☆My brain hurt like a warehouse, it had no room to spare☆

The drawback of being a baker is that your working day starts when others are still tucked in bed with hours left to sleep. Or just coming home from a party. But you don’t mind all that much, there’s a certain tranquil peace to being awake and working in the bakery while the rest of the world sleeps. 

In the warmer months you prop open the back door so that you can hear the birds starting to sing as the sky slowly grows lighter outside, today is just one of those mornings. 

The early morning radio show is on low in the background as you prepare the day. Yesterday's loaves have proofed overnight in the cold storage and are ready for the oven, the pie doughs taken out and softening while you prepare the cookie doughs. 

People don’t often knock on the bakery's back door before you open for the day, but it happens, so when you suddenly hear someone shuffle and knock, you’re not surprised. Wiping your hands on your apron you turn the corner into the small back room. A man is leaning on the door frame, but not the sexy, romance novel leaning. No, this man is leaning in a ‘lean-or-fall-over’ kinda way. His eyes are covered by large black sunglasses that he pulls down as you spot him, a tired but cheeky smirk on his face. 

“Hey, baker girl,” he grins, his voice gravelly like he’s chain smoked all night, “got any sna- oh whoops!” he giggles madly as he loses his balance and tumbles sideways, catching the other door frame before he grabs onto your arms and almost manages to stand up straight. 

“You might need coffee, not snacks,” you say, holding onto him to stop him from falling face forward into your apron.  

“I’m fine,” he grins, pushing himself upright again but still holding on to the door frame, “I just came from this party, were you there?,” he asks, giving you another over the glasses look, this time clearly checking you out as his eyes drag up and down your form, lingering on your pink crocs. 

“Actually, I would’ve remembered if you were there, love the crocs,” he chuckles. 

“What’s wrong with my crocs?” you ask, slightly offended, “They’re great for people like me, you know, people who actually work on Thursdays.” 

“No, no, I mean it, I love your crocs!” the man says, wide eyed and shoving his glasses up in his wild curls, “I have like ten crocs, one pair is pink too.” 

He furrows his eyebrows, giving you a confused look, “Wait, it’s Thursday?” 

“Yeah, five am, Thursday morning,” you say, wondering how to get rid of this disheveled man so that you can get back to the cookie dough. 

“Fuck, oh fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck….” the man groans, bending double and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, “I’m so fucked…I thought it was Wednesday.” 

He stands up again and you can’t help but feel sorry for him, he looks devastated. 

“I was meant to fly out to San Antonio yesterday and take my nice to Six Flags for her birthday, and I fucking missed it!” 

He slumps against the door frame and thumps the back of his head against it repeatedly, moaning, “I’m such a fuck up, I’m such a fuck up.” 

“Hey, take it easy, I’m sure it’ll be fine, just apologize and take her another day,” you say, putting your hand on the man’s arm to stop him from giving himself a concussion in your bakery, “I’m sure she’ll understand.” 

“You think?” he says, “I’m not the best at remembering birthdays, I may have missed a few in the past.” 

“Well, then she’ll be mad at you, but all you can do is apologize right? And try to make it up to her as best you can.” 

“Yeah…yeah…maybe you’re right, thanks baker girl.” He gives you a lopsided smile and you notice the smudges of dark eyeliner around his eyes, “How about those snacks? I’m fucking starving.” 

You can’t help but laugh, the man’s a mess but somehow adorable at the same time with his wild hair and stained t-shirt. 

“Sure, I’ll get you something, what do you like?”

“Do you have sausage rolls?” he asks, following you into the kitchen, “I fucking love sausage rolls.”

“What, like those things they made on the Great British Bake Off?” you reply, opening your walk in fridge to survey the snack options. 

“Yeah, I did this movie once, in England, and there was a bakery next to my apartment and whenever I got back from a party, early morning, I’d knock on their back door and they’d sell me these fat sausage rolls, fresh from the oven, fucking amazing.” 

“Sorry, no sausage rolls in this bakery,” you say, “but my cookies will be done soon, if you can wait.” 

You turn back to the man and realize he’s wandering around the kitchen, sticking his nose in your bowls, sniffing loudly. 

“Hey, don’t stick your finger in that,” you say, “Health and Safety are going to have my license if they catch you.”

“Sorry, I’ve just got the munchies, I’ve been high for like, two days,” he says, waving his arms around, “this place is torture for a high pers-OH! Do you know what I love?”

“No,” you sigh, exasperated, “I don’t know what you love.”  

He completely misses your tone as he spins in a circle around the kitchen and you realize that he’s wearing what looks like very expensive pajama pants and no shoes, just socks.

“I love those…what do you call them, like…millionaire’s something?” 

“Millionaire's shortbread?” you ask and he spins around to you with a big grin. 

“Yes! Those! With like the chocolate and the peanut butter and they’re like the best Reese’s ever, only even more fucking amazing. Can you make those?”  “I don’t know, maybe,” you begin and the man actually falls to his knees, shuffling over the floor to you. 

“Please, I’ll do anything, I’m dying here, beautiful baker girl, make me happy!”

“Are you asking me to bake for you or proposing?” you laugh, this man is too ridiculous as he grins up at you. 

“If you make them for me, I won’t marry you, but there are many other things I can do,” he says, pulling down his dark sunglasses from his head and winking at you from over the edge, his cheeky grin making it impossible to scowl at him. 

“Fine, I’ll make them for you, just get up from my floor, please,” you say, reaching for his hand. He takes yours with a bright smile, kissing the back of it, before he stumbles to his feet and follows you over to your big workbench.

“I’m Dieter, by the way. Can I sit here?” he asks, pointing to the stool that stands next to the bench. 

“Nice to meet you Dieter,” you say, “sure, go ahead, it’s got wheels on it though so be careful.” 

“Awesome,” Dieter says and sits down, immediately speeding across the floor with a kick of his socked feet. He stops himself from crashing into the fridge door by grabbing on to the handle before he shoots off again, rolling all the way over to the open back door. 

“Don’t fall out through the door please,” you call after him and you hear him giggle, a second later he comes spinning into the kitchen again. 

“This thing is awesome, I need to buy one for my house.” 

“Happy you’re enjoying yourself,” you laugh and walk to where yesterday’s bakes are stacked on trays. You’d made a layer of shortbread yesterday, you were planning on making lemon bars but Millionaire’s shortbread will work too. As you bring it over to your work station Dieter rolls past you and stops by the bench.  “Can I help?” he asks, looking up at you, his sunglasses back in his messy hair. He’s kinda cute when you think about it, gorgeous brown eyes, and the smile he’s giving you is open and curious with an adorable dimple. 

“Yeah, sure, you can be in charge of peanuts,” you say, walking over to the dry storage, “They need to be bashed into chunks with a rolling pin, something tells me that’s something you can probably handle.” 

“That sounds fun, please, direct me,” he says, kicking himself over to the storage cupboard on the stool. 

“Oops, sorry,” he giggles, grabbing hold of your hips to stop himself from crashing into the storage door, “I kicked too hard that time.” 

“Go easy there, Dieter,” you laugh as he untangles himself from the stool and stands up. You get on your tiptoes to grab the peanuts and suddenly realize he’s still holding on to your hips, standing close behind you. You swear you feel his nose brush the side of your head, a quick inhale from him, and then he steps back, letting go. 

“Peanuts?” he says, leaning past you and reaching up to grab the bag sitting just out of your reach. His arm brushes over yours and he’s suddenly very close again, his citrusy after shave, mingling with the heady sweet smoke of weed, fills your senses. 

“Uhh…y-yeah,” you stutter, “thanks. And the dark chocolate if you can reach it.” 

“Sure, this one?” he asks, grabbing the bag of Valrhona from the shelf. This time his chest is pressed against your back, you really should move out of his way, but he’s right behind you, almost pinning you in place, as he has to stretch to his full length to reach. And you find that you don’t mind at all, he’s warm and solid behind you, and this is more action than you’ve had in months. 

“That’s the one, thanks,” you say, trying to keep your voice neutral. 

Dieter brings it down to your level and you take it from him, expecting him to step back and give you room to go back to the work bench. But instead he stays right behind you, and this time you really do feel him bend down and brush his nose over your cheek, down to where your neck meets your shoulder. 

“You smell delicious, like a cookie,” he mumbles and your heart literally skips a beat. 

“Th-thanks,” you splutter and when Dieter steps back, letting you move, you avoid his eyes, feeling your cheeks burn. 

“S-so the…umm…rolling pin is on that shelf there,” you say, pointing down to your right, “and there’s a measuring cup too, just…umm…just get a cup of peanuts, and put them in a plastic bag and bash away. Just wash your hands first.” 

“Ok, I can do that,” he says with a grin and he walks behind you to the sink in the corner while you measure out the peanut butter into a sauce pan. 

Dieter gets to work on the peanuts with great enthusiasm until you tell him they’re broken up enough. 

“Just leave them there, you can come here and stir the peanut butter while I get the caramel ready,” you instruct him and he ambles over in just his socks. 

“What happened to your shoes? If you don’t mind me asking,” you point at his stripey, multicolored socks. 

“I’m not sure,” Dieter glances down at his feet, “I had shoes when I left home, I’m sure of it, but after that it gets a bit hazy.” 

“You’ve really been partying since Tuesday?” you ask and he nods. 

“Yeah, it was a good party so we just kinda kept going,” he grins, “there was a huge pool and we all went in. Actually, maybe that’s where I lost my shoes?” 

“Maybe, you could go back and look for them?” 

“And miss out on baking with a pretty baker girl? Never!” he chuckles and you’re not totally sure he’s being serious or not, but the grin he gives you makes you hope he is. 

“I think this is melted,” he says, draggin the spoon through the silky smooth peanut butter, showing you the bowl. 

“Yeah, that looks done. Just pass me that tray of shortbread and I’ll pour the caramel on top.” 

“Can I lick the bowl?” he asks, looking over your shoulder as you let the thick golden liquid pool on top of the shortbread. 

“I’m pretty good at scraping, there’s usually nothing left to lick,” you say, dragging the spatula around the edge. 

“Can’t you be a bit sloppy, just for me?” Dieter grins, standing entirely too close, “It smells so good, I wanna taste it.” 

This time he’s definitely flirting, the salacious smile on his face while he winks at you, makes you both roll your eyes and squash down butterflies on the inside. 

“Fine, I’ll leave some for you,” you smile, looking back at the shortbread again and scraping out caramel, leaving the last of it on the spatula. Putting the bowl to the side, you hold out the spatula for him. But instead of taking it, he grabs hold of your hand, and licks the caramel off the spatula with a long swipe of his tongue. His eyes don’t leave yours and the whole thing is so over the top you burst out laughing. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, tone it down maybe?” you snort, as he abruptly stops licking, letting go of your hand. 

“What?” he blushes, “I saw it in this movie, it looked sexy.” 

“Yeah, in a porno maybe!” you say, handing him the spatula, and only the spatula.

