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Harry had seen you many times before he really met you. In his building’s elevator or in the hall, you were always accompanied by your husband, though it didn’t look like you were in his company. Always on his phone, with an air of pompousness plastered on his face, he treated you more like his shadow, insignificant and mundane.

Harry would greet you both with a polite nod, meanwhile wondering how you ended up with such a man, living among the wealthiest people of New York with their fake smiles, fake tits, fake everything. You seemed to be different. You were real.

“And I was struck not so much by her beauty as by an extraordinary loneliness in her eyes, such as no one had ever seen before! ”

The first time Harry saw you alone in the elevator, you had a volume of “The Master and Margarita” in your hands, one of his favorite books, and he grasped the opportunity to start a conversation.

”Are you enjoying it?” he asked, smiling at you from behind a bouquet of pink roses he was holding.

You gave him a blank look and he pointed at the book with his chin.

”Oh, the novel? Yes, very much.”

“Do you like my flowers?”

When Harry quoted Margarita’s first words to the master, your eyes lit up and a soft laughter escaped your lips. That sound was more beautiful than anything he’d ever heard.

“I do!They’re gorgeous. Are they for your …?”

“My date,” he said out loud, thinking that you were more gorgeous than any flowers. He wished he’d give them to you instead of the woman he was feeling nothing for.

The doors opened and the two of you stepped out into the hall.

“What are your favorite flowers?” Harry blurted out the first thing that popped in his mind, hating to let you go already.

“Peonies,” you answered, pressing the book to your belly. You were nervously spinning a wedding band around your finger when you said quietly,

“I’m going to the park across the street. It’s beautiful there. You could join me some day…to discuss the book. If you’d like.”

“I’d love to.”

“and I suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, understood that all my life I had loved precisely this woman! ”

Harry’s holding a huge bouquet of red peonies with one arm, trying not to drop them on the elevator floor. His other arm is wrapped around your waist, his thumb rubbing your soft skin over the waistband of your jeans.

“Stop, I’m ticklish,” you giggle, wiggling under his hand. “And there’s a camera.”

“I don’t care,” he whispers in your ear and pulls you close. “I’d take you right here if you let me.”

You turn your face to him, your blown out eyes sparkling with need, and Harry reaches for your lips, but you push your nose into the bouquet a second before he can kiss you. His voice is strained as he rasps against your temple,

“I miss your taste, baby. Every second I’m not licking your sweet pussy, I die a little.”

“My god, Harry,” you whine, clinging to his side. “Tonight. I’ll come tonight.”

“Will you stay forever?” His eyes are full of hope and you press your forehead to his and whisper,

“Soon.”

He finally catches your lips and kisses you passionately just before the doors slide open on your floor. You breathe in the peonies one more time and Harry promises,

“They’ll be waiting for you at my place.”

When the elevator starts moving up to his floor, Harry readjusts his hold on the heavy flowers, smiling to himself. It’s ok that he can’t give them to you openly yet, he’ll wait until you are ready. What’s a few days when he’s been waiting for you his entire life?

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!💞

MASTERLIST

new york in the rain is always…something else entirely. after the break up with lucy, after everything, the summer comes with patchy spells of rain, like clockwork. manhattan’s large buildings cover him from most of the rain, but the road halfway to his office has been blocked since yesterday night, due to emergency works in the pipeline, and he has to walk the last half a mile. and anyway, he’s given this morning off to his driver. the cab driver’s dropped him off here, and now it’s just him and this stretch of road that he has to walk through, and flag another cab on the other side. 

he would obviously rather not do such a thing, because. well — his suit is silk and well tailored, and he wears freshly polished oxfords on his feet he’d rather not get scuffed. it’s almost 9, and he is so ridiculously far away from the financial district, it’s embarrassing. this was not a good time to be late for work, especially not late for work in drenched clothes and no umbrella. he had a reputation to uphold, in the office at least. 

the rain falls harder, and he starts walking faster, head hunched over his phone on the pavement, he needs to call his assistant, let her know that no he will not be showing up today, and yes he will be there for the meeting by 12. should be anyway. 

a splash, and he feels water coat his trousers. they’re grey, and anyone  can see the damn water stains on them now. it’s muddy water too, splotches against his calves and his ankles. he looks up from his screen, to see the offending person who’s splashed his $700 suit. 

to his surprise, it’s a child in a yellow raincoat. excited as she jumps up and down, her brown hair in plaits as she runs into puddles, a jump, a dart, and then she’s out again, stomping her feet onto every single divot where water has gathered.

he smiles at that, anger being washed away as the rain falls. 

and then his eyes land on you, running behind what could only be your daughter. you share the same eyes, the same face shape, you’ re basically mirroring every movement of hers, haphazardly. long hair tied into a bun, you look frazzled, exhausted. 

