My Virtual TBR Pile

Dividers by: @strangergraphics thank you!

masterlist | series masterlist

The night train is silent. Most would say it’s peaceful. People caught in a slumber, no loud conversations, no laughter.

Harry slowly regrets he didn’t pick the one in the afternoon.

He wonders if it would be easier in the bustling crowd. If the truth would be easier to handle.

No. No, it wouldn’t.

Because either way, he’s still alone here. Sitting in the corner in his compartment, staring out the window at the train station shrouded in quietness and absence of the usual jam.

She was supposed to be here with him.

Visit his family in Darien for his parents’ annual New Year’s Eve party. Smile politely and charm them with her witty responses.

He was supposed to finally show his family that he is capable of settling down, that he found the woman who fits perfectly into their family picture. Lucy was all that.

Instead he sits here like a failure, an idiot.

His mother’s ring weighing in his pocket.

The train departs, heading his destination. He could’ve just asked his driver to take him to Darien. Or drive there himself. Or even hire a helicopter. But he didn’t.

He remembered all these times when as a student he took trains to Darien and tonight, Harry felt it could save him. Sitting alone in his compartment, but at the same time being aware there are some people near. Having a moment of quietness to figure out what to do next. How to tell his family Lucy didn’t accept the proposal… How to save face.

He reaches to his pocket and grasps the red, velvet box. He opens it and stares at the beautiful, shiny Cartier ring. It’s vintage, his dad bought it when he was proposing to Harry’s mom. Did Harry really want Lucy to wear it?

Now, that he’s thinking about it… He is not sure.

This ring holds history. Holds a story about true love, something beautiful that later created him and his brother. Something real that lasts almost fifty years.

Would Lucy really be it?

With a sigh he snaps the box closed, which seems loud in the silent compartment. Over an hour left to get to the holiday home.

The moment Harry steps into the house, he’s hit with the warm scent of gingerbread and his mother’s famous roast. He hangs his wool coat on a hanger next to many other jackets. He can hear the echos of voices and laughs, clinking of the champagne glasses. All people here tonight are here to celebrate.

It makes a knot in his stomach tighten.

He came back with nothing. All the family friends, all his mom’s business associates… all his childhood friends will see he still didn’t bring a girl home. Despite all he said. Despite the fact he already told his mom he’s gonna propose.

He didn’t have it in him to call earlier and admit he failed.

And now, wearing an armor which his black turtleneck and slacks, holding a wine bottle… He steps into the big, elegant living room, where the party swings.

Guests notice him, his parents beam when he enters.

„Harry! You made it!” His mom is fast, already by his side with a grin, wearing a fancy emerald dress. She always likes to impress with her clothes and the parties she hosts.

„Hello, mother.” Harry hands her the bottle and kisses her cheek.

But the moment she notices there is no one at his side… Her smile fades.

„Son… Where is Lucy? She in the bathroom?” She glances around searching for his fiancée. At least that’s what she thinks.

His dad approaches just perfectly to hear his wife’s question. The raised eyebrow of an oldest Castillo makes a drop of sweat trail down Harry’s neck, beneath the fabric of his turtleneck.

„N-no. I came by myself.”

„Oh, she couldn’t make it?”

„No, we… split up. She rejected the proposal.” He finally says, trying to keep his voice steady, like he wasn’t facing the biggest embarrassment in the new year.

His parents’ faces are expressing pure shock. That’s definitely not what they expected.

„What do you mean she rejected?” His dad frowns.

„I mean, she saw the ring, told me she doesn’t want it and left. What’s there to understand?”

„But… You must have done something wrong! I can’t believe she would just…” his mom tries, but he cuts her off. „God, we’re two adult people who realized they don’t love each other the right way. I’m here alone, I brought wine. The end of story.” He sighs.

His parents stare at him. But under the layer of disbelief he can see the disappointment.

Once again Harry Castillo proved he’s not capable of relationships.

Some guests standing near also heard the conversation. Harry can feel the lingering, pitying eyes on him. He fucking hates being here.

„It’s a wonderful party, mother. You outdo yourself every year.” He steps to pass his parents. „Happy New Year.” He pats his father’s arm and goes straight to the table with Dom Pérignon glasses. He grabs one and huffs under his breath. It seems ironic. Everyone’s here drinking champagne to celebrate, while Harry feels like it’s the last thing he wants to do.

He just has nothing to celebrate. Just another lonely year.

Some people approach him, talking, wishing Happy New Year. He keeps the polite smile glued to his face. It’s what he’s supposed to do.

Harry tries to not wonder how it would look if Lucy was here, but… He would stand in the middle, with an arm wrapped around her waist. Say proudly she’s his fiancée. She would show off the ring which is the family heritage. Everyone would gasp delighted. Everyone would see he has finally found the one…

Yeah, he tries to not wonder what if.

He stands by the window. The beautiful garden, always blooming in the summer, now covered in snow. The lights gently illuminating it, making the white, cold blanket shimmering.

Despite what others might think… Harry feels kind of relieved. Once Lucy told him it’s over… He couldn’t help, but take a deeper breath. Because deep down… he knew she was right. They didn’t love each other. He just wanted to have a wife, so his mom would let him be and Lucy just wanted his money.

It’s just the feeling of loneliness that got him so thoughtful.

Is he really this horrible, arrogant person that is too afraid to love someone?

Or he just hasn’t met the right one yet?

He tears his gaze away from the window just to see some woman steal one of the champagne bottles and quickly sneaking out towards the hallway. He chuckles and decides to check what she’s up to. He is not sure if he ever saw her…

Harry sees her leaving through the backdoor to a terrace. He hesitates for a moment, standing alone in the hallway. He can go back to the party and deal with all the pitying eyes, or… Go outside where there’s no one, but this stranger. Her idea is better.

So without even grabbing his coat, he slides the door open and instantly shivers at the cold temperature. The mysterious woman is sitting in one of the chairs left there. The terrace is under the roof, so at least there is no snow here.

She looks up at him, surprised and a bit disappointed she’s no longer alone.

„This seat taken?” He nods at the second chair next to her. For a longer moment their eyes just linger, but finally she speaks. „No.”

Harry sits down, glancing at the windows and the guests too busy to notice someone is freezing their asses off outside. The woman uses the corkscrew and soon the Dom Pérignon opens with a pop. She takes a swig from the bottle and he just watches from the side.

„Sorry, I didn’t bring any glasses.” She says.

„That’s okay.” He cracks a smile. „I see you’re celebrating big time.”

„Oh, yeah.” She chuckles from above the rim. He notices her eyes crinkle beautifully in the dim light of the night. They reflect the snow covering the grass.

She bites her lip, like she’s hesitating, but then hands him the bottle. Harry accepts it and also takes a swig of champagne. Yeah… Celebrating.

„So… Is there any particular occasion besides the New Year?”

The woman huffs, half amused, half… sad. Like the weight is too much, but she still tries to say it’s okay.

„Yeah, ugh, let’s see… I lost my job a week ago.” She has a big smile on her face. „And my boyfriend broke up with me the same fucking week! That means I had to move out, so now I also don’t have a place to stay.”

„Oh, fuck.” Harry breathes surprised.

„So many reasons to celebrate over the champagne.” She says and grabs the bottle to have another sip. „And you? You seemed pretty occupied there.”

„Ugh… I asked a girl to marry me. She said no.”

He stares ahead at the glimmering snow, at the way it’s still slowly falling. The woman observes his profile. She admires the curve of his nose and the stoic expression on his face. They both stopped shivering already, the alcohol doing its magic.

„You don’t seem very concerned.” She notices and that makes him chuckle.

He has no idea who she is, but, God, she actually makes this party bearable.

„Yeah… I don’t think I ever really loved her. But still… Being forty eight and not having a family already is a failure, isn’t it?”

„Nah, didn’t you hear my story? That is a failure.” She laughs quietly and he joins her.

„So.” She hands him the bottle again. „Let’s just drink and celebrate our miserable lives.”

Harry lays his eyes on the Dom Pérignon, then shifts his gaze to the stranger. He has no idea who she is and how the hell she got to his holiday house… But he’s glad she did. It’s the first time since Lucy left him that he feels better about himself.

Without a word, he accepts the bottle.

„To our miserable lives.” He raises it and takes a swig.

They sit there for a while, just talking. They laugh at aunt Mildred stucking the appetizers to her Gucci bag. Or try to stay silent and don’t move when Harry’s dad is looking out the window. He probably searches for his son. But Harry is comfortable just where he is now.

„So… What are you doing here actually?” He whispers after a moment and she glances at him. „My mom is a caretaker of this house, when your parents are not here. I’m currently living with her.”

„Wait, you’re Catherine’s daughter? You’re y/n?”

He stares shocked, because now he remembers you. You’re not a stranger woman. You’re you. The one he spent some time with when he was younger. There was Harry, his brother, their cousins and sometimes you. You were the youngest, always following them, until they were done with your presence.

„Yep. We played pool together, remember?”

„Yes. You were pretty good for a six-years-old.” He chuckles. „I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you earlier.”

„Oh, come on. I wouldn’t recognize myself either. We were kids then. Especially me.” You say smiling. „You’re right… A lot changed in you.” He says and then coughs. „For better, I mean.”

You smirk to yourself and let your eyes linger. You always had a little crush on him. And now that you’re both grown… This hasn’t changed. He’s an attractive man.

But for now… it doesn’t mean anything. You’re just drinking outside in the middle of the winter. Two people who feel like failures, like there is something wrong with them… Finding solace in this. Whatever this is.

After a moment of silence, a smile grows wider on your face, like you just came up with an idea.

„Do you want to go to the beach?”

„The beach?” He huffs surprised.

He came to Darien feeling like a complete idiot. He was standing on that party while others just stared at him. Harry Castillo is always an attraction, especially when his yet another relationship ends. He felt awful until he saw you sneaking out. Until he saw this smile on your face you kept despite your own problems.

Now, even his mother’s ring stopped weighing him so much in his pocket.

„Unless you want to go back inside?” You raise an eyebrow and that’s when he knows.

„Let me grab our coats.”

next chapter

The door swings open like it’s part of a performance. You don’t even look up at first.

“Hi…hello…I’m in the right place…yes,” a voice announces, already too loud for the room, “I’m here about the role.”

You pause. Slowly look up. You know that voice, hell the world does. ButHe’s not on your list. That’s your first thought. Your second is that he’s already halfway across the room like he owns it.

“Can I help you?” you ask, calm, measured.

He smiles like you’ve just asked him to begin.

“Dieter Bravo,” he says, spreading his arms slightly. “Actor. Visionary. EGOT Winner & now…” he does a dramatic pause & then makes a swoosh noise”…Potential Jedi.”

You blink trying to regain your thoughts & professionalism.

“…you’re not on the audition schedule.”

“I know,” he says easily. “I felt that was limiting.” His reputation is living up to everything.

“That’s usually how auditions work.”

“Yes, but I don’t believe in limits,” he replies, already turning slightly like he’s found his mark. This really isn’t what you need today & yet something about this is working for you.

“Okay,” you say, leaning back slightly in your chair. “What exactly do you want?”

“To be in the next Star Wars film,” he says, like it’s obvious.

“…right.” You say with hesitation, before you can get the next word out he is talking again.

“I thought,” he continues, stepping closer, lowering his voice like this is confidential, “why wait for the system to catch up to me when I could just… arrive, just like the force.”

“You’ve arrived,” you confirm. “& we…”

“Exactly.” He rarely lets anyone have any speaking time he always has to leap in. You’re learning this on the spot. Before you can stop him, he’s already moving, swishing his oversized coat around the room. The untamed hair being tossed about.

“Now…”he says, pacing slowly, shoulders shifting into something more dramatic, “we’re in the middle of a conflict. The Force is unstable. I can feel it…”

You stare. He’s doing it. He’s actually doing it. He’s making lightsaber noises pretending to fight.

“I’ve seen The Last Jedi,” he continues, turning sharply, pointing vaguely into the distance like there’s an invisible co-star. “There’s tension. There’s depth. Emotional fracture, I know Oscar Isaac…”He stops directly in front of you.

“I can do that. I can do it all.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Can you?” Deadpan your response it. He’s not going to rile you up.

He leans in slightly. Too close. He smells expensive & good.

“Or,” he says, lowering his voice, “I go darker.”

“Oh, please don’t.”

He ignores that completely.

“I have range,” he insists, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “Light. Dark. Morally complicated. A bounty hunter…Attractive.”

“That last one isn’t a casting requirement.”

“It should be. All beautiful people live in space.”

You try not to smile. You fail. Just slightly. He catches it immediately. Of course he does, he is Dieter Bravo after all.

“There it is,” he says, softer now, stepping just a fraction closer again. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m tolerating it.” You say trying not to laugh at the performance happening in front of you.

“Same thing.”

“It really isn’t.”

He tilts his head, studying you now instead of performing at you.

“Mm,” he hums. “You’re a tough audience.”

“You weren’t invited to audition.”

“& yet,” he says lightly, gesturing around the room, “here I am. Creating an experience.”

“This is not an experience.”

“This is absolutely an experience. I’m the person you will remember at the end of the day.”

“For all the wrong reasons” You shake your head, but there’s a small smile there now you can’t quite hide. You know what he said eill be true. The man has the charm to get most people to do anything for him.

He notices that too. He notices everything.

“So,” he says, shifting again, tone changing, “tell me what you want.”

You blink.

“That’s not how this works.”

“No, but I’m flexible,” he says quickly. “Do you want a hero? A villain? Someone mysterious who definitely has a tragic backstory but still looks incredible in low lighting?”

“I want you to apply properly,” you say. “Go through the proper channels.”

He winces like you’ve physically hurt him.

“Ah,” he says, nodding slowly. “The system again.” He uses quote marks dramatically as he says this, feigning boredom.

“It exists for a reason.”

“It exists to stop me from walking in dramatically & winning you over in person.”

“That is not the reason.”

“It should be.”

You let out a small breath, trying not to laugh.

“You can’t just bypass everything because you are Dieter Bravo”

That hits a nerve of his.He studies you for a second. Really studies you to see if you’re bluffing.

“…you haven’t said no,” he points out.

You pause.

“That’s not a yes.”

“But it’s not a no.”

“It’s a ‘this is not how auditions work.’”

He smiles slightly at that.

“Semantics.”

You shake your head.

“There are official channels,” you say, more firmly now. “Applications. Casting calls. You go through those like everyone else. Even people like Daniel Craig who have been storm troopers have had to do that… & he’s James Fricken Bond.” You hit the table as you say this trying to drum the point into him.

“Everyone else isn’t me.”

“That’s not an advantage here.”

“It should be.”

“Did you even listen to what I said mere seconds ago?” You state & hold his gaze.

He holds yours right back. For a moment, the room shifts. Less performance. More something else.

Then he exhales, just slightly, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

“…right,” he says, quieter now. “Okay.” The shift is subtle, but it’s there. For the first time since he walked in, he’s not playing to an audience. He may have met his match with you.

“Official channels,” he repeats, like he’s testing the words.

“Official channels,” you confirm.

He nods once.

“Got it.”

There’s a pause. Then he glances back at you, that spark flickering again.

“Just so you know,” he adds, softer, “I would’ve been excellent.”

“I’m sure you would’ve been,” you reply.

That earns you a small, real smile. Not performed.Not exaggerated. Just… classic Dieter.

“Worth a try eh?”he says.

“Was it?”

He considers that.

“…yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it was. Just to see who’s have the guts to say no, to the hottest property in acting.”

Because now you’re smiling properly, he notices that too.

“See?” he adds lightly. “Progress. A smile makes everyone’s day especially when it’s as pretty as yours.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it.

“Go apply properly, Dieter.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, mock-saluting. Then he turns & heads for the door. Slower than he entered. Less theatrical. Like he’s hoping you will change your mind & offer him the part right now.

But just before he leaves, He glances back, that smirk as smug as ever.

“Don’t cast anyone too boring,” he says.

“No promises.”

“That’s fair.” & with that the 5 minute whirlwind of Dieter Bravo disappears as quickly as it arrived.

Your phone buzzes later that night. Unknown number. You hesitate but swipe to see whose messages you.

Dieter Bravo:

Are you always that calm when people dramatically audition for you?

You stare at the message for a second. Then type back.

You:

Are you always that enthusiastic about everything?

There’s a pause.

Dieter Bravo:

Oh, you bet, baby.

Wanna find out?

You bite back a smile. Then fail. Completely. A one word reply.

You:

On your hand still tangled in Harry’s shirt. On the remnants of an interrupted moment by the ghost of the past crashing on the shore.

Something changed in Patrick’s expression for a moment, but you couldn’t know what. After all, you didn’t know the man in front of you anymore.

You stopped knowing him the days you walked away from him five years ago no looking back, not knowing the price you would have to pay for that so called stupid decision.

……

Five years ago, New York - St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

The interior of the Cathedral smelled like Black Dahlias. A suffocating aroma that you didn't like. Surrounding inside the church, on the altar, over the pews and in the hands of your bridesmaids who were your two best friends and your sister. The same as those who had helped you to plan this wedding.

The two of them were smiling widely at you, meanwhile Kiera’s gaze seemed lost in the war unfolding before her eyes and mind. Her fingers tightened around the bouquet in her hands you almost could see her expression hurting with the prick of the flower’s stem.

And behind you, everyone was smiling. Everyone was waiting. Everyone believed they were about to witness the happiest day of your life.

But as Patrick stood beside you at the altar, as handsome and confident as always. His hand wrapped around yours.

The man you had loved for almost seven years and the man who had betrayed you.

Your throat tightened. The priest was talking, his words felt distant because you felt like your body was being carried away by the current of the sea and you weren't making an effort to stay afloat.

All you could picture in your head wasn’t the dreams of a future ahead, but the image of Patrick’s mouth on Keira’s lips.

Your maid of honor and your sister.

What a cliché.

Your sister and your fiancé, your future husband hiding inside a room three weeks before the wedding while whispering promises to each other not noticing you were witnessing the scene behind the door.

The image replayed again.

And again.

And again.

Like a knife being twisted deeper on your stomach

But you could also recall the Panic on Keira’s face outside the hotel hallways when she attempted to leave the place and how Patrick desperately tried to explain making up false words taking you for a fool.

But there wasn’t another explanation for his tongue being in someone else's mouth and his body moving beneath the sheets wrapping in another women.

The humiliation creeped up immediately. Your body felt under fire, but you also felt pure rage.

So, three weeks after, you put on the white dress, you walked down the aisle holding your father’s arm, you stood at the altar.

You walked down the aisle.

But right now, your eyes burned, tears streamed down your face as Patrick kept squeezing your hand with concern etched on his face.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, leaning closer your ear.

You turned gaze, looking into his eyes and for a moment you wanted to find the man you had planned your life with, the father of your future children that wouldn’t have the chance to be born because all you saw right now was a stranger standing before you wearing Patrick’s face.

You looked behind you, at your mother dabbing at her eyes and your father looking proud and your brother smiling widely at you.

And suddenly you couldn't breathe because none of them knew and you realized none of them would choose you when they found out.

You looked at Patrick, he was smiling at you, again and at that moment something inside you finally broke.

Your heart and your faith.

So, you slowly pulled your hand from his, Patrick frowned confused.

The church fell in a gasp, all eyes were on you wondering what was happening inside your head at this very moment.

"No." you whispered, voice trembling.

The word echoed through the entire church.

"What?" Patrick blinked.

A tear slipped down your cheek. You looked at him one final time. At the man who had broken your trust and somehow expected to keep your future.

"I said no."