He takes it with a sheepish look, “Sorry, that usually works.” 

“Not in this bakery, I have to work with that spatula when you’re gone, I can’t have it being used as a porno prop, Dieter.” You grab a new spatula from the holder on the counter and start smoothing out the caramel. 

“You do smell good though,” Dieter says, still looking sheepish, “that wasn’t just a line.” 

“Thanks,” you shoot him a quick smile, working over the caramel, “you smell good too, underneath all that weed funk.” 

At this he grabs the front of his t-shirt and sniffs it, wrinkling his nose, “Yeah, it’s kinda obvious, huh.” 

“Can’t believe you partied for forty-eight hours, I’d be dead on my feet,” you say, mixing the peanut butter into the caramel layer, sprinkling in some of the crushed peanuts, “Do you want coffee or something while we wait for this to set?” 

“Fuck yes, coffee sounds amazing!” Dieter exclaims, dropping the spatula from his mouth, “And this stuff is amazing too, I’d eat a bowl of just this.” 

“You’d die of a sugar rush if you did,” you laugh, sliding the tray into the large fridge and setting a timer on your phone, “C’mon, the coffee machine is out front.” 

One of the advantages of being the sole owner of the bakery was that you got to decide what to skimp on, and what to splurge on. And the espresso machine was something you’d really splurged on. For a shop that mainly sold take out baked goods, it was way over the top, but it meant you always had great coffee on hand for your early mornings. The machine was already up and running, humming quietly as you started preparing two shots. 

“How do you take it, Dieter?” you ask and he winks at you.  “Anyway you wanna give it to me, baker girl,” he grins and when you sigh loudly, he laughs and holds up his hands in defense. “C’mon! I had to! You set it up perfectly!” 

“How do you take your coffee?” you emphasis and glare at him, but your smile is breaking through and he gives you a playful poke as he comes up and stands next to the machine. 

“Extra everything, cream, sugar, any of those coffee syrups if you have ‘em.” 

“Why am I not surprised?” you smirk, “A guy who loves Millionaire’s Shortbread, of course he wants extra everything. I bet you’re lining up outside your local Starbucks the morning they start selling Pumpkin Spice.” 

“I would never drink Starbucks!” he protests, “Fucking vile coffee and the worst of corporate America. But you can’t beat a good pumpkin spice if you’ve got quality coffee.” 

“I’ve only got great coffee here, but no syrup, you want a latte? Double shot espresso?” 

“Please,” he says, leaning against the counter next to the espresso machine as he looks over the front of your little shop, crossing his arms. You can’t help the glance up at his arms, the t-shirt hanging on for dear life as it clings to his biceps and broad shoulders. The many rings on his fingers look tiny on his large hands as he grips the outside of his arms, and you’re temporarily distracted by them, and his close proximity. 

The hiss of the machine pulls you back to reality, coffee sputtering out of the spouts into the cup. You glance back up at Dieter and find him watching you with a crooked smile, a dimple in his cheek. 

“What?” you say, looking back at the machine and begin to steam the milk. 

“You really are beautiful,” he says, almost matter of factly, “especially when you zone out.” 

“It’s early, and I’ve been up since two am, but thanks, I guess,” you reply, handing him the latte and pointing to the sugar bowl on the counter next to the till. 

“I wasn’t trying to make a move or anything,” he says, sounding slightly hurt, “I just wanted to tell you I think you’re gorgeous.” 

“No, I’m sorry,” you say, immediately regretting your tone, “I’m just not used to compliments I guess, I didn’t mean to sound so rude. I should’ve just said thanks,” you look over at him and give him a smile, “Thanks Dieter.” 

“You’re welcome,” he replies, smiling back. 

You knock out the used coffee grounds and fill it up again to make your own coffee. Dieter reaches over and grabs four sugar cubes and drops them in the latte, stirring while he watches you work. He’s watching you closely again and it makes your cheeks heat up. He’s got a strange energy of childish mayhem and intense magnetism, chaos that’s either going to make you laugh until your sides hurt or fuck you until you can’t walk straight for a week. And you’re not sure which one you want. 

Your coffee done, you add a splash of milk and lean against the counter opposite Dieter, taking a careful sip. He’s wrapped both his large hands around the thick glass and is delicately licking the foam, drawing a pattern in it with his tongue. You watch him for a few seconds until he notices you and gives you a sheepish grin. 

“What?” he asks, copying your tone from earlier. 

“You really think I’m pretty?” you ask, the question slipping out before you have a chance to stop it, immediately regretting your filterless mouth. 

But he gives you a disarming smile, “Gorgeous. Gorgeous baker girl that smells like cookies and caramel and chocolate.” 

“You’re just high,” you can’t help but scoff at him, but he just shakes his head. 

“No, not at all.” 

He doesn’t say anything else, just looks at you, the silence stretching between you until you think something will have to snap and it’s probably going to be you. 

The phone saves you, the timer going off just as you don’t think you can stand another second of his chocolate brown eyes looking at you like you’re the snack he’s been asking for. 

“Thecaramelisset,” you rush out, breaking eye contact and hurrying back into the kitchen as if another second in the fridge would ruin the whole thing. Dieter comes in behind you at a slower pace, still drinking his coffee. 

You pull out the tray and set it down on the workbench before turning on the burner under a saucepan of water, setting up a water bath. 

“I’m just gonna melt this chocolate, and then I’ll spread it on top, it’ll set pretty quickly. And then it’s done.” You work quickly, too flustered to look at him and he hoovers just to your side, watching your movements. 

The chocolate melts fast, you only need a thin layer, and then you pour it over the caramel. You scrape the bowl clean but leave a generous amount of chocolate on the spatula, giving it to Dieter. 

“Don’t burn your mouth, it’s still warm”, you say when he takes it. He doesn’t grab your hand this time, but his fingertips brushes over yours as he nods, and it sends a sharp little jolt through you. 

You turn back to the almost finished shortbread but can’t help glancing over at him. His pink tongue comes out and licks the chocolate, this time it’s not over the top, nothing provocative about it, he’s not even looking at you. But you swear you can feel every stroke of his tongue on your own skin, burning hot and wet.

You swallow and tear your eyes away, blindly reaching for the crushed peanuts, taking a handful and scattering it across the chocolate. The Millionaire’s Shortbread is done and you slide the tray back into the fridge, it only needs a few minutes. Dieter remains by the counter, finishing off the chocolate on the spatula as you start to clean up the kitchen and bring out the cookie dough that still needs to be taken care of. You see Dieters eyes widen as he sees the first scoop of dough land on the baking tray. 

“Is that chocolate chip,” he almost whispers reverently, spatula forgotten, as he slowly comes over to stare down into the bowl. 

“You want to try it? It’s double chocolate chip with browned butter.” 

He makes a gurgling noise in the back of his throat, tilting his head back before he looks at you and nods, “Please, it smells so good.” 

You grab a tasting spoon, giving him a generous scoop and watch with a smile as he puts it in his mouth. His eyes close of their own volition as he moans, far too enticingly, around the spoon. 

“Oh my god…” he sighs, slowly chewing the dough, “This is like heaven, better than sex, better than fucking coke.” 

“Knock yourself out,” you chuckle, “it’s not healthy but it’s sure as hell better for you than coke.” 

“And sex?” he asks with a wink, still rolling the dough around his mouth. 

“They’re probably on par, but this is tastier than cum.” 

Dieter nearly chokes, coughing loudly as you giggle. Between repeated attempts at clearing his throat he points his finger at you accusingly, trying to grin between his coughing.

“You’re…” he coughs again, “You’re a dirty baker girl!” he finally manages, grinning widely as you go back to scooping dough, still giggling. 

“I can’t believe I said that, but you did serve it up perfectly.” 

“I did, but I never thought your mind was that filthy, I’m appalled” he laughs, placing a hand on his chest in a mock gesture of shock. “Better than cum huh? You have a lot of experience in that department?” 

Now he’s winking again, poking to get more details out of you. So instead you take another tasting spoon, scoop up more dough and put it straight into his mouth to shut him up. It works, he grins around the spoon and smacks his lips at the taste. 

“So fucking good, definitely better than cum,” he smirks, earning an eye roll from you. “Do you wanna taste it?” 

“I’m good, I’ve already tasted the dough many times,” you reply, careful to specify that you’re talking about dough. 

“Maybe not like this though,” Dieter says, suddenly bending down and pressing his lips against yours. It almost makes you jump, his soft lips against yours, his aftershave, it all envelops you in an instance. He’s not touching you anywhere else, just your lips, and you can’t taste him, his mouth is still closed. Maybe you should push him off, the thought flits through your mind for a split second. But you want to taste him, taste the cookie dough you know is delicious, mingled with him, so you part your lips, your tongue coming out. 

Dieter lets a quiet groan slip out as he part his lips, letting you in, opening his mouth and tilting his head to come closer. You hear the spoon clatter to the floor as his hand comes up and cups your cheek, his big hand reaching behind your neck, another stifled groan from him. He tastes of sugar, coffee and chocolate, all flavors mingling into something enticing that pulls you closer.

There’s nothing delicate about this kiss now, you lick into his mouth, and he offers you all the space you want, holding you close and moaning softly as your tongues tangle.

“Touch my hair,” he mumbles, breathing into your mouth, “I want to feel your hands in my hair.” 

“They’re all sticky, Dieter,” you protest but you feel him shake his head, his lips brushing over yours. 

“I don’t care, touch me, hold me, I want to smell like you when I leave,” his tongue slips between your lips, and you run your hands through his hair. You can feel it sticking, tugging at his wild locks but he just groans, his hands holding you tighter and, encouraged, you let your own hands run across his body, eliciting another loud groan from him. 

Tension is building between the two of you, he is growing hard against your belly, unmistakably turned on and doing nothing to hide it. You can feel heat radiating from your own core, so scorching he must feel it too through the thin fabric of his pajama pants. If this doesn’t stop soon he’ll have you bent over the workbench in a minute, and Health and Safety would definitely have something to say about that. 

With a groan and tremendous effort, you put your hands on his chest and push him away. His lips chase yours for a few seconds, eyes closed, a protest coming from him, before he looks down at you with a sigh. 

“You taste even better than you smell,” he says, not letting go of your cheek, his other hand still around your waist. 

“The cookie dough goes really well with the coffee,” you reply, your mouth quirking up in a smile and he matches it, a dopey look on his face. 

“Amazing,” he breathes, "you're amazing, baker girl.” 

His adoration makes you tremble, you feel the heat in your cheeks, and he sees it, leaning into your lips. He stops and looks at you for a beat, to ask for your permission, and when you don’t pull away he presses a soft kiss to your warm mouth, so different from the hasty, heated kiss you just shared. This one lasts only for a few seconds, gentle, before he pulls back, his hand slowly trailing along your check. 

“I should probably call for my ride,” he says softly, “it’ll take a while to get here.” 