“maya!” you shout, chasing after your daughter with the umbrella in one hand; attempting to not have it blow away by the wind. the other hand reaches out for her, but not before she trips over his oxfords, scuffing them, tumbling into a puddle.

it’s right in front of him, and a child’s just fallen down, he doesn’t have any children, but he isn’t heartless. 

he stops his speed walking, and holds out his pointer finger for her to grab, and she does so with her tiny hands, wrapping around his finger, tugging at it. she stands up with a little “oof”, and he can see the scrape on her cheek from when she hit the floor, the muddy water on her face, leaving behind a grubby stain. suddenly, something overwhelms him, and he crouches down to her level, to wipe away a little of the grit that’s pressed against her cheek. 

“oh my god, i am so sorry about that!” you say, out of breath, as you catch up to the two of them. he looks at you, and then your daughter. it’s almost as if you’ve managed to copy and paste yourself, a smaller version of you with the same bright eyes, even if yours have been dulled by…well. he doesn’t know. life? 

“it’s no worries.” he smiles back, still not standing up, his hands linger over the child’s cheek, the scrape bleeding a little, “hey, is she okay?”

you scrub your face with your hands, and crouch down to your daughter, and he realises that you’re short, quite a bit shorter than him, anyway.

“maya, angel, are you okay?” you wipe the blood away off her skin, the red staining your thumb as your eyes mist up. you hate to see her in pain, that much is obvious. 

“otay.” she holds up her thumb in agreement, and nods. harry’s a little surprised kids can be like that, all soft one moment, all solid the next. she scrunches up her nose, and her fringe sticks to her forehead, she can’t be any more than three, a toddler running loose in new york on a wednesday morning. sure, that might as well happen, he think. 

“mumma’s still going to check, okay?” you kiss her cheek, and then straighten up, lifting her up in one swoop. he takes it as a cue to stand up too, shaking his arm, and picking up the umbrella you’ve dropped to pick your daughter up.

“your umbrella..?” is literally all he can manage, because his stomach is doing flip flops right now, looking at you. you, with the pretty eyes, fogged up glasses perched on your head. you’re wearing formal wear, a blouse and a floral skirt, and your daughter smiles looking at him holding out the umbrella.

“umbella.” her small hands try and grab it, but there’s no way she’ll be able to hold it, and so he keeps a grip on it, steady.

“i don’t think i have any room for it.” you huff, “you keep it mister!” you wave at him, with your left hand, “seems like you need it.”

no ring.

so why did he notice that?

you smile at him, and he smiles back, before you start walking towards the nearest open coffee shop.

and then he jogs up to them, “hey! miss!” what’s possessing him to do this? he’s fifty for god’s sake, and he sounds like a nineteen year old with a crush.

you turn back, and see him holding out the umbrella for you, “yeah..?”

“your daughter tripped over my shoes,” he sounds sheepish, “let me buy you a coffee, it’s the least i can do ma’am.”

you frown for a second, and then hear the thunderclap, look at the downpour. “okay…yeah, sure. okay, why not.”

maya curls around your neck at the sound of the thunderclap, and the sight squeezes something in his heart. you soothe her with a kiss to her forehead and a stroke on her hair.

“she can’t stand thunderstorms.” you say, nodding at her, “i’m trying to get her to nursery, but the subway wasn’t working? they’re saying the tracks got flooded?”

“they need to fix that, sooner or later.” but he hasn’t used the subway in years, his driver takes him everywhere. 

“mhm.” you agree, and the two of you step into the coffee shop, it’s upscale, the ones that sell the bags of their own brand, artisanal coffee in store too. 

your daughter — maya — with her brown plaits, blinks up when she smells coffee. and then snuggles back into you again. she’s so tiny, with her little hands playing with the loose strands of hair around your neck. is this what he’s missing out on?

“so, what do you want, anything, it’s on me.” he says, putting the umbrella back in it’s case, and putting it in the empty water bottle holder of your bag. 

you frown, and then look down at your daughter. “what do you want baby?” 

he didn’t expect you to ask her what she wanted, he just thought you’d get something expensive and leave, what with him inconveniencing you. instead you ask maya, and she murmurs something in your ear.

“have you been here before?” you ask, frowning as he reads the menu. 

“this is a chain, there’s one near my work place in the financial district.” he says, noncommittally, there’s no reason to tell her what he does, not yet. 

“oh okay,” you say, and then you whisper back to your daughter, “i think if you ask the nice man, he’ll know more than me, okay baby?”

she nods, and then peeks her head out of the crook of her mother’s neck. 

“hi.” she says, her voice oh so delicate.

“hi.” he says, a little awkwardly, he’s not great with kids. never has been, probably never will be. 

“what’s ‘our name.” she asks it so confidently, it throws him off. in the middle of the line for the counter. you laugh at that, and harry thinks he quite likes the sound of your laugh. 

“i’m harry castillo, but you can call me harry.” he holds out his finger again, and she shakes it with her little hand.

“go on, ask mr castillo the question.” you prompt her, gently.