Then you turned, grabbing the gown of your dress and walking away while all gazes followed your gaze.

……………………………………

"I didn't know you had company," Patrick’s voice suddenly pulled you from your shock.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, voice sharp.

Patrick lowered his gaze briefly. "I came to talk to you."

A short, disbelieving sound escaped your lips.

"You are five years late for that, now, please go.”

His jaw tensed, attempting to step closer “I know I don't deserve the—""

"No," you replied immediately. "You really don't.”

You felt your breath stuck inside your throat, but Harry continued standing next to you without interrupting.

Patrick looked at him again, then back at you.

"I've been trying to reach you."

"Well, not finding me should be a hint.”

Patrick flinched. His reaction surprised you, at some point you would've felt guilty for causing it, but all you felt right now was exhaustion.

"So why are you here?" you asked again.

Patrick exhaled, wind stirring over his hair.

"I need to talk to you.”

Your chest tightened at that and your pulse hammered in your ears.

The warmth and bright day you have had suddenly turned into a cold dark night swallowing to your buried memories.

And standing between the future you were beginning to crave and the past you thought you'd escaped.

Your turned to Harry, looking deep in those brown eyes that now seemed brighter beneath the stars.

“Harry?” you asked, looking at him, “Can you give me a moment?”

Harrys eyes widened "Are you sure?"

You nodded. "It'll be a really short conversation." Your gaze shifted to Patrick.

It was a warning instead of an invitation.

Patrick looked away first.

And Harry didn't move immediately. You could feel the hesitation. The protective instinct fighting with his respect for your decision.

"I'll be inside with Coco.” He said, not taking his eyes off yours again.

"If you need me—"

"I know." You whispered, giving him a smile.

For a second, he remained there, but then he turned and walked up the path and you watched him go and you saw the porch light catch the side of his face.

Only when the door closed behind him did the silence truly settle, you felt bared without his body pressing against yours.

You were alone with five years’ worth of unfinished conversations standing between you and Patrick.

Neither of you spoke immediately, the ocean filled the silence with the waves breaking on the shore during this night

"I see you made another man fall for you." Patrick spoke.

Your expression hardened at that.

"That's how you're starting this conversation?"

Patrick rubbed a hand over his face. "I didn't mean—"

You crossed your arms. "Then what exactly did you mean?"

His jaw clenched. For a second, he looked like the same man from five years ago, from those three weeks before the wedding.

Patrick looked toward your house, then found your gaze again.

"He looks at you the way I used to."

The statement only made you angrier.

"No." Your voice came out sharp. "You don't get to compare yourself to him."

Patrick flinched, but you were tired of being the only person who had suffered the consequences from the failed wedding.

The ocean kept roaring and your patience finally snapped.

"Can you get to the fucking point?"

Patrick blinked.

You took a step forward. "What are you doing here? And how did you know where I live?"

The exhaustion in your voice was almost worse than the anger itself.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw. Nervous, perhaps ashamed.

"There isn't a right way to say this."

"Then pick a wrong way."

His eyes closed briefly. Then he finally looked at you.

"Your mother told me."

The words pierced right through your heart.  For a second you genuinely thought you had heard him wrong.

"What?"

"Your mother." Patrick swallowed.

The world seemed to tilt beneath your feet.

"No."

"She told me where you were."

Your chest tightened so painfully you felt your ribs had been squeezed.

Patrick saw the realization of those words crossing your face. He Saw the hurt.

"She had known all these years."

You left out a small broken laughed.

“All these years?”

Patrick nodded, looking at how your eyes watered.

"My mother had five years." You whispered, "everyone did."

The wind tugged at your hair as you swallowed painfully. "They never thought of visiting me?"

Patrick looked away for a few seconds, to everything except your face.

"You are dead to them." He said, quietly.

Your heart stopped for a second because despite knowing the truth, hearing it from the same man who has caused the damage hurt.

"Because of you and Keira." You whispered.

Before you could think, you hit his chest, to make him felt the way your heart hammered now.

"Because of you!" you cried out as your vision blurred with tears.

"My mother didn’t even come to her father’s funeral because of me, because she knew.”

Another hit.

"My entire family threw me away because of you!"

Patrick stumbled back half a step.

Your chest heaved. Years of grief finally breaking free.

"You cheated on me." Your voice cracked violently. "With my sister."

The words tasted bitter even now. "You destroyed everything."

Patrick lowered his head in shame, perhaps.

A sob escaped before you could stop it.

The sound seemed to physically hurt him.

"I know."

"No, you don't!" You stepped back from him.

"You got to keep your life."

Patrick looked up. "I didn't—"

"You kept your family."

You pointed toward him. "You kept your friends." Your voice rose. "You kept your house."

The tears streamed freely now. "And I had nobody caring for me just because I din’t get marry to you."

Patrick's face crumpled. “I married Kiera. She’s my wife."

You froze and for a moment you simply stared at him.

Then a hollow laugh escaped your lips. "Of course she is."

Patrick closed his eyes briefly.

You shook your head. The tears on your cheeks suddenly felt so cold.

"My sister." Your voice cracked.

The wind whipped on your hair as your heart ached.

Patrick nodded, “Look, I really need to talk to you and you clearly aren’t in your best state.”

Your shoulders shook. The anger was leaving your body now.

You wiped your eyes. "Just go."

Your voice barely above a whisper now.

Patrick swallowed. “I—“

“Go.”

Patrick nodded slowly.

"Look, I really need to talk to you, and you clearly aren't in your best state."

The words only made your chest ache more.

As if there were ever a good state to hear that your family had erased you from their lives.

Your shoulders trembled.

The anger that had been holding you upright was beginning to leave your body now, draining away and leaving behind nothing but exhaustion.

Grief.

Shock.

You wiped furiously at your eyes.

"Just go."

Your voice was barely a whisper.

Patrick swallowed.

"I—"

"Go." The word cracked.

You took a step back, but something warm trickled over your upper lip.

You frowned, confused, taking your fingers up to your nose.

When they came away red, your stomach tightened as the rest of your body.

Patrick's expression changed instantly. "You're bleeding."

You looked down at the blood staining your fingertips. Too many memories dragged back from the grave.

Patrick instinctively stepped forward.

"Hey—"

You shoved his hand away before he could touch you.

"Don't."

"You're upset. Let me—"

"Don't touch me."

The words came out sharper than you intended, the broken sound of your voice became just a snapping thrill flying.

But he kept trying to help and trying to catch your arm.

"Leave me alone and go." Your voice broke completely and Patrick stared at you.

His face crumpled at the sight if your face. Patrick looked at you one last time and then, he turned away.

He disappeared from your sight, leaving the ocean, the wind and the ache in your heart.

But then, another pair of footsteps approached from behind and you didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

Harry and Coco, licking his face appeared behind you, but the puppy squirmed in Harry's arms at the sight of you.

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

He carefully lowered Coco onto the ground and the puppy took off running straight to you.

"Coco—"

And the little dog crashed into your legs, tail wagging, stretching onto his hind paws to reach you, whining, licking your hands and demanding your attention.

Demanding that you stop crying immediately.

A wet nose nudged at your wrist and a small broke sound escaped from you lips as your puppy licked the tears off your chin.

"Oh my God." You laughed "Coco!"

Harry reached to your side and his expression changed the moment he noticed the blood beneath your nose.

His eyes widened. "What did he—"

"Nothing." You said, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.

Harry frowned. "Nothing?"

"My nose bleeds when I get too stressed." A weak smile tugged at your lips.

His face softened immediately and you gave a small shrug. "It's annoying."

Harry reached up carefully, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. Then, he rested his cheek against on your hair.

"Come inside," he said softly.

You laughed weakly. "This is my house."

"There she is." A small smile tugged at Harry's mouth.

"What?" You sniffled.

"The woman who makes jokes of my words.”

A smile appeared on your lips and his eyes softened at the sight.

"There she is," he repeated, this time smiling at your smile.

Your chest tightened, you knew Harry could notice it despite not seeing it, so he planted a kiss on your forehead. You closed your eyes at the feeling of his lips on your skin.

It felt like the sun kissing the horizon on the sea during the morning.

Then you opened your eyes again. "Harry."

His gaze immediately found yours. Patience and concern drawing on his face.

"I want you to know I don't love him, okay?"

Harry's expression changed to something he had been trying very hard not to ask.

"There are things I have to tell you." Your fingers trembled slightly. "And I will…Just... in a few days."

Harry nodded, whatever story was sitting behind your eyes, he wasn't going to force it out of you tonight.

"I don't love him," you repeated quietly.

Your hand lifted to his lips, so your fingertips on them.

The touch made him weak.

"And don't think for one second I regret kissing you."

His eyes searched yours, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a soft smile. Almost disbelieving.

Then he turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss into the center of your palm. Your breath caught at the action

"Good," he whispered. "Because I will be thinking about that kiss for so long."

"Do you want me to keep you company tonight?" Harry offered.

Your throat tightened, so you simply nodded, leaning towards him.

Harry wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer against his side. His chin brushing the top of your head.

And just as the moment settled in comfortable warmth…

“Woof!”

Both of you looked down at Coco staring both of you

“Woof!”

Harry looked down at the puppy. "Excuse me?"

Coco barked again. His tail wagging fast.

The puppy pushed his nose insistently against your shin.

Demanding inclusion.

You crouched slightly to scratch behind his ears.

“Okay, let’s go inside mister.”

The sun was exceptionally brightened today, as if anticipating the new waves of affection flying with the salt air all over this town. And despite de return of a ghost from the past threatening to destroy the peaceful life you had made of yourself in this place, no one could erase the smile on your face.

Harry was the reason behind.

That devastatingly annoying, desperate and handsome Harry Castillo, who was dropped by the door of your house by the universe without even knowing he would be the reason behind the flush on your face and the rapid-fire creeping inside your heart.

You had a mere reason to not desire burn yourself with the fire catching inside the chest when you knew you were developing the chemistry of love. Something new, at first fleeting air that caught in your breath but becoming into something that you could stop craving.

It felt foreign.

And it felt almost childish in a way you still allowed yourself to believe in a man wearing the knight armor.

But instead of riding a horse, he wore expensive clothes while carrying your dog like a baby.

And you couldn’t stop smiling as you arranged pastries inside the display case.

The Lost Beans was busy this morning, the buzzing of people chatting at tables and the smell of coffee lingered in the air.

The day was moving exactly as it should. Normal in that ordinary way you were so used to by now.

But as you were reaching for a tray of fresh croissants, the bell above the entrance chimed. You glanced up and froze in your spot. The smile you had vanished from your face.

Patrick looked completely out f place among the cheerful atmosphere of the café as if tainted a beautiful space with poison.  

Your stomach twisted at the sight of him.

Sophie noticed the change in your demeanor and walked closer to you.

“Are you okay?” She asked, touching your shoulder.

“Yes, I am.” You said, no taking your eyes off Patrick, “Can you handle this for a moment, Sophie?”

“Of course,” she said, clearly curious by the man in front of the counter. “Tell me if you need something.”

You nodded, watching her take care of the tray as you turned to Patrick again. He looked exhausted, as he hadn't slept, like if he regretted being there.

But he was there anyway, and he approached the counter.

One of your coworkers moved to take his order, but he lifted his hand, moving his gaze towards you.

"I want her to take my order.”

You stared back expressionlessly, looking at him coldly.

"I just want a coffee and need five minutes."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

His jaw tightened; desperation drawn on his features. "You don't understand."

Those words made you look at him.

"Then explain it from where you're standing."

Patrick glanced around the café, then back at you.

“Five minutes and I’ll leave you alone.” He said, not smiling.

You sighed, “Okay, go and sit.”

You remained behind the counter for a moment, staring at his back. Then you grabbed a coffee mug and prepare his drink.

A few minutes later you approached his table, Patrick looked up as you placed the cup in front of him.

His gaze lingered on your face, studying you. Perhaps trying to find traces of the woman he'd once known.

Then his eyes dropped to the coffee, he smirked.

"You didn't put salt in this, did you?"

The joke caught you off guard because years ago, when you were angry, you replaced his sugar with salt and Patrick used to spend half a morning pretending not to notice before finally admitting his coffee tasted like seawater.

Back then you used to laugh so hard until you cried, but the now the memory felt like it belonged to strangers.

But your expression remained flat and Patrick's smile faded immediately.

You sat down across from him, crossing your arms. "Go ahead.” Your voice cold, "Make it short."

Patrick stared at the cup for several seconds, he swallowed. "Keira and I are moving."

Your expression didn't change. "Okay."

His eyes searched yours, and when he didn’t get the reaction he hoped, Patrick looked down briefly.

Then continued. "We're going to Seattle to help with your father’s law firm."

You shrugged lightly. "Good for you."

Patrick finally laughed softly. "You really don't care anymore."

You looked out the window, at all this little life you'd built without him. Then back at him.

"No."

Patrick closed his eyes. Then he wrapped both hands around the coffee cup.

"Okay."

Something in his tone made your stomach tighten.

Patrick looked up. "Your mother and father...want your grandfather's house."

"What?" You blinked.

Patrick swallowed. "They want to sell it."

The words coming out his mouth felt so foreign it seemed they belonged to someone else's story.

Not yours, nor the yellow house with the sea view.

Not your grandfather's workshop still in there, not the porch where he used to sit every evening drinking tea. Not the place that had smelled of sawdust and peppermint candies.

Not to your house.

"They want the money." Patrick continued.

You stared at him, expressionless, but feeling the tears watering inside your eyes.

Trying to process what he was saying.

"To help me and Keira settle down in Seattle."

The café noise seemed to disappear, there was complete silence.

You laughed.

Patrick winced immediately.

"So that's why they remembered I exist."

Patrick's expression fell. "No."

"Really?" Your voice remained calm, “They didn't look for me for five years."

Patrick stayed silent.

"They told people I went mad in the head, but suddenly they want to contact me when they need a signature."

Patrick rubbed a hand over his face. "They need your permission."

"They won’t have it.” You said, final.

“What’s the problem with the house?” He asked desperately right not as if had the right. “I can borrow money and you can buy another house.”

Your eyes widened at that, “Are you mad?” you called out quietly “My grandpa left that house for me. It’s mine.”

“I—”

“Besides there are feeling involved with that house but what would you know?”

“That’s bullshit.” He said, his facade falling. “You could move with the man you were kissing last night.”

You snorted at how ridiculous his arguments were.

“Do you have any idea of who that man is?” He asked, “That’s Harry Castillo he is the CEO of multiple enterprises under his name, you could be rich and so your little life will come to an end.”

“What did you say?” You asked, angry.

“Come on! You were a lawyer; you were becoming one and now what do you do? Sell coffee?”

“How are you calling a working class now?”

But you were met with his widened eyes, his chest rising as his own desperation caught him up.

“Looking at you right now, “you began,” It makes so happy to be death for you all because you and that whole people are nothing but pathetic assholes.”

You stood, the chair scrapping the ground made a sound. “Now, go out of my café. I won’t sell the house.”

You turned away.

“Well, we will have to bring a lawyer into this.” He warned, making you turned to face him again.

“What if your new fling knows about how you left me at the altar humiliating me in front of people?”

“Well, I’m not—”

“Maybe there was a good reason a thrown you away after all.” He spoke.

His words would kill you before, but right now they meant nothing.

“Out.” You said, turning around.

But just as you were about to turn around by the counter Harry came into view following Patrick with his gaze. He looked at you looking for answers but you didn’t acknowledge him.

“I need a break,” you told Sophie before disappearing to your office.

Leaving Harry utterly worried. Sophie met his Gaze, the looked outside the window and Harry did the same, still looking at Patrick who now was pacing back and forth with his phone pressed on his ear.

Every few seconds he ran a hand through his hair before speaking into the call again.

Harry's jaw tightened.

"That guy is a dick." Sophie sighed beside him while drying a cup.

Harry glanced at her. Her bluntness would be funny under different circumstances.

Sophie leaned on the counter. "He came in acting like he owned the place."

Harry looked back outside again.

"I wanted to throw hot coffee at his face." Sophie said.

"Can you excuse me?" Harry's said, his voice remaining calm.

Sophie immediately understood and her eyes widened slightly as she glanced between him and Patrick outside the café window.

Then she nodded once.

"Please don't kill him. Cleaning blood off the sidewalk sounds exhausting."

That almost earned her a smile.

Harry pushed the café door open and stepped outside.

Patrick was still near the curb, pacing with his phone in his hand.

“Hey!

Patrick’s eyes lifted.

“What did you do to her?” Harry asked, stepping closer to him.

“She didn’t tell you who I am, right?” Patrick asked, defiant.

“You must haven’t been someone important if she didn’t.” Harry replied

Patrick laughed softly, “Well, I was. We were going to get married.”  

Harry’s heart suddenly stopped after that, but he tried hard not to show it.

“But you want to know why we didn’t?” Patrick teased, “She ran away and left me standing there just like happened to you.”

Harry remained froze, silent with a million of scenarios playing inside his head.

“That’s why se is lonely. Don’t be fooled by her kindness.”

But even as the words left Patrick's mouth, something in his expression changed because he knew he was lying.

Harry could see it.

Patrick himself didn't believe what he was saying. In fact, the sadness crossing his face carried something far more dangerous than resentment. You were all the things Harry knew and thought you were.

You were the sweetest person you could ever met. Patrick had fallen hard for you because of that, he had loved you so much, and there were still remnants of that love for you floating around.

Because you were that kind of people you only met once, like a fleeting star.

But you were too naïve. That’s why you were afraid to be fooled.

And without another word, Patrick left leaving Harry standing there, watching at how the love of your past life walked away.

Then, he turned around and took a glimpse of you from outside. You were by the window, looking angry, but deeply sad. He got lost on your face and the thoughts running through his head.

He didn’t notice your eyes had met his from the window.

You kept looking, he could see your eyes brightening at the sight of him, but he could only shake his head in utterly disappointment, and then he walked away.  

And as you followed him with your gaze, a strange feeling settled down in the pit of your stomach.

By the time evening arrived, the town had quieted beneath the darkening sky and the ocean keep rolling gently in the distance while the porch lights flickered on one by one across the neighborhood.

You walked slowly toward your house, exhaustion owning your body in every step you gave.

The conversation with Patrick still replaying endlessly inside your head and Harry walking away from you felt stranger.

Your chest tightened as your house finally came into view and then you saw him sitting on the porch with Coco in his arms.

Harry looked up when he heard your footsteps approaching.

The porch light cast soft shadows across his face. He looked conflicted.

Your heart hurt.

But before approaching, Coco noticed you next.

The puppy immediately perked up and squirmed out of Harry's arms before racing toward you, you bent, catching him to your chest. For a second you buried your face in his fur taking a deep breathe.

Then you looked up at Harry again. He stood slowly, hands slipping into the pockets of his jeans.

"I have to go back to New York tomorrow."

Your stomach dropped.

"It's just for a few days," he added quickly.

But the ache had already settled inside your chest.

You nodded, trying not to show how his now distant voice affected you.

"What did he tell you?" you asked,

Harry looked at you

Your throat tightened. “The part of me running away from the wedding...or the truth?"

Harry didn't answer immediately and that hurt more than if he had.

You looked away first. Wrapping your arms tighter around yourself.

"I knew he would do that." Your laugh came out hollow. "It sounds awful when you say it out loud, doesn't it?"

Harry stood in the same place, not moving.

"I left him at the altar, yes.” The words tasted bitter now. "And after what happened to you..." you swallowed painfully, "I imagine hearing that from him must've been—"

“But I never thought you would look at me differently without let me to explain what truly happened.” You said, hurt.