“Ok,” you nod, “the shortbread should be done too.” 

“Ok,” he replies, but he doesn’t make a move to leave and you can’t seem to take your eyes off him. 

“I really should…” he sighs, tracing his fingertips over your cheek again, “call that ride.” 

“Go, do that, I’ll cut the shortbread, we can have some while we wait for your ride.” You lightly put your hand on his warm chest and push him away, smiling, but you really want to bunch your hand in the soft t-shirt and pull him closer. 

“Ok,” he says, louder this time, as if making up his mind. He shoves his hand in his pocket, miraculously finding his phone intact as you bring the tray out of the fridge. 

The whole thing has set into layers, so you take a sharp knife and start cutting rectangles, slipping them up and onto the tray that goes in your display case, some go into a take away box, two you put on a separate plate and then look around for Dieter, spotting his broad back out by the back door. Just as you come over to him he ends his call, turning around to you with a smile. 

“My ride will be here in about twenty minutes,” he says, following you to the doorstep and sitting down. You sink down next to him, maybe a little bit closer than necessary, but he’s wide and takes up almost the whole door frame. Your cookie dough is still waiting for you, you’ll be playing catch up with your baking for the rest of the morning, but it’ll be worth it. This chaotic, disheveled man has made your morning a lot more exciting than usual and you’re a little bit sad to see him go. 

“Here, what you came for,” you say, holding out the plate, and Dieter takes one of the Millionaire’s Shortbread. 

“I can’t believe you made these just for me,” he grins and bites into it. You watch his face, this is your favorite part of baking, watching people when they taste the finished thing. And Dieter doesn’t disappoint, he groans, loudly, grabbing onto your arm and leaning his forehead against your shoulder, his whole body reacting to the flavors in his mouth as he chews. 

“I Iive here now,” he moans, “I’m giving up my career, I’m going to live in your bakery and pay you to feed me for the rest of my life.” He lifts his head up and takes another big bite of the shortbread, groaning again as he looks at you, his eyebrows pulled together, big brown eyes pleading. “How is this so good?” he moans, his tongue coming out to catch an errant peanut crumb, “you’ve got to taste this.” 

He holds up the last bite of the shortbread to you, and you open your mouth, letting him place it between your lips. You feel his fingers brush over them as he pulls back, his thumb coming up to swipe over your bottom lip. 

“It’s really good, I’m pretty happy with this,” you say, trying to not chew with your mouth open as Dieter looks at you, his eyes on your lips.

“Do you want another one?” you ask, holding up the plate and Dieter nods fervently and groans again as he takes a bite. 

“I can’t decide, this or sex, which is better,” he chuckles, and you nod. You know the cake is good, but you can’t help but wonder if sex with Dieter might not be even better. 

You sit side by side in the early morning sunshine, eating the cakes. Dieter soon finishes his second one and cracks the lid on the take away box you’ve given him, sneaking a third one with a childish grin that makes you happy to see. 

“Seriously, I live here now, I’m moving in tomorrow,” he mumbles, moaning between bites, leaning on you, his head on your shoulder. 

“You do that Dieter, I might even let you lick the bowl once in a while,” you say, patting his messy hair. 

“Lick the bowl or lick your bowl, baker girl?” he giggles and you give him a light smack, shaking your head. 

“Enough with the porn jokes,” you scold him, no menace to your words, he can hear the smile in your voice and giggles again. 

“Can I put my head in your lap?” he asks, “Nothing weird, I promise, I’m just really tired suddenly.” 

“Ok, sure, but your ride should be here soon.” 

“Yeah, I just wanna relax my eyes for a while….” Dieter yawns and slips down the stairs to sit on the last step, hooking his arm around your hips and putting his head on your lap. The warm weight of him on your legs is actually comforting, his arm a steady hold behind you. Without thinking about it you start carding your fingers through his hair, adding to the sticky mess, making it stand on end, but he doesn’t seem to mind. It takes him minutes to fall asleep, a low rumbling snore coming from him. 

You keep stroking his head for a few more minutes before you carefully lift his head up and slip out from under him, letting his arm be his pillow. You need to go back to baking, your first customers will be arriving soon and you haven’t even put the cookies in the oven, you want them fresh and warm when the early morning commuters arrive. 

Back in the kitchen you quickly scoop the rest of the dough on the trays and get them in the oven and start stocking the display case out front with what’s already done. You’re just sliding the last croissants into the tray when the opening hour strikes and you flip the sign on the front door. You’ve been listening out back for a car to pull up but you haven’t heard anything and once the morning rush starts, you’re swamped and a couple of hours pass before you even realize. When it finally calms down you wipe down the counter and clean your hands before checking out by the back door. It’s still open, but Dieter is gone, as is the take away box, not a trace of your chaotic, magnetic early morning visitor. 

Hours later, as you’re about to close up for the day, a delivery van pulls up in front of the shop. A man in a uniform jumps out and comes rushing in with a box and an extravagant bouquet of flowers with a vase.  “Delivery for you, miss,” he says, handing you a device to sign your name on, and then the flowers and the box. 

“Thanks,” you say but the man is already halfway out the door. 

The flowers fill the small shop with their scent, and you place them on the counter, next to the till, stopping to stick your nose into the white lilac and breathing deeply before getting the shop closed up.

You flip the sign and take the box into the kitchen, the back door is still open to let the warm spring air in. Sinking down on the stairs where you sat with Dieter just this morning, you open the box. It contains another box and inside that, a note. But there’s also a mouth watering, rich, smell of pastry and meat coming from the box. Intrigued, you open the lid, only to find a thermal container inside, like a small version of the ones used to keep delivery pizza warm. Inside are six fat, delicious looking sausages rolls. Your stomach gives a hungry grumble and you immediately grab one, laughing as you remember Dieter’s first request this morning; sausage rolls, like the ones he bought in England after party nights. 

The sausage roll really is as delicious as it looks and you grab a second one before you pick up the note that came with them. 

It's a double folded piece of paper, so thick it almost looks like part of a canvas. On the inside a note is scribbled in a looped, flowing handwriting. 

“Next time I’m asking you on a date, baker girl /D” 

Part Two

If you want to make Dieter's Millionaire's Shortbread, here's the recipe I used.

“Hey, baker girl,” he grins, his voice gravelly like he’s chain smoked all night, “got any sna- oh whoops!” he giggles madly as he loses his balance and tumbles sideways, catching the other door frame before he grabs onto your arms and almost manages to stand up straight. 

He's such an idiot. I love him 😮‍💨

He’s wrapped both his large hands around the thick glass and is delicately licking the foam, drawing a pattern in it with his tongue.

Brother calm down. We know you're an expert, aight?

If you had asked, yes. I would have asked you. Your reply is quick, and before he has time to say anything you add, What would you have done tomorrow? I'd have taken you out for breakfast. You smile wide Are you free tomorrow for a late breakfast? You ask, deciding you don't want to wait. I am. Good. So am I. You don't get an answer as quick as the others, but you see the dots appearing and disappearing and you stay hopeful. So if I came to pick you up at 9, would it be too early? You check the time, it's a little over 1. I might be. I might come. I might be waiting by the door. Good night Frankie. Good night mi tormenta [my storm].

Most of the time you see him wearing more formal clothes, but today has been slated for a quick run to an informant in the countryside before his plans fell through, stranding him at his desk instead of someone’s bed. Now he is wearing a light blue shirt and a worn out, completely faded pair of dark denim jeans that hugs his frame in a way that should be illegal in a government building, and that steals your breath away every time.

The coffee machine beside you releases the last drops of coffee, and you place your notepad and pen on your table as you walk over. You pick up two mugs, pouring the hot liquid in them. When you turn around, intending to drop one off to keep him from collapsing, you stop in your tracks.

He bends down just a little further to try and reach the back of the drawer, pulling the denim taut over his backside. You don’t take your eyes off of him even when he successfully finds the file and stands up, rolling his shoulders back and running one hand through his dark hair.

He turns in your direction, and that is when he catches you there in the middle of the office, two mugs in your hands, your gaze still fixed firmly on his lower half.

He lifts an eyebrow in amusement, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mustaches as he throws the file on his desk, and rests his other hand on his hip. “The last time I checked my eyes were up here,” he gestures towards his face.

You don’t avert your eyes as you step closer, handing him one of the steaming mugs. His fingers brush against yours for a moment, and that is when you finally let your gaze travel up his body, settling on his face without any trace of shame.

“And they’re still there,” you say smoothly, leaning back against his desk. “But God, Peña, those jeans are really working on you.”

Javier freezes mid-sip, the coffee mug hovering just in front of his lips. For a second, the usual weary and hardened agent disappears completely, replaced by a momentary flick of surprise behind his eyes that quickly gives way to amusement again.

A soft laugh leaves his lips, the low rumble vibrating in his chest, a rare and genuine sound that makes your stomach do a small flip.

When he stops, he takes a slow and deliberate sip, his dark eyes locking in on yours over the brim of the mug. He walks beside you, setting the mug down on his desk. He crosses his arms, looking at you with a smirk playing on his lips.

“Is that right?” he murmurs, teasing you as his voice turns deeper.

“Here I’m just making an observation, Agent,” you say softly, holding his challanging gaze. “I’d call it attention to detail.”

Javier lets out a small huff of breath, stepping into your personal space, his body pinning you against his desk. The scent of tobacco, fresh coffee, and his familiar cologne hits you all at once, making you go dizzy and wanting more at the same time. He reaches out, his thumb gently catching the side of your hip, his slender fingers brushing against the fabric of your pants with a feather-light touch, making your heart pick up its pace.

He leans down, his nose almost brushing yours. His eyes dip to your mouth for a moment before they travel back to hold your gaze. “How about you help me take them off and see what’s underneath after we finish here? Maybe you’ll like it better on the floor.”

He lifts an eyebrow in amusement, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mustaches as he throws the file on his desk, and rests his other hand on his hip. “The last time I checked my eyes were up here,” he gestures towards his face.

Busted! Me though 🤣

“But God, Peña, those jeans are really working on you.” Javier freezes mid-sip, the coffee mug hovering just in front of his lips.

Bro wasn't expecting that uno reverse card and being on the receiving end of an eye fuck 😛

For a very long time, Tim did not go outside during the daytime.

Father said not to.

And even though Father has been gone for many years, Tim still heeded his words.  His being the only voice Tim had ever heard.

He still doesn’t know why Father left.  He’s even less sure of why he never returned.

Merge Mansion remains dark, even during the day.  Its halls empty, its candelabras unlit.  If anyone was to pass through the ivy choked iron gates and listen at its door, and no one ever did, they would hear only the skittering of mice and the occasional heavy footstep, so slow and deliberate it could be mistaken for the heartbeat of a slowly dying house.

Only ever at night, Tim goes out to the woods behind the now dusty and crumbling mansion.  Those same woods where Father would have him lift, throw, break - repeatedly.  And Father would write furiously in his notebooks.  Tim thinks maybe that’s what he was made for.