“otay.” she frowns, like she’s remembering. “what’s really sweet here? mumma says i can’t have sweets at home. your teeth get holes. but what’s super sweet here?”

he laughs at that, and you shake your head, “maya! you don’t have to tell mr castillo about home baby.” but he wants to hear about home, he wants to hear about how silly it is raising a child, what your home is like, what maya is like, what you are like.

“it’s harry, and it’s fine, really.” home for him is a huge penthouse with nobody inside. so really, anything is interesting to him.

“otay. can ou tell me what’s sweet here?” she asks, more seriously.

he hums, looking at the menu. “maybe the caramel hot chocolate it’s caramel and chocolate.”

you smile at that and so does maya, matching smiles on your faces, why does it light up the room, why does that light up his morning.

you get to the counter quickly, and he tells the barista what to order, putting his card to the machine before you can even see that he’s picked out two pastries for you two too. is the total $28? yes, but that’s a small price to pay, for everything.

you sit at the couch with your daughter beside you, and the barista calls out “maya!” 

you watch as he picks up the plates and cup from the counter, and brings it to you. your daughters eyes widen, and she starts drinking from the cup with the straw.

“you don’t have to do this!” you push the cinnamon bun towards him, your daughter has unfortunately already got her hands on the glazed cherries, and has them in her fist right now, “please, let me pay you back.”

“no, it’s fine, really.” he still has that awkward smile, “i did trip your daughter up.”

“by accident, and it’s fine, kids fall over all the time.”

“but are you sure she seems okay?” he frowns, and he notices your eyes catch his hands. 

“she’s fine, i promise, it’s nothing more than a little graze, see?” you point to her cheek, and the scrape has scabbed over already. 

“and her head and everything…?” he says, and you smile again, more reassuringly.

“yes,” you take a sharp breath, “kids are meant to survive, i promise, she’s okay.”

“oh.” he says, quietly, “okay.”

“no worries mr castillo, thank you so much, maya will be raving about this for days now.” you smile at him, genuine gratitude, and it’s at this moment where he realises that he would spoil you and maya forever. if he could.

“i didn’t catch your name..?” he asks, gentle smile on his face.

“oh yeah, of course, it’s (y/n).” your focus is on your daughter now, who asks if you can cut up the cherry turnover into smaller pieces for her. it’s clear you have no idea who the hell he is, and he’d rather it stay the way.

it’s cute, how quickly maya smiles at him, how you smile at him. he walks up to the counter to get another paper straw as the one in maya’s cup starts to disintegrate, and the barista there smiles at him.

“lovely family you’ve got there.” she says, handing the straw over, “your daughter looks just like your wife, except she’s got your smile.”

those words make him freeze. daughter, wife. you just met them half an hour ago, and suddenly you do look like you and maya would suit his apartment better, suddenly it looks like maya’s little smile looks a little like his own. 

“oh that’s…” he trails off, just take the win man, you aren’t going to get a wife and child. not at your age, his mind thinks. “thank you.”

“no worries, have a nice day!”

and he walks back to the couch where the two of you sit, sitting across you again. 

“here’s the straw.” he hands it over, and you swap out the straw that’s broken for the other one. 

“thanks.” you smile, and nudge your daughter.

“tanks mr catillo.” she sniffles, and then sips the hot chocolate again.

“it’s harry, and it’s fine, really.”

is it? his heart is melting. 

“do you have anywhere to be later?” he asks, and your smile turns into a frown quickly. that was a silly question.

“yeah, work. maya can’t stay without me too long in weather like this, so i’m just taking her to work with me.” you sigh, “i mostly work from home, but the office says you need to come in on wednesdays.”

“oh, which way are you going?” he asks, and you shrug.

“midtown, i work at a tech company, but i doubt i’ll be anywhere at this time of day.”

he laughs at that, all rich like butter and biscuits. “yeah, fair enough, i’m trying to get to the financial district without looking like a wet rat.”

you smile at him, and he can feel your eyes ghost over his curls. “no, i don’t think you look like a wet rat mr castillo.”

“it’s harry.” he sighs, and leans over the table, maya mimicks him and does the same. they’re content in making silly faces at each other for a bit as you scroll through your inbox. 

“i’ve never seen her take to someone so quick.” there’s a smile on your face, proud. “she’s always very shy, but she loves jumping up in the rain.”

he hasn’t thought of lucy, or matchmaking, or anything right now. just the woman in front of him, with the child currently blowing a raspberry at him. 

“maybe i just have a trustworthy aura.” he smiles, all charm.

“or maybe it’s because you gave her three sources of sugar.” but there’s no bite to your words, not really, “thanks, i can’t wait for the sugar crash that’s going to come next.”

maya has a fringe that sticks to her face with the rain, and your glasses that are fogged up sit on your hair, and you smile at him like he’s the only man alive.

oh god. he’s sunk in so deep, it’s ridiculous.

and he doesn’t even know if you’re single, available, whatever. no ring doesn’t mean, no father.

“can’t you give her to her father?” he blurts out, and your vision darkens.