The hurt in your voice hit Harry immediately. It made his chest tightened.

His lifted his gaze, looking at your glossy eyes.

Your whole soul was wounded.

And suddenly Harry realized what his silence must have looked like from your side.

“I saw the way you looked at me today.” You shook your head softly, almost laughing at yourself.

Harry opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him to continue.

“You heard one thing about me and suddenly it was enough to make you walk away.”

Harry took a step toward you “That’s not what happened.”

“Then what did?” Your voice cracked. “Of course, you believed that excuse of a man before me.”

“I—I didn’t. But I’m honestly very confused right now.” He spoke.

“So, you will go back to New York.” You said, ignoring his words.

“I—I yes, I have—”

But the words died in his lips, when your eyes watered. His heart clenched at the sight. So, you took Coco with you.

“Thanks for taking care of Coco today. Have a safe flight.” You said, walking pass him, tears already streaming down your face.

Harry froze for half a second, watching tears slide silently down your cheeks as you moved toward your front door.

And suddenly panic gripped his chest. Because he knew that kind of walk.

Knew what it looked like when someone decided to retreat before they got hurt worse.

“Hey.”

You didn't stop. Harry turned quickly.

“Hey—”

The porch steps creaked beneath his shoes as he followed after you. “Please, don't do this.”

But you closed the door before he could reach you. Once you did it, you gasped, leaving Coco on the ground by your feet. Coco immediately circled your feet anxiously before settling beside you.

You leaned back against the door, forehead pressing against the cold wood as tears finally spilled freely down your face.

Outside, Harry stopped in front of the door, so close that if either of you reached through the door, your fingertips might touch.

He rested one hand against the wood.

You leaned on your door, forehead touching the cold wood. As your tears streamed down. “I was so happy,” you began, because you knew Harry was at the other side of the door.

He closed his eyes at the thought of your broken sound.

“I was so happy because I couldn’t stop thinking about our kiss and really felt over the moon, but you hurt me. I didn’t know you would.”

“Sweetheart—”

“No,” you whispered quickly. “Please let me talk.”

And Harry immediately fell silent because he could hear years of fear sitting behind your voice.

“I know I’m difficult and I know I get scared and I know Patrick showing up probably feels like some horrible warning sign to you—”

“It doesn’t—”

“But for one second,” your voice broke completely, “I thought maybe I could have something good. That I could have you.”

Harry’s chest hurt.

“I thought maybe someone could look at me and choose me.”

Inside the house, you slid down the door until you were sitting on the floor beside Coco. The puppy pressed next your leg immediately.

“And when I saw your face today…” you whispered, “it felt like everyone else all over again.”

Harry shook his head immediately despite knowing you couldn’t see him. “No.”

“No, don’t say that.” He pleaded.

“Patrick and my sister lied to my face,” you whispered.

Harry closed his eyes.

“I found them three weeks before I was supposed to marry him. Them both in bed in a hotel room.”

Harry’s hand tightened on the wood of the door.

His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. At the image of you walking into that room believing you were loved.

At the devastation that must have followed. You let out a trembling breath.

“I never felt my heart shatter like that before.” Coco rested his head on your knee while you cried quietly. “And I thought leaving him at the altar would humiliate him.” Your laugh cracked weakly. “But deep in my heart…” your voice softened painfully, “I chose to become the villain of that story before forcing myself to stay part of that family.”

Harry’s chest ached so sharply he almost knocked on the door just to hold you.

Because suddenly everything made sense. Why loneliness sat so naturally inside you.

“I grew up in a rich family, Harry.” Your voice sounded exhausted now. “Our marriage would’ve been good for both families.”

Harry could practically picture it. The appearances and the expectations. The performance of perfection.

“But when I did what I did…” your breathing hitched, “my father and the mother I thought loved me threw me away.”

Harry shut his eyes harder.

“Left me with nothing but two suitcases.” You wiped your face shakily before continuing. “Then, I came here looking for my grandpa.”

Harry remembered the way you spoke about him.

“And he took me in.” Your voice finally broke completely, “He loved me anyway.”

A tear slipped down Harry’s face before he even realized it.

“And when he died…” you whispered, “none of them came to his funeral.”

No wonder your grandfather’s house mattered so much.

It wasn’t property. It was the last proof that someone had chosen you without conditions.

“Now they want his house? My house? For money?” Your voice cracked into disbelief again. “Why are they so bad?”

Harry inhaled. There was nothing he could say that would make that pain disappear.

Nothing that could excuse people treating you like something disposable and maybe the cruelest part was that you were still asking why.

Harry finally knocked softly on the door. “Hey.”

Your breathing stuttered slightly on the other side. Harry leaned his forehead against the door.

“I didn’t want you to think I was cruel.” You whispered.

“Oh, baby.” The words escaped his lips,

“I don’t think that.” His hand flattened softly against the door. “I swear I don’t.”

Harry’s voice lowered. “You know what I think?”

He was met with your silence. “I think you were heartbroken.”

Your eyes squeezed shut immediately.

“I think you were twenty-something years old and devastated and trying to survive the worst betrayal of your life.”

The porch creaked softly as Harry shifted closer to the door.

“And maybe leaving him there wasn’t the best thing you could’ve done…”

A weak broken laugh escaped from your lips.

“But I understand why you did it.”

A tear rolled slowly down your cheek.

“And honestly?” he exhaled quietly, “after what they did to you, I’m surprised all you did was walk away.”

Harry smiled sadly on the other side of the door the moment he heard it. “There she is.”

You shook your head despite him not seeing it.

“You always say that.”

“Because I hate when you are sad.” He went silent for a moment, “Can you open the door for me?”

You closed your eyes, fear and longing twisted inside your chest.

Because opening the door this suddenly felt like more than just letting him inside your house.

It was fun how all always ended up with you both and a door in the middle.

And right now, it felt like letting someone see the parts of you you'd spent years hiding.

The abandoned daughter.

The woman terrified of not being loved.

Coco nudged your arm gently with his nose. As if encouraging you to open the door, so you closed your eyes, taking a shaky breath. Then slowly pushed yourself off the floor.

Harry heard the movement immediately on the other side of the door and his heart started beating faster.

You reached for the lock with trembling fingers.

You paused and for one terrible second, fear almost won.

What if he looked at you differently now?

What if this tenderness disappeared once the reality of your past settled in?

What if getting close to you eventually became too heavy?

But then you remembered him showing up while you were sick and him carrying Coco around like a baby.

Him sitting on your porch instead of leaving and listening.

Your hand finally turned the lock, opening the door slowly.

And there he was. Eyes immediately finding yours.

The second Harry saw your tear-stained face, he wrapped his arms around you.

And all the breath you’d been holding all evening finally escaped your lungs. Your face buried on his neck, taking a deep breath.

Harry held you tighter immediately. His hand cradling the back of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair.

You shook your head weakly against him and Harry only tightened his embrace.

“I’m sorry I made you feel alone for even one second.”

Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt and suddenly all the loneliness you had carried for five years felt unbearably heavy.

Because now you knew what it felt like for someone to stay. Harry leaned his head, kissing your temple softly, then your forehead and then, after a small hesitation, the corner of your tear-wet cheek.

As if his kiss was trying to mend something.

Coco barked once from beside your legs. Harry let out the smallest laugh, still holding you.

“Yeah, buddy,” he murmured. “I’m fixing it.”

Then, he loosened his arms around you slightly, just to look down to your face.

Your eyes were still red, exhaustion from this day caught in there.

Harry brushed his thumb gently over your cheek.

“Do you want me to spend the night with you?” Part of him hoped you would say yes.

Not because he wanted more kisses, but because you felt fragile tonight and leaving you alone would mean leaving you with every painful thought still circling your head.

“I would rather not.” you shook your head.

Harry’s face softened immediately.

You looked down briefly before whispering,

“Goodnight, Harry.”

The way you said his name nearly broke him.

Harry nodded slowly. “Okay.”

His hand slipped down your cheeks.

But before stepping back completely, he leaned down, pressing one last soft kiss on your forehead. Lingering there for a second.

“Goodnight, baby.”

Your eyes closed at the gesture. Harry pulled away after that and Coco immediately wandered toward him, tail wagging softly.

Harry crouched slightly to scratch behind the puppy’s ears.

“You take care of her tonight, alright?”

Coco sneezed on his wrist.

“I’m still coming back after New York.” He said, looking up at you. “In case your brain starts lying to you while I’m gone.”

The smallest smile tugged at your lips.

Harry looked relieved just seeing it because leaving you was the last thing he wanted to do.

if you don't want to be tagged, please let me know: @jasminedragoon @heartpatch @ainhoetaaa @missadangel @person-005 @sarahhxx03 @sptbear @deviscave @hotforpedro @picketniffler @noisynightmarepoetry @suzysface @kakiki3 @brittmb115 @dammitj4net @balhoneysweetstuff @inept-the-magnificent @jisungandpedrolover @cuteanimalmama @maried01 @teal-anchor @sincerelywithheartt

"Annabelle" you ask a little breathless. "What are you-"

Taking advantage of your shocked state, she invites herself in.

"Nice office. I wanted to drop by your house at least once, since your father never wanted to visit, but I have a friend who lives in this building so I had an idea, at least"

You remain motionless, processing her words as she answers before you ask.

"I knew where your office was, at least"

You wonder if it's because she ever thought about asking for your services. Maybe, she figured, she could get a discount; no one is stingier than the rich.

"I'm moving to Barcelona"

Your breath hitches. This, aside her sudden visit, have taken you by surprise. It's a lot for just one seemingly normal morning.

"There's nothing left for me in New York" she whispers.

For the first time, you see past the façade: the diamonds dangling from her ears, the one still on her finger; the threads of white underneath the gold of her hair; the dazzling magazine smile that made your father fall in love, cracking under pressure.

"I don't expect you to cry" she snickers, going back to her usual unbothered state, "we were never close"

"So why are you here?"

She doesn't answer, as if the answer was a secret worth keeping.

"I wanted to tell you" Annabelle says instead.

Silence settles in. You offer her a drink she politely rejects.

"I won't stay for long. I'm sure you're busy, and I have a lot to pack"

"How's the moving going?" you ask, out of courtesy. If she's offering conversation over awkward pauses, you'll take it.

It's not like you owed her anything, though, but she had been the one by your father's side during these past years, so that had to account for something. And she told you she was leaving too.

Maybe she felt the same way you did: tied by tense threads born out of compliance.

"It's alright, I'm selling most of it" she answers casually, almost uninterested. Then, realizes. "I mean the stuff we bought together. I haven't touched your old stuff, you know? It's all where you left it, mostly in the attic" she pauses. "That's why I'm here"

There it is. Of course, a favor. Not like she actually cared about you when not once had she come to your side on the funeral. As a matter of fact, you don't even remember a single word of condolence from her mouth.

"When you're free to come, I'd like for you to check them before I move out" Annabelle continues, oblivious to your silence. "And what I've got left of our stuff, well, if you like anything" she clears her throat, "you can take some of that too"

You consider her offer.

"Thank you. Actually, there's this vase in the kitchen, porcelain..."

"From Shanghai. Yeah, I know which is it" she cuts in, "I haven't gotten rid of it yet"

For some seconds, she seems to ponder.

"Alright, you can take it. I think it'd look good in your apartment. A fine porcelain as such will look good on anyplace"

"Yeah" you concede. "My father was many things. He was a tasteful man" you attempt to joke in hopes of feeding the lighthearted environment that had settled, "I mean, he married you"

Annabelle laughs, politely.

"Sure it looked like that"

Your smile falters. She's quick to notice.

"I mean, don't act surprised" she gestures around your office, "I think you'd be better at seeing that"

"You never loved my father?" you blurt out.

It feels tasteless the moment it leaves your mouth, but she doesn't seem bothered by your impertinence. If anything, Annabelle seems as curious as amused, a sight so rare it makes your stomach turn.

"Like I said, I thought you were smarter. It doesn't take a watchful eye to realize it was nothing but convenient"

"Convenient?" you repeat, mouth dry.

"It's Manhattan, y/n. Don't be so amused" she laughs like she's talking to a dumb kid. "A man like your father didn't have many options"

"He has money" you counter, desperate to clean the image of a man who was barely there.

Money has always been the solution. It's what you'd been taught since being of age.

She smirks. "That's why I didn't say none"

"Then why did you choose him?" you carp.

Her gaze lowers to her ring, look suddenly sullen and contemplating. She has probably never looked this deep in thought before, or perhaps never in front of you.

If anything she seems... tired.

"Because I was like your father" she pauses, "but I had no money"

You swallow, but it feels heavy and dry.

She stands, as if time was up.

"You know marriage is just another business"

You stand up as well.

For what?

Why was there this need to go against an idea you had deemed the standard just a few months back?

"Don't tell me you've changed your mind"

Harry Castillo.

The friend of your father. Your solace in a body. A butterfly.

Like the one he picked up and cared. Where you his?

Was he the reason you felt like this? That there could be another love than the cold heart of stone you've been raised upon?

As warm as his eyes. His lips. His embrace.

His bed, where he tried to reach for you but you always left.

"I haven't" you reply, but even to you, it sounds unconvinced.

She narrows her eyes, probably seeing something you don't. A crack in the mirror, maybe, in the reflection of a future version of you.

"I didn't pin you for a romantic, y/n" she mocks icyly.

You try to defend yourself pointlessly. "I'm not"

She grabs her coat, opening the door. Your assistant is quick on her feet, holding it out.

"Drop by my house and pick up the vase" she offers airily, "and stop for a drink or two. Maybe we can get some common sense on that fairy tale world of yours"

Your assistant gives you a weird look before closing the door, Annabelle's laugh freezing your veins as it drowns out.

You want to protest, tell her you're like her, that you're not. That you're practical, even cynical. That you don't believe in things that you never had for yourself. Love is another hoax that ends.

That it's Harry Castillo's fault for being a lover. For being your lover because of an impulsive choice you made. But even then he's the sole one to blame, because where practicity should've been, your heart beats again.

No words come out of your mouth.

Now it's you who stands on the other side of the door.

You hear fumbling on the other side until it opens, and Harry stands behind.

He's wearing sweatpants and a dark cotton t-shirt, chest heaving and curls messy. He probably was already in bed or tried to look presentable in a matter of seconds.

"You could've tell me you were coming"

So it's the latter.

"I didn't have time"

He takes a deep breath, shaking his head.

"You know, a text message would've-"

Harry feels your lips over his, cutting him off effectively. He deepens the kiss, grabbing your face as his tongue pushes inside. You pull away instantly, as if snapping out of it, making him confused, heart racing.

"Alright, I see" he lets his hands fall to the sides, chest rising and falling. "Let's cut to the chase"

As Harry's hand moves to the hem of his sweatpants, you stop him by the wrist.

"No" he raises an eyebrow, getting more confused each passing second. "I just wanted to talk"

"Talk?" he parrots, dumbfounded. "You came all the way here to talk?"

You lose your temper and pride, cheeks blushing with shame. "I can leave"

You see panic in his eyes, doubt over if this is some sort of test or actually happening.

"No!" he answers rather hastily. "I was just... Surprised"

"Aren't you a good listener?" you raise an eyebrow.

He sighs, crossing his arms as to protect himself.

"Says everyone" he sighs. Then, after a pause: "Is that why you're really here?"

"What's surprising about that? Do you think I'm some sort of machine who just works, fucks and sleeps?"

He chuckles at the irony of it all.

"Don't think so lowly of me. It's just, this isn't-"

This isn't our arrangement.

You gulp at the spoken words, daring to look into his eyes.

How could you explain you had no one left? No family, no friends. Your father was dead and your mother had run away. Rachel lived in her little bubble, and that's the only person close enough to you. How pathetic was it to come to the arms of the man you're sleeping with because you felt alone?

You felt, in a way, Harry could understand. Cut from the same cloth, born in the same world.

Two lonely souls, with nothing in common but the silver spoon which they were born.

Maybe it was the bridges he'd built before. Him taking you to Coney Island after.

"I know" you turn wkth a melancholic smile, "can you blame a girl for trying?"

He runs a hand through his hair, looking restless.

"Fine. Do you fancy a drink? There's this bottle of wine I got last week"

You don't know what compels you but the question pushes past your lips.

"Who gave it to you?"

He's mid walk to the kitchen when he stops. It looks like he doesn't read too much into your intentions.

"Some client" it's his curt reply. "Full glass?"

You nod. "The bottle, if you can"

He chuckles for the first time tonight, visibly relaxed.

"In what trouble have you gotten this time?"

"Don't think so lowly of me" you repeat his earlier words as you cross your arms.

He smirks. "Bad habit"

Bottle on hand, you walk to the couch and drop unceremoniously. Harry fills the glass, passing it to you.

"So, what's keeping you up at night? A particularly jarring case?"

You reply back after a long sip.

"Annabelle"

His eyebrows raise at the name.

"I thought you hated her?"

"I tolerate her" you retort. "She's one of the less annoying wives"

"Sorry" he blurts with mild panic, "that wasn't-"

He takes a sip from his glass. You don't focus on the shape of his lips.

"Which would be the less annoying, then?"

Your body freezes in place.

"Camilla" you interject, much to his surprise. "She was the one who he married after my mother left. I guess there's some merit on marrying a man with a reputation so tainted. And, you know-" you gulp, "she didn't try to impose herself with me, like the next, or be completely distant, like Annabelle and the girl whose name I don't remember. She was just... there. I think that's all I needed"

Harry's voice is sof; careful. It's not like you to speak of the past, less so personally.

"Yeah?"

"The house felt less alone when she was there"

He takes a sip, probably to steel his nerves, the same that make his hand slightly shake.

"What happened to her?"

"My dad, of course." you chuckle. "Work, grief... I don't know. Even when he was, he wasn't there. He never was"

« She was young, probably just wanted his attention. I remember she joined me once in my bedroom while I was playing with my dolls before I got rid of them. She looked at my dollhouse, and with the saddest smile I have ever seen, she said she felt like them: too big for a house where she was supposed to fit.

I think her parents knew she had nothing going on for her, so they married her to the first prospect with money and a good name. I don't even know how they met. »

"So she left?"

"Divorced after five years. He didn't even fight it" you sigh. "I guess I thought she'd at least look at me one last time before leaving, but once court was settled, I never saw her again. I can't tell if it was part of it, but why would she want to see the daughter of the stranger she married?"

"You wonder where she is?"

It felt as if you were speaking a monologue, answering yourself. The older man was a good listener, and you find yourself saying out loud things you'd never say before.

"No" you pause to think, "but I do see her. When there's a girl coming to my office, as young as they appear lost, all I see is her"

"Have you never come across her again? Manhattan isn't that big"

"Last I heard, she married an oil tycoon and moved to Australia"

"Good for her"

You raise your glass on a mocking toast.

"Good for her"

He smiles before clicking it with yours.

The bottle slips into three more glasses and runs like the time. It appears to be midnight by now.

"Would you do that?"

You blink slowly, turning towards him. At some point, the curls he'd rapidly tried to tame have fallen into soft cascades over his forehead, covering his brown eyes molten from wine.

"Do what?"

You've spoken one or two things between silences and sips, all trivial. This question, however, feels different. Defining.

"Marry for convenience"

You chuckle, taking a sip out of habit by now, to make the pause for though seem both efortless and deliberate.

"I don't think I'll ever get married at all"

"I can see you" Harry replies back in an instant.

Your face burns for some reason.

"What do you mean?"

"Married, I mean" he coughs up, face coated in a shade of wine alike.