For more years than can be counted, enough so that he passes into legend, Tim continues to do what he knows.  He uproots trees and plants and heaves them over knolls and into streams.  He rolls boulders and smashes rocks.  He haunts the forest alone until the dawn threatens to pierce through the thick overhang of the old growth trees; hiding within the moss-covered stone walls of the only home he’s ever known until night brings cover once again.

Until one night after so many nights, he just… doesn’t.  Instead of his nightly exertion to prove something to the darkness, Tim just sits and bathes in the pureness of the moonlight.  He breathes in the earthy musk of the forest’s damp soil and the sweet scent of pine mixed with bark sap.  Instead of his own laboured breathing, Tim finally hears the babbling of the brooks, the hooting of the owls, and soft breeze whistling between the low berry bushes and the high tree tops.  Tim doesn’t know if he was made to be at peace, but he finds that he can do it all the same.

He teaches himself to read.  At first using words Father would say and the signs he would point to in the room Tim lived in: Lock.  Unlock.  Hot.  Cold.  On.  Off.  Danger.  Stop.

Then from books about nature that he finds in the library, remembering words that Father would use to describe their surroundings when in the woods that Tim now knows so well.

Tree.  Rock.  Hill.  Hole.

It takes a very, very long time.  But Tim has nothing but time.

He’s not even sure if he’s doing it right - he has no one to ask.  Not that he could even if there was.  He says the words in his head the way he thinks they sound, but with no voice, never out loud.  He wasn’t made for that.

It’s no matter.  Even if he isn’t sure he’s sounding them out properly, Tim thinks he’s assigned the words to the pictures in the books of animals and landscapes correctly.  There are other books, as well.  Ones with illustrations that are foreign to him and where the words denote meaning that he doesn’t think he will ever understand, but he learns them anyways:  Music.  Dance.  Laugh.  Feast.  Love.

In his woods, Tim no longer destroys: he clears, builds, tends.  Tim carves out paths that feel softer on the bottoms of his lumbering feet.  He removes dead branches from healthy trunks and uses them to sweep the forest floor.  He rolls away dead trees, some fell by age or disease, others by his own hand in the olden days when he thought that was what he was made for.

He still only does these things under the cover of night.  Father had said to be afraid of the village at the bottom of the looming hill upon which Merge Mansion perched.  He warned Tim that if he was discovered, the villagers would come and hurt them both.  Tim wishes that he had known the words or had the voice to tell Father that he would have protected him.  That perhaps it was the villagers who should have been afraid of him. Father’s notebooks say that he was built to be fierce. 

The bunnies in the woods do not seem to think so.  Nor the foxes, or the badgers, or the mice.  The deer do not find Tim to be fearsome, and the birds readily to flock to him.

He supposes it’s because he starts to help them build their nests; his long legs easily carry him to the farthest corners of the woods where the best nesting materials can be gathered.  He volunteers his big, pawlike hands to dig their burrows and holes.  His strength he uses to drag logs and branches to where whole furry families reside, breaking the thick wood into smaller pieces to help them expand and fortify their homes for their growing broods and the incoming weather.  He’s tall enough to lift baby birds back into their nests when they fall out before they’re ready to fly.  He forages and shares all his bounty, himself having no need for sustenance. 

Tim would not mind if this is what he was made for.

The years continue to pass.  The village at the bottom of the hill gets less busy, smaller, and is eventually gone.  Tim only knows because he witnesses the number of tiny square windows illuminated by bright candles during the night, dwindle until there is only darkness.

From the now dilapidated walls of Merge Mansion, Tim watches as what remains of the village rots and is reclaimed by the Earth.  It looks less frightening to him the way it stands now, wild and lush - much more like his beloved forest where he’s only ever known friendly creatures.

It’s the bunnies who convince him to come out in the daytime. 

It had been an especially abundant year for the rabbits, with baby bunnies almost overrunning the forest floor.  The mamas plead with Tim using their big brown eyes to help round up their little ones and keep them safe, making sure none of them strayed too far from the safety of the woods.

Little bunnies are hard to see in the dark.

The first time Tim steps outside during the day, he’s so blinded by the sky’s brightness that he thinks perhaps his eyes were not made for sunlight.  His forest is so green in the daytime.  A richness of browns with the occasional pop of red, blue, even lavender.  In the winters, the snow is so white during the day it appears almost clear.  Once the snow has melted, the streams splash with fish that jump during the day – something that never happens at night.  The sun’s beams warm Tim’s rough skin in a way the moon’s cold, comfortable ambiance never has.  The sounds of the forest are so much louder, cheerier in the day than they are at night – it strikes Tim as odd given it’s the same forest but he supposes he feels more alive during the day as well.

The deer are the ones that lead him out of the forest and to the front of the house.  The overgrown grass on the Merge Mansion hill begs to be grazed on, and with the village gone, Tim and the deer while away many days unseen and unbothered amongst the soft green blades – looking out to a splendid view of rolling plains and sprawling forests stretching all the way to the horizon.  He never strays far from the house - still heeding Father’s words of caution even though the dangers he warned against look to be long gone.

Tim doesn’t even know that another village has sprung up somewhere on the other side of a low mountain that he considers to be more than a fair distance away until you.  The first time he sees you, you’re but a little girl and you come with your own father to the cemetery that rests at the bottom of his hill, where it once bordered the old village.  The same cemetery from which Father gathered the parts that make up Tim as he is, if Father’s notebooks are to be believed.  The deer scamper away before you or your father see them, but Tim stays and hides, watches.

He hears your father tell you that these graves belong to your ancestors who once lived in the old village that’s now gone and that even though you live on the other side of the mountain, you should still pay your respects.  Tim listens to your cheery chatter and the hum of your father’s merry tunes as the two of you clean the gravestones, pull the weeds, plant fresh gardens.

You and your father come every week and Tim begins to look forward to it.  He watches you grow into a beautiful woman and your father into an old man.  He listens to the musical lilt of your voice and the gentle teasing of your father as the two of you care for and nurture the plot of land at the base of the Merge Mansion Hill so that it grows vibrant and fragrant with flowers that he’s only ever seen in Father’s books.  He hears your father tell you stories he heard as a child about the house that Tim lives in – the legend of a mad scientist and a terrible monster.  Tim doesn’t know why, but he feels relief when you laugh at these stories and call them ridiculous.

When your father stops coming with you, Tim watches over you in his stead.  You continue to do your duty in the cemetery joyfully and your sweetness is like an invitation.  The bunnies and the foxes and the mice and the deer all come down to join you.  You laugh and share your food with them and they enjoy your company as much as you do theirs.  Music.  Dance.  Laugh.  Feast.  He thinks he finally understands.  When his furry friends turn their soulful eyes up to the house, Tim knows they’re looking to him to come down but he shakes his head no.  He’s not made for this.

He doesn’t know that you see him anyways.

You’ve known he was there since the days you would come to this cemetery with your father as a little girl.  Most times as just a shadow on the Merge Mansion grounds, but once or twice you had seen Tim’s handsome, haunted face in one of the cracked windows.

You don’t know who he is or what he is, but some how you know that you have to pretend that you’re unaware of his presence.  As if for some laughable reason, he finds you to be frightening.

So, you try to make yourself to be as nonintimidating as possible.  You wear soft flowing fabrics that lie prettily over your equally soft skin in pleasing colours that compliment the hue of your hair and the brightness of your eyes.  You keep your voice gentle and the sound of your notes harmonious when you sing or hum your favourite songs of love and fantasy.  When your father tells you the old stories of the Merge Mansion Monster, you make sure to loudly decry this characterization.  Your unseen friend is not a monster, and you want to make sure that he knows you know that.

Your woodland friends who proclaim to know him best seem to say, give him time.  So you do, waiting patiently for a sign.  For what?  You don’t know.  Just a sign for more.

It comes one summer day, many, many years after your weekly trips to the cemetery became solo trips.  For two weeks, you’ve been in a state of mild panic, unable to find the delicate gold chain necklace that your father gave you - his last gift to you before he passed.  A part of you fears that it may have come unclasped and dropped onto the path some time during your weekly trip to the Merge Mansion cemetery; your heart clenches – if that was the case, your treasured necklace is surely lost.

Your surprise when you find your necklace waiting for you on top of a gravestone next to a small tied bundle of lavender is palpable.  Your eyes threaten to overflow with tears as you look up the hill to the house and mouth, thank you.

You don’t know that you had actually lost your necklace next to this very gravestone and that one of your bluebird friends had carried it up to Tim in its beak.  Tim spends two weeks practicing making the small bouquet of lavender – his large and clumsy hands unused to the precise and delicate movements required.  He refers to the instructions in the book he found so many times he can see the diagrams in his sleep.  But he keeps trying until he gets it right – wanting to offer you something more than just your returned necklace as a token of his appreciation for all the work you do.  Holding the delicate chain in his oversized hand, he can’t stop looking at it glittering in the moonlight and admiring its intricate craftsmanship.  It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.  Well, second.

The next week, Tim discovers a large and fragrant bouquet of the cemetery’s best and biggest blooms laid outside of his iron gates.

Three weeks later, on the same gravestone, you find those flowers dried and pressed, then laced together in a pretty flower crown.

You weave your own from new fresh flowers and leave it in place of the dried one you take home.  The following week, the crown you made is gone, and in its place, a large pile of fresh wild berries that must come from the forest behind the mansion.

The squirrels had objected, but Tim promised that the reduction of berries from their weekly hoard would be for a good cause.  You helped prove him right the following week when he returned from the hill with a jar of wild berry jam which he happily shared.

This continues for months.  Each week a small, thoughtful trinket exchanged - neither you or Tim having much to offer except your consideration and time.  The giddy anticipation and resulting awe a gift in itself.

The day you bring a blanket that took you six weeks to knit, you’re imbued with a bravery (the source of which is unknown even to you) that brings you all the way to Tim’s doorstep.  The heavy door opens when you push against it, but no one answers when you call out.

While Tim is in the woods assisting with the birth of a newborn deer, you’re wandering the dark, musty halls of Merge Mansion.  You find where you think Tim must sleep: in a room that looks like a lab - electrical wire equipment, gurneys, restraints and medical utensils long since pushed against the walls of the room and abandoned.

You read the notebooks left behind by the scientist and seethe on Tim’s behalf.  To call him a Creature!  To experiment on him and put him through trials of endurance and strength as if he was merely an instrument for violence!  You’re grateful that Tim’s creator must be long dead by now, else he might not be able to escape the vitriol you feel rising in your chest at the mistreatment Tim endured at his hand.

You leave the blanket and the mansion in a hurry.

When Tim comes back into the house, he knows immediately that you were there.  He smells you.  The sweet floral perfume from your garden and the sticky scent of fruit from your jams hangs in the air.  Nothing in this house or the forest smells quite so lovely.  You were here. 