“no, um, maya’s dad died two months after she was born.” you shake your head. “daddy’s with the stars now, isn’t he?” you say, in hushed tones to your daughter, but it’s like you’re saying it for yourself.

“oh.” he gets quiet again, “sorry about that.” 

“no it’s fine, really.” you say, with some resolution in your voice. the sun is finally peeking out of the clouds, and this magical moment has to come to an end, soon anyway. 

maya burrows into your chest again as you coax her to stand up, she doesn’t want to walk any longer, and harry doesn’t know how long you’ve been walking for anyway. without a single thought, he picks up your daughter like she weighs nothing.

maya shrieks with laughter, this is higher up than she’s used to.

you just stare at him with narrowed eyes, but he just sort of stands there, six feet tall with a child perched in his arms, waiting for you to say something.

you huff, and then close your eyes, as if to say “i’m trusting you with this.” and then your eyes harden, “if you hurt her..”

his face blanches, but he still holds onto her like she’s precious, and she is precious, with freckles on her face and bright eyes like she’s the sun incarnate. 

she sits on his shoulders once you leave the coffee shop, the water is drying quickly and there aren’t too many people on the streets. your eyes still linger on your daughter, but also trail over his broad shoulders and broad back. 

tugging at his hair with her small hands, squishing his face, “don’t pull mr castillo’s hair.” you scold.

“it’s fine really.” 

“are you sure?” you ask, worried.

“i’m sure.” he nods, and maya is folding over his face now, dangling her face against his. 

“do ‘ou like cheese? stars make noises? can ‘ou read?” rapid fire questions that come out of her mouth. you smile as he painstakingly answers them “yes i like cheese, i don’t know about stars sorry, and yes i can read.”

she hums thoughtfully, and then sits back up, playing with his hair. the blocked off road is coming to an end now, and you reach at her feet, in little wellington booties. 

“cmon now, time to say goodbye to mr castillo.” he’s given up correcting you.

“arry.” she says, sadly, hand still in his hair.

“careful now maya-bear, mumma has to go to office, you need to come with me okay?” you reach out for her? and harry tries to pass her down, but her hands pull at his shirt.

“come on now.” you coax her again, “you can see mr castillo later on, okay?” and she clambers off him, and onto you. 

“thank you for that.” you whisper, gratefully. 

“no worries miss.” he smiles, a blush on his cheeks. god what he wouldn’t do to have a family like this, a wife and his own child, running around. then he wouldn’t even have to tell them to go. 

“it’s (y/n),” you clear your throat, “it’s fine, call me that and i’ll call you harry.”

“(y/n) it is then.”

“right—“ you put maya down, and let her walk beside you, holding onto your hand. “this is where we say goodbye, right?”

a feeling in his chest. would this be his last chance?

“are you free tomorrow evening?” he asks, far too quickly. 

“tomorrow..evening..?” you stutter, “um, maybe? i dunno, i’ll have to check, probably not though, mayasitting .”

“oh, i was just wondering if you wanted to get some dinner.”

“oh, OH.” you blush, “right, like. that. and this is dinner dinner, and not just, dinner.”

“…what?” he knits his brows.

“no, i mean, never mind.” you shake your head, maya pulling at your hand to turn right. “like, dinner as in. like feeling bad for a single mom sort of dinner or-“

“no, date dinner.” he likes when you stumble over your words, it’s cute.

“ah, date dinner.” you hum, “yeah okay, if you’re okay with maya coming.” a protective hand on her head. “i’m not going anywhere without her, or your house.”

“no, of course.” he glances down at maya, “of course she can come. there’s a nice pizza joint in downtown manhattan that you should come visit. it’s near my office.”

your lips quirk upwards, a ghost of a smile, “okay, yeah, sure, i’d like that. would you like it maya?”

maya grabs onto his trouser clad leg with her grabby little hands (sticky with sugar from the pastries) “PIZZA!”

“okay, so that’s decided then.” your mouth is dry as you watch him smile down at her and shake her hand again. he’s so good with your girl, it makes your heart thud, “can i get your number?”

he nods, and then passes over a business card, and you laugh as you read over it. “i meant maybe airdropping my contact over? but this works fine too.”

greying hair, wrinkles around his eyes, sure he’s not your usual type, a a bit older, but you haven’t dated since your husband died anyway. 

you ring the number you’ve just inputted, and his phone rings. “save me right now, so you can find me faster.”

“okay, okay.” he puts your name down, “see you six pm? i’ll send the location over?”

( maya doesn’t let go of his leg until she’s promised she’ll see him tomorrow, 200%, and somewhere in his shattered broken heart, a seed of hope grows. )

You turn heads on the blue carpet in a dress that’s equal parts playful and vintage. The rich chocolate brown fabric, scattered with tiny white polka dots, hugs your frame as the sleeveless cut keeps things breezy and fun. A wide beige collar frames your neckline, drawing attention upward as you move confidently with your mic in hand.