You can't help when your lips curve up.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah" he sighs. "I think you're the type of person who secretly wants something even if they claim they don't"

You brush it off with a laugh as your heart picks up.

"You need to put your drink down"

"See? Now you're backtracking. You know it's true"

"What I know is, it's getting late and I should go"

You get up too quickly. Losing your balance seems the most fitting consequence.

Before you hit the ground, Harry catches you.

"I think you should put your glass down first"

"I'm fine" you stutter. "I just have to-"

"You should stay"

The air leaves your lung, and when it goes in, it burns.

"No" you cut, harshly. "It's not... It's against our rules"

"Your rules" he corrects softly, his feelings impossible to read. "So is coming late at night to my house if you don't have any intentions of having sex"

Your eyes widen. He smirks.

"Why did you do it?" he asks, tone neutral.

The words burn your tongue as you release them. "Because we're friends"

Harry looks too amused for his own good.

"I didn't know we were friends"

"Friends take each other out to dinner, birthdays, funerals and fucking Coney Island. They stay with you when your father dies" you hiccup. "No one else was there for me. But you"

His gaze looks heavier than how his words land.

"I was just being polite"

You shake your head. "You're a good man, Harry"

He looks about to interject before he cuts himself. Sighing, he takes you by your arms.

"Let's get you to bed, yeah? You've had enough"

Your heart beats violently as the rest of your body remains unresponsive, only following Harry's guidance.

"Stop" you protest feebly, eyelids heavy.

"You're such a lightweight" Harry teases.

You poke his soft chest with a weak finger.

"Does that mean you're a drunk?"

"It means I've had enough practice"

Strong arms hoist you up to his room, gently placing you over his bed.

"I'd do it" you mumble over a yawn. He looks at you confused, so you add. "Marriage for business"

Harry raises an eyebrow. "What about love?"

He tries to tuck you in as you protest, your hands brushing by accident. He's quick to remove it as if it burned, and your brain is too drunk to read into it.

"I find it to be the most difficult thing in the world"

He winces.

"I thought you'd remember" it's your turn to be confused. "Nevermind"

There's a vague thought of what he's talking about, but nothing comes to mind. He looks rather heartbroken by your silence.

Your eyelids feel as heavy as your chest, the irrevocable truth tugging at your heart.

You can't love. You can't be loved.

"You can't miss what you never had"

If this is the first time you stay, it is also the first Harry walks away.

Walking out, when you easily fit into his bed like it was tailored for your body. When the quietness after you were gone left too much room to think.

But no matter the times he asked, you never stayed. That seemed to be some unspoken rule you were adamant in not breaking.

At least, he persisted until you accepted a drive back home with his driver. And maybe it was pathetic, but he found solace in that.

That not every part of his he gave you, you rejected.

Because the rest, you did. Be it dinners or take out after sex, you'd always say no. A predictable answer that hurt, and yet Harry couldn't seem to stop: not even when you walked through the door before he even got the chance to ask your favorite drink. Or your favorite food.

Harry wanted to know your mundane. If you used an alarm clock because you were into vintage, or the phone because it's practical. What was your favorite pair of shoes and where did you buy them; if you still went to that store. If you liked it hot or cold. Sweet or salty. What was behind the spoiled cold mask.

"I've got to wake up morning" is your excuse this time, "I'm meeting a client first thing in the morning"

He hums, noncommittal. Watches your back and the scratches left behind. Without even thinking, his finger reaches to trace them. If he notices how you tense under his touch, he remains silent.

"Don't worry" he cuts softly, like suddenly he's occupying too much space in his own house, "I wasn't going to insist"

You stand up, demeanor off. Harry can't see your face, and though he thinks he's good at reading you, it's becoming hard as of late.

"Okay"

You sound angry; hurt. He wants you to be. Not out of spite, but because it means a part of you cares, for small it may be. Ego, pride, it doesn't matter.

It's something.

He can hold onto that. And it's enough, for now.

Still, his gentle nature feels like it should clarifies things no one's asked for.

"I didn't mean to sound like that"

"It's alright" you assure, sounding everything but that. "It's not important"

He holds back. Only God knows how hard he does.

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

Harry once used can, and you hated it. It sounded too much like begging; you thought better of him. Just asking felt as a compromise you didn't feel like being part of. Will, on the other hand, is okay. It's uncertain. Leaves it up to the future to decide if it's worth to keep this game going.

"I'm busy, Harry" you interject. He catches the small jab intertwined in your words.

"So am I. Can't spare some seconds for this old man?"

You turn around, sighing. "You don't have to try so hard"

"It feels like I do if I want you to stay"

It comes out harsh, as if he's an itch you're trying to get rid of. "I never stay"

But Harry doesn't come down: maybe it's his interest for you or that he just wants to feel something, even if it's pain.

"Maybe I haven't tried hard enough"

"Harry"

"Y/n"

Time passes without a reply. He looks away first and that doesn't settle right into your stomach. The gleam in his eyes dims as the soft lights on the bedroom. Before he gets up and hides in the bathroom to avoid seeing you leave yet again, you speak up:

"Wait"

Perhaps you're bored. Or it's you hate to loose.

"Yes?"

He turns around with a hopeful stare you carefully avoid.

"I think I'm free this afternoon"

You know he's smiling even through his silence.

"I'll have my driver pick you up"

"Fine" you relent as if this isn't your own doing. Everything is.

You stop by the door. He knows its greedy, but still can't help himself wish you say more or choose to finally stay.

"Harry?" his heart beats fast, "don't get too excited"

His throat goes dry. Heart breaks, but when it heals, it beats for you again.

"I won't" he promises, although it sounds more like he's convincing himself. "I won't"

You: [Attachment]

You: Which is less offensive?

Rach: Oh. My. God

Rach: Another date? Same guy?

Rach: Why do you keep hiding this from me??? Boo, you whore!

You: I asked a question

Rach: So did I

You: Those were two

Her call came in just seconds later. You let it ring until the very last second.

"I knew you'd pick up. You love to talk about yourself"

That's half right. Still, you're not going to tell her so.

"I don't. You should know better, as you're my friend"

She snorts. "Your only friend. Do you hear that tone? Half Manhattan hates you"

You roll your eyes at her antics. "I like to clarify myself"

Her loud laugh cuts you off, "No need. Tell me, have you had sex?"

If you had water, you'd spit it. "Rach!?"

"The Givenchy screams sex" she says, now moving onto the picture. "You have, right? Wait. That silence tells me you haven't" she makes a pause, convinced of herself. "Yes, that's the dress. Like I say: wear black if you wanna change that"

If she only knew.

Harry would probably fuck you even if you only wore a trash bag. The thought gives you a certain satisfaction.

"You just made that up"

"Girl!" she screams, high-pitched. "You so need to get laid"

Your face burns. "I'm fine"

"Wear that dress. You'll thank me later"

"Why are you so insistent? You're not my-"

"I'm your best friend. It's my duty" you hear the sound of moving around on the other line, and then, the redhead sits down. Oh, you're not getting out of this any soon. "Now, tell me, do I know him?"

You debate whether telling her. Truth is, you're rather private about this stuff, aside from swearing you wouldn't tell a soul about this ongoing deal with Harry.

So, instead, you lie.

"I don't think you do"

She gasps. "It's impossible! I know everyone"

"There's always a first"

"No, he's either new to the area or you're hiding him. Is it because of what happened in ninth grade? I won't steal your man again, it was one time, I swear!"

You were still in boarding school, where you first met. You didn't even cared much about the guy; her betrayal hurt the most. Now, it's another story Rachel repeats at every table when she gets drunk.

"What was his name again?"

"Alex" she pauses. "No, it was Andrew. Allan? Wait! It was Asher, yeah. Asher Penn. He had this funny little mustache in 10th grade-"

"Rach, focus"

"Your date, right" she laughs then, repeating it with a sing-song voice. "Oh, your date"

You wait a minute before asking, letting her have fun.

"So, you think the black dress will work?"

"Trust me" she chuckles softly, "I know about these things. And if it doesn't work, well, he's blind. Or an idiot who deserves a good hit"

You laugh. "Good luck finding him"

"Oh, honey. Don't you know I love dares?"

Harry's driver, much like himself, was on time. He opened the door for you, and it's not like you expected conversation to ensue, but he didn't say a word for the rest of the road. Not a single clue to where you were going or anything, which you started to question after you passed by the possible restaurants you had in mind, frequented by yourselves.

He stops in Walls Street, were Harry awaits. Dressed in his usual luxury tailored suits, he's smiling a bit too much for your liking.

"I hope it's not a tour of your office"

He offers you an Ana Spero scarf.

"Close your eyes"

"Do I get to keep it?"

"Yes. Now, please"

You sigh, obeying for some unknown reason. Tonight, you feel like entertaining him.

"I didn't know you had a thing for bondage"

He chuckles behind you. "Just take my hand and stop being such a prissy"

"Did you at least wash your hands?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, Harry takes your hand softly into his and guides you back into his car.

You're halfway through the trip when you ask.

"I don't hear any noise"

"What?"

"The car. Is oddly quiet"

"Do you want music? I can ask Maurice for some"

"It's fine" you sit straighter, "I was just wondering"

"Alright, miss questions. Relax, and leave it all to me"

"Right, because look where that's lead us"

"Yeah, I wonder" you hear the sound of the window between you and the driver's seat rising. Harry's hand travels to your bare knee. "Nice dress, by the way"

Silence settles in until the car stops. His hand finds yours again, but this time, when you step out, it's chillier.

"Let me help you" he removes the scarf. "Now, open your eyes"

The first thing you notice is the sky is grey. The air is humid, and it smells like salt. But that's not what catches your attention.

"Harry Castillo, did you seriously brought me to fucking Coney Island?"

"Surprise!" he chuckles with a childish grin.

"You're kidding me"

He raises an eyebrow, walking back to where you remain rooted like you've been nailed to the creaky old floorboards.

"No. Why would I?"

"Because-" you cut yourself, scoffing. "Harry! What the hell? Why didn't we just- We could be at Le Bernardin!"

He wiggles his eyebrows, "But this is better"

"If you're a child" you deadpan. "I'm almost thirty"

"No, you're just uptight" he grabs your hand, making a jolt run through you. You squirm out of his hold, and maybe he's too busy trying to sell you his idea to care or notice. "It won't kill you to have a bit of fun, c'mon"

"Stop it. You're acting like a child" the wind sends a shiver down your spine, making your bare legs tremble. Stupid dress; you feel embarrassingly overdressed. "It's not cute"

"No, it's fun. When will you get it?" he sighs, dramatically. "We have the whole park for us! Perks of being rich. Rented it the whole day for you and me" he points to a guy sitting in a plastic chair, looking bored and as annoyed as you. "See the guy over there? He'll do as we say. So if you want to start by the teacups and ride them three times, we will ride them thrice"

You can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

"You're pushing fifty, Harry. It's embarrassing. This isn't you" you cross your arms. "Stop this nonsense and take me to Aska. I'll forget it if you pay"

He sighs, looking serious this time.

"We're not leaving"

Your mouth falls open. "What-"

"If I wanted to take you to some expensive restaurant, I could. You know I do. But what's impressive about that? I got only one chance to take you out and I'd play safe by the book? How many others have done it before? You'd wake up next morning and forget about it" he looks at you as if he looked through your soul and apathy. "I wanted it to be special"

Your heart hammers in your chest. "You're embarrassing"

He chuckles, cheeks warm. "Only for you"

You smile. "That doesn't make it any better"

"It does if I get to see you smile like that" he grabs your hand and tugs like an excited kid. "C'mon, we need to ride some of these!"

And that is how you, heiress and New York socialité, serious lawyer and frequently cruel, ends up riding the rides of Luna Park like you're a child again.

You're eating hot dogs on a bench, the least likely option someone with your fortune and attire would do, but you've stopped caring a while ago.

"You're cold?"

You nod without paying much attention. In seconds, Harry's jacket draps over you. You laugh, thinking about the whole day again.

"Look at us. We're ridiculous"

"Nonsense. I think I hadn't had that much fun in such a long time"

You snort. "I had never"

"So it did work?"

You look at Harry. "Maybe, but don't gloat about it"

He shrugs. "Me? Never. I'm humble"

"None of us is humble, Harry. It's a default setting we're born without"

You bite your hotdog again.

"You know? I meant it before"

"About never having this much fun? I knew you were boring, but geez" he cuts in.

You roll your eyes. "What I meant to say before you interrupted me, is that I never had come to a fair before. I think before today, I had never ridden a ride. Or come to an amusement park"

"You were a fancy kid"

You don't know why is it about him, but you find yourself often sharing these bits with Harry you'd never shared before.

"No, but after my mother left, I suppose my dad was too busy to find time with me. I think, he didn't even understand his own feelings and didn't want to deal with mine. So he pushed aside, from babysitter to babysitter, and I guess none of them had this brilliant idea" you motion around, "of bringing me to an amusement park"

"So my idea was brilliant"

You smirk, "That's all you heard?"

"I'm just trying to make you smile" he sits closer, an arm over your shoulder. You don't mind one bit for now. "Is it working?"

You avoid looking at him. "Maybe"

"I'll take it"

The evening dawns upon and you can't believe the same man that's made you come undone with his mouth rented a whole park just for you. That with the hands he uses to touch your most sensitive spots he's spun the wheel of a teacup ride until you've felt like throwing up. That, even with your icks and attire, somehow, he'd convince you to do things you'd never allow yourself to do with anyone else. Because, it seemed, no matter how far you pushed, he always found a way to pull himself in.

It's getting harder to ignore.

"You know, I've been hearing that song we danced the other day"

Harry's eyes shine immediately with that unmistakable glint.

"Yeah?"

"Lady In Red, or something like that"

"Yeah, that is" he looks towards the ocean. "It would make a good nickname"

You chuckle, looking at him. "That's a terrible nickname, too long"

"Alright. Geez" he raises his hands in mock defeat. "I tried. I mean, pick a word. Red? It sounds, well, like- My dad hired once a-"

"Okay, shut up. Wait, your dad?"

"For my uncle's bachelor party!" he clarifies hastily. Then, clears his throat. "Lady is too basic. Huh, look at that. I'm out of ideas"

You laugh, out loud. Harry looks at you with a mix of confusion and amusement on his face. Having a talk as mundane and ridiculous with him never crossed your mind, but it wasn't so bad.

"Good thing that's not your job. You'd go broke"

"How about Cherry?"

You give him a look. He tries to explain yourself.

"There are a ton of red things. And cherries, well- It's pretty common, I guess"

"That was your train of thought?" you tease.

"That and your lipstick"

Your jab gets tongue tied inside your throat where it feels your beating heart has nestled.

"Where you looking at my lips?" he doesn't answer. "It is pretty common, I agree. Lots of people like cherries"

"Well then, what do you think of Cheri?"

The whole world stops for a moment. "As... Like the French word?"

He stills for a moment before reacting again.

Harry looks away, flushed. "No. There's also a song... Yeah. It's not- If that's a problem, or if it's awkward, I-"

You cut him off.

"No" the waves ripple softly as you watch them wash against the shore, "I like it"

By the corner of your eye, you see him relax.

"Yeah" but he's not looking at the sea like you, "I do too"

You try with the ceiling, feeling satisfied as your eyes land upon a mold stain: a mistake among perfection.

"You should get the truss checked"

Harry doesn't answer, too busy with his task, but you feel the shape of an answer through vibrations that rock your body.

"You're enjoying yourself too much" you breathily chastise.

You're good with excuses, coming up with lies and yet, when he opened the door, you found yourself speechless.

Because you don't know why you're here. You proposed the whole idea, but, why?

Why is it you really wanted to land on Harry Castillo's bed again?

Willingly, like the first time. Just with less anger, but not tender; never. Not even with Harry, who burned like warm spring sun rays.

That part of you had died before it even got to blossom. Somewhere, in that house your father sold a month after the divorce papers arrived without a trace of her.

You remember that day vividly: he sat in the kitchen, untouched by the world and the cold air that had seeped after her departure. He read the newspaper while you ate honey oatmeal cereal―colors and marshmallows were overrated. Then, the doorbell rang: loud and unmistakable.

Hope blossomed within you in seconds, a glimpse of her face you'd preciously saved in the back of your head: you were just a child who wanted her mother back.

It had been a year, and the only thing you got was a man who looked too serious, carrying a folder.

No hellos or goodbyes, just thirty pages to end the story between you all.

Your father was a composed man. It had to be that way: a businessman and a legacy to fullfill behind his name.

But that day, it seemed like something had snapped. Be it pride, a bruised ego. Maybe he was in love, maybe it could be he's been hurt by the only woman he allowed himself to feel something for.

The rest of the day was grey and empty. The house seemed quiet again, yet this time with a newfound silence proper of a funeral: it felt tense, the air too suffocating in a room too big, and any word, a surplus to fill the gaps where reality settled.

You never saw your father cry, but it wasn't necessary: his red eyes and vacant stare had been enough of an answer back then.

You like to think that, at least, in that you're like him, holding dominion over yourself: in your grades, in your career, in your personal affairs.

It would be better then, to snuff this vicious flame out before it sparked. But, hadn't it ignited the moment you let him kiss you?

What was it about Harry, really, that could unravel years of woven lies and walls? That you'd willingly end up on his place, what once you considered too personal? Or maybe, he was the glue, tying back together all the pieces of your broken heart, as if you could be fixed.

Did he want to? Save you? Was that his intention? A way to stroke his lonely soul, trying to save what was deemed lost.

"This is stupid" you murmur out loud, voice wrecked, by his tongue and the words that hurt to say.

It's funny, in a way: composed icy you, used to wanting all and having it. You didn't want explanations for this. You also didn't want to have Harry in that way his eyes begged to. And this unknown, it shook you to the very marrow of your silver bones. Feeling meant disorder, a thing that can't be controlled. And in ways, to you, feeling anything that wasn't your bitterness felt undeserved.

That call was close, the warning before accepting what you can't give back. Was your father dying necessary to stop that flower of hope? For the thorns it could grow?

It wasn't natural: to people like you, pretending felt better than being.

And so, Harry's a variable you can't control; couldn't measure. A single stare of his was able to disarm you, and his smile is probably the only thing in the world that manages to make you hold your tongue.

But you still sought after him: after that slip, produced by that same emotions you didn't control. It was too much to trust yourself with. And yet, you went back. You're here, sprawled out on his bed as Harry eats you out.

He captures your lips into his as if he could erase your thoughts―doesn't add more and doesn't have to. Harry's lips are rough, needy, starving, like he's trying to carve his name into you, each kiss more desperate than the last.

And its working. You let yourself lose in the silence, only interrupted by the wetness of his lips and the squelch of them against your dripping cunt. For a moment, there's no one talking about your family's state and the boxes filled with papers on your office can be dismissed in favor of him: Harry, eating you out like he might die if he doesn't.

"You're too prideful, baby" the nickname slips with ease, too natural. Your heart does a very ridiculous somersault―it definitely is by the vibrations his voice sends through your body and not the latter. "Won't let me hear how good I make you feel?"

For a reason, you feel every breath you take in this cold and lonely penthouse belongs to him: each shaky moan and cry for his name would be for Harry Castillo to own, a part of you gone and taken by another. It would belong to him, the man who owns it all. Be it pride, perhaps fear, but having your body this responding to his is enough intimacy.

He leaves your aching cunt thorbbing again, as a punishment maybe, moving his hands to your bra, gone with trembling fingers that get steadier each new time you meet again. He kisses down your neck, over your chest, marking and biting, enjoying how you squirm and fail to hide it, how your body arches into him like it remembers every time never before and ever since.