With growing distress, he finds your thoughtful gift in the room where he sleeps and knows that you’ve read Father’s notebooks.  You know the truth of what he is now.  He’ll never see you again.

But you come back.

You leave him a letter and for three weeks, he reads it every day. 

It’s a letter that tells him about yourself and your family, and how you came to be his weekly visitor.  You tell him how you’ve always known he’s been there but you were afraid to scare him away so you never let on that you saw him.  You tell him that now that you’ve calmed down a bit, you’re not quite so angry at Father but you do think that he didn’t understand Tim’s true nature, or perhaps, you concede, he simply wasn’t gifted enough time to understand. 

You tell him what you think of his nature.  In your experience, men who are strong are rarely gentle and those who harness power are hardly ever giving.  But Tim is.  His hands, arms and muscles may be sewn together from much lesser men, but he, Tim, wields his strength to protect and look after others.  His heart may not be able to pull down trees or break rock, but it’s tender and pure – and where his true power lies.

You write that even though you’ve never met him face to face, you only ever feel safe and cared for knowing he’s around.  And you hope that even if he never forgives you for trespassing in his home and going through his personal belongings without his permission, he will take your words to heart.

Every week you come back to the doors of Merge Mansion bearing a small gift and a big apology, but Tim is nowhere to be found.  You’re starting to fear that you’ve crossed an unforgiveable boundary and ruined your indescribable but cherished connection, when the most wonderous sight awaits you as you near the top of the hill nearly a month after you left your letter.

Tim. 

Impossibly large and broad, a hulk of a man is sitting on the front steps waiting for you.  His face is hard, lined from time and worry, but his eyes are soft and vulnerable.  You see some trace of old scars along his forehead and neck, and down the worn skin that stretches over the corded muscles of his forearms.  His clothes are outdated and entirely the wrong size, but somehow it works on him.  He looks formidable.  Wild, yet tame.  Handsome.

You run to him, beaming.  Tim stands when you come to a stop in front of him, towering over you as he holds out a bouquet of wildflowers picked from the forest lands behind his home that he tends to so carefully.

When you reach out to accept, your small fingers brush his larger calloused ones, and the jolt of electricity that passes between the two of you feels like pure joy.  And although Tim can only offer a quiet grunt, unable to say the words that he wishes he could sing with his whole chest, you understand him perfectly.  Your incandescent smile and hopeful expression reassure him that you too, recognize the simple, unspoken truth: Tim was made for you.

🎶Obligatory Billie Eilish, What Was I Made For lyrics🎶:

'Cause I, 'cause I I don't know how to feel But I wanna try I don't know how to feel But someday I might Someday I might

Think I forgot how to be happy Something I'm not, but something I can be Something I wait for Something I'm made for Something I'm made for

Your proses are so effing beautiful and vivid 🤧❤️ I played every scene like a movie in my head!

It's so lovely and sad at the same time that he made friends with the animals in the wood, because aside from reader, everyone else is scared of him. This story made me relive the heart ache I had for him while reading Frankenstein by Shelley 🥺

You don’t know who he is or what he is, but some how you know that you have to pretend that you’re unaware of his presence.  As if for some laughable reason, he finds you to be frightening.

Awwww, they both believed the other is scared of them. Beautiful souls 🥹

Your unseen friend is not a monster, and you want to make sure that he knows you know that.

This! 😭

Tim spends two weeks practicing making the small bouquet of lavender – his large and clumsy hands unused to the precise and delicate movements required. 

That's so adorable what 😭

And ohh I love the ending 🥹💞💞

1. “We're both different people now, aren't we?”

2. “What are you doing?”

“Striking a sexy pose.”

“Well, sit down before you pull something.”

3. “Hey, look at me. I’m yours and no one can change that.”

4. “Feel this? It’s just for you.”

5. “Thank you for choosing me.”

6. “You’re unbelievably cute when you’re tired.”

7. “Oh god, how can you manage to switch from cute to sexy in under a second?”

8. “I desperately want to take you out for dinner and slow dance with you until the sun comes up, but I also want to grip your hair as I watch you writhing underneath me.”

9. “I’m not materialistic. I like being happy and having lots of sex.”

10. “I’m not a lot of people’s favourite person.”

11. “Those jeans are really working on you.”

12. “It's not an addiction. It's a coping mechanism.”

13. “I am fully convinced that you never graduated from kindergarten.”

14. “If we were alone right now, what would you do to me?”

15. “You’re so cute.”

“What did you just say?”

“I said you look like a boot.”

16. “I could just pull your bikini bottom to the side, no one will notice.”

17. “Holy shit, is that a piercing down there?”

18. “I thought you hated horror movies.”

“I do, but I like any excuse to bury my face into your chest.”

19. “How long has it been since someone hugged you?”

20. “As much as I love the position we're in right now, I'm afraid we'll have to move because my leg has gone completely numb.”

If you would like me to write any of these, send me an ask to let me know. But don't forget to mention the character too!

‘Shit.’

Rain poured viciously in Lower Manhattan; where people who were brought up with diamond spoons either reside, have blind dates arranged—to strengthen their family's already unmatched wealth—, or have a ridiculously expensive dinner after a massive decline in the stock market.

For the first time in his life, Harry Castillo stuck out like a sore thumb in the very area he called home. He walked down the busy streets, completely soaked to his nails. In situations like these, not even his imported fine-tailored suit could shield him from the weather.

His driver? Lord knows. Harry had told him to go home after deciding it would be a good evening to take a peaceful walk back to his house. Help clear his mind, he said.

A man like Harry Castillo never had to worry about the weather. Tonight was no different. So it slipped his mind to keep track of the weather forecast.

But now that every store he could reach with his feet had ran out of umbrellas, all he had left was his black blazer held up above his head—essentially doing nothing to keep him dry. Not that an umbrella could help with a wind like this.

Since the moment he stepped out of Le Veau d'Or—for a lavish dinner he didn't have the appetite for—, his right side has had to deal with the most damage, because none of the drivers had the courtesy to slow down for people like him, who had no other choice but to walk. As if that is not enough for one night, every taxi and Uber in his proximity was occupied, leaving him on the streets like a drowned rat.

It's a scene he never imagined himself to live through. He was always on the other side, sheltered inside his Mercedes-Maybach, not a drop of water staining his suit. To say now that he was humbled would be an understatement.

Harry was only two blocks away from his home in the very center of Tribeca when his steps came to a halt, realizing the state he's in. He couldn’t go home like this. People recognized him. And they will talk.

He could already picture the headlines in his mind—

Nope.

He couldn't let some rumors taint his family's reputation and risk the shares declining. And he certainly didn’t need his mother finding out about his walk from the media, and have her worry about him even more than she already had.

So with a twist of his ankles, Harry made a turn; and headed in the direction of a neighborhood he hadn’t stepped in in months.

Twenty four months, to be exact. Twenty four excruciatingly long months since he last saw you. The person who never left his mind, nor his heart. The very reason for this walk alone in the rainstorm.

Harry no longer rushed his steps. Whether he reached his destination or not, the rain will continue to shower him and attempt to freeze him to death. So he slowed down; and did what he had initially planned. To take a peaceful walk. Under a slightly different circumstance.

With every step, the poundings of his heart intensified, adding another layer of beats in his ears.

Finally, the familiar six-storey building loomed over him like a nightmare and a dream, stopping him in his track.

He stared long at the wooden door painted in dark green. The door that locked away memories of him and you. All the times you had him sit through movies from the 1930s, all the burnt dinners you blamed on him for being distracting, and all the cuddles that had him running late for work.

Harry sighed deeply and craned his neck to look up to the sky that was hiding the glow of the moon with thick fog. He finally lowered his blazer and held it by his side, letting the rain fall freely onto his head.

His eyes droop lower before completely shutting; and he riveted on the feel of raindrops plunging against his face like gentle pokes of fingers. At the same time, his ears focused on the inconsistent patters of rain hitting against his polished black oxford. His fingers then twitched slightly, feeling the wind redirecting the rain into another direction, blowing chilly air against his back.

In that moment, he had no complaints about the rain.

Or the choices he'd made for his life.

Or the time he had lef—

“—Fine! Since you’re so insistent on pushing me away, I’ll let you!”

Harry took a shallow breath through his slightly parted lips and shook his head to push away the memory. Those were the words that had been engraved on his mind; haunting him in his sleep and his wake for the past two years. Your last words to him before you walked out of his office—and out of his life…

It was for the better, he had assured himself then.

But that was two years ago...

The Harry now resented that version of himself.

The one that let you go.

No.

The one that made you go.

After what felt like an eternity, Harry finally took another agonizing step towards the door that stood there like it was mocking him for all that he had done. As if reminding him that he no longer belonged there. Something he'd come to acknowledge, but could never accept.

The crunch of his leather outsoles and heels against the pebbles was amplified by the wet earth, making him even more aware of the steps he's taking. He was actually back. In the same neighborhood he used to visit almost every single day for the three whole years that you were together. Before he ruined everything.

But Harry stopped himself before he could step on the first tread of steps.

Perhaps this was a bad idea.

Perhaps he should turn around and find a hotel instead.

Yeah.

This was messed up.

He should leave you alone—

“Harry?”

The man visibly flinched at the sound of his name leaving the mouth of the very person he had both longed and dreaded to see. Suddenly it felt like the world was closing in on him, like he was caught intruding.

His throat bobbed as he stood there frozen with his back against the owner of the house.

He dreamed of this moment every single night. When he would see you again.

But being here, now?

He was not ready.

To face you after a couple of years without any contact. To admit that he needed you—more than anything in his life.

But he couldn't run away and avoid this forever. He couldn't lose you the second time…

So Harry composed himself, barely, and slowly turned; stalling in his steps to prepare himself before his eyes would inevitably meet yours.

You were greeted with the silhouette of a man standing in the rain, blocking your way inside your apartment building. For a moment, you thought it might be Mr. Gutierrez; your Spanish neighbor who would only occupy the house above yours if he had business in New York.

But you crossed out the guess as fast as they appeared. Your neighbor had longer curls; and you knew that he wouldn't stall in this rain. He had complained to you times before—whenever you'd bump into each other inside the elevator—, saying he catches cold easily in the rain.

You clutched the handle of your umbrella tighter as your mind spiraled with guesses. Then, for a moment, a whiff of the man's cologne invaded your sense of smell. And just as immediately, your body reacted, goosebumps rising all over your skin—and not due to the cold.

No way.

"Harry?"

Surely this was a wicked prank from the universe and your exhausted body; testing your weak patience by poking at your unhealed wound.

But as the man turned around, you went still like the Statue of Liberty herself, breath completely sucked out of your lungs.

It's him.

It really fucking is him.

Harry Castillo.

Your ex-boyfriend.

Now standing in front of your house, soaked from head to toe.

You stood under your umbrella unmoving; eyes wide in shock as they trailed up to his face.

That insanely gorgeous face.

