously to endure the evening under the title of executive assistant. It wasn’t her scene, but she blended in effortlessly. That’s what made her good at her job.

The sun hadn’t set yet. The sky outside the restaurant windows was gold and soft, too gentle for the city’s usual brand of endings.

Harry felt his phone buzz in his jacket pocket. Unknown number, but his personal line. He didn’t think—just picked it up, half-hoping for a voice he knew wouldn’t be there.

“Mr Castillo?” a man said.

“Yes?”

“Uh—this is weird. I’m one of Catherine’s friends. You gave me your card? After the concert?”

He straightened slightly. “Right. Yes. Is something wrong?”

“We, um… we haven’t heard from her since Christmas. It’s almost New Year's. Someone is looking for her. She didn’t show up to anything, didn’t answer calls, or texts. She’s not with you, is she? Or with her family or anything?”

A pause.

“No. Have you checked her apartment?”

“Yeah. No answer. I’m sure it’s nothing—just figured I’d try the card.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” Harry said quietly, already standing.

The man hung up.

Emma looked up at him immediately. “What is it?”

He explained—simply, directly. She watched him carefully, her expression shifting from concern to focus.

“Call her,” she said.

“She hasn’t—”

“Harry. Just call her.”

He did.

Once. Then again. By the third ring of the third try, she picked up.

“Hello?” Her voice.

“Catherine?” he said, too quickly. “Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah. What’s wrong?”

“You haven’t answered anyone in days.”

She was silent.

“Where are you right now?”

A beat.

“…Central Park. It’s nothing serious, Harry, really—”

He closed his eyes. “Send me your location.”

“Why?”

“Just send it.”

She did.

He turned to Emma. “Can you get something delivered to the penthouse? Soup. Something hot. And go home after that. You’ve done more than enough tonight.”

She gave a curt nod. “I’ll make sure it’s waiting for her.”

“I’ll triple your bonus.”

“I already assumed.”

⊹

The city was loud with early celebrations, cabs honking like they were late to something important. His driver was quick, thankfully. But then there’s the actual crowd of central park on new years. He ignored it all, weaving through the crowds, eyes flicking to his phone every few steps. The little blue dot pulsed somewhere near the east.

He didn’t know what he expected, exactly. Maybe she’d be curled on a bench, crying softly, hands trembling from a breakdown no one saw coming. Maybe he could finally be someone’s knight—just once. He could have held her, calmed her, wrapped his coat around her shoulders like in some film. A quiet rescue.

But Catherine looked fine.

He found her near the Conservatory Water, sitting perfectly still while laughing through her teeth. An older woman with bright orange hair and oversized earrings was painting her. A folding easel was propped on the pavement, pastels strewn across the ground like candy.

Catherine spotted him. She smiled and waved him over, as if they’d planned to meet all along.

“Harry!”

He approached slowly, unsure whether to feel relieved or ridiculous.

The painter glanced up from her canvas, squinting. “Who’s this? Your dad?”

Harry blinked. Catherine didn’t.

“My antique,” she said sweetly. “Do you mind painting us together? I’ll pay you double.”

The painter shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, no problem.”

Harry stood behind the easel, still winded. Catherine shifted slightly to make room beside her, patting the bench without looking at him.

He sat.

And hated how much he liked the way her shoulder brushed his.

“You’re gonna tell me why you’re ignoring your calls?” Harry asked, voice low, not unkind.

“Oo, grumpy boyfriend,” the painter chirped, not looking up as she dabbed something bright onto the canvas. She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Harry shot her a look that didn’t need translation.

Catherine nudged him gently with her shoulder, smiling. “I didn’t ignore your call, did I?”

“No,” he said, measured. “But your friend sounded really worried. They went to your apartment. Said you weren’t there. Should I be worried? They had to be pretty desperate to call me.”

“They’re just being dramatic,” she said, as if that explained everything. Harry didn’t buy it. But before he could press, she offered more, unprompted.

“My ex-boyfriend is looking for me,” she said lightly. “I think they’re trying to set me up with him again for New Year’s.”

“Oh.” His voice was flat. Too flat.

“Yeah. We share mutual friends, you see. And no one really knows what happened when we broke up. So I guess they’re hoping we’d eventually get back together—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he said, cutting her off with more grace than he felt. “I get it.”

She glanced at him, but didn’t argue. The painter muttered something approving about “the tension” and moved on to blending shadows.

After a while, Catherine tilted her head. “Why are you dressed so nice? Dinner date?”

“No. New Year’s dinner. Colleagues. Networking.” He paused. “Not important.”

The finished painting was beautiful.

Catherine, with her honey-blonde hair tucked behind one ear, sat like she'd been plucked out of some movie—head tilted slightly, half-smile curling like she was seconds from laughing. Harry looked... older. That was inevitable. Lines around his eyes, the slight exhaustion carved into the corners of his mouth. But he does look happy. It helped when Catherine said without thought how handsome he was in the painting. Together, they looked…sweet. Familiar. Almost like a couple who’d done this a dozen times. Almost like they belonged in the same portrait.