"You're a tease" you say, voice lighter than you intented.

He doesn't answer, pleased maybe you aren't berating him for once and kisses you again, harder, hips grinding against yours, bodies slick with heat and hunger.

"Don't worry, I'll get back to it" Harry whispers, teeth on the outline of your jaw, hand on your thight tight, hard enough to make you gasp, "if you promise to behave"

"Like a good girl?" you ask in desbelief, between a choked gasp and a snort.

"Yeah, 'cause you're a real bad girl"

The New York accent he tries to hide slips in like his tongue does under your jaw, with a move that's meant to leave a mark, ending with a harsh suck. Your hands thread into his curls.

"I promise" you swallow dry, "that'll I'll be good"

He groans low, deep within his throat. A hand slides down again, your folds already clenching in anticipation. His fingers leave rough, slow circles of pressure as you gasp again, never his name, hips bucking up searching for his touch.

"Good" he mumbles against yours throat, voice dark and hoarse, almost quiet. "I hate if you weren't"

It's an attempt to joke, but the warmth of his eyes seeks out your cold, and there lies that hope you find harder to ignore each time you open the door and he's there―each time he opens his door and you're there.

His mouth finds your breast, only pausing to breath before like the scent of you might purify the air.

"Here, for you"

Harry's mouth closes around your nipple with an obscene sound. Then, his tongue flickers before he's back to sucking.

His other hand grips your free breast, toying with the hardened bud, pinching lightly as your thighs tighten around his hips.

"So sensitive, baby. That's my girl"

Maybe in another life, but you allow yourself to linger a bit on the fleeting thought. You decide it's not as offensive as it once was.

His other hand doesn't stop, still hidden in between your legs, dragging little circles over your clit that made its walls clamp. Your gaze meets his then: eyes half-lidded, mouth slick, chest heaving. What a sight.

"Say my name" Harry commands in a rasp, fingers curling against your dripping cunt. Not a question: ever the businessman―the big bad boss, never used to being said no.

Your eyes flutter shut, lips parted with the shape of a confession you can't quite admit yet.

"Alright, I see. You're playing hard to get" he chuckles darkly, amused. "Don't worry, I'll make you" as his mouth trails lower, "We both know I can"

It's hot, wet and messy: the path his lips leave down your stomach, your skin jumping like it still can't get used to tenderness. Harry stops, on the spot where a small mole decors your skin, and kisses it, just above your throbbing cunt. He looks at you with a pleased smile, eyeing your restraint and racing pulse hidden under your heaving chest: he'd like to think it's the sweetness of it.

"Easy, baby" the nickname comes again, too natural for your quivering heart, "almost there"

And then he's back to where this started: between your legs.

Devouring.

His tongue licks a long, slow stripe from the bottom of your slit all the way up to your clit, ending with a soft suck that makes you choke on a moan. But Harry insists, keeping you in place with legs spread to eat out your soul.

He laughs into you, the sound low and almost pained, like he can't keep up but will give every last bit of energy to pleasing you.

"What's so funny?"

"How wet she's for me" he growls between licks, one hand sliding under your ass to pull you even closer. You gasp, the closeness making Harry's nose hit your sensitive core. He laughs again, and the vibrations rob a cry out of you, making you tug his curls. "No matter how much you try to deny me"

He insists, tongue moving in fast, skilled strokes, and when he feels you clamp around his nose, he smiles, against your cunt.

Before you get to process the shadow of his curved lips and the tickle of his mustache and stubble, he slides two fingers inside of you. Your eyes roll back as they move, body trembling, overwhelmed, fingers crooked up, slow, and his tongue, faster.

There's a tremor in your legs that Harry knows all too well, as so with your shakier gasps for air, desperate and higher.

"Say it" he presses his ahnd down your stomach, to keep you in place. "My name" murmured against your cunt, making you whimper, "so I'll allow you to let go"

"Harry"

It doesn't mean anything. It shouldn't mean anything.

Your orgasm hits you, hard, sharp and fast, body loosening like it had not been doing this for the past hours, as if the third time was the only time it mattered. Your back arches, thighs closing around his head as your lips let out a broken moan, the sound ragged and dying. Yet, he doesn't stop, finishing and licking the rest of your h

"H-Harry" you plead, whimpering his name to maybe hold on to that.

But he wants to feel it all: every twitch, every pulse of your cunt, like he wants to memorize the shape of your climax.

Breathless, "Harry..."

Your body gives out, slumping into the mattress like you're melting into it. Until then does the millionare pull back, slowly as if it's yet another calculed move.

"Just saying my name once's fine"

And he licks his lips. Lets his chin, dripping, glistening. Perhaps a show for you, to show you he's soaked in you: covered in the scent of you, in each inch across his swollen mouth, flushed cheeks and that wrecked look on his eyes as he drinks the sight of you laying on his bed, inside his home, ruined by him.

Tasting you is never a satisfaction but a hunger that never ends.

"Fuck" you exhale, slowly.

He laughs, "in a good or a bad way?"

You extend your hand, inviting him in. "Come find out?"

Harry wonders if you know: when you pull him and kiss him, hands on his hair and tongue tasting yourself, open-mouthed and open-hearted, if you're aware of how it's not enough, how it never is.

If you feel the same. If this torture is just for himself.

His weight presses down on you, solid and heavy, that belly he hides under expensive suits to feel better. But you don't care, so he doesn't wear a shirt anymore around you, just the sweatpants.

Unless necessary, there's no need to go there yet.

"Do you need anything else?" he asks, his clothed-cock pressing into your thigh. Your hips lift up on instinct, searching for his body. "Tell me baby"

You smile, despite yourself, savoring the sweet taste of the petname, lost in the haze.

"Please, I need you inside of me" you whisper against his lips. "Now"

He can never say no to you. Less when you beg. Less when you look into his eyes like you'd give him anything he'd want if he makes you cum one more time.

Harry pulls down the sweatpants, enough to slip in. You're opening your legs, ready and offering.

"Not tired yet?" he's asking, as if to be sure. His forehead falls against your own, cock in hand, aligning. There's that furrow on his eyebrows he makes when he's uncomfortable, a confused look that too seems irritated at the same time. He needs this relief badly, and still, won't force himself on you if you ask him to stop.

Your voice is shaky but certain.

"Keep going"

He doesn't need more words. The city outside continues moving and living as he slams into you with one deep, brutal thrust. His hips crack as the air is knocked out of your lungs, and your hand flies immediatly to his bicep, nails digging into the soft flesh of his arms, finding a spot just below the vaccine scar, and that constellation of moles you once kissed to rock yourself out during the aftermath, claiming to be bored. He'd blushed back then, not used to the kindliness he gives back, as if despite owning half the city, he isn't still worth the price of being loved.

"F-fuck, Harry" your hands fist in the silk sheets by your side, head dropping back as you whimper at the burn of his stretch, feeling full.

Of him.

He smiles, tired and fondly. "Don't have to ask for you to say my name anymore, huh? Look at you, being fucked, so full of me, you can't say anything else"

His hands grab your thighs, yanking you even closer, then pulling out almost all the way just to slam back in again.

The bed creaks under the weight of it all, and Harry decides it's better to hear that sound than the silence of an unlived apartment.

"Don't worry, I can buy another"

"Show off" you mumble, back arching up into his chest.

To prove so, his mouth is on you again, all greed and need between tongue, teeth and gasping moans, swallowing every inch like he can’t stand the space between you.

Whimpers and cries fall from your lips with each time his hips snap forward and he buries himself to the hilt inside you. Harry's pace is fast, merciless, as he pants into your mouth, his hot breath ghosting over yours.

"Fuck, don't stop" you plead.

"Didn't plan to" is his smug reply. To top so, he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, "not until you're so gone, you can't even say my name"

God, Harry's determination annoys you so much. After that, it's all hips deep slamming into you, the slap of skin on skin, fast, and how your bodie seem to be one. His free hand holds you by the waist, steadying you to wreck you whole, so every thrust after thrust, you feel it.

He keeps his promise: no sound comes out of your open mouth, just gasps of air and broken cries that never come out.

Harry drops his forehead into yours, breathing heavily as tears come out of your eyes with the force of his pace, at the relief of almost coming.

And then you do.

When he grabs your thigh and presses it high onto his shoulder. Fuck. He slides back in just to feel it and see your eyes roll back the moment he bottoms out again. Better.

The way your wet cunt clenches around him so tightly makes him nearly lose control. He could make a religion out of the way your walls clmap around his length and that broken but full way you gaze back at him.

Not ruined by life but undone by his hand and body.

And he could look at you like this for the rest of his life.

Not to warm his bed but to sleep in it. To tilt your head back to keep boring into your eyes because he can't get tired of you, to hear every broken sound between the pulse of his heart, and to have you soaking all the way down his thighs.

"Fuck, baby" he groans, "you look so good like this. Mine. Making a mess on my cock―shit. All mine"

You can't answer, vision blurry with tears and the lascive cloud of dug graves you pretend you haven't digged yourself; that you're not dancing on the edge, tethering before being buried on endings you can't avoid.

In the meantime, you'll make it deeper.

You'll ruin it, as so your existence ruined your parents. As so you've helped ending other love stories. This isn't even one. Why would it be?

And so,

"Yours"

The effortlessly lie, breaking in the momentum, the only word to slip past the pantomime of tongue, teeth and moans, of hands sliding to meet and chases for a high you can't come down from.

Harry's body slams into yours like he means to break the bed. "Are you gonna cum again? Will you make a mess all over me, baby?"

That's when it happens. Again after again, and the two others before.

And this time, he remains inside like he wants to carve and indentation in his shape or your name on his bedpost. Perhaps to make a home for himself inside of you, a secret he'd take to the grave you'd dug far from the soil where his roots call for your dust.

For you were made from dust, and to dust you will return. His mother often said it, read it outloud after coming back from that big cold house all dressed in white Harry got bored inside. But the verses were beutiful, and he hanged to every thread of divine revelations.

("Will you and dad turn to dust too?"

"And we shall become one. As I was made of your dad, and he was for me")

As your body convulses beneath him, body trembling and twitching around his hips, a shaky hand extends towards you, to meet the skin exposed when your back arches, mouth open in a soundless gasp and then dares to hold you by your waist, to keep you close and to touch a rib, wondering if you're the reason he was put on the Earth, if it was you the broken butterfly he found on his garden all those years ago.

That unmends the last thread of restraint out of him.

His thrusts stutter as his body locks up, coming down with a broken, strangled whimper right into your ear, breath hot and fast. Thick ropes of his cum land inside your walls, slick and warm, smearing the already messed up sheets.

For a moment, the city outside stops breathing and the bustling core of Manhattan stops like his heart.

The moonlight that pours in after hours of living inside walls carved with memory and a secret language of treacherous senses and burning desires is soft.

Like his lips as they meet your own.

Harry Castillo kisses you again.

Gentle, as the jazz vinyl in the background that stopped playing two hours ago.

Sweet, as the press of his mouth across your throat, just once, right above where your pulse still flutters like a drum.

Delicate.

Once, as if giving you more would make that silver thread of hope shine.

Or wrap around his neck.

"We could stay like this all night" he whispers, voice barely a breath.

Your fingers find his hair again, softer now too, stroking through the sweat-damp strands.

"You know I can't"

Not even meant to hurt him. It's murmured, barely audible. It's the way it is.

Harry smiles, understading, but his eyes betray him.

You taste like Judas before leaving the bed.

"It's already nighttime" he insists, sitting on the bed. His hand flies to the sheets, covering his naked bottom half.

You don't question him.

"Harry" you warn.

He doesn't question you.

Saying goodbye feels too final, too heavy for this fragile moment that has stilled in time.

(Being with you is a tightrope)

(Did you wanna see how far he would fall for you?)

He can't bring himself to end it, for any way of having you is better than none, the though of you in other arms almost as punishing as the cold air that'll settle after you leave.

"See you around" as your dressed silhouette dissapears from his bedroom.

He nods.

What is there to say?

Because Harry Castillo, the know it all, is certain of one thing: when you come and knock again on his door, he'll let you inside, over and over again, until the hurt's numbed out.

Not in the fancy way of Hollywood movies he swore he didn't have the time or patience to indulge in, but in the crafted routine of steps the passersby waves left every other bustling morning in Manhattan.

Every polite smile and quietly dominant hand shake. How each talk carried the surgical precision of a board meeting: to the point, without letting debauchery spill into casual conversations, attaining to a face that revealed nothing.

Like the numbers on spreadsheets and that bank account worth half the city.

It was something he could control, ever the know it all, smarter than Peter and pride of the family: something he could understand.

Because he hated not knowing. And yet, there was something he didn't understand.

You.

No explanations or goodbye, just a coldness that not even the light through the Milan silk curtains could warm. The one that's too real to ignore or sweep under the storytelling rug for Wednesday nights at the bar.

Harry didn't know why, against his fragile afraid heart, his feet walked him up to the place where you had brunch every Saturday. With your father.

And there you were. It scared him to be certain of things like this.

You sensed him before he arrived at your table, as if there was something he had, impossible to ignore. Or maybe you just looked at the right time.

Your stare is as cold as the mimosa next to your benedictine eggs, decorated with a leaf he couldn't place.

Maybe that he had been. As shallow as a decoration over a plate nobody cared to remember.

"Harry"

The way you said it, so casual, like the brush of a shoulder, made him physically sick, as if he was recovering from a hungover that'd linger forever. Just hours ago, you had said it like it belonged to you, buried under layers of hunger and something more raw, equally vulnerable as spiteful.

"You left" he states, yet when it rolls off his tongue, acidic, it comes off as an accusation.

"I had places to be" you reply, cooly.

He is familiar with your apathy, however, it still stings.

"You kissed me" Harry alleges.

You sip your mimosa with tranquility, like you've stated this line so many times.

"You wouldn't be the first, nor the last"

A dismissal so frigid it makes his blood run cold. Discarded as if he hadn't been a shoulder you confided, as if the spark of possibility hadn't ignited.

You're closing off after yesterday's rollercoaster of emotions, he tells himself. That's the only answer.

"I don't get it" he whispers through gritted teeth, nevertheless. His mother would be disappointed at the lack of rationality.

"Take a sit" you motion, to his surprise. "You're getting red. It's too early to get stress wrinkles"

He could refuse, but that would be off-script. Harry Castillo was a smart, unshakable man. Sure of himself, determined, prideful and dominant. The type that exuded authority without even trying.

How could that man who broke companies with a signature be the same that decided to sit across you?

You smile like you knew he'd do anything you asked for.

"What is it you want to talk?"

Harry scoffs. "Let's see, I don't know. Maybe the same thing we should've spoken earlier, but you weren't there"

"Don't take offense. You know there's always a table at the Waldorf Astoria under my name" you take a small bite as to not smudge your make up. How long had you been gone? Enough for you to even do your whole outfit again, because Harry notices, it's not the funeral clothes, but a small two piece vest and skirt. He'd ogle if his chest didn't feel so heavy. "Can't fail at that"

"Even when your dad isn't here?"

He didn't mean to be this mean, or for his words to be this cutting. And they pierce, but your face moves barely an inch; the flinch is almost imperceptible. So, you could feel. What a relief.

"It's Saturday" comes your harsh response, but it still withholds.

"So?"

"I have a schedule" you reply, avoiding his stare. To anyone, it's just you focusing back on your plate.

Harry doesn't mean to press. He can't stop either.

"He died. There's no need to continue this"

The scrape of the table sounds louder than it should. You look at him like he's wounded more than just your seemingly untouchable ego.

"I know" you reply, terse. "I was there, at the funeral"

He stands as well. It's too early to do a show. Still, he doesn't feel like leaving yet, anyway.

"So was I. But that ain't the only thing that happened, was it?"

You breath in, heavily.

"I see what this is. You're hurt" you address, flatly. You briefly remind him of the psychologist he saw once, before deciding speaking about his feelings wasn't his thing, not when it meant being vulnerable in a way that lacked control. He too hated that.

"Hurt?" is his response, followed by a hollow laugh. "No, I'm asking for an answer"

Your look is one of pity, like the one you'd give a child who asks if Santa is real.

"Don't you ever get tired?" you ask. "Of always looking for an explanation"

He's about to speak but you interrupt him.

"You did it before. At your house, at our encounters before. It's tiring"

All Harry can hear it's the ring of his ears.

"I don't..." his voice falters. He swallows his pride and ache. "I don't get it"

Cash gets dropped on the table with the forgotten breakfast. You gift him one last look, before the ice of your stare hides behind the dark of your lenses.

"We're adults, Harry" you pause. "It's what we do"

"Mr. Castillo"

His secretary interrupts later that day. He doesn't remember calling her or any upcoming meeting. With an eyebrow raise, he tells her to procede. "There's someone who wants to speak to you"

His heart shouldn't do a stupid flip at that.

"Sure. I'll be out in a few. Just... give me a second"

To fix himself, Harry thinks, as his nervous reflection stares back, slightly judgemental.

Don't make that face. You're me too.

Out, in the ridiculously uncomfortable glass chairs outside his office, you, heels clicking against the floor as if you could break it.

When you look his way, his world shatters. By the smirk on your face, you probably knew the effect you have on him. The same goddamn one from earlier.

"Harry" devoid of the sharpness from brunch and full of a salacious intoxicating haze.

"Why are you here?"

Instead of an answer, you stand. His whole body tenses, waiting for it. Your fingers reach for his bicep, settling on the curve where softness met muscle. Every nerve on his body goes haywire at just your touch.

"Can we speak in your office?"

Goddamn it. Harry should kick you out.

"Yeah..." he concedes, still wary. "Come in"

He abstains himself from touching you, hand itching to place itself on the curve of your back. Like it's always belonged there.

Harry closes the door softly, the click of the door more of a clinical sound than a dramatic one.

"I like it" are your first words. "I don't think I've been here before"

He hums, non-committal.

You sit without asking for permission. He hates you for that and the speck of red that can be seen in the right side of your neck. When you cover it with your hair, he wonders if you felt his stare.

"You should sit too, you know" you say as he remains behind, "you may wanna hear what I have to say"

He grumbles before sitting across you, on his chair. It's supposed to be the comfiest leather in the planet, but he can't help and feel his whole body stiffen as he sits. A little groan escapes past his lips for the effort.

"Getting old, aren't we?"

Harry dodges your playful remark. "I hope it's an apology"

"For calling you old?" you smirk, "I thought we both know that"

"Listen" he cuts, tired of your nonsense, "you can't just barge into my office and expect me to listen. Don't you have work to do?"

"It's Saturday" you repeat the words from earlier, but they no longer feel like a defense; more a jab. "Why are you working?"

His throat closes. Yeah, why the fuck was he on a Saturday inside his office, taking his secretary's time even, when there was a whole world outside, waiting?

"Nothing worthy not to" it's his curt response. "Besides, I'm working on this pro-"

"I don't care" you cut him short. "Will you let me tell you know?"

He scoffs. "Please. You seem excited"

"You will be too" you tease. Pause, because you seem to be a fan of theatricals or just toying with him. "I have a deal for you"

You pause again, enough to notice every emotion on his face. To hear the gears of his brain. Let his mind wander. Possibilities eat him. And when you've had enough fun with the poem on his face, you clarify what he's too scared to ask.

"I want you to have sex with me" you deadpan. Then add, as if it made a difference, "again"

The building feels taller and unsteadier. Harry feels he's about to collapse, or in a better case, just throw up.

"What?"