Harry flashed you a smile—and the little fire of rage in your chest died down a little. It was the same smile he had given you when you met for the first time at Central Park; when he patted your mother's dog—who decided that Harry was the lucky stranger to be attacked with his enthusiastic hug.

It was also those big brown eyes looking into yours that had you falling for him on your first meet.

Harry opened his mouth and uttered your name with his sweet, sultry voice,—smiling as if no time had passed. “Hey..”

His head was mostly facing the ground, and you were forced to see him looking at you through his wet lashes that accentuated his glistening eyes.

The sight did things to your heart the way it hadn't for the past two years; and you questioned if your heart ever changed the way it felt for him.

Despite his casual attitude, you could see past the smile to sense the nerves in his eyes. How they roamed over your face to take in the soft wrinkles that weren’t there the last time he saw you. How he swallowed his mouth dry as his mind ran miles a second to figure out his next words.

“I..” He stammered.

You took a step closer before he could continue, holding your umbrella above your heads. His gelled curls had fallen over his forehead, and the water droplets fell from the tips, wetting his cheeks.

Your eyes landed on his again; now red and brimming with tears that weren’t there before. His beautiful smile that you missed so dearly had faded too, lips pursed tightly like he's keeping them from quivering.

“What brought you here?” The question left your lips like a gentle whisper, so soft as if afraid you’d break him—like you did last time.

“I..” His breath trembled the moment he opened his mouth again to speak. Harry didn't have an explanation for the effect you were having on him. He thought he could face you without breaking down, given the months he'd had to recover from the pain your breakup had caused him.

He realized then, how completely wrong he was. At this point, pushing all the pressure down to his core was the only way he could keep himself together.

“I got stuck in the rain..” was all he managed to say.

“Shouldn't your driver be around to pick you up? Where is he?”

“Home..” He glanced down at his watch, the glass fully covered in steam. He could barely see the numbers anymore. “Probably asleep in his wife’s arms.” He added, voice gruff and filled with regret as his trembling eyes found yours again. Regret of what could have been.

Harry cleared his throat and tore his gaze away from yours. “I should go.” He said abruptly. Any hint of vulnerability was then replaced with a professional tone, and something twisted in your chest.

Panic surged through you when Harry actually stepped aside to leave; and before you could register your next action, your hand moved to grab his, holding it in a death grip.

Your eyes grew wide, surprised by your own reflex. Memories from that day flashed through your mind, and it sent electric sparks all over your skin. The bright sunny park. Your first handshake and his warm hand. The moment he told you his name and repeated yours...

But now, all you felt was his ice-cold fingertips, and the slight shiver of his body.

Your eyes trailed up to gauge his reaction. You expected him to pull away. To draw boundaries. To remind you of the fact that things will never go back to how it was.

Except he didn't.

Instead, you found his eyes widening, mirroring your silent shock.

And so you blurted it out.

The one word you and Harry wished either of you had said two years ago.

The word that could have fixed everything.

“Stay.”

There was a beat of silence. Where none of you seemed to breathe. You stared deep into his eyes to decipher his feelings; praying desperately that you haven't lost your chance. Haven't completely lost him.

You saw his resolve faltering in real time; the walls he'd built up crumbling at the sight of your pleading eyes—the sight of the woman he never had the heart to refuse.

“You shouldn’t…” His voice shook, begging you to let him go. To walk away without him. For the second time.

But you knew better now.

“I’m not asking, Harry Castillo.” Your voice grew firm, giving him no space to argue as you watch his eyes welling up with fresh tears.

"You'll freeze to death out here…" You reasoned, feeling desperate. At this point, you would say just about anything if it means he'd stay.

When he no longer resisted, you loosened your grip and gently tugged at his hand, leading him inside your house. The aroma of scented candle welcomed you the moment you crossed the threshold.

Harry stood next to you, and you felt his thick fingers carefully wrapping around yours. Something he used to do whenever he sought comfort. Your stomach tightened, the contact reminding you of how much you missed his touch and presence in your life.

The door closed behind you with a soft click, drowning out the sound of the heavy rain that gave no indication of stopping soon. Your free hand reached out to turn on the lights, revealing what was left of the space that the man beside you used to be a part of.

“…It’s still the same.” He muttered in disbelief.

“It is..” You swallowed the lump in your throat and quickly slid your feet inside a pair of slippers before handing him the other, leaving both your wet shoes on the rack. Harry didn’t let go of your hand the whole time—and it made it all the harder for you to keep yourself together.

You cleared your throat and focused your attention on Harry's current condition. “You should get cleaned up.” You said as you pointed to the bathroom. “You know where everything is.”

He nodded silently, fingers reluctantly slipping away from yours.

“I’ll get you something to wear.” You said, your hand feeling uncomfortably empty without his bigger one to embrace it.

He watched you for a moment as you left, feeling his chest closing in at the sight of you after all this time. He couldn't believe his luck, having you care for him again—and it made him feel like the biggest prick for ruining what you both had.

You pulled open the very left side of your wardrobe. The door hinge let out a long, high-pitched creak, a testament to how long it had been sitting there, building up rust.

You haven’t seen the content in months; and now, seeing them was like looking past the mask you had been putting on. The mask that concealed the broken pieces of your heart.

Your fingers traced over the neatly folded sweaters and pajamas; the bottle of cologne with the scent that Harry was loyal to; and his hair gel that had expired over a year ago. His dress shirts and blazer were still there—hanged and ironed—always ready for him whenever he stayed overnight.

You hadn’t removed anything. Nor did you change their positions. After the breakup, all you managed to do was ignore that part of your wardrobe as if you lost the key.

Harry never came over to pick them up—and you never dared find him to return them.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears the longer you reminisce on the past, so you quickly blinked them away and moved to grab anything Harry might need. A pair of sweatpants, a sweater, and a towel.

Outside your room, the sound of shower was the only thing filling the silence of your house. You placed his things inside the basket right outside the bathroom and left to allow him some privacy.

You didn't notice Harry entering the kitchen, too occupied with thoughts as you stirred the piping hot content inside the teapot; a porcelain teapot with delicate art nouveau floral motifs from Louis Vuitton which Harry got for you when you moved in to this house four years ago.

It was a gift you treasured. Harry's best friend for whenever he caught a cold and could no longer swallow plain water to save his life.

"What are you making?"

You almost jumped when he spoke, accidentally spilling some of the tea onto the tabletop. It had been a while since you had company at home. Not since Harry. So hearing voices—other than your own and the people inside the tv—spooked you more than you'd like to admit.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you." He said, rushing over to grab a kitchen towel from the bottom drawer. He surprised himself by remembering where you had stored it.

"No, it's fine." You thanked him and quickly cleaned up the mess.

An awkward silence fell over you. Harry noticed how you tensed up at the proximity, so he left to sit at the kitchen island instead, eyes still subtly watching your every move.

You, working in the kitchen, was a sight he hadn't had the privilege of witnessing in so long. But his memory never failed him.

Harry sat there quietly, remembering how you preferred your own space as you move about in the kitchen, wanting to experiment with new recipes without distractions; but he was always ready to help whenever you called—mostly with emotional-support shoulder massages and back hugs.

The memory of your kitchen rituals made him smile; but they faded when he was again reminded of the reality.

You were no longer his.

No longer the person who would feed him burnt steak and rock-hard cupcakes.

No longer the person who would force him to watch Gone With the Wind for the third time in a week.

Harry snapped out of his thoughts and cleared his throat the moment he saw you approaching. The warmth of his fingers brushing over your knuckles spread over your skin as he accepted the mug, thanking you with a soft, sweet smile that made your chest feel lighter.

"Still tastes the same." Harry said after taking a sip of the chamomile tea.

"You mean tasteless?"

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest at your playful jab.

He missed this.

Missed you.

“Yeah. Can’t possibly go wrong with chamomile.”

Standing across from him with your hips against the counter, your eyes drifted downwards to his plump lower lip that was resting just outside the rim of the mug. How they shift as his throat bobbed with the drink.

You caught yourself mid-thought and immediately dragged your eyes back onto his, finding them already on yours. He was quietly observing you with his lips pursed, already finishing his tea.

"You have questions." He stated with a hushed tone, knowing how your mind works better than anybody else.

"I do."

"You deserve answers." His attention was fully on you, preparing himself for the questions you might throw his way.

“What were you doing out so late?" You asked. "You didn’t drink, did you?”

Harry would have laughed at your question if you didn't look so concerned. “No. I only had some juice.” He assured, shaking his head in amusement.

He placed the mug in front of him and leaned his arms on the kitchen island so he could look up at you through his lashes.

“Zero alcohol.” He confirmed, flashing you with the smile that used to charm you.

Or perhaps still does.

You could no longer deny the flutter in your chest as you looked at him.

No. Get a grip.

This was your first meeting in two years. You couldn't possibly just let him sweep you off your feet in one night. Not after everything.

But the spike in your heartbeat and the surge of heat on your cheeks were only proving the latter.

“My turn." His eyes were on you with startling intensity; as though Castle Group's stock would crash the second he looked away. You pushed those thoughts away and listened. "Why were you home late? Out with a guy?” Your lips parted, but they closed again when no word came out. The question—and the assumption that you were out with a man—caught you off guard. Harry jerked his head when you didn't answer, a tight smirk tugging at his lips. It only deepened the attractive creases around his eyes, making your fingers twitch—itching to reach over and trace every wrinkle on his face. “I had work.” You said, crossing your arms over your chest in a defensive stance. You needed to set a boundary. You didn't appreciate how naturally the conversation slipped into old rhythms. How easily he could charm you. Harry let out an amused hum at your answer. "This late?" He tilted his head. "That’s not very healthy.” You almost scoffed at that. Funny. That used to be your line. You only shrugged. Harry was no longer entitled to detailed logs of your day. There was no need for explanations. You could tell that he was bothered by your answer that gave away nothing, but you kept your mouth shut. "Boyfriend?" He inquired, trying to lighten the mood. "No."

Harry’s ears perked up. "What do you mean no?" He frowned, as if the idea of you being single was outrageous. But you knew better than to be tricked by his fake concern. It's all over his eyes—that victorious glint. “I’m single.” You turned to refill his mug before he could say anything, mentally rolling your eyes. But being just as insufferable as your ex-lover, you added.

“For two years now.”

The man had to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop his smile from widening.

There was a beat of silence before you spoke again. “How’s your own work?”

Harry went silent. Your eyebrows shot up in confusion as his smile disappeared. "What happened?" You placed the tea pot down. “I resigned.” Your lips parted in surprise. “You what?” Him stepping down was the last thing you expected; given his work ethic was what drove you away in the first place.

“Just this afternoon.” He said quietly, chewing on his bottom lip as he observed your reaction.

“Then who’s handling it now?” You asked further, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.

“My brother. He’s taking over the company.”

Your face burned more and more with each word that left his lips. He said them so casually like he didn’t pour his sweat and tears into the company.