The off-center line of oversized buttons running down the front adds just the right touch of quirky charm, while the cream waistband cinches your waist before the skirt flares out in soft ruffles that sway with every step. But it’s the oversized bow at your hip, crafted from matching beige and brown fabric, that truly steals the show, giving you a sweet, standout silhouette as you interview stars and steal a bit of the spotlight yourself.

You’re mid-interview with a producer when you spot him—Pedro Pascal, working his way down the line, flashing that signature smile and offering hugs and cheek kisses like they’re party favors. You try to keep your cool, mentally double-checking your notes, but the second his eyes land on you, it’s like the world briefly hushes.

And then he does a double take.

Pedro’s brow lifts, and that warm, curious smile starts to form as he makes his way over. “Wait, wait a second…”

You tilt your head, already grinning. “Caught you staring.”

“I wasn’t staring,” he says, but the little hitch in his voice betrays him. He gestures between you two. “We’re matching.”

You glance down at your dress, then up at the polka dots on his tie, and you gasp with playful offense. “Are you saying you copied me?”

“Oh no,” he laughs. “You wore it better. I’ll concede immediately.”

His eyes drag over the bow at your hip, the bounce in your skirt, and then—his gaze dips to your hand as you lift your mic again.

“Wait… your nails.”

You hold your fingers out just slightly, letting the overhead lights catch the glossy brown acrylics, each dotted delicately in white. “The commitment to the theme,” you say, wiggling them. “I take my job very seriously.”

Pedro looks stunned for a beat. He bites back a grin and mutters, “You’re killin’ me,” before immediately laughing at himself. “Seriously, I’m not even sure I should be interviewed by you. You’re making me nervous.”

You arch a brow. “Pedro Pascal. Nervous? Around me?”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says with a little dramatic flair, but there’s real warmth in it. “You’ve got polka dot nails. A bow. A collar. You ask questions and look like you walked off the set of the cutest Wes Anderson movie ever. I’m thrown.”

You lean in slightly, teasing, “Should I take that as a compliment or an insult?”

“Oh, both,” he replies instantly. “Definitely both.”

The camera’s still rolling, but it doesn’t feel like a press interview anymore. You toss one of your prepared questions aside and go rogue.

“Alright,” you say. “Tell me the truth. Do you pick your red carpet looks, or do you just show up and let a very stressed stylist handle it?”

Pedro chuckles, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “A very stylish and slightly bossy stylist. I show up, they sigh at my socks, and fix everything.”

“Well,” you say, sweeping a look down his suit. “They did great. Twinning with me? Bold move.”

“I’ll thank them later,” he replies, giving you a look that lingers maybe half a second too long.

You continue for a few more minutes—he answers your questions, but always with that smirk, that lean, that little tilt of his head like he’s listening to you more than anyone else on the carpet. The moment feels tucked away from the cameras, even as flashbulbs pop behind him.

As the crew starts to wrap and you lower your mic, he leans in again, softer now.

“You staying for the premiere?”

“I am,” you say, suddenly very aware of how close he is. “Row J, media section. Why?”

Pedro smiles, and this one is different. Less for show, more real. More him.

“Well, if you feel like ditching that seat,” he says, slipping a folded pass from his jacket pocket, “there’s one next to me. I promise good snacks and better company.”

You blink at the VIP pass, then at him. “Are you bribing me with popcorn and charm?”

He grins. “Is it working?”

You take the pass from his hand, your fingers grazing his—and that’s when he sees your matching polka dot nail on your ring finger and actually blushes. Like, full-body, pink-eared blush.

“Dangerous,” he murmurs under his breath, half to himself.

And just before he walks off, he turns back, points at your dress, and says: “Seriously. You stole the show.”

The moment Pedro walks off, you blink a few times, trying to ground yourself before someone calls “aaaand cut!”

You keep the mic up a beat longer, then lower it slowly, exhaling like you’ve just survived a near-death experience via charming Chilean actor.

You glance toward the camera with wide eyes, still smiling. “Okay,” you say, breathless. “So no, he did not slip me his number…”

You lift your free hand, flashing the VIP pass with a little shake.

“…buuuut I may or may not be sitting next to him for the film.”

Then you lean into the camera just slightly, lowering your voice like it’s a secret you’re letting the audience in on.

“Which means, I now have approximately twenty-five minutes to calm the hell down and pretend I’m not already planning our wedding.”

You end it with a ridiculous wink—cheesy, exaggerated, fully unserious.

Your producer stifles a laugh off-camera. “You’re glowing, by the way.”

You fan yourself with the pass. “I need a fan and a shot of espresso. In that order.”

You’re in the women’s restroom, both palms planted on the marble counter, staring yourself down in the mirror like you’re about to walk a runway instead of sitting next to Pedro Pascal in a dark theater.

Your heart’s still thumping. A little too fast.

“Okay,” you whisper, straightening your posture. “You are a professional. You are composed. You are not gonna spill your drink on him. You are not gonna trip walking up the stairs. You are definitely not gonna sniff his cologne like a freak.”