Catherine loved it. Harry wouldn’t admit, but he loved it too. She tried to hand the canvas over to him, insisting it was a gift. He said no— in truth, he wanted it. She said yes—in truth she wanted it too. She said he could keep it and hang it somewhere absurd, like above the toilet. He threatened to frame it in gold.

The painter watched them with a grin, already pulling another sheet from her pad. Harry tipped her, quietly and too much, while Catherine looped her arm through his without asking.

They walked through the park, the cold gentling under layers of scarves and breath. The light was beginning to dim—early winter dusk settling over the trees.

Catherine made a passing comment about how the snow always looked like unfinished sheet music on the branches. Harry said he never understood winter until he was old enough to drink through it.

She said, at one point, “I didn’t want to be around people who wanted things from me tonight.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, watching her breath curl in the cold.

Then, a pause.

“What about your disease?”

“My what?”

“Your fear of missing out,” he said, completely serious.

Catherine chuckled, stopping in front of a vendor selling warm bread out of a cart. “Ah, that.I already spent a few days with my friends for Christmas. I think that’s enough. Plus, when it comes to my ex-boyfriend, I’m thrilled to be missing everything.”

Harry watched her pay with crumpled bills. “Sounds like you really hate him.”

“Maybe.” She said it like a shrug, not a wound.

She handed him half of her bread without asking. They kept walking.

“You know what would be really great with this?” she said, tearing off a piece.

“What?”

“Soup.”

Harry smiled. Fate had a funny sense of humor. “Funny you said that, because I have soup back at my place.”

“Are you inviting me?”

“Yeah.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? You’re dressed very well. You can’t spend New Year’s Eve with a lonely musician.”

“Sweetheart,” Harry said. “I’m an old unmarried man with no kids. The only party I was invited to is one where people drink too much champagne and talk about yield curves. And I left that gathering already.”

That seemed to work.

She didn’t argue, just nodded once, lips tugging into something small and fond. They stepped into the car. His driver barely had to ask—already peeling away from the curb as if he’d been hoping for this detour.

She mentioned how he always seemed to make her visit his penthouse. He laughed.

Somewhere between the park and Tribeca, Catherine looked down at her outfit—a white blouse, faintly wrinkled, paired with beat-up boots.

“What a waste,” she said, poking at Harry’s expensive cuff. “This beautiful suit, and I’m showing up to soup night like it’s a band rehearsal.”

Harry looked at her, then smiled. He told her he didn’t mind. That he thought she looked beautiful.

Emma’s soup delivery needs to be reheated. The penthouse, though spacious and immaculate, felt different with Catherine in it again. Less like a showroom, more like a home. Or something brimming toward it.

Catherine slipped off her shoes, letting them clatter softly onto the marble. She padded toward the kitchen in her socks and blouse, hair coming loose from the clip she'd thrown it into earlier. She found his stool without asking, propped her elbows on the counter like she’d been here before. Like it was hers.

Harry, behind the stove, ladled the soup into bowls as if that were something he regularly did. It wasn’t. But she didn’t need to know that.

While he worked, Catherine wandered. She scanned his bookshelf with interest—not the ones by the fireplace, filled with the usual curated titles, but the smaller one by the hallway, half-hidden and poorly organized. She plucked out a novel with frayed pages and raised an eyebrow at the name in the jacket. “You dog-eared this one,” she called softly, amused.

He said nothing. Only turned slightly to watch her from behind the ladle.

Then she drifted to the record shelf. She crouched, flipped through spines with one finger, and pulled out something old—jazz, a little scratchy, heavy on the piano. She placed it on the player, and the first few notes trickled in, soft and low. The room sighed into it.

“Aw. You bought my records,” she said when she found hers. “And you put it right at the front too.”

Harry winced. He was planning on hiding that. He didn’t want to seem too obsessed with her— buying her records in bulk and listening to it while praying to god she calls him eventually.

He tried to look nonchalant, like him owning her records was just the act of a friend supporting another friend. “Put it on the player,” he said.

“No, thank you. I listened to it too much,” she said, letting the jazz fill the room.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, he’d placed the bowls on the counter. She blew on her spoon. Then she took a bite, exhaled, and gave him a pleased hum. Harry didn’t eat right away. He just watched her for a second too long—her knees tucked into the stool, her dimple showing when she smiled, her hair curling slightly at the edges from the cold.

“This tastes better than Jim’s,” she said after the third spoon.

They moved to the couch after the soup was done, bowls half-finished on the counter. Neither of them said it, but there was something sacred in not cleaning up right away. Jazz still played, low and dreamy, brushing the walls like it knew it was meant to stay in the background.

Catherine curled her legs beneath her, Harry leaned into the opposite corner, the stretch of couch between them gradually closing—not by design, but by the way two tired bodies shift toward warmth. They talked, not about anything in particular. Her studio, his worst board meeting. A street musician she liked. The way New York smelled like burnt pretzels and smoke this time of year.

They drank wine, and after the second glass, Catherine started becoming more talkative—looser at the edges, giggly in the way that made him watch her more closely. 