Like he didn’t neglect you for it. You didn't know whether to be mad or relieved. Mad that he was acting like his decision didn't matter; and relieved that he would finally be taking a break.

Harry took in your expression, aware how your mind was running miles per second at this information. Guilt started to eat him alive—how will you take it if you knew why?

He hoped you wouldn't ask.

Though, when did luck ever side with him? "But why now?"

You rested your elbows against the countertop, looking intently into his eyes. The Harry you knew would never make rash decisions.

"You've been working so hard. And you’re not even close to retiring—”

The air inside your house suddenly felt too thin.

No.

No.

It can't be.

"Harry…" You called with a careful tone, afraid of the answer you'll get. "Tell me it's not what I think it is."

But his silence, and the way he avoided your eyes, was louder than any confirmation.

"Harry. Say something." You urged, tears burning at the back of your eyes as your stomach tightened. You wanted to shake him, make him speak. "Say something!"

"I'm sorry." He finally uttered, voice cracking as he himself tried to push down his tears.

You clenched your fists so tight they turned a shade paler; holding yourself together as your world fell apart.

“How.. how long…?” Your vision blurred as tears rapidly welled-up.

Harry gently took your hand in his, unclenching your fist and interlacing his fingers with yours. The sight of you crying shattered his heart. It was exactly what he was afraid of.

He leaned his head down and pressed a kiss over your knuckles. “They estimate about.." His lips stayed there as he shut his eyes and took a long, deep breath.

"..about five months.”

Your knees buckled and gave out as the words hammered into your head.

Five months. His words echoed in your head.

Harry rushed over to your side, letting the stool fall behind him with a loud crash. He dropped onto the floor next to you and pulled you into his arms, wrapping them tightly around your form.

“Shh, baby. It’s okay. I’m okay.” He chanted with a hushed tone. Despite his effort to comfort you, you could feel his chest shaking at every breath that left with his words.

“Please, Harry. Please tell me you’re lying.” You pleaded as tears rapidly streamed down your face, almost choking on them as you spoke.

“I’m sorry, baby.” He whispered against your hair as a tear finally escaped and trailed down his cheek. "I wish I was lying…"

His hand gently but firmly held the back of your head, letting you bury your face into the crook of his neck. He pulled you even closer against his chest, feeling it constricting from forcing his tears down.

After building up your walls for so long, they all finally came crashing down at this moment.

You wrapped your arms around Harry's neck, pulling him closer if that was even possible.

Harry responded, his forearms flexing at the intensity of his hold. "I'm sorry, baby." He whispered, breath hitting your temple like a gentle caress.

There, in the middle of the kitchen, sat you and Harry, holding on to each other as you cried your heart out.

Harry pulled his head back to look down at you, the pad of his thumb gently wiping your tears away. “Stop crying, Honey, please. I can’t bear to see you cry.”

It was hypocritical of him to say that with his own tears still streaming down his face. You looked up and tried to make out Harry’s features despite your blurred vision, and your heart dropped again to your stomach.

He was just as scared as you. Maybe even more.

"Don't cry, baby." He pulled his lips into a tight smile as he gazed into your eyes with affection. The kind you never received from anyone else except him.

"Smile for me." His thumb brushed the corner of your lips, trying to coax you into smiling.

"How can you expect me to smile, Harry?" Your eyes burned again with tears, feeling your frustration bubbling up. Frustrated at the way he was playing this down. Frustrated at the illness that's trying to take him away from you.

Your mind brought back memories of that day. The day Harry was going to propose to you. The day he was supposed to be your fiancee.

Your phone rang inside your purse and you picked up to be greeted with Harry's voice, breath heavy. "Baby, I'm on my way. I'm so sorry to keep you waiting, but just wait a bit. I'll be there in three."

"Harry, are you running?" You asked, concern etched in your voice. Harry chuckled breathlessly.

"Wait for me, baby." He said before hanging up.

You could only sigh, sitting on a bench at Central Park. That same spot where you had met for the first time.

Your fingers nervously played with the hem of your yellow dress, excited about today's date. Mainly because of where you were; and because you wanted to show off the sundress that Harry loved so much.

Your eyes trailed over to your watch every few seconds with a soft smile, anticipating your boyfriend's arrival. He specifically got off work early today so he could spend more time with you, but you also understood how bad the traffic could be at this time of day.

"Honey!"

Your head whipped over to the direction of the voice, knowing all too well it was Harry's. You practically jumped to your feet, a wide smile gracing your face at the sight of Harry sprinting in your direction.

His smile was as wide as yours and he waved the bouquet in his hand, adorned with bright yellow and white flowers. You waved back with a soft chuckle, feeling your heart fluttering in your chest.

As Harry got closer, your feet started towards him, wanting to pull him into a kiss—already missing him way too much since he left for work this morning.

Until his eyes went wide and his hand flew over to clutch his chest with an audible gasp.

"Harry?" You froze, eyes wide in terror.

Harry dropped to his knees, looking up at you through those red eyes that would forever haunt you after that day.

"HARRY!" But his body fell onto the hard ground before you could take another step.

Everything went by in a daze after. Harry was rushed to the ICU, and you had to break the news to his family.

You had no time to rest and process everything that had just happened. Not until you sat on the chair outside his ICU ward with only his blazer to hold on to.

That's when you felt it. Your heart shattering into a million pieces.

Tears streamed down your face like a broken dam as you recalled the past two hours. Harry passing out right in front of you; The panic inside the ambulance; Watching the doctors bring him back with defibrillators while you could only stand helplessly at the other side of the glass.

You didn't dare name it, but you knew what had happened. You had seen it in movies; yet you never thought it would happen to the person you loved most.

You could have lost Harry. Forever.

You glanced at the door of Harry's ward. You were not allowed in; and that scared you more than anything.

You stared down at Harry's blazer again, bringing it close to your chest as the doctor's words rang in your ears. "Mr. Castillo is diagnosed with a coronary microvascular disease. His heart wasn't able to pump enough blood while running, which led to the cardiac arrest."

You would have given anything to go back and tell him to stop running. To let you wait a little longer at the park. As long as he was safe.

You felt something hard bulging from the pocket of his blazer. Something like a cube. Curious, you took it out to find a small, blue velvet box. The air got stuck in your throat, and you felt more tears prickling at the corner of your eyes.

Carefully opening the box, you saw a beautiful diamond ring. The same one you had been admiring when you passed by Harry Winston a few months prior.

The memory once again flashed through your mind. Harry being so excited that he couldn't wait a few minutes inside his car and chose to run to you.

You snapped the box close, jaw clenching hard that your teeth almost hurt.

"You shouldn't have ran, Harry…"

Harry hadn't been the same.

After waking up from the coma a few days later and learning about his condition, you could feel a shift in your relationship.

He would stare out into space more often until he would unconsciously block out your voice and ignore you.

You refused to coddle the negative thoughts early on, knowing he was recovering. Harry needed you now more than ever; so you took care of him to the best of your abilities, always insisting to stay by his side and look after him—even when his mother would advise you to get some rest.

However, your gut feelings only heightened after Harry got discharged from the hospital. He was now a different man in your eyes; always occupied with work.

It became harder to see him. Day by day, you got more and more worried about his well-being, and he did nothing to assure you otherwise. Your days were filled wondering if he was working too hard, if he was getting enough rest.

At one point, you realized that he was distancing himself from you. Deliberately.

Harry used to come home right on time, and he would skip office events as much as he could just so he could spend those time with you.

Now that man is no more.

He no longer wished you a good morning or ask how you were doing. Every reply to your texts were short and dry as if you were his employee—not the woman he once chose to marry.

You tried. You really did. To call him, send him food, get him gifts to cheer him up, and plan a dinner date. None worked. You couldn't even visit him at his house anymore—because he was rarely ever there; always in the office or on a flight somewhere for a business.

You felt neglected by your own boyfriend; both physically and emotionally. And after months of tolerating his behavior, you could no longer take it.

So one day, after receiving yet another text from Harry saying he'd finish work late, you grabbed your car key and drove straight to Castle Group.

And you let him win.

“I know what you’re doing, Harry.” You said the moment you stepped inside his office, eyes burning through his skull.

You didn't even wait for his secretary to announce your arrival. The last thread of your patience had vanished a while ago whilst on your way to this luxurious office tower.

“Honey—” Harry sat frozen behind his mahogany desk as you stormed inside.

“Don’t." You cut him off, holding a finger up. "I’m not stupid."

Harry stilled. He'd never seen you this angry.

"You’re trying to drive me away."

"Congratulations." You shot him a tight smile, which only made the man sitting in his exorbitant leather chair feel smaller. "It’s working.”

Hurt flashed through his eyes; and you caught the half-a-second display of vulnerability before he composed himself.

“Baby, please.” Harry stood up abruptly, the rollers sending his chair backwards until it gently hit the ceiling-to-floor glass window that overlooked the city.

“Hear me out.” He carefully stepped closer to you, arms extended with palms facing up—as if you were a wild animal in need of taming.

“No!" You shouted, tears burning in your eyes. By now, you couldn't care less if the whole executive floor could hear you. "I worry for you day and night, but you won’t give me a chance to take care of you!”

“Because I’m scared!”

Harry's shouting that rivaled yours instantly shut you up. He took another step closer, towering over you.

“I can’t..” His voice broke, eyes turning soft and misty.

“I don’t know how to deal with this.. this illness." He gently took your hand in his.

For the first time in weeks, you finally had his full attention. And it sucked that you'd had to compete with his work.

He took a deep breath and continued, "I can’t do this, baby... You deserve someone who can love you fully."

Your heart sank. You didn't like where this was going.

"I love you so much…" He said softly, swallowing the tears that were building up.

"But—" His breath shook.

"But you don’t deserve this weak heart that will soon never beat for you again.” He roughly pounded his fist against his chest, eyes bloodshot from holding back his tears. It was as if he was angry at his feeble heart that won't let him be around until you're old and gray.

Your resolve almost faltered, until they hardened again just as fast. You had made up your mind, after all those nights of being refused a fraction of his time and affection.

“Well you’re a coward.” You spat. Harry's grip on your hand loosened in an instant and his crestfallen face reflected the shattering of his heart.

You knew that you were turning into a villain in your own love story—but it was time you choose yourself over a man who didn't want you by his side at his lowest.

"I just don't want to hurt you by leaving you behind once I die!"

There it was again. A reminder that his time was coming.

“Well now you’re doing it twice. So fine! Since you’re so insistent on pushing me away, I’ll let you be alone when you take your last breath!”

Your stormed out of his office without looking back, ignoring the spectators outside and heading straight towards the elevator that soon took you to your car.

Hot tears streamed down your face the moment you closed the door, fingers clasping over the steering wheel tightly like an anchor.

You knew in your heart that you loved Harry despite everything; but the anger and resentment were still there, bright, and far from dying down.

Harry backed up slowly as he watched you leave, stumbling over nothing before holding the edge of his desk.