You pause. “…Maybe just once. But subtly.”

With a huff of nervous laughter, you pop open your lipstick, chestnut brown, a wine colored gloss, and you reapply, carefully and slowly. Then the matching dark brown liner. A little finger tap to blend. You press your lips together, check the teeth (clear), check the bow at your hip (still perfect), then pull your small travel perfume from your bag.

A soft spritz of vanilla at your neck. Another for luck on your wrist.

“Showtime,” you whisper, tucking everything back into your purse like it’s a ritual.

Outside the theater, an usher scans your special pass and gestures to you toward the reserved seating near the front of the VIP section. Rows of producers, stars, and studio execs then him.

Pedro’s already in his seat, arm draped lazily over the back of the one next to him, eyes flicking toward you the second you step in.

And he smiles. A real one. That slow, warm, just-for-you one.

You walk toward him like you’re in stilettos on a Paris runway instead of kitten heels at a superhero premiere.

As you slide into the seat beside him, Pedro leans over slightly and murmurs, “You smell good.”

You blink, cheeks already heating. “Wow. Straight to the point, huh?”

He chuckles, the sound low and pleased. “I mean, it’s kind of unfair. You look like that and you smell like a dessert.”

“Vanilla bean,” you whisper back, like you’re letting him in on something private.

Pedro’s lips twitch, and he murmurs like a dare, “Dangerous.”

The lights dim. Trailers start.

His arm stays right where it is, hovering behind you, fingertips brushing the back of your seat, like a tether he’s not quite ready to admit to.

And when your knees gently touch halfway through the second trailer… neither of you moves.

The movie starts, and the room darkens, the glow of the screen painting your faces in flickering light. Your shoulders brush lightly against Pedro’s, sending a tiny, unexpected thrill up your spine.

Midway through a tense scene, explosions, flying debris, heroic saves, and Pedro leans in just enough so his warm breath tickles your ear. His voice is low, smooth, almost a purr.

“Remind me to never get on your bad side. You’re watching all of this violence with a straight face.”

You bite your lip, heart fluttering. “Is that your idea of flirting or a warning?”

He grins, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe both. But mostly a compliment.”

The action ramps up on screen, a daring escape, a close call, and Pedro nudges you gently with his elbow.

“You know, you’d make a killer sidekick. Quick, smart, and you have a killer fashion sense.”

You glance at him, amused and flushed. “I’ll take ‘killer sidekick’ as a promotion.”

When the film hits an emotional moment, Pedro’s voice lowers to a whisper and he says, “don’t worry. I won’t cry… unless you hold my hand.”

You glance at him, surprised by the honesty masked in his tease. You reach out just a little, letting your fingers brush his.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he leans in once more, lips barely grazing your ear as he whispers:

“Best premiere ever.”

The credits start rolling, the theater dim except for the glow from the screen. The room begins to stir with applause, but you barely hear it. You’re still caught in the bubble of the evening, his warmth, his presence, the light brush of your fingers.

Pedro shifts slightly, turns toward you with that mischievous glint in his eyes.

“So,” he says low and easy, voice just for you, “after all this… you sticking around?”

You smile, heart flipping. “I was thinking I might. Why?”

He glances toward the exit, then back at you, cheeks coloring just a bit in the dim light. That rare, genuine flicker of nerves. “There’s an after party nearby. I’ve got an extra invite.”

Your breath catches. “An extra invite?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but the way his eyes lock on yours says everything.

“I’d like it if you came with me.”

You pause, the world narrowing down to just the two of you. Then you grin, matching his energy.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

His smile grows, genuine and wide, and he reaches over to gently bump your knee with his.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice soft. “Because I have a feeling the night’s just getting started.”

The venue is sleek and softly lit, buzzing with chatter and clinking glasses, neon blue lights echoing the Fantastic Four branding across the walls. Pedro’s hand hovers at the small of your back as the two of you step inside together—close enough to be protective, but still testing the boundary.

He leans over as you pass a cluster of publicists and murmurs, “You good?”

You nod, smiling. “You’re not gonna ditch me for a shrimp tower, are you?”

He smirks. “I was planning to, but now that you’ve said it, I guess I have to keep you around.”

Before you can throw a playful jab back, Pedro spots someone across the room and taps your arm gently. “Come on—I want to introduce you to the cast.”

Your pulse kicks up just a little.

He leads you to a corner where Vanessa Kirby, Joseph Quinn, and Ebon Moss-Bachrach are mid-conversation, laughing over something in Joseph’s hand and what looks like a terribly drawn caricature from a novelty photo booth.

Vanessa’s the first to spot Pedro, and her eyes flick immediately to you with interest.

“Well hello, who’s this?”

Pedro casually slides his hand off your back but stays close. “This is…” He pauses, glancing at you with a slight grin, “…the woman who made me forget how to answer interview questions tonight.”

Joseph lets out a very Joseph Quinn “oooOOoh,” while Ebon raises his glass and says, “Scandalous.”