You draw in closer, leaning enough for the speck to show again and the room to suffocate under the weight of your perfume, the same that clinged to his pillow since this morning.

"We had fun, didn't we?" you ask, so casual it feels cruel. To how he felt. But you didn't know, did you? Or maybe you did. How could you not? When he'd been so transparent, so open, allowing himself with you in ways he hadn't before. Because Harry always lost when he wasn't in control, didn't he? Love, he seemed incapable of it; afraid. Why did it come easy when he was with you, then? Like it's what he was born to do.

Foolish, foolish man.

"Harry"

He looks at your call for attention, as if you felt him slipping and felt the need to grab him; hold him back.

"Of course, it was, before all the... talking. Or lack of. Until, brunch, it seemed. I hope our petty show doesn't mean I'm getting my entrance denied"

Harry says your name slowly, like it's heavy.

"No one can ever deny you anything"

You smile but it doesn't reach your eyes. After a pause, you proceed.

"As I was saying, we could do a little... arrangement" a breath goes by. Harry leans in too like he's expecting the hit to blow on his face. "You and me, no feelings. It always complicates things"

Feelings.

Being sensible was the problem, ever since he was a kid who cried for butterflies and a love too tender for a rich man's world.

He wanted to have you. Hold you.

Maybe he was being selfish or an idiot, telling himself he'd rather have this than not have you.

Because you were both sickness and cure, and Harry would get his heart ill to get just a taste of your lips before he got sick. With want, with a yearning he could no longer bury.

Foolish, foolish man.

He, the one who thought of every risk, of every threat couldn't risk his chances of having another body warm your icy heart. Couldn't bear the thought of almost having you, perhaps because he didn't like to lose, or it's just irrational wishful thinking.

Maybe it was just because he loved you.

Harry Castillo, the man who always wins, surrenders. "Alright"

He swears a sort of excitement passes your eyes before quickly vanishing away. As a kid excited with a new toy; this isn't love.

"It's release; purely physical. For when you're stressed, or just bored" he tries not to flinch at that. "God knows we both need that"

The need to have control emerges, bruised and ugly.

"One condition"

Your interest seems picked.

"Sure"

"Just us. No one else"

You raise an eyebrow.

"We're exclusive" he coughs trying to cover the heat creeping up his neck, "I mean"

You smile.

"Careful, Mr. Castillo. It seems you want me only for yourself"

His face remains neutral.

"It's precaution"

If there is hurt on your face, a flash, you're good at hiding it.

"Yeah. That's reasonable" you stand up, hand in the air. "Deal?"

Harry knows he's signing for his death. We're adults, it's what we do.

How do you cut the heart when each word is laced with a beat? When your existence is woven with the oldest curse to grace the Earth and its reckless men?

Love.

Harry then understands love is a burden, that unpredictable variable out of the equation. What he can't control. What he can't understand. It was a liability, a line he can't rehearse because it isn't scripted.

There's no use in dwelling on your reasons or your choices. On your ulterior motives or the desires of your body.

There's no point in thinking of the possibility you may feel the same.

He isn't his stupid childish dreams. He isn't his parents. They were lucky; an exception.

Harry Castillo has to understand he's the rule. That marriage for a man like him is nothing but another business.

"Deal"

Dressed in Dior from head to toes, the black screamed elegance rather than grief. But, she played the perfect widow with her teary eyes and hoarse voice. Still, not like she had trouble with bringing in a smile whenever someone asked her to.

You, on the other hand, couldn't.

People didn't exactly know you for being a happy-go-lucky girl, but just the thought of a half smile made your stomach churn. They all addressed you by last name, as if it held more meaning than your name.

It did.

Now, you were the only one to bear the name.

"Hey, you okay?"

Anyone else would've been told to fuck off. Well, maybe you didn't have the energy for that. You could pretend to not listen though.

But it's Harry, holding a glass of water like it's a lifeline.

Of course he'd be here. Like the rest of the people who knew your father without really knowing him.

(But, what differentiated you from them?)

(That you knew he preferred Merlot over Chardonnay? That he sometimes snored a little too loud, making Annabelle roll her icy eyes? Or that you found him once staring at a picture of your mother, frayed at the edges, which he hid later, probably embarrassed, but what you could forget, was the look on his eyes: not sad, angry or bitter. Not nostalgic either. Just an empty stare haunted by too many questions that could never be answered)

(He could be your father as much as a total stranger. The ghost of his features over your face, and the pressing weight of a legacy is one but a few things you shared in common)

"Thanks"

If he notices your shaking hand and tired voice, he doesn't say anything. You silently thank him for that.

"Better?"

Even if water doesn't have a flavor, it tastes like nothing to you, mouth dry and throat tight.

"Wine would've been"

He chuckles, rolling his eyes, yet there's no real annoyance behind.

"Want me to turn it?" Harry smirks. "I'm not Jesus"

"Sacrilege in a church" you fake a gasp after a tired laugh. "Where are your manners, Mr. Castillo?"

"Can't laugh at a funeral service anymore?"

"My grandmother would kill you"

Harry's eyes open with surprise. "Isn't she ninety-nine?"

"Ninety-eight, and I suppose, bitterness keeps you alive"

"Should try that. All this doctors lying about it, with their procedures and face masks"

"I don't think you could"

Harry turns around, brown eyes focused intently on you.

"Why's that?"

You hide a smile behind the plastic cup. "You're too soft for that"

He chuckles softly, dismissive, but you can see the pink creep up his neck.

"Soft? You may not know me at all"

You remember his house and the soft hush of the wind. What was building before that call crumbled it all down.

"Oh, but I think I do"

That settles it. An unguarded smile with words left unsaid.

In the corner, you spot Annabelle and your Nana. The blonde tries to hold her hand to appease the crowd talking with them, but the elderly woman removes her hand with the same dry harshness she's always had since you were a kid.

Harry notices too, ever the observant. "Looks like someone isn't buying her act"

"Not just today" you snicker. "Out of all of my dad's wives, Nana liked her the least. Not even the one he married for less than a year"

"You still don't know her name?"

You shrugged like saying Does it really matter?

"You know, I think Nana may not like anyone at all"

"Not even your dad?"

You look at her and then back to the closed casket, a shiver running down your spine.

When you were eight, your dad took your family to her lake house, at summer. She was never one to be affectionate, but you remember the wall full of pictures and the untouched bedroom. She refuses to change it, like a damn museum your grandfather had said back then. Nana didn't deny nor confirm, but you swear the ghost of a proud smirk decorated her lips. The only time you ever saw such sight.

A parent should never outlive their kid. Or a kid lose their parent, even if it was natural.

You couldn't believe another parent had left you behind.

"Excuse me"

Harry's senses pick up immediately, looking at you with concern. "Where are you going?"

His hand shoots out to grab you, anchoring around your wrist.

"Bathroom" you answered hastily, trying to get rid of his hand and the sympathy that seemed to leak from his tone. "I won't take long"

You pull away, and you think you see echoes of hurt on his eyes. Yet, he doesn't insist.

"Okay"

Closing the door slowly until you hear the safe sound of the lock click, you finally let yourself breath.

The walls feel like they're closing over you, sink trembling under the pressure of your hands. You try to hold to anything: to the noise of mindless talking outside, the faint smell of chlorine inside the bathroom or the lingering burn of where Harry's fingers held you.

Anything but looking at yourself. Because, in the mirror, you see the sad smile Harry's dad had talked about.

(Empty. Just like your hollow heart. Effort of trying to feel something you didn't; maybe didn't know how)

It all comes at once. The bitterness of the abandonment; the unlovable child. Holidays full of presents that couldn't fill the void that had carved inside you like a disease, rotting ever last shred of hope or something good that wasn't this pain you carried like another of your jewelry. It was an accessory, a badge you proudly wore.

Because everything about you had to matter. To be important. You couldn't be anything that was small.

You hate to feel like you don't matter. That you aren't worth enough. Easy to leave behind and forget.

You had to be all. To have it all. On the top, because you couldn't have the only thing you truly wanted.

So you would take back from the world trying to end a lifetime debt of what had been taken from you.

You raise your eyes at the unexpected sound taking you out of your train of thoughts. Then, staring back at you, the same smile, but worn around the edges.

But you could never forget those grey eyes.

Your turn around like a frightened animal, body tense, muscles taut without knowing whether to attack or run.

This had to be a nightmare.

"Mom?"

And your voice is small again like you were ten and the empty living room stared back at you, mockingly.

"Hello"

She lets out a rough laugh, voice dry due to the cigarettes she never seemed to stop smoking. Light when she says your name like a single day hasn't gone by and this was a casual conversation.

Like she hadn't even thought twice before leaving you behind.

"What... why are you-?"

"I couldn't believe it when I read it. Had to make sure it was true"

A strange bitterness and defensiveness crepts up your voice. To her, the one you kept forgetting all over. Now, when you look at her, your chest tightens in fear at just how much you look like your mother.

"Stop" you seethe.

She chuckles lowly. "Don't speak like you loved him"

You wince, feeling small and helpless. Still, the fire blazes within your rage.

"Don't speak like you have any right to be here"

She lets out a snort, amused. "I'm gone and suddenly, you know no manners. He didn't raise you good, didn't he?"

Tears well up in your eyes, burning. "Nor did you"

Her smile is gone, replaced by that haunting look you remembered. The only memory, and it's funny how time passes and chooses what to remember for you. Burnt into your skin, like a seal. Marked.

You weren't meant to be happy.

"You don't get it" resentful like an angry dog being scowled.

"How was I supposed to? I was a kid!" you scream like you could pour the pain from all these years.

"But you're not anymore, are you?" she challenges with that same resentment you carry in your veins. That need to be hurt and hurt others. "You could understand"

Her desperation and entitlement sickens you. "I don't owe you anything"

A breathy chuckle escapes her. Confused and astounded. And then you see that same wickedness you've inherited. Always felt natural, and now you know it isn't out of your spite, but from her. Another of yours that isn't really yours.

"Unbeliavable. You're still the same rotten spoiled child" she spits, words laced with venom.

It burns in your throat, the rage of the daughter that was left alone with questions unanswered in a room too big for her.

"You left!" you scream, tears spilling like acid rain. "You made me like this!"

She looks at you like she can't understand she's the reason you can't love anyone. Not even yourself.

"I was dying" she says, dragging the words like they're too heavy to say out loud.

"What about me?" your voice is hoarse, filled with insecurity and hurt. "Don't you ever stop to think about what you leaving me did in me?" you laugh, humorless. "You made me mean. You made me rotten"

You can see it. The need in her eyes. The pull from her responsability. From you.

"I had to leave"

For the first time, you see not your mother or that image that haunted your life through a poisonous leakage. Just a woman filled with the same infectious sadness that made you this.

"I get it. I do. Thank you for making it clear" you suck in a sharp breath that stings in your chest. "I wasn't worth enough to stay"

"It's more complicated than you realize"

You don't see you mother, with her backing trembling steps. Just a coward.

"No, all I see is a selfish woman. You know why? Because you're not shy about it. You pretend you don't want them to see it, but you're too prideful to hide it. You want people to accept you like this before admitting there's something wrong with you, and since it yours, you have to make it matter as if it's any worth. Just so it feels special" you pause. "I know it because I'm just like you"

You throw it like an insult. You want it to hurt just like it hurts you.

"I shouldn't have come" not with regret but hostility.

"I think so too. Now, we have one thing in common"

She fires back, wounded. "You look just like me"

"I do. I am your daughter"

Like a closing courtain call, she throws in a last knife.

"I wish you weren't"

You don't realize you're crying until your vision becomes blurry. There's not a visible emotion behind those grey ghost-like eyes.

"So leave! Leave like you always do!" you scream with an anger so raw it cracks through the bathroom with the force of a thunder.

But she doesn't move, looking at you with a look impossible to decipher.

"I don't know what's wrong with me. Is that why you hate me so much?" a broken sob tears through you. You recoil at the sound, between angry and ashamed. "But I promise you one thing. You don't hate me more than I hate myself" your voice doesn't flinch. "My hatred is mine. There's nothing mine that belongs to you"

"And you think that makes you better than me?"

You realize this is a lost battle for you and your scattered heart.

"I try"

When you exit the bathroom, you make sure that's a door you never open again.

It doesn't take long for Harry to find you. Or to notice the redness to your eyes.

"Are you hurt?" as he grabs your wordless face. "Tell me what happened"

There's something in his voice, a fierce need to understand you whole―to protect you, that should swallow you like a blanket. Instead, it cracks a certain fire within you that doesn't blaze with anger but something worse.

Something about wanting to remember feelings that shouldn't be tasted and pushing limits that shouldn't be broken.

About wanting to forget. To numb the pain with a feeling much more primal and raw.

"Let's take you somewhere more quiet. See if it calms you"

Stop, Harry you want to scream. Before it's too late.

But your mouth tastes like sand and regrets. And your feverish body let's itself get dragged out, without caring about the looks and prying stares.

Just the flame begging to be smothered.

"Here" he drags you to a room and closes the door. "There's a couch"

You make no motion to sit. He keeps a respectful distance, pretending to take in the details of the room, yet somehow, his presence is enough to get you dizzy.

"This is a funerary room. It's empty" Harry speaks, trying to feel the void. Maybe aware or maybe oblivious to the tight pull of your taut muscles. "No funeral going on"

"But it will"

He chooses to ignore or deflect the tension in your voice. "You don't always have to be mean, you know?"

The dry chuckle escapes your lips before you get to stop it.

"That's all I know"

As you walk to him, you're sure it is.

You kiss him first.

He groans breathlessly into your mouth, his movements rushed albeit sloppy, between deep moans. Like he still isn't sure this is actually happening at all.

He pulls back first, lips swollen and dark honey eyes. There's a bead of sweat that loses itself on the nape of his neck, down his suit. His skin might be burning as much as yours.

"Do you want this?"

"Don't ask me what I want"

I just take and take until there's nothing left to ruin.

You feel him shudder into your touch, the anticipation building into a high. He looks at you through half-lidded eyes, taking in the sight of your face.

"Then-" a slow dragged breath goes through him, sleazing it's way under your skin. Billowing into the air of the room that feels smaller now. Your hand finds the space between his slacks, lightly stroking his cock. He almosts gasps his words when you tighten your grip, steady touch trailing up to his tip. Harry clasps the nape of your neck as he leans closer. "Kiss me again"

You don't answer, just capture his lips. He kisses back like you're the only air supply left on Earth. He bends lower, craving into your touch like he wants to become one with you, hiding his face into your neck, trailing down with his lips in sloppy kisses. Doesn't want it to end but neither take it slow, afraid you might dissappear into desires Harry shouldn't indulge in.

You get rid of your clothes that now feel like they're on fire. He slides the dress down until your skin is exposed. Under his gaze, you feel like an exposed wire, victim to his electric touch.

"S' pretty" he mumbles, slurring his words.

It shouldn't make your heart beat like it does.

He finds your perked nipple and gives it a light suck, while his fingers continue pinching and rubbing on the other. You let out a low moan, making him groans, throwing his head back as he begins to move his hips, grinding into your palm. His hand shoots out to grab your hair, exposing your neck. But you don't feel roughness, just a steady feel.

"Been... you drive me crazy" he says between strokes of your hand and moves of his lip―licks of your breasts. "For a while..." he pants. "With this dress, today... and you wore it for a funeral. Your dad's" his hand palms your back, falling to your ass. He hooks his finger on your laced black panties, sliding them down. "Bad girl"

He reaches down between your open legs, finding your wet cunt, groaning as he feels your dripping with his fingers. The sticky feeling increases with the brush of his eager touch. Harry moans, detaching his lips from your nipple. A silver trail of saliva connects his mouth to your nub.

"S' wet" voice rough, deep and heavy with desire. He gently but surely removes your hand from his slacks. "Now be a good girl for me"

You whine softly as your dampness coats his fingers. He steps closer until your body feels the wall digging on its back. With a knee, he parts your legs, gently pulling you towards him. You can feel the press of his weight, the gentle swell of his stomach―the heat off his body. You open your mouth again, more noises falling. It makes Harry weak as he closes his eyes, taking it in. You, here, with him.

"Good. You're doing so good, angel"

His praise gets another sound from you, tickling every proud bone in your body. With his low gravelly voice, it couldn't get any better.

"Don't worry, I'll take good care of you"

Harry grunts a bit but manages to take you to the sofa he mentioned earlier. You feel your heartbeat up your throat as he crawls over you with a look that makes you feel more naked than your lack of clothes.

"Like what you see?" you ask, voice thick.

He smiles softly like that's enough of an answer. Then, props himself as he lowers, capturing your lips between his, trying to pour all that pent-up desire stored for far too long. Harry Castillo is a man who commands, and his tongue tries to prove that, battling for control. When he pulls away, gasping for air, he rests his forehead against yours.

"I need to know you want this" he insists, making your body whine on despair and your heart heavy as you yearn for his taste.

He savors like the wine from the reception and a bitter residual you can't name but lingers in your tongue. Harry's warm, craddling your face with force as he eats you out like a man starved. A part of you wonders if it's true, just how much he wants you.

In a way that makes your heart stop. In a way you had never been loved before.

"I want you" voice dark as your hips roll to meet his. "Now"

Harry trembles at the sensation of your tight cunt rubbing against his pulsing member.

"Fuck-" he breathes out. "You're gonna be the death of me"

The older man reaches down, his big hands gripping your thigh like a vice. You feel the press of them, the bruise that may show. It doesn't matter, an irrational part of you screaming to be claimed. Harry parts your legs like an expert, aligning himself with your center.

"Stay still for me, princess" he pull his briefs down. The tip of his cock brushes your entrance, body taut with anticipation. "Can you do that?"

You bite your lip, nodding without hesitation as if under a spell.

"Good girl"

When he finally slides inside, it's like he's everywhere inside you. With his warm brown sugar eyes and tender quiet smile. He takes his time, lets you adjust as you arch your back. Kisses your face like you're the most precious thing in the world, reverence in each brush of his lips against your skin.

"So tight" he pants, "feel so good. Like you were made just for me"

The way his body moves against yours is intoxicating, perfectly in sink as he thrust in and out of you with a pleasing burn. He's fucking you so good, for a moment, you think you know what love feels like.

You pull him down, impossibly closer to you, lips meeting in a deep searing kiss. Maybe, a bit of his tenderness rubs on you.

"Please, keep going"

He groans. "Anything you want"

His movements pick up a faster pace, hitting deeper. Your cunt clenches at the friction, feeling his tip almost reach deep your hilt. Noises bounce off the walls, and you wonder for a brief moment, if anybody has realized where you had gone to and what you were up to.

"F-fuck" he curses again between breathes.

"W-we could get caught-"

His words fade into another moan, a dark brown coating his wild blown-wide eyes.

"Don't pretend you wouldn't want that"

The waves of pleasure that wash over you numb your senses. "I-"

"You love being the talk, don't you?" he teases, dipping down to lick around your nipple. The nub pebbles under the sloppy strokes of his wet cold tongue. "We'll give them something to talk"

Your walls flutter around him, as he keeps thrusting in and out of you, going deep enough to rock your entire body with each thrust. Harry pumps his cock into your depth, each stroke intense. Your body rocks with spasms of pleasure that make your stomach taut. Harry's grip tightens in your hip and thigh as your hips meet his thrusts.

"This feels good?" he rasps out. You nod, moaning. "Then be a good girl and cum for me, baby"

It's embarrasing how your body reacts upon his command.