Once you were completely out of his sight, his legs gave out and he slid down against the side of his desk—the sturdy wooden body supporting his back as he sat on the cold marble floor, knees close to his chest.

He bit his quivering lips, throat constricting as he stared at the shiny marble floor that reflected the sunlight directly into his eyes.

The more he replayed the moment you left in his head, the harder his body shook, forcing out his tears that had been pushed down too hard, that now the immense pressure was starting to backfire. When the dam finally broke, Harry buried his face in between his knees, letting out the wails that kept him from hyperventilating.

His chest hurt, but none of that mattered when he lost the one thing that kept his heart beating.

Your words rang in his ears over and over again, "I’ll let you be alone when you take your last breath!" His throat burned, and he tried—really tried—to hold back the next sobs, but to no avail.

Harry never imagined he would cry over a woman. Over love. The one thing he swore makes him feel pathetic.

But now here he was; crying over you on the floor of his office like a pitiful child—and he couldn’t blame anyone, but himself.

"Since you left.. I've only been waiting for my time to come." Harry spoke, his voice gruff. "I threw myself into work; even worse than before you left. I thought that would distract me.."

You pulled back slightly to meet his gaze and Harry gently wiped the rest of your tears away. "But the more I did that, the more I hated myself."

His hands slid down your arms to hold your hands in his. "I hated myself for pushing you away. For thinking that this was my fight alone." He sniffed. "It took me way too long to realize that all you wanted from me was to let you stay; and I took that away from you."

"Stupid me for thinking I was doing the right thing, when the whole time I was actually being a selfish asshole." You squeezed his hand gently as a silent comfort. "I hurt you, baby. I hurt you so badly; and at the same time, I hurt myself even more. And my mother."

Harry quickly wiped away a stray tear that escaped his eyes. "I hurt the two most precious women in my life. She had wanted nothing for me but happiness, but I threw my happiness away the moment I stopped fighting for us."

"I don't deserve your forgiveness. I know I don't." He shook his head, observing the change in your expressions with desperation. "But please, baby. Give me a chance to make this right. The last chance. It's all I need."

"If—if I die tomorrow, I want your face be the last thing I see. I don't—I don't want to be alone when that time comes…" His shoulders shook as he pleaded.

You tugged at his hand, and Harry didn't wait to wrap his arms around you again, clinging onto your smaller form like a lifeline.

You stroked his back with the flat of your palm. "I won't forgive you for thinking you should face it alone."

Harry's heart sank, but he slowly nodded. "I don't deserve it—"

"But I also won't forgive myself for letting you push me away." You cut him off. "I lost when I walked out."

Harry pulled away to gaze intently into your eyes. "No." He firmly said, shaking his head. "You did nothing wrong, baby. You don't ever let me treat you like that again."

When he saw the stubbornness in your eyes, he swiftly took your face in his hands. "Don't think for one second that you're responsible for what happened between us." He said with a low, warning tone. "I deserved it. All of it. Hell I deserve even more for how much I hurt you."

"But now I'm gonna make it right." He promised, loosening his hold on your face as he bit his lower lip in hesitation. "If you'll let me."

"I know five months are not be enough to make up for the two years.. but with the time that I have, I'll love you with every bit of me."

"Harry…"

He shook his head to stop you. "I told you I resigned. So from now on, whenever you need me, I'll be home. Every second left to my life, I will devote them to you."

"No, Harry. There has to be a way. There has to be. You can't." You cried, gripping his wrists tightly as he held you face in his palms. "Five months is too soon…"

Harry scooped you up and pulled you against him, cradling your body against his chest before burying his face into your hair. "I wish there is a way, baby. I would do anything just to stay with you longer. Anything.." His words trailed as he let out a shaky sigh and shut his eyes tight.

When you both pulled away again, Harry leaned his forehead against yours, letting your breaths mingle. "Will you.." His fingers ran through your hair to soothe you. "allow me into your life again?"

There was a pause before you replied, "Only if.."

Harry looked at you with a newfound determination. Whatever condition you'll set, he'd fulfill them all if it meant getting you back.

"If you give me that ring this time."

Harry let out a surprise breath before a smile appeared on his tear-stained face.

"I have it." He quickly said. "Inside my blazer pocket. I can go on my knee right now if you want me to, honey."

A soft chuckle escaped your lips before you leaned in, capturing his in a gentle kiss. Harry froze for a heartbeat, then his hand slid up to cradle your jaw, drawing you closer as he deepened the kiss. The faint taste of tears lingered between you—a bittersweet reminder of everything you'd endured apart, and of the love neither of you would ever regret choosing a second time.

You pulled away just enough to meet his eyes, your lips leaving his with a soft brush. "Not right now. We're a mess."

Harry chuckled and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. "We are."

"Are you sure you don't want to sleep at your house? I can send you back. It's more comfortable there."

Your were both lying on your bed after the emotional downpour. Harry held you against his chest, and you pressed your ear against him where his heart was consistently beating.

"No." Harry shook his head, nuzzling his nose against your hair as he breathed in the scent that was uniquely you. "I want to be here with you."

You pulled your head back slightly to look up at him, meeting his eyes. "And for the record," He spoke in a hushed tone. "I sleep better in your bed..." He leaned down to press a kiss against your forehead. "Always have.."

You laid there in comfortable silence, indulging in the comfort of being in each other's arms. "Baby?" You hummed as he called you softly.

"I'm sorry. I really, really am. I can't imagine how much you've been hurting because of me." Your gaze softened. You were hurt, yes, but you couldn't imagine how much harder it was for him.

"Did you ever stop loving me?" At your quiet, hesitant question, Harry immediately shook his head.

"Never. Not for one second. And I regret not coming to you sooner."

"For the past two years.. when I close my eyes, all I see is you." He gulped, eyes gleaming with fresh tears. "When I open my eyes, all I wish to see is you. Even when you're not around, I felt you everywhere. All the time."

"Harry.." You felt your own tears welling up at his admission. "I was angry, and I resented you for how you pushed me away. But more than that, I regret the way I ended things between us."

"Because even then, I loved you." Harry's breath trembled as he listened. "I still do."

"And time may be limited for us, but I'd rather have you now than never." You said, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. "So please.. don't push me away again."

Your eyes fluttered close when he leaned down to kiss your eyelid, inhaling shakily. "I've lost you once, baby. I'm not losing you again. Not in this life—and not the next." He swore, running his fingers through your hair.

You couldn't form any word. The immense love you had for this man was unlike anything you ever felt for anyone.

"I love you, Baby. I'll love you till I die, and even after that…"

You arrived home from work and immediately spotted a huge bouquet leaning against the door of your apartment. The sight made you smile wide, and all the exhaustion from the day completely disappeared along with your frown.

It was from Harry.

You picked it up and admired the flowers he had picked for you this time; pink roses and white mums. A mix of yours and Harry's favorites.

There was a printed note on the small card that was neatly tied around the wrapper.

Happy One Year Anniversary, My Honey. I Love You.

"Harry? What are you doing?" You asked the moment you stepped inside your house to find your husband hunched over the kitchen island, typing on his laptop.

He almost jumped at your voice, having been too focused on his task. The moment he saw you, he shut his laptop close with a sharp slap as if he was secretly going over your bank statements.

"Uhh nothing." He sat up straight and stilled like a deer caught in the headlights, carving a smirk on your face.

"Nothing?" You waltzed over to him, making him chuckle nervously. "I thought you don't have any work." You raised your eyebrows, seeing right through him.

Harry tried to divert your attention and pulled you by your hips, letting you stand in between his parted legs as he looked up at you. "It's not work." He assured, being painfully shy with his tone and smile.

You couldn't help but cup his cheeks, stroking his beard and dimples with your thumbs. "Then what were you up to, hm?"

"Surprise?" He said, for some reason making his eyes rounder.

"Come on. Not even a hint?" You pouted, attempting to coax him into giving in.

"Nope."

"What if I give you a kiss?" You negotiated. A deal that never gets rejected.

Harry grinned childishly. "Then I guess I'll consider it."

You crossed the threshold of your room and sat on the edge of your bed, holding the bouquet close to you.

Ever since the day he resigned from his job, Harry had kept himself occupied with planning gifts for you as you leave the house for work. The one you're currently staring at was one of them.

It's the twelfth card, twelfth bouquet; a reminder of the twelve months since you let Harry put a ring on your finger.

Today was a special day, hence the bigger present. A teddy bear sat in the center, surrounded by the beautiful arrangement of flowers. Your finger traced its soft fur before halting at a little note hanging around its neck.

Keep him on my side of the bed. He'll sleep better there ♡

It was seven months ago when Harry's condition deteriorated. On his last checkup, the doctor had shook his head and said the two words that still haunted you until today, "anytime now".

You had tried to prepare yourself for the inevitable, but no one could ever truly prepare for something like death. What you weren't ready for was for the time to arrive one ordinary morning—while you were making breakfast for him.

Harry wanted to sleep a little longer like the previous mornings, needing more rest than usual due to his current physical condition. His pale complexion was no longer your biggest worry. He rarely ever stepped out of the house anymore except for some sun exposure in the mornings.

"Baby, wake me up for breakfast?" He said weakly, looking up at you with those tired eyes that made your stomach clench every time.

You smiled softly—masking the sadness in your heart—and nodded as you wiped away the beads of sweat on his forehead with a small towel.

"I will. Rest up, darling. I'll make your favorite."

You kissed his forehead before getting up.

Unaware it'll be the last.

Harry's grip on your arm loosened as you pulled away, watching you from the corner of his eyes as you left for the kitchen.

"I love you." He whispered under his breath when the door clicked shut behind you.

You held the bear against your chest, your body trembling as you soaked its fur with your tears—remembering your husband's last smile, last request, last touch.

Harry didn't know love before you; but once he did, it was his heart that couldn't bear the strength of his love.

Thank you so much for reading! Your comments and reblogs would be greatly appreciated. I would love to know your thoughts!! <3

I went into this thinking I was getting a sweet second chance romance and somehow ended up crying like I had personally lost the love of my life.

The “stay.”

The ring.

The “I don’t want to be alone when that time comes.”

Please. I was NOT prepared.

What hurt the most is that neither of them was really the villain. Harry thought he was protecting her, and she thought he didn’t want her anymore. They were both just scared and in love, hurting each other because they didn’t know how to survive something so unfair.

And then this line—

"Harry didn't know love before you; but once he did, it was his heart that couldn't bear the strength of his love."

Yeah... that completely destroyed me.

This was so painfully beautiful. I cried, I suffered, and I'm going to be thinking about them for a very, very long time.

First of all, I'm sorry for putting you through this hell on your supposedly relaxing plane ride 🤧 but I'm glad it didn't go the way you expected 😋

They were both just scared and in love, hurting each other because they didn’t know how to survive something so unfair.

You described it so perfectly, Angel 🥹❤️‍🩹

Aaand, I'm really happy that the closing line destroyed you, just as it destroyed me when I came up with it 😇🫶