She told him about her family. Her sister Jane, the serious one, the type to organize vacations six months in advance, and sharp features that looked nothing like hers. Her brother Chester, who dropped out of university twice before owning a business. And her parents—retired, finally. Still living in the same house she grew up in, still calling her with the same landline number.

When he asked why she didn’t fly home for the holidays, she shrugged. The concert was too close to Christmas, and sleep deprivation on long-haul flights wasn’t worth the guilt. She said she didn’t mind. They video-called. They sent pictures of food. Her sister sent her an entire roast duck recipe annotated with handwritten notes. It wasn’t distance that made her sad, she said. It was missing the jokes at the table. The smell of the hallway. The way her father cut oranges with too much confidence.

He said her family should’ve come here instead.

She smiled at him for that. Softly. “Maybe next year,” she said.

In return, he told her about Peter. How his brother once got into a fistfight in high school for him. How their mother referred to Harry as “the bossy one” and Peter as “the funny one.” Catherine laughed at that.

He told her about the rest of the Castillos. The obligatory Christmas dinner. The unspoken pressure. The empty rituals. His uncle who measured affection in watch brands and donations. His father’s absence didn’t feel like grief anymore, just a silence that never entirely left the room.

He told her about college. How his friends now worked in hedge funds or VC firms and called themselves “leaders” and “important people”. How most of them were married to women who he could never tell apart, whose name he could never remember. Catherine smiled when he said that. She then told him a trick for remembering names, how he needed to say names out loud and preferably to the person so his brain could associate it with a face.

At one point, she asked if he missed anyone. From back then.

“No,” he said. Then thought about it, and amended, “Not in the way that counts. We kept in touch for reunions and weddings. That’s it.”

Then, somewhere between another sip of wine and the drop in conversation, she asked if he could cut her bangs.

It was a joke at first, half-drunken curiosity. But when he tried to call someone, she insisted no one would come. Not even if he paid well. Not even if he doubled the rate. This was New York. It was too late. Everyone had lives. Everyone but them, apparently. She had already found scissors.

“I’ve done it before,” she said.

But Harry didn’t really like the look of those scissors in her hands, so close to her eyes. So he put the wine down, took the scissors from her hand and said, “Sit.”

And when Harry Castillo did something, he did it seriously—whether in the form of finalizing a merger, courting women he knew he couldn’t love and wouldn’t love him back, or apparently, cutting bangs. He pulled up the high stool from the bar, propped her on it, tilted her chin under the light like a stylist about to make a statement. She said his mother was right for calling him bossy.

“My forehead is huge,” she mumbled.

“It’s not,” he said simply.

“It is. Jane’s smaller, with perfect proportions. My mom always said I had a soft face.”

“You’re perfect.”

She didn’t argue. But she didn’t look up either. He combed her fringe forward with careful fingers, and she talked as he worked. Told him how her sister Jane used to model, how her brother also had a big forehead.

“Chester and I looked more like my dad. Round face,” She smirked to herself. “My mom once told me she had to push for hours just to get me out. Like I was stuck or something. I found out years later I was a C-section baby.”

She laughed quietly. A snort and a shrug.

Harry only smiled at her reaction but he didn't laugh with her. He thought that was a bit cruel of her mother. 

Harry told her about his leg surgery with Peter, how most of it felt like a bonding experience because they were stuck with each other for months. Something they hadn’t done since they were kids. It was funny how he gave that information to her easily. She asked if it hurt, and if it was worth it, he said it was definitely worth it, and it hurt like hell.

He didn’t know why it was so easy to say that. Maybe because her voice was soft. Maybe because she wasn’t looking at him too hard. Or maybe because, somehow, she’d become the kind of person he wanted to give things to. Truth, most of all.

He could blame the wine. Catherine was clearly tipsy—laughing at her own jokes, confusing words, and blinking too slowly. But Harry? Harry could drink three more glasses and still carry out a merger. It wasn’t the wine.

He’d say the same things if he were sober.

He tilted her chin slightly and brushed the last strands into place. Stepped back.

“There,” he said.

She blinked at the small mirror she held. Then beamed. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

She touched the fringe, pushing it aside, then letting it fall again. Harry said nothing, but something in his chest swelled. She hopped down from the chair and kissed his cheek.

Somewhere along the way, their conversation slowed into silence, and their shoulders tilted toward one another. It was expected. He was old. She was sleep deprived from practicing for months. At some point, heads rested side by side, and eventually, without anyone deciding to, they fell asleep on the couch.

⊹

It was around one in the morning when Catherine stirred, blinking slowly, nudging his arm. 

“Harry, we missed New Years,” she whispered. “It’s freezing. Do you have socks?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Socks?”

“My feet are cold,” she said.

He pushed himself up and shuffled down the hall, voice still scratchy from sleep. “Alright, alright. I think I’ve got a warm pair somewhere. Sorry, I fell asleep. You can move to my bed.”

He didn’t hear her get up and follow him.

He was rummaging through a drawer in the walk-in closet, trying to find a sock that would fit her. He had big feet so it might take a while.