The waves of your impending climax wash over you, coming down with a sharp cry of his name. Your body trembles violently beneath him, and it could be the orgasm or the fear you said his name in a way you'd never spoken before. Interwoven. Now, you knew what it was like: being his. Not for pretense or dinners, but skin on skin and heart on heart. The calling pushes him over the edge, his body shuddering with his own high. You feel his cock releasing inside you as he pushes in with a final thrust, your welcoming walls taking his pulsing cock and every drop of his cum inside you, filling you up. He groans, his head tilted back, eyes as sloppy as the thrusts by his softening dick.

Still, he leans down and kisses you so softly, it hurts. Then, he touches your face with shaking unsure hands, as if you would dissappear in his hands if he indulged too much.

"What... what if we took this back to my place?" voice small, still inside you.

You hate the barely hidden hope in his eyes. You hate the flutter of his heart against your chest. But mostly, you hate how you want to break his heart―take what he can give to bury your pain in him and let him take it for you until you feel numb. Because he's so eager for you. So willing.

"Yeah" pause. "We can"

The night is young, and there's plenty of time to make more mistakes.

"Don't be nervous"

You aren't, and yet, his smooth voice does wonders to your heart. In a way, soothes you.

Too much for your liking.

"I'm not" you say out loud. "I was just... thinking"

He smirks, making you roll your eyes. "That's dangerous"

"This is definitely a place you grew up on"

Harry looks amused at your comment. "Are you impressed?"

The car stops. He exits first, walking until his face comes into view, opening the door for you. When you grab his hand, you ignore how clammy it feels despite his composed façade.

"No. My house was bigger" he chuckles, unfazed. "I just think it suits you"

"The opulence?" as he offers his arm.

You hate how you don't even hesitate to take it.

"Something like that"

How could you explain how you really felt? Of course he'd grow up in a place too big for four people, screaming grandiose even in the cold marble imported from Italy across the floors. It wasn't about that, but about how, even with the magnificence, it didn't feel like your home. No, there was something warm in the grass and the sun that shined through the tall windows. A care that didn't seem artificial. Like all was part of something bigger, not in a vain manner but in a way that mattered.

Because no matter how hard you tried, or the diplomas hanging on your walls, the cases won, the parties left with someone around your arms, the numbers in your account... You never felt like you mattered. Not to you, less to anyone else. Even with all the smiles your way and contacts on your phone.

"Will you elaborate?"

"No" a bit sharper than intended.

Yet, a lazy grin spreads through his face. "Just like I supposed"

"If you know me so much, why do you ask?"

"It's fun to rile you up" he confesses in no time, cheeky.

There are steps. You keep your posture and arm in his as you go up.

"You shouldn't make fun of your date"

"Am I making fun of you? I must apologize for trying to find some amusement for tonight"

"Keep trying and we'll see if you find this funny when I poison your drink"

"Refuse any drink from you tonight" as the doors begin to open, like sensing your presence. "Noted"

"Mr. Castillo" an old looking man greets. "Welcome home"

Harry greets the man with a handshake that's laced with respect and nostalgia. A cordiality earned only for those who've worked for you since forever. You're briefly reminded of Joaquín.

"Ah, who's this lovely lady?" he looks at you, fondly. "Hello, I'm Ernest"

You give him your name and he smiles.

"When Mr. Castillo told me to add an extra chair for tonight's dinner, the house cheered. We've all been waiting for this moment"

Your eyebrows raise in surprise at the man's amusement.

"For what?"

Harry looks embarrassed. "Don't encourage him"

"Come in. You'll see" he takes off your coat. "Dinner is already set. Your parents are already here. So is your brother and his girlfriend"

Great. More people. For a reason, it's worse than walking into a room full of strangers you're supposed to know.

This is Harry's family, for God's sake. The man you're supposed to hate. The one who gets under your skin and knows when to smother your fire and when to make it burn. Your father's friend and the image you touched yourself to nights ago. He, who refuses to leave your mind since you lighted that damn cigarette that night. He, who may be the only man in the world to make you falter. Who you couldn't say no to.

Harry Castillo, the man you've accepted twice to fake dating for.

Maybe to know what it felt like. Maybe because it was easier to tell yourself you found it thrilling to pretend with a man so different from you and as infuriating as him than admit you lingered on every word he said to you, like little cuts exposing the bruised skin under the armor, because he found it worth discovering, or how you missed his touch when he was long gone.

As you enter the dinning room, you realize, you don't even know what he means to you anymore.

You hate him.

You hate him for making you like him.

You like him.

(You don't really despise Harry Castillo at all)

"There he is, the man of the moment!"

A tall young man greets Harry first. Harry gives him a pat in the back before introducing him.

"This is Peter, my brother" the man smiles. He then points to the girl with a bored face but nice smile that stands next to him. "Charlotte, his girlfriend"

You give them your name and they approve it, like their approval meant anything to you.

"Finally! Another girl" Charlotte beams. "Don't tell her mother I said that"

"Don't worry, I know you're not particulary excited for gardening talks" Peter laughs.

"Do you watch Sex And The City?" some episodes and the movies, but you nod. "Great! We'll be bestfriends"

At the table, an elderly couple sits. They must be in the fifties or sixties, hard to tell with how good they look. Their closeness makes something tug in your chest, hands clasped together as they sit.

"Hi" Harry speaks, voice softer than ever. He didn't even speak like this to you. "Mom, dad"

She's got his eyes and he's got the same easy nature that envelops Harry. The same one that makes you want to bask on his light and listen to whatever he's got to say.

"Hello, son. It's been a while" she then pretends to look at you for the first time like she hadn't land her eyes on you the very first moment you stepped in. "Who would this be?"

"This is Y/n" he pauses. "She'll be joining us tonight"

No more explanations or titles you shouldn't be holding. Good, no need to complicate things.

Harry's girlfriend. What a funny thought.

"Please, take a sit" his father motions with the same charisma his son weaponized. He extends his hand. "I'm Miles" you shake it, genuinely smiling at his welcoming gesture. "And this is Alba"

She doesn't smile, choosing to nod politely instead. You try not to show offense at her curt greeting, especially when Harry's hand travels to the back of your dress, sliding until it rests on your hip.

The food is served. Something you can't place dressed in a sauce you can't name with boiled vegetables. There's wine and conversations you can't quite keep up with in your brain, just the nods and polite words you've learnt to master. Pretending to know where you are. But you don't, less each time Harry's leg brushes with yours. Or he talks about you like you're the one he's chosen.

It stings. So does whenever his mother looks too attentive to your every move.

You feel out of place, something you haven't feel in years. Never, not since she left.

They're talking about you again. Old money, your family. They're a big one, so is Charlotte's. They like that: the big parties and cousins you keep forgetting. They joke about the number of gifts you have to buy for Christmas, and now, baby showers. Peter jokes about their own and Charlotte chokes on her food, saying it's too early with a hoarse voice. You give them your last name, and someone whistles; Harry's mother asked.

You hate the reaction, no matter what it is. The weight of the name has always felt suffocating, and today, it's worse for a reason. Like it's a stain you can't wash.

"So, Beaumont?" you nod as Harry's mother hums. In approval or as a sign of acknowledgment; agreement, who knows. "Interesting"

You nod again, unsure how to respond to that. Peter laughs, wiping his mouth with his napkin before speaking.

"Forgive my mother, it's just- she had this idea, for Harry"

You take a sip of your wine, trying to remain composed. "Idea?"

"Peter, don't" Harry basically pleads.

"You see, Harry has always been the sensible one, ever since we were kids. He'd cry over anything, the poor little emotional thing. There was this one time I stepped on a butterfly, and he went to our mom, crying over it"

"You stepped on it on purpose" Harry responds.

"Anyway, she wiped his tears and they cared for it until it could fly again. He even gave it a name. Said no one deserved cruelty, less pretty things. Ten and he was already poetic, huh? I was playing around, didn't see the thing, and suddenly he transforms into a philosopher or something" he mocks. "He never changed. When we grew up, God, he became such a romantic. Predictable, I guess"

He tenses next to you, cheeks flushed. A weird stirring boils in your stomach. You can't help but feel defensive. For some reason, it isn't satisfactory seeing Harry get teased as when you're the one doing it.

"That's not bad" you reply, feigning nonchalance as you cut the boiled eggplant. "I think it's charming"

You can see through the corner of your eye Harry's gratitude smile. There's something else, but you look back at your plate before you find out. Harry's mother raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, no" Peter is quick to laugh it off. "That's not what I meant"

"Yeah. He tells this story every time" Charlotte intervenes. "Loves to embarrass Harry with it"

"Didn't know Harry brought that many guests home" as you take a calculated sip.

Charlotte smiles, knowingly. "At parties. You're the first he's ever brought home"

Your face turns a burgundy splash, resembling the wine held by your trembling hand.

You hate being taken by surprise.

And then the whole table looks at you. But it doesn't matter, not when he is the one looking at you like your flushed face speaks of something words aren't able to say.

"Thanks, babe" Peter speaks again, and you're thankful for the change of topic. Harry coughs next to you, averting his gaze to his brother. "What I meant to say is, mom always thought Harry would marry a common girl. It seemed... fitting, you know?" a beat. "He's always looked for love. That's all he's ever wanted"

A silence stretches far too long for your liking.

Yes, he'd told you himself. Harry Castillo, the romantic.

But it was on the way he held, like it could mean something. Forever maybe. Or how each word was spoken carefully, like it could be worth remembering; carved in echoes of memories you could look back to. And the way he looked: like you were the only thing holding him in place, the only thing worth living for. Harry lived to love, and loved to live. He was, if anything, the oldest cliché to ever grace the Earth.

A lover.

"But you're here now" Peter's loud laugh interrupts your train of thoughts. "So, I guess he was all words and no bite. Another rich guy marrying for money"

It shouldn't offend you when it never has before, but a small part of you that looks like that hopeful girl that would sit every birthday next to the phone, waiting for mom to call, aches at the thought that's all Harry sees in you: a snobby, rich, spoiled old money girl.

"Give the girl a break" Harry's father laughs as he reaches for his wife's hand. "Not every story is the same"

The way he rubs her hand, tender and fulld of devotion, maked you turn your eyes away. You never saw your parents do the same.

"It was all mom's thing, anyway" Harry interrupts, finally speaking for himself. "I've never said that"

Even if her voice is soft, her words land with a cut. "I think I know my own son, Harry. I know what I meant"

She's not even looking at you, yet you feel a jab. Anyone else by now would feel the fury of your words, or just the cut of a cold glance. But there's no fight left in you, and you don't know if it's the need for her approval or the fact you've never had any mother's approval.

Not even of your own.

Why would you care? This isn't your family to please nor your in-laws to impress.

Harry isn't yours either.

You should know better.

The sound of your chair scrapping is louder than you intended. "I'm sorry, where is the bathroom?"

Harry looks at you with concern.

"Left, at the end of that hallway" and you know he's dying to ask more. He always needs to know it all.

"Thanks" but the sound is so foreign, it doesn't even feel like you've said it yourself. You don't realize the sensation of being watched has been there since the beginning of the dinner until you lose sight of Harry's mother's gaze.

You aim for the bathroom. Splash water into your face like it can splash some sense into you.

You were used to pretend. Call it boredom, or maybe that magnetic pull that seemed to draw you more and more to Harry each time he barged into your life, ever since that balcony meeting. Last time you did this, something changed. But it didn't feel like this, still: a heavy heart and hands that wouldn't stop shaking.

You were better than this. Stronger. Why was it affecting you this much? it didn't make sense.

Nothing did, lately.

You practice easy smiles like you did at sixteen and open the door to an ample hallway you hadn't even looked at before.

A portrait catches your attention. A young Harry stands in the middle of it, his mother behind. He sports a toothy grin and the same curls, a small scrap on his knee.

"He fell off his bike that summer"

You jump, startled.

Harry's father is behind you, the same smile as his son. Amused.

"Didn't mean to scare you. Just wanted to make sure you didn't get lost"

"I'm used to big houses"

"Of course" he chuckles. "Manners, you know? Old habits die hard"

A comfortable silence settles. You look at the portrait again, at those brown eyes that confuse you more each passing day.

"Your wife doesn't like me"

He chuckles again, this time louder. More unguarded.

"She's just protective of Harry" while looking at the portrait. He runs his fingers softly through it. "He was always his favorite"

You don't ask, but it's clear in the way she spoke to you, like she knew better. As if she could smell the rotten off of you, and didn't want any of it poisoning her son.

"I know your father"

You fail to hide the bitterness rising, probably too tired to try. "A lot of people do"

Except me.

"But your mother... I don't remember her. How was she?"

I don't know.

You try to keep steady, pressing your nails against your palms until it draws out blood.

How was she?

She smelled like orchids, and when you asked her why, she shrugged, like that was enough of an answer. Her hair was always down, as if she was alergic to ponytails or anything that tied her hair. Because she didn't like being tied down. You heard her scream it once at your father, when they thought you were asleep. Three weeks later, she was gone.

"I haven't seen her in a long time"

He's smart not to insist. But then he speaks again.

"I do remember something, though" you look at him with a strange hope. "Her smile"

"Yeah?"

"It was sad. Like yours"

You blink, fast. And before he can say anything else, Harry shows up. He gives you a look, one that could mean he knows it's getting hard for you to breath. You don't need saving, but God aren't you relieved he's here?

"Why don't you go back, dad? Mom's already asking for you"

"Can't live without me" he laughs. Pats his son's back before leaving and says. "One day you'll get it to"

Gifts you one last look and leaves.

"Sorry for that"

Your voice comes out a little defensive. "You don't even know what happened"

"I don't need to. I can see it in your eyes"

"Wow. Is your family an expert on reading me now?" you chuckle, dryly.

Harry sighs, like he knows he's not getting anywhere.

"Let's go outside"

"I don't want to"

"Don't be a kid" his voice drops, edges stern.

"Don't call me a kid" you seethe.

"Then don't act like one" as he starts to head for the gardens you saw earlier.

You feel obligated to follow. So you do.

"Why am I here, Harry?"

"You ask that every time"

"Because I like answers?" you laugh, feeling ridiculous. "You love saying that. That I want to know it all"

"Then why do you agree each time?"

You stop on your tracks, heels digging on the dirt. The moon lights the expression lines on his face. His words are serene, but his face says something else.

He wants answers too.

"I didn't come here to fight" Harry cuts throught the silence. He takes a sit on a bench, next to the rose bushes. He sighs, like he's given up on you already. You're as lost as him.

"Why did you come, then?"

"You weren't there, so I came looking for you"

You gulp. "Some would say you missed me"

"Maybe I did"

Your heart hammers loudly in your chest. He runs a hand through his face, trying to wipe the confession off.

"Harry" you call out, softly. take a sit close enough to feel his cologne but far enough for your arms to not brush. "Why am I here? You said it was because they asked you about your dating life, a way to get them off. Forgive me, but your mother seemed rather happy you're alone"

"She's not" with a voice so small it could pass as a whisper. "Trust me"

"She did not want me there"

He chuckles. "Two things can be true at once"

You laugh, mouth agape. "So she does hate me"

"She's just protective of me" he shrugs, removing a speck of dirt off his pants that isn't there.

"That's what your father said"

He smiles, pleased.

"He knows her. That type of knowing you only get when you're old and loved for too long"

You knew. It hurt to know.

There's some silence, interrupted only by the soft breeze.

"My parents... I never saw them like that"

"You were little when your mother-"

"Not before, either. They just seemed to... tolerate each other" you go silent before speaking again, memories too fresh for your liking. Of the dinners where no one spoke and the bed where a separation lied where two bodies should search for the warmth of the other. You'd pass the bedroom in silence, grieving for a love that wasn't yours to care for. "I would, never say this out loud, but God, I can't help it. I just- I wonder what it's like"

"What?"

All your life, ever since the day your mother walked out the house and gave up on you, you swore love off. The hope that dimmed with each new divorce of your dad ignited the cynical bitter side of you that found a brittle enjoyment on breaking marriages.

It could happen to anyone; it could end. It had happened to you.

But you were a human, and the same part of you that beated when Harry was near, was the same one that craved it:

"Love"

Harry looks at you like he knows you. Like knowing you was enough to love you.

You, the girl who hated for fun and treated her heart like it was a dead weight. Who didn't know what love was because she never felt it, so she vowed to take it away from anyone else, like the spoiled child she is.

That's what you are to the world: not the lawyer, not the top student, not the girl with the last name. Just a pampered child left behind by a mother who couldn't bear the rot hiding in her silver bones.

Here stands the only man who never gave up on you. Behind his eyes: hope and sorrow. Something too fragile to hold; can't materialize in fear it'd break.

"You don't get it, do you?" he laughs, hollow.

A vibration jolts through you. But Harry isn't the cause.

"Your phone" silence. Harry speaks again. "Who is it?"

"It's-" she never calls you. "Annabelle"

Harry raises an eyebrow.

"Won't you answer?"

You give him a look as you slide on the green button. "I didn't want to interrupt our moment"

(Under the moon light. New beginnings. For a moment, you can picture yourself there. Welcomed. His mother telling you things your mother never taught you. Basked by the warm rays. On the garden, laying on the grass. Looking at clouds and naming them like you would name a child. Christmas, never alone again. A gift meant only for you, and a dinner next to the family you could never have but always dreamt of. Next spring, he'd get on one knee. You'd marry next summer and you'd cry like your profession didn't mean breaking things like this. Maybe a baby in the way)

(Maybe this was meant to be. You and him)

This is a step you shouldn't have taken, if you were smart. But Harry made you reckless, and there's no going back now.

"I'm still here" as if those three words meant a promise for life.

You press the phone to your ear. "Hello?"

"Thank God" you can hear heavy breathing on the other line. "You weren't answering my texts-"

Her voice is fast, like she's got so much to say but doesn't know how. Or can't.

"I'm sorry, I was busy" Harry smiles at you, and you can't help but smile too. At a real truce. A future, maybe. "What do you need?"

"It's your father"

Your throat suddenly tastes like sand, hand heavier as you lift it. For a moment, you see his smile, dry and polite. Always since you were a kid. It feels mocking now for a reason, as if he knew a joke you didn't.

"What about him?"

There's a pause before the words land like a bullet. Sharp and clean.

"He's dead, y/n. Your father is dead"

You nurse a drink inside the warm light of your office, checking some papers. You flip through the pages and yawn. The amber liquid goes down your throat. Bitter. You've seen this client for the last week and still can't remember their face correctly. And their name. Was it Owen or Oliver?

There is a name and a face you can't forget.

Harry Castillo. Tall. Imposing. Brown Curls. Sometimes soft from the day. Silver streaks among the chocolate, ones he desperately tries to hide with a monthly visit to the salon. You prefer when he doesn't try that hard. Rough rebel stubble. Warm eyes. Crinkling at the corner when he laughs. Boy, does he laugh. Rattles your bones. Makes you smile, even if you deny it. Bite your lip to hide it until it tastes like blood. Strong cologne that makes you dizzy. He makes you dizzy.

You hate him. You hate how easily he's gotten under you skin. How you keep thinking about how close he was. How the lights made his skin golden. Softer. You could trace the lines of his face with your gaze. Or how he held you. Like he didn't want to let go. His hand on your back. Steady. His perfume on your dress, refusing to send it to the dryer until your assistant asked about it. The ache in your feet after an hour, yet never sitting down, all to have him with you. Close. Smiling. His eyes shining as he looked down. At you. Like you were someone who mattered. Someone to choose. Like there was no one else in the room but you.

Later that night, you layed in bed, shame settling deep in your stomach. In how you've held to these details. In the space you've given them space in your brain. You clutched your pillow, trying to drown out the screams into the silent echoes of the night. Of how much you wanted him to be there, with you. In how a small tenderness could disarm you and shatter you whole with so much ease.