You laugh, waving it off. “I swear I was just doing my job.”

Vanessa steps forward, extending a hand. “I saw your interview and you had brilliant questions, and that dress? It’s giving a vintage journalist in her prime.”

“She interviewed me before you,” Joseph chimes in, squinting at you. “Right? You’re the one who asked me if The Human Torch could outdrink Eddie Munson?”

“That was me,” you grin.

“And you said I’d black out after one whiskey sour.”

“Because you would,” Vanessa says, rolling her eyes affectionately.

Pedro’s watching all of this unfold with an expression that toes the line between awe and giddiness. You’re clearly winning the room.

“See?” he says, nudging Ebon. “Told you she was cool.”

Ebon raises a brow. “Didn’t take much convincing. We’ve been talking about you for like ten minutes.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

Joseph grins. “He was out here all flustered before you showed up. Said—and I quote—‘She had polka dot nails. I’m too old, I might have a heart attack. I’m not built for this anymore.’”

Pedro covers his face with one hand. “I regret bringing you into my life.”

You laugh, eyes gleaming. “So you were nervous.”

He peeks at you through his fingers. “Maybe a little.”

Vanessa slides a cocktail your way. “You’re stuck with us now. You passed the vibe check.”

You raise the glass and clink it lightly with Pedro’s. “Guess I’m part of the team.”

Pedro leans in with a smile so soft you barely catch it.

“Guess you are.”

You’re perched on a plush velvet couch in a quieter corner of the party, your drink in hand, something bubbly with a fruity twist, just strong enough to loosen the nerves. Pedro’s next to you, thigh brushing yours now and then, body angled completely toward you like the rest of the room doesn’t exist.

He takes a sip of his tequila neat and glances sideways with a teasing smile. “Alright, important question.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Hit me.”

He leans in slightly, like this is serious business. “What’s your go-to movie snack? And you have to choose one.”

You laugh. “That’s your big question?”

“I said it was important, not deep.”

You pretend to think, tapping your lip with one finger. “Hot popcorn, lots of butter, but you mix it with peanut M&Ms. Salty-sweet masterpiece.” (yes the real @lowrisemiller ™️ does this)

Pedro clutches his chest like you just proposed. “That’s… wow. Marriage material, honestly.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Alright, your turn.”

“Red vines and Diet Coke.”

You blink. “You mean Twizzlers?”

“No,” he says, mock offended. “Red Vines. There’s a difference, and I will die on this hill.”

You snort into your drink. “That’s tragic.”

“Tragic is not recognizing true candy royalty,” he replies, gently nudging your knee with his.

A couple of fans approach, hesitant and polite and Pedro immediately shifts into his warm, welcoming mode, standing up for a few quick selfies. He glances at you between photos with a soft, apologetic smile, like don’t go anywhere, and you just nod, sipping your drink and watching the way he makes everyone feel seen.

When he finally sits back down beside you, cheeks a little pink from smiling, he lets out a breath.

“You’re good at that,” you murmur.

He shrugs, glancing down at his glass. “Comes with the job.”

“But I mean it,” you say. “You’re not just…on autopilot, it’s charming.”

He looks up at you then, really looks at you, and something shifts behind his eyes. A little quieter, a little softer.

“You’re easy to talk to,” he says. “I think that helps.”

The air between you settles into something slower. The music in the background pulses faintly, but neither of you moves to fill the space too quickly. You swirl the last bit of your drink, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he’s sitting.

After a beat, he nods toward the side door, a little away from the main crowd.

“You wanna get some air?”

Your eyes meet. Warmth stirs in your chest. You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, setting your glass down. “Let’s go.”

He stands first, offering his hand without thinking. You take it, and don’t let go as he guides you through the crowd, out toward the night.

You follow Pedro out through a side door that leads to a narrow stairwell, his hand still loosely in yours. Neither of you mentions it, but neither of you lets go.

The rooftop is quiet, save for the distant buzz of traffic and the occasional laughter wafting up from the valet below. The air is cooler here, the kind that kisses your shoulders and carries the faintest smell of pavement and summer rain.

Pedro holds the door open for you, then steps beside you, hands tucking into the pockets of his suit pants as he looks out over the city.

“It’s nice up here,” you say softly.

He nods, glancing sideways at you. “Better view now that you’re in it.”

You let out a soft laugh, rolling your eyes, but your heart beats a little faster anyway.

There’s a moment of silence, the good kind, the kind that feels like a shared secret instead of something awkward.

He breaks it with a quiet, “You interview a lot of people?”

You glance over at him. “Yeah. Comes with the job.”

He nods. “You’re good at it. You made me forget there were cameras.”

“You say that like it doesn’t happen to you all the time.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head a little. “Not like that.”

You don’t push. You just lean your elbows on the ledge, looking down at the city. The lights blur slightly in the breeze, and you take a deep breath, vanilla perfume curling in the air between you.

Pedro steps closer. Not in a rush, just… drawn.

“You ever get nervous?” he asks.