Suddenly, she said, quietly—

“Is that my…”

He turned, confused, then saw her reaching toward the back of the closet, fingers brushing over it.

Her coat.

The one from the bookstore all those years ago. Still soft, still warm, folded too neatly to be accidental.

Harry’s sleep vanished in a blink. “Shit,” he said under his breath. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

Catherine didn’t say anything right away. She just held the coat. Looked at it like it was something new, something precious, and then looked at him.

They stood facing each other, quiet and unsure. His hands still half in the sock drawer, her arms around the coat like she wasn’t sure what to say.

Her cheeks flushed—not a dramatic kind of blush, but something soft and pink, rising like warmth from the chest. It caught him off guard.

Harry walked towards her. Their eyes met and they both froze.

He didn’t know what to say either.

Should he play it down? Say he meant to return it, that he didn’t want to throw it out? A lie so thin it wouldn’t last the second it left his mouth. Or should he tell the truth—that five years ago, in the middle of a storm, she handed him her coat without hesitation, and for a man who’d spent most of his life buying affection in the form of favors and dinners and signatures, that single gesture felt like being seen. That he was longing for someone to care for him, for someone to give him a coat when it’s raining, or a smile when he was feeling down. That it felt like hope. Like a borrowed lifeline. Like being chosen. Like the world had offered him proof that someone could care for him without asking for anything in return.

But he didn’t say that either. He stood there, holding a pair of socks he’d long forgotten about, and looked at her holding the coat like it still carried something important.

Catherine looked up at him, straight into his eyes, unwavering. Tired, yes, but clear in a way that startled him. She didn’t blink much. She almost never did when things got serious.

“I didn’t want to assume—” she started, then stopped. Her voice was softer now, gentler. “You called me kid when we met. I thought…”

Her blush deepened.

Harry opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He was too much of a coward to fill the silence.

Catherine shifted slightly, her fingers brushing the hem of the coat like it steadied her. “I don’t want to sound like a pathetic girl,” she said, eyes not leaving his, “But even then, I was… I was hoping…I don’t want to get my hopes up but—”

He leaned in before she could finish the sentence.

Not dramatically. Not like a man crashing through a moment. Just a step closer, just enough. Close enough to smell the faint citrus in her hair, to see the tired blush still blooming on her cheeks. His hand found hers—gentle, not asking, just present. And when he kissed her, it was quiet. Slow.

She kissed him back.

Their tongues danced, their teeth touched. There was no rush to it. Just something soft and real—warmth passed between them like a long-held breath finally exhaled.

He kissed her again, this time deeper, until she leaned into him completely. Her arms around his neck, her legs curling gently around his waist, until the weight of her body settled against his like it belonged there. He carried her to the bedroom, her laughter a quiet exhale against his neck.

He sat at the edge of the bed with her still in his arms, on his lap, both of them catching their breath.

Then her forehead pressed lightly to his.

God.

He could’ve drowned in it—the smell of her skin, the heat of her thigh beneath his palm, the way her lips stayed parted, dazed, like she was still savoring the taste of him. There were things about her that weren’t fair. The way her blouse slid slightly off one shoulder. The shape of her waist in his hands.

He wanted her. That was the plainest truth. He was hard as hell. His body made no effort to hide it. But it wasn’t just lust—not anymore. Not the way it used to be, with women who treated intimacy like a contract: clearly defined, mutually beneficial, and quick. He used to be like that too— fuck like he did business. Like it was a game, like closing a deal. The kind where he felt obligated to perform, to give something and receive something.

This wasn’t that. Not even close.

Catherine’s eyes, red and tired, blinked up at him like she was asking for something simpler. Slower. Her lips were warm against his neck, but her shoulders sagged with sleep. She just needed to be held.

And he—he was willing to wait. However long it took. He didn’t care.

He kissed her again, on the cheek this time. Then the forehead. Then the jaw. He laid her gently down, pulling the blankets over them both. He remembered her words from earlier in the day.

“I want you badly, sweetheart. But you need rest,” he whispered, brushing her hair back. “You don’t have to give me anything.”

She hummed something he didn’t catch, already half-asleep. There was some fear lingering in his mind, afraid she would forget or deny what happened. She was drunk. It was a possibility. But that thought didn’t linger long, because she snuggled up to him, taking his hand and putting it on her curves. He obliged, wrapped his hand around her until they were in bed like spoons nestled together

Harry ignored the ache in his chest. The ache everywhere else, especially on his crotch. He pulled her closer instead, his breath steadying against the back of her neck. The warmth of her body against his. Her coat still folded on the chair, forgotten.

And sometime after she fell asleep, so did he

The first was a girl he met at eighteen, back when he still took the subway. She was a debate captain from another school, sharp in the way that made people pause. He didn’t like her because she was beautiful—though she was—but because she gave a presentation once that made everyone shut up and listen. That had impressed him. She broke up with him two months later because he rarely called, and when he did, he always had something else in the background: work, plans, his brother, his father’s voice. He let her leave without a word.