You glance over at him with a smirk. “What, like before interviews?”

“No.” He looks at you, full-on. “Like right now.”

Something about the way he says it, honest and quiet, like he’s not trying to charm you, just be real, makes your breath catch.

“A little,” you admit.

His smile returns, slower this time. “Me too.”

There’s a beat where neither of you says anything, and the space between you seems to shrink on its own. He looks at your face, then down at your hand resting on the edge of the wall. You feel his fingers brush yours, tentative and featherlight.

He shifts closer, quiet and sincere.

“Do you ever just want to skip the small talk and see what happens?”

Your lips part slightly. There’s a pause. A slow warmth spreads in your chest.

But before you can respond, he winces, like he just heard himself out loud and cringed.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, half-laughing, running a hand through his hair. “What the hell was that? I’d never say that.”

You blink, then burst out laughing. “You just said it.”

“I know,” he says, grinning, visibly flustered now. “I blacked out for a second. That was, like, premium grade-A bullshit line delivery.”

You’re giggling, hand over your mouth, but he keeps going, cheeks blushing and warm now.

“I love small talk! I’m a huge fan of small talk—especially with you. I think you’re amazing,” he says, voice rushing a little. “I just—I don’t know if we’ll get an opportunity like this again. You’re you, you’re a young successful woman with good taste and cute nails, and I’m a guy whose prime apparently waited until he turned fifty.”

You’re laughing so hard you nearly lose your balance against the railing. “Did you just say ‘terrifying nails’?”

He gives you that look, the boyish, scrunched-up smile that completely undermines his own attempt at being suave.

“They haunt me in the best way.”

You’re still catching your breath, but then he looks at you, really looks, and the laughter slows, settles, turns into something else. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes bright, and you can feel that exact second where the mood shifts again.

You say quietly, still smiling, “You’re ridiculous.”

He whispers, “You’re gorgeous.”

And then he leans in slow at first, lips brushing yours with a teasing softness, a taste, a test.

You meet him halfway. You have to.

The second your mouths fully connect, the heat between you ignites. It’s not tentative anymore—it’s full, deep, a collision of breath and want. His hand moves to the back of your neck, cradling you, while the other slides down to your waist, tugging you closer, closer until there’s no space between your bodies at all.

You gasp against his mouth, just enough to let his tongue brush yours and that’s it. That’s when he loses his careful control.

Pedro groans, low and needy, backing you gently but firmly toward the wall of the rooftop, never breaking the kiss. Your spine meets cool brick, a contrast to the heat blooming everywhere else. His thigh slides between yours, parting your legs just slightly, just enough.

His hands are on your hips now, gripping through the fabric of your dress, thumbs dragging slow circles against the bow at your side like he’s trying not to rip it off.

“Fuck,” he mutters between kisses, voice ragged. “You’re—this dress—it’s— you’re unreal.”

Your hand fists in the lapel of his blazer, the other sliding up the back of his neck and into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan again into your mouth. It’s messy now, deep kisses, gasps, and a moan slipping from you when his thigh presses just right.

He mouths at the corner of your jaw, down to your neck. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his breath hot. “Because if you don’t, I’m not gonna be a gentleman.”

You exhale sharply, tilting your head back. “Then don’t.”

His teeth graze your pulse point and you feel it, his restraint starting to crack. His hand slips down, fingers ghosting along your thigh beneath the hem of your dress, and your back arches slightly against the wall, silently begging him for more.

And then—

He stills.

He pulls back, barely, forehead pressed to yours, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You’re breathless, dizzy, clutching the front of his suit like you might collapse if you let go. “We… could—”

“No.” His voice is soft but firm. “Not like this. Not up here, not rushed.” He opens his eyes, still inches away from you. “You deserve more than half-drunk rooftop sex. I want to take you out properly.”

You blink, still dazed. “A date?”

“A real one,” he says, lips brushing yours one more time. “With a reservation and chairs and napkins and me pretending I’m not dying to do this again the entire time.”

You smile. “So chivalry isn’t dead.”

“Barely,” he breathes. “You make it incredibly difficult.”

You both laugh, shaky and flushed, as he steps back enough to let you straighten your dress. He gently fixes your hair, fingertips lingering a second too long.

“Okay,” you say, teasing as you wipe a smudge of lipstick from his mouth. “Let’s go before I change my mind and drag you back to that wall.”

He mutters something in Spanish under his breath. You know you’re not ready to translate out loud.

As you step back into the party, slightly tousled, visibly glowing, Joseph Quinn catches sight of you both, and immediately wolf-whistles across the room.

“Well damn, Pedro,” he calls out, grinning. “You take her up there to read poetry or what?”

Pedro laughs, sliding an arm around your waist.

“You wouldn’t believe how good her small talk is.”

Vanessa clinks her glass in your direction. “Tell us everything at brunch.”

Pedro leans in, low and smug at your ear. “…Assuming you’ll want brunch after our date.”

You grin. “Only if you bring Red Vines.”