Then the girl he met during college, the socialite. The kind of girlfriend that looked good in photos and knew how to shake hands with his people, though at the time he didn’t really care about that. She had a closet full of cashmere and a laugh that was better suited to social parties than conversation. They never fought. Never really talked. He remembered her perfume better than any words she ever said, something like lavender. When she wanted to move to London, he said “take care” and never wondered if she missed him.

At twenty-five, he dated his manager. That one was… something. His father had gotten him the job, and the manager, ten years older, had taken one look at him and said, “You’re not staying here long.” She was right. She also knew better than to expect much. They dated for a few months, no more than five, mostly in silence, mostly over takeout. It ended when she took another job and didn’t bother to tell him. He found out through a company-wide email. He didn’t reply.

The only person who stayed longer than expected was the woman in his mid-thirties. Technically, they were together for two years. In reality, it felt like less. She was brilliant. Cool. Always perfectly dressed. They never argued. Rarely had sex. Their conversations hovered around politics and architecture and good wine. It was the most serious relationship of his adult life, and yet he could barely remember her birthday. They split the way business partners split— over dinner, with a handshake, a clear, emotionless severance, with agreed-upon boundaries and no hard feelings. They didn’t even keep in touch. That was supposed to be his benchmark for a mature relationship. Now it just felt like a failed merger.

Lucy Mason came after that, but his dream of her didn’t linger long. Only a few things. The memory that flashed into him was the first time they met: she was promoting her business, talking about love and grave buddies. The women seemed interested and Harry was impressed.

There was always something unfinished about his relationships. They began in the way you flip a page. They ended without the need for devastation, almost always with a question mark left alone. And he never really initiated the end either. The women always ended it. Maybe because he didn’t fight for them.

His dream continued to move like memory often does—out of order, half-lit, stitched together by feeling more than sequence.

There was a flash of his father’s funeral. A navy blue suit. White gloves. The sound of his mother thanking guests formally, with no tears shed. She took only a few months before returning to her dinners, her soirées, her art auctions. By summer, she was laughing again. Harry is not an expert on marriage by any means, but he would have thought there was something devastating about losing a partner. It was supposed to hurt more than losing anyone else, wasn’t it? He remembered wondering if they ever loved each other. If they were just two people who made it work because it made sense, like all the relationships he’s had at that point in time.

The carousel of memory disguised as a dream kept spinning. Someone in pearls, telling him she wasn’t sure what she wanted. The girlfriend after that, who left a note on hotel stationery. Lucy, sitting across from him at brunch, talking about “compatibility metrics” like they were still in a meeting.

Then the carousel slowed. Memory settled. It landed on a moment that felt quiet.

Emma’s laptop opened, the screen looking back at him, haunting, and finally, his Catherine showed up after years of walking leisurely in his memory.

The dream ended at that.

“Harry!”

Her voice stirred him, cutting gently through the haze of sleep like an echo, scratching the back of his mind. Harry blinked awake on the couch, momentarily disoriented, the pale New York morning glowing at the edges of his blinds. He remembered everything at once.

Catherine. Last night. The car ride. The way her head had rested on his shoulder like it belonged there. The way he’d carried her up with a kind of care that had felt foreign and too natural at the same time.

He sat up, stretching the sleep from his arms. She was standing in the doorway to his bedroom, barefoot, her hair a little wild. She looked more like a painting than she ever had the night before.

“I missed it, didn’t I?” she said. She was cradling her dead phone in her hands like she could will it back to life.

Harry, without thinking, handed her his.

“I couldn’t wake you up.”

“Liar,” she said softly, not looking up, but the corner of her mouth gave her away. The smallest smile, tucked just out of reach.

He laughed. “I did try.”

“Well, you didn’t try hard enough.”

“You needed sleep. I gave your friend my card. He called once to leave his number.”

But she didn’t answer. She was already dialing, already somewhere else. Her voice floated behind him— apologies, jokes, reassurances that she was safe, that she hadn’t run off with a stranger. Harry didn’t listen too closely, trying hard to respect her privacy. Instead, he walked to the kitchen, measuring coffee into the machine more out of habit than need. His hands moved automatically, but his mind was elsewhere.

He hadn’t shared his space with someone in years. Only sometimes, for occasional one night stands or girlfriend. He hadn’t shared his morning routine. Not since Lucy. And even then, it hadn’t felt like this. Like softness had walked in and made itself comfortable. Like someone trusted him enough to fall asleep mid-conversation and never stir.

It was just one night, he reminded himself. A small, strange accident of timing and tiredness.

He didn’t ask if she wanted to stay for breakfast. He set the coffee in front of her with quiet intent, not expecting a thank-you. She smiled anyway — slow, lazy, the kind that made it feel like they’d always done this.

Catherine glanced up, palm briefly covering the mic on his phone. “How’d you know I like latte?”

Harry shrugged. He hadn’t. But there was something about her that suggested it — not black coffee, not syrupy sweetness either. Something right in the middle. Milk, foam, heat. Gentle, but awake.

She nodded at his non-answer and continued her call, voice returning to a lighter pitch. Her friend on the other end, from what Harry could pick up, was trying to convince her the night she missed wasn’t worth the guilt — just small talk, drinks, no one even remembered to play music. Catherine didn’t believe it. He could see it in the faint furrow of her brow, the stillness in her body, like she was pretending to be reassured when she wasn’t. But she listened, because that’s what she did.

He took his own mug and leaned back against the kitchen counter, half-listening, when the door opened and Emma stepped in and stopped on her tracks. She froze, looking.

Not at him, not at the lived-in mess of his half-tucked shirt and the faint exhaustion on his face — but at Catherine, sitting at the table with her pillow face and a dress that wasn’t supposed to be worn to sleep, hair sleep-ruffled, drinking from his favorite mug like she belonged.

Emma's gaze didn’t waver.

Harry opened his mouth, but Emma moved first. She beelined toward the table and hovered until Catherine looked up, still mid-call, confused but polite as she offered her hand once the line disconnected.

Emma grasped it like she’d been waiting for years.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. You’re Catherine Ainsworth,” she breathed. “What an honor. I’ve been following your work for years — really, your improvisational duet with that violinist in Prague? Stunning. Oh and your recordings, in Berlin. I adore your work.”

Catherine blinked. Then laughed. “That’s not even on YouTube.”

“I know,” Emma said, proud. “I found it through a conservatory blog”

Catherine shot Harry a look. Amazed. Amused. Delighted.

“This is Emma. My assistant.” Harry gestured.

“Oh yes,” Emma said, suddenly self-aware. “I am his assistant. A very good one. I got him your concert ticket, actually. I was buying two for myself and my husband, but it sold out so fast I only got one, and I figured Harry knew you—or said he did, at least—and I didn’t want to go alone so I thought it’d be a good Christmas gift. For my boss. Which—sorry, I’m rambling. It’s just really nice to meet you.”

Catherine grinned. “I’m honored.”

Then she got up and hugged Emma, which made the woman melt. Emma looked at Harry from Catherine’s shoulder during the hug, pointing at the girl and mouthing ‘Oh my god!’

Harry sipped his coffee, quiet, watching Catherine thank Emma again. She still looked half-asleep, her voice still soft from the phone call, her hand still warm from his mug. The moment felt absurdly domestic. Like some alternate version of his life had slipped through the cracks of the morning.

Emma placed the brown paper bag carefully in front of Catherine like she was delivering something sacred. “Here’s your breakfast. It was meant for Harry, but I can grab another one, it’s not that far. You two take your time.”

She was already halfway to the door when Harry called out.

“Can we move that meeting to January? The one with Strausses?”

Emma paused, surprised. Harry’s work days were odd, but that’s what he agreed on: He kept holidays to a minimum and he would do extra work when there’s no family dinners. He liked being ahead and Emma was willing to help, with extra paycheck. Normally she needed a lot of convincing to move anything on his calendar. 

She turned, eyes flicking briefly to Catherine — still barefoot, still sleep-warm, now sipping latte like it was her apartment too.

“Yes, sir,” she said, without her usual teasing. “Right away.”

And then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her like a gentle reminder this wasn’t normal.

Catherine laughed as soon as the silence settled. “She’s lovely.”

Harry smiled. He hadn’t seen Emma flustered in years.

Catherine opened the bag, tearing the fold with her thumb. Inside, two bagels—one everything bagel, one plain, both with cream cheese. She looked inside, looked at him, and held one out, the one he likes, like it had always been the plan. Like she knew exactly which one he preferred. Harry took it. The gesture felt effortless. Familiar. Something in his chest responded like a tuning fork.

He bit into it and tried not to be obvious about the way his heart was acting up. She was just handing him breakfast.

He cleared his throat. “What do you want to do today? I assume it’s your day off?”

She nodded, chewing. “Technically, I have no plans. But I left some stuff backstage last night. Scores, my in-ears, a sweater I like. I need to drop by and grab them. Then, home, I guess.”

Harry nodded. “So, Carnegie then go home?”

She hummed.

“I’ll take you,” he said. “We can go this evening. After we eat terrible food and talk about things that don’t matter. If you’re up for it.”

She gave a theatrical pause, pretending to weigh her options. Then: “Deal.”

She glanced around the apartment, suddenly mock-suspicious. “Where’s my bouquet?”

Harry smiled. She was searching for the bouquet he gave her, and something warm tugged at his heart at how much it was valued. “Ah. I think I left it. Probably still in the car.”

She grinned, biting into her bagel. “You better hope it’s still there.”

And so, Catherine spent her day off with him. He felt rewarded by the divine gods for something good he did long ago. He wondered if he deserved such a feeling.

Catherine showered and emerged in one of his shirts, the one he prepared at the edge of his bed for her. The hem brushing her thighs like it belonged. She just wore it, like it was the most natural thing in the world. The day passed like a dream without a plot, as if the script had already been written in some other lifetime. They stayed in. Took turns choosing songs and never made it to the end of any.

It all felt strange, like she’d always lived here.

At one point, Emma brought up lunch—two containers, no questions. She didn’t even blink when she found them shoulder to shoulder on the couch, feet tucked under each other, the TV playing some golden-era musical Catherine said she used to watch with her mom. He hadn’t seen it, but he liked the melodies. The way she mouthed the lyrics. The way she leaned into him when she laughed. He could smell her shampoo. Or maybe it was his. She smelled like him now. That made him more comfortable somehow.

He also told her of his recent fascination with different kinds of plagues— something he learned while researching about a health company he might invest in. Usually people would be bored by this point, but Catherine asked more and more questions. Harry was happy to oblige.

Later, when he came back from the shower, she was crouched by the TV stand, flipping through a dusty box he hadn’t touched in years. It was tucked behind a shelf—practically hidden—and filled with old medals, cards, embarrassing photos with bad hair and big ears. She looked up when he walked in, completely unapologetic, and held up a crooked Polaroid of him, maybe age seven, missing a front tooth and grinning like he knew something.

He winced. “Ah. My peak.”

She didn’t say anything, just smiled in that quiet, knowing way she did sometimes, and he felt it—something fluttering stupid in his chest, like his body was reacting before his brain could form the words.

He looked at the photo over her shoulder, leaned against the doorway. “Handsome kid,” she said, casually. But the words sat in the air too long, and when she glanced up at him, he could swear his heart forgot what it was supposed to be doing.

He looked away before it could get worse. Or better. Or anything in between.

When it felt like the day was ending, something quiet began to ache in him. Not sharp, just soft and slow, like the drop in temperature before it rains. She didn’t say anything about leaving—just got up eventually, stretched, ran her fingers through her hair like she was shaking off a dream.

They got ready. She borrowed another shirt. He pretended not to watch her fold the first one, the way she smoothed the creases, like she planned to return. On the way to the concert hall, she kept talking—about the program notes she forgot, the missing rosin in her case, something about the acoustics being better in Berlin. He nodded in the right places, laughed once or twice, but his thoughts snagged behind.

She had added her number into his phone earlier, bold and neat, even added a contact photo she hated. It should’ve been enough. But he was greedy now, quietly. Needed more. A promise. A repeat. Anything to anchor this day in something more permanent than memory.

He walked her backstage. Helped her gather her things—sheets of music, shoes, some energy bar from last night. None of it important, but he handled it carefully. Like it was hers. Like it mattered. She thanked the stagehands with a nod, smiled at someone she vaguely knew, and then they were out again.

When they arrived at her apartment, he helped her carry the things she’d gathered backstage. Her arms were full of music sheets, her coat slung messily over one shoulder, and he took the rest. It was a modest building on a quieter street—one of those forgotten corners of the city that still had charm, chipped and flickering. The lobby smelled like incense and turpentine. On the way up, they passed neighbors who looked like they belonged in some independent film: a woman balancing a violin case and a grocery bag, a man in paint-splattered jeans holding a sketchpad and humming something unrecognizable. A kid strummed a ukulele in the stairwell. A violin wailed softly through someone’s open window.

The elevator groaned, but it held. He still didn’t like the sound, though. When they reached her floor, she led him down the narrow hallway, and he noticed her neighbors had decorated their doors with hand-painted signs and vintage postcards. Hers was plain, except for a small brass number and a dried flower taped above the handle.

Inside, her apartment was what he expected—and not at all. Small, yes, but neat. Every object looked chosen. Warm-toned lighting, an old piano shoved against one wall, a vinyl player in the corner with records stacked like towers. Good furniture, nothing flashy. Books arranged not by color or size, but by attachment. The place didn’t feel temporary—it felt loved. 

She put his flowers, the one he bought her for the concert, on a vase. That made him smile.

He asked why she still lived here, when it was obvious she could afford better.

She just said, “The people.” Then added, “It’s nice to be around artists. You never know what you’ll hear next door.”

They stood near the doorway for a while longer, as if neither of them wanted to move. The parting was inevitable, but he lingered, unsure how to mark the end of the day. The silence sat between them—gentle, but full.

“I had fun today. Thanks for seeing me,” she said, like it was a simple thing. It wasn’t.

He opened his mouth but paused, caught on what to say.

She filled the gap. “I uh... I hope you keep in touch, Harry. If you’re not busy. I don’t know how busy your work actually is, but maybe if you have the time—”

“Of course,” he said quickly, maybe too quickly. Then steadied. “I’m already planning it in my head.”

She smiled at that—genuine and a little amused. Then she leaned in and hugged him. A real one. Not just arms, but all of her. And before she let go, she rose to her toes and kissed him. Just a peck. It was supposed to land on his cheek, but missed just slightly. The corner of his mouth caught it.

He didn’t move. Didn’t lean or pull. But something in him froze, softened, then burned. He smiled—slow and full—and left before he did something stupid. Like kiss her properly.

Instead, he walked away with her in his breath.

⊹

A day after the almost-kiss, Harry’s mood was still better than normal.

He didn’t expect Catherine to call, not on Christmas. She had friends. A life. That much was obvious. She was likely buried under dinner invitations, gift exchanges, and holiday chaos. He pictured her somewhere loud and warm, surrounded by people who hugged too much and drank too sweet.

It was quieter where he was.

The Castillos weren’t big on sentiment. Christmas was one of the only times the family gathered in full—besides weddings, funerals, and the occasional tax-related emergency. Such is the way of Castillos, the finance family. They were not close. They were polite. A conference room with good tailoring.

His driver dropped him off at his mother’s place, where the second he stepped close enough, someone opened the door. The marble floors shone like someone had buffed them just for show. Peter, his younger brother, greeted him—not with a hug, but with a handshake. Like a board member.

“You’re late,” said Peter. “And happy. Have you met someone?”

“Can’t a man just be happy on Christmas?”

“Not this happy. And certainly not us. Are you even a Castillo?” He raised an eyebrow and looked down. “Mother says no presents.”

Harry followed his gaze to the thin record bag in his hand. He’d gone to three different record stores for it—one of Catherine’s earlier albums, still pressed on heavy vinyl, out of print. He’d bought a second copy just in case. He’d said it was “some records,” like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t spend half a day tracking it down.

Peter led him in, through glass doors and polished furniture. The holiday décor was minimal: expensive candles, a tree that looked like it came with a manual.

“How’s Charlotte?” Harry asked, changing the subject.

“Good,” Peter said with no further explanation.  

He’d put her record halfway through a song. The room was quiet enough to let it play. Just the soft hum of Catherine’s cello, nearly imperceptible behind the glass-paneled doors of his mother’s house. No one knew what it was, or who it was. He liked it that way.

His mother came to him by the first hour, as expected. Always the same choreography. Ask about his job, make a passive-aggressive comment about his love life, praise Peter for something unremarkable.

“So?” she asked, swirling a glass of dry red she didn’t enjoy.

“I know, Ma.”

“You’re going to be fifty soon.”

“I know,” Harry said. It didn’t matter.

“What do you want? Romance?” she scoffed. “Marriage is business. It’s about strategy, compatibility, trust. You liked that girl—Lucy. What happened to her?”

He shrugged. “Some investments don’t have a return.”

She looked unimpressed.

“She said we didn’t love each other,” he added. “She was right.”

His mother clicked her tongue. “Of course not. Love comes later. It always does. After the dry spells, believe me. After tax season. After ten years of dinners and joint filings and having no one else left except each other. Then you look at each other and decide you’re content. That’s real.”

“Should it really be that way?”

“Don’t be an idealist now, Harry Castillo. Not when I’m nearly seventy. You’re one of us. I just want grandchildren, for God’s sake. Is that so hard? Your brother’s wife isn’t even pregnant yet. When I was her age, you were already born.”

He didn’t answer. He sipped his drink and thought about Catherine’s laugh, the one she did when she found something too stupid to be upset about. Her eyes crinkled. Her voice always dropped half a tone when she was trying to sound reasonable, even when she wasn’t.

“Maybe you should try the matchmaking service. Your brother—”

“I did.”

“Then try again.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

He didn’t answer. His mother stared, waiting, but he offered nothing.

He walked away instead, wine glass still in hand, toward the far side of the room where Peter and Charlotte were sitting near the fireplace, dissecting the menu like it was a dossier. Charlotte was easier to talk to. She was pragmatic in a way Harry liked—sharp, warm when she wanted to be, and married to Peter, which meant her attention span for family drama was already worn thin.

“Did mother tell you she’s going on a cruise? A full on cruise. For months,” said Peter. “I guess she’s at that age.”

“No, she didn’t tell me,” said Harry. “She’s too preoccupied with my unmarried state.”

Peter laughed at that. “She’s been telling us to have a baby—”

“Lucy’s married,” said Charlotte suddenly. It was soft, like it had just occurred to her, like she just remembered.

Charlotte was one of Lucy’s clients. In fact, she and his brother got married because of how good Lucy was at her job. He wouldn’t say they were soulmates, but they worked. His brother seemed happy, in the way Castillos are usually happy— just enough.

He sighed, already bored of the conversation. “Is she?”

Peter gave his wife a look. Charlotte hesitated. “Sorry. Should I not have said anything?”

“No, it’s fine. Really.” He poured himself a little more wine. “It wasn’t serious.”

Peter looked up from his phone. “It wasn’t?”

“No. We weren't together for very long,” Harry said. 

“Didn’t she live with you?”

“For a while,” he said. “She wanted something more.”

“Love?” asked Charlotte almost immediately.

Harry shrugged. “It was just the wrong investment. It happens.”

“Harry can’t love, Charlotte. His head’s too logical for that nonsense,” his brother said. “It’s all math and what makes sense. I’m the romantic one.”

Charlotte ignored that, which made Harry chuckle. She asked then, “She didn’t tell you she was getting married?”

“I didn’t expect her to.”

Charlotte nodded, glanced at Peter, who was now frowning like he was reading headlines. “You know,” she added carefully, “I ran into her once. At a launch thing in SoHo. Months ago. She said she was engaged. She said John—”

Harry smiled. “John Pitts right?”

“I think that's his name.”

“I thought so.” He gave a small laugh, not because it was funny, but because it was exactly what he expected.