You hated Harry Castillo. Maybe you didn't at all.

It's late. Your eyes feel heavy. The letters of the pages go blurry. Owen is boring. Oliver didn't take care of his marriage. You don't feel pity for a man like him, like many. Like your own father.

You feel fuzzy, warm. The bottle is at half. You weren't supposed to drink tonight. It's hot. You aren't opening windows, unbottoning your white blouse instead. You're alone, anyways. You nurse what's left of your drink, let it pool into your tired brain. Your thoughts go back to him. Harry. To his arms around you. That Rolex on his hand, the one that fell right above the curve of your ass. His fingers, resting in your hip, soothingly tracing over the silk of your dress. And the warmth of his palm; so big it too swallowed yours.

There's a tightness in between your legs that wasn't a week ago. Your thighs open themselves, and you feel the breeze against your middle. A damp patch soaks your underwear, glistening sex pulsating. Your teeth sink in your lip as you reach down to the opening of your pencil skirt, hand moving the lingerie to the side. You run a finger along your folds, a shiver running down your spine at the sensitivity. Harry. You whine, hand dissapearing completely between your thighs. With wet fingers, you spread your sticky lips apart. You feel the swollen flesh, throbbing. Clenching. Desperate. After taking a shaky breath, your fingers tentatively circle your entrance, applying a light pleasure with your fingertip, shuddering.

Fuck, look at that pretty pink pussy. So perfect, baby. You push the first finger inside your tight cunt, biting back a moan. That's it, baby. Touch yourself. In your office? Naughty girl. Your walls flutter, finger dissapearing inside. You slide a second finger, whimpering softly into the void. Lemme take a look at that cunt. It looks like it needs me. A sharp gasp escapes your lips; it sounds like his name.

Harry.

You pump in and out, following the pace you're used to. "Yes, I need you" you slur, the movements now sloppy against your dripping sex. Desperate. Sweat beads slide from your forehead. Your panties and blouse are sticky. So are your walls. Good girl. With your free hand, you find your sensitive nub and circle it. This time you moan louder, trembling fingers and hips rolling into your touch. Close, aren't we?

You start to rub faster, fingers pumping harder into your clit. The sound of your fingers in and out of your wet heat fills the room.

Come for me, doll. Show me.

With a cry, you muscles go taut, body tense as your back arches. It comes crashing down, vision spotty from the wine and your fucked drunk in pleasure state. Your cheeks go red as your walls clench and flutter around your digits as you ride out your orgasm.

It's time to go home. Joaquín is on time, like always. He doesn't ask, like always. You ride the elevator in silence, the red numbers blurry and the mellow music piercing your ears. You discard your clothes in the dark and throw yourself into bed. The shame settles once again, but when you go to sleep, it's the best sleep you've ever had in years.

When you see Harry Castillo again, he's wearing a red tie. A gift from your father.

You know because you bought it yourself, not knowing who it was for. You don't tell him either.

You blink once, twice. Head and heart pounding. You wince at the llght, at the smell of the bags he's carrying.

At his face, the exact same face you had come to hours ago.

"Brought you breakfast" and a bag from La Grande Boucherie.

"Why?"

"Because their Norwegian eggs with salmon are the best. I also added a capucchino. I know you're not into strong coffees but-"

"No, Harry" you cut. "Why are you here?"

In your doorstep, leaning against the doorframe with ease, as if he's been there since the beginning; like he owns the place.

"In your house, at eight sharp in the morning? Good question"

"Tell me you have the answer"

He smirks. "You can have it if you let me inside and have breakfast with me"

"You're persistent, Harry" while moving aside.

"Only when it matters" as he steps inside, and your treacherous heart does a little flip.

"It better be good"

"At least, I can speak for the salmon. I'll let you be a judge for the rest"

Harry raises the bag, the smell hitting you again. Be it the faltering in your posture or the nausea written all over your face that makes him chuckle.

"Fun night?"

You bite the inside of your cheek, heat flushing to your face.

"Don't be shy, Lady in Red. But I think the color suits you"

For a moment, you think he'll touch your face. Your skin tingles, still burning from the lingering sweat. From the shame. He must see the anticipation in your face. Harry gives you a small smiles, between sad and defeated.

"At least we match"

You grab a glass of water and clear your throat. "Just tell me why you're here"

He sighs, placing the bags on your kitchen island. He takes the cups out of the cupholder and then the food.

"I feel you're bribing me here"

His warm eyes meet yours, crows feet noticeable. "Which is why I bought the best from the menu"

You can't help but smile. "See? Bribe"

He sits down, motioning for you to join him. "I call it investment"

You take a sit, eyeing the food. You decide to test the waters of your queasy stomach trying the coffee first.

"If you wanted to do business, my office opens in an hour"

"I don't see you ready for that" he eyes you up and down. If your face grows hot, it must be the capuccino. "Besides, this more of a... favor"

"You need my help. Again"

Harry gives his muffin a bite, smirking. "Smart girl"

Your thighs immediatly clasp together, looking for some fricition. His low voice, rough from sleep still, despite his shower gel and perfectly ironed shirt. Even his hair, slightly damp, curls hanging over his face.

Good girl.

You take a long sip, not caring about the sting. God, you need help.

He takes a deep breath before speaking. "My brother is seeing this woman. Charlotte"

"Let me guess, another Paul situation?" you quirk an eyebrow, biting your muffin. "Will you tell me the truth this time?"

"Truth is, the truth is quite... pathetic" he smiles, sheepishly, before sipping his coffee.

You sigh. "Elaborate on this woman"

"It's not her. I'm- You see, the problem... The problem it's me"

You swallow. Then blink slowly. "Enough with the riddles. I'm too hungover for this"

Harry smiles. "I knew it"

"If you know me so well" you roll your eyes, "what am I thinking?"

"That you have no idea what I'm doing here. Causing problems in your pretty expensive loft"

"You're too much of a problem, so you need to be more specific"

He hides a grin behind the paper cup as he takes a sip. "You haven't kicked me out yet"

"I'm intrigued. My Wednesdays are usually boring"

"Well, I hope it entertains you to hear I'm a loser"

You hide a grin behind a bite of your muffin. "Maybe you do know me after all"

He winks. "It's part of my many talents"

"Not having a girlfriend, unfortunately, isn't"

His smile falters a bit, corners going down until his lips press into a thin line. He looks almost embarrassed, offering you a shy smile.

"You figured"

"It wasn't hard. Mommy and daddy giving you a hard time?"

He scoffs. "You're lucky to not have any siblings"

There was a time you wanted one. To share toys and play when the maids got bored. Then your mom left, and for a moment, you were relieved the pain was only yours. But then the pain became to much to bear alone, and you often wished you weren't the only one to carry the burden of loss.

"Maybe"

"I don't recommend. The black sheep of the family, youngest, comes home with a girl in hand and suddenly, they're on my back, asking as if it's the only thing that matters. When. Not the money I make, how I've kept the business flourishing, not the status, or the cars. No, it's all about the empty chair next to me. About this dinner coming up and how I haven't brought no one home in years. Questions with the sympathetic smile that reeks of pity. Saying they want the best and refusing to say what they wanna say: You'll end up alone"

You don't know why, but the silver thread of pain in his voice moves you. That Harry had chosen you of all people to tell this, makes your heart do a flip.

"I have asked myself about it, you know?" he traces the rim of the cup, avoiding your gaze. "When is it gonna be my turn"

Before you can second-think, you place your palm over his, soothing. You can feel him tense under your touch, relaxing afterwards.

"Love is overrated"

He chuckles, body shaking, but his hand stays still. "Of course you'd say that"

You don't remove yours either. "You knew"

"Told you, didn't I? That I know you too well"

"Don't let it get to your head" you smirk. "So, let's see. If you know me so well, will I agree to pretend again for you?"

"I don't know, I just hope you do"

Hope. Funny word. There was a time you did too, before you knew the cold and hurt to come. The kind that makes you believe. The one why fools head first. Why a few of your clients had withdrawn from the process, thought you'd never tell that outloud. Why the world still spinned, trying to hold into a reason.

It circles inside his eyes, and you have a hard time finding ways to say no. Because you want to believe too, that naive small kid inside you. The one that never healed. The one that pulls your heart strings and robs you of your frigid sense whenever Harry is around. Because you made your mind the first moment he entered your apartment, diving blind straight into danger; jumping into the water without knowing how to swim. But, you saw yourself in the ink of his sad eyes. Lonely.

"You owe me a lot, Harry Castillo"

Harry looks at you and smiles softly. You do too.

"I'd give you the world if I could, y/n"

Something in his tone settles in your chest, like a butterfly. Or a stone. You gulp, throat suddenly dry.

He squeezes your hand. "Just one more time and I'll let you go"

You don't know why but you hope he doesn't.

"Let's see if I understand" from the other line.

You take a deep breath, pausing. "Yes?"

"You're going on a date and didn't tell me"

You roll your eyes, looking out the window.

"I would've told you if it was a date, Rach"

You were always a good liar.

"At least I could helped you pick your outfit" she whines. "Like old times!"

It's almost as if you can see her pouting through the phone.

"I would've let you" you concede, "but I already chose the dress you gave me last Christmas"

A fine red garment tailored in authentic silk that hugged your body just right.

"Great choice. That's a killer" then, there's silence, followed by a loud gasp that elicits another eye roll from you. "Wait. Don't tell me- You're already there!"

Your lips quirk up in a smirk. "Maybe"

"You are a terrible friend" but Rachel's words carry no real weight. "At least give me a clue?"

You remember the address, marked in the GPS screen in front of you.

"Boring"

"That's not a clue" she huffs, "everything's boring to you"

You look out the window, the mansion coming into your view.

"Extra boring"

"It's a social gathering, then. You hate those" and you hate how much she's right. Probably knows you better than your dad. Yourself even.

"Your silence proves I'm right" and again, you roll your eyes.

"Goodbye, Rach"

"At least find someone to take home. Your house reeks of loneliness"

It's a joke, but there's a weird pit in your stomach when you hang up. It shouldn't matter that much, but you can't keep pretending you are choosing to spend more time at the office, because going back to a place where the only sound is that of your own steps, echoing back to you, the surface and space looking so artificial, like a hotel room, has become some sort of torture.

Your driver, Joaquín, parks right in front of the entrance. Before he moves, you raise your hand.

"I can do this by myself. Thanks"

He knows better to contradict you and you don't know if you are convincing him or yourself.

"Have a nice night, Ms. y/n"

You open the door, sighing as the heels dig into the pebbled road. I'll try.

As he drives away, you can't help but think again what were you really doing here. It's not like you needed the money, so, again, why did you agree? Willingly accepting to help Harry and his friend, people who you could care less, the first even nearing enemy territory. But for some reason, the moment those brown eyes landed on you, it felt like yes was the only correct answer.

"Welcome, Miss. Can I see your invitation?"

You think it's pointless: would you've driven all the way here if you weren't invited?

"Here"

You don't know why but the moment you step in, your eyes search for him, Harry, as if your body moved on instinct. Betraying.

A waiter walks by and you take whatever it's on his tray, downing the liquid with a gulp. Once the small tingling buzz settles into your system, you find that easy practiced smile of yours: cold enough to be polite but not warm enough to be confused for anything more.

"Having fun?"

You spin, dress doing a little reveal of your bare legs, yet he doesn't even look your way, that kind of silent promises and respect faithful men hold onto when they've swore their heart to only one woman.

"I'm trying"

"That's the spirit" he chuckles, lowly. "Is there anything I can do to make your night better?"

You fake a pondering gesture.

"Maybe get you another drink?"

"Thanks, but I want to walk straight when I exit through that door"

"Smart girl" he quips, "but I hope you don't plan on leaving soon"

You take the time to look at him under the chandeliers.

"I have manners"

This man has a kind smile that reaches his eyes, a dark grey but still holding onto a spark for life, not dull at all. His hair matches his gaze, and so does his neatly trimmed beard. His face is aged, probably about the same age as Harry, if you were to take a guess.

"Paul" you recognize. "Paul Lauder"

Lauder offers his hand and a charming smile, like all the men from his circle have been cut from the same cloth: gentleman manners that hide calculating characters. Still, there was something about the man and owner of the house standing before you, that seemed genuine.

"Am I that easy to recognize or has my friend already talked about me?"

A million questions raise through your head. If he was talking about him, how did he know you knew each other? It was a given in your society, yes, but to speak about you both in such friendly terms? Or worse: had Harry spoken of you to his friends?

"Forgive me. I talk nineteen to the dozen"

Your body tenses at just the sound of his voice, and there he is, the man of the hour.

"Harry" Paul calls him, another gentle smile making its way to his face.

"The one and only. Don't tell me you know another one" he jokes.

He still hasn't looked your way, and you don't know why that makes your skin hot.

"You're irreplaceable, my friend"

Now you see why he insisted on helping him. Paul's a true friend: a rare gem, especially in New York's elite.

"This is y/n" Harry introduces you, "David's daughter"

Its only then that Harry looks at you. A fast up and down, barely noticeable, but you were an observer, always. Part of your work and charm, just what made you perceptive and deadly enough. His eyes linger on the open skin, in the cut of your leg, and then move to your face, gaze holding. Daring, almost. And the he chuckles. Harry fucking chuckles, the sound low and grave. A fuzz settles in your cheeks and you choose to blame the alcohol rush.

You desperately wish to know what Harry's thinking.

"Ah. So this is she" a knowing smirk makes its way into his mouth. Then, his eyes widen. "Wait, David? Oh, haven't you grown? Into an extraordinarily beautiful woman, nonetheless. You sure look like your mother"

The compliment feels paternal at best, but a knife slowly twists into your ribs at the last sentence. None of the men seem to catch this.

"She has" and Harry takes your hand from seemingly nowhere, body closer than you anticipated. Grabs your hand and kisses it like he means it. The other man observes it all in silence. "The belle of the ball"

"Except this is my birthday, not a dance" Paul banters, nudging the billionaire gently on his side, as if you hadn't gone completely at loss for words. You hated to be unprepared, yet Harry always seemed to turn you into a house of cards, his wind sweeping you off your feet.

"There's music" Castillo is quick to reply. "That has to count for"

Paul lets out an easy laugh. Then, looks over his shoulder, and you don't miss the way his eyes light up, unaware adoring smile on his face, the rest of the world reduced to a meaningless blur.

"It's my turn, I suppose" you don't understand what he means. "I want to introduce you to my wife"

You see Harry's body tense and smile falter by centimeters, barely noticeable.

So this is it. This is the part where you meet her. Your newest job.

Your eyes follow Paul's direction, only to be knocked breathless.

Her beauty is obvious, insulting even, making you uncomfortable in your own skin. It's in the way she carries herself, smiles all white, her teeth perfectly lined; blinding. Dress ivory and clean, making your red one feel vulgar in comparison.

You wait for the cold to hit you, but when Paul slides a hand across her back, resting behind not to claim nor brag, but to belong and feel her warmth, she smiles, not for the room, but to the man who looks at her like she makes life worth living.

You're confused.

"This is Grace" he introduces her, proud.

The woman shakes your hand. Even her gestures seem the perfect mixture of delicate and proud. You tell her your name and suddenly, she's smiling again.

"Pleased to finally meet you. Harry has talked so much about you"

His stare burns from your side. So he has indeed talked about you before. You decide not to dwelve too much on how that makes you feel.

"Alright, that's enough" he laughs, clipped. A hand slides across your back, and it feels deliberate.

An instrumental cover of an old 90s ballad you can't quite place begins to play.

"This is my favorite" Grace beams, green eyes sparkling with joy.

"I know. That's why I asked it to be played"

She swats his chest playfully while yours aches with a silent press. Grace links her arm with Paul and gives you a goodbye smile.

"I'll leave you two alone. I have an important dance to attend"

Before going, Paul gives Harry one last look, one you can't decipher. Your breath feels oddly constricted.

"Just us again. Is this perhaps fate telling us something?"

You scoff.

"That I should go home"

"Is that so? Didn't take you for a downer" Harry laughs.

"I'm not" you protest like a child, embarrased.

He's enjoying this, by the way he smirks. "I don't believe you"

"I don't care" but you keep looking on his direction.

"Fine. How about this? Give me a dance and I'll believe you"

You face him, annoyed.

"Do you ever stop doing business?"

He just offers his hand.

"Quick. Offer's expiring and everyone's staring"

Harry's right, though. You hate their whispers and looks, so, be it the pressure or way your heart beats when his fingers slip between your own, you concede.

"Just one. You're lucky I don't like unwarranted attention"

He guides you to the center.

"You better get used to it. You're a natural"

The soft strings and notes of a saxophone waft through the air. Grace and Paul laugh somewhere to your side.

"But I hardly know this beauty by my side"

You might break your neck with how fast you raise your view, stuck before on the sway of your feet.

"Huh?"

"Lady in red?"

His hand softly caresses the silk of your dress, like a wind breeze.

"Me?" you ask, voice caught in your throat.

Harry laughs. With or at you.

"No, the song"

That's why it was vaguely familiar.

He quirks an eyebrow. "Don't you know Chris de Burgh?"

"All I know is my feet are killing me"

"So dramatic" yet his voice is soft. As the cello hidden behind drums and bass. Too soft. Stable as the Roland TR-808 drum machine for the drum pattern. Tension hanging like the synthesizer, acknowledged but not spoken of.

Harry had this effect on you. He just brought this side of you, a more unguarded side no one saw or dared to search for. Not even Rachel, who you spoke to. You talked to Harry. Because he looked past your walls. He tried. Took the time to pluck brick by brick. Like it mattered. You weren't New York's most sought-after divorce lawyer nor David Beaumont's daughter, just a girl who tried too much and is tired of doing so, and had finally been seen: the eyebags and the pleading eyes. The yearn for something she would never say outloud, between pride and the refusal to name something she can't even name.

"We always end up dancing" you comment, hand firmly holding his. Because it has become too much, and you'd rather go back to the light swimming than the drowning.

"We always end up doing the same things"

You think about the first time you met him. Not the very first, but the one you saw Harry Castillo for the first time.

It was at your father's fourth wedding, with a woman you can't seem to remember by face nor name.

"I hate weddings" you had said, not expecting to be heard but to be understood; the entlitement of your silver spoon was inherit. You felt as if you were wearing a costume of some sorts: a polished aspect that hid that bitter taste of seeing your father's failure and betrayal all over again, front row. You saw by the corner of your sharp eyes the way Harry tensed, unsure if he should even acknowledge you. So you sat in silence for the rest of the ceremony, answer hanging in the air, and when your father swore an expiring love again, you walked out, not before sparing one last glance his way.

He did too.

It made you falter a bit, unsure, almost tripping on the bench. For a moment, it seemed like he could see what you hid: the light tremble in your hands, the unopened invitations yet showing up at the last minute because you had no one else in this life, and how, despite your cruel jokes and harsh words, your eyes turned glassy when you allowed yourself to look at the bride as a kid looks at the shiniest toy behind the display, forbidden to be touched. For a moment, Harry Castillo saw the little girl who wore the heavy crown of a last name, words and grown face like an armour.

"I hate you"

Or maybe you fear him and the way he picks the scabs of your best hidden wounds, searching for the meaning of you past the shells of healed by force scrapes.

He closes his eyes, feigning hurt. "And here I thought we've gotten past base one"

"I hate you" this time sharper. You wish you could mean every ounce of venom laced within.

"You don't mean that" softly, like his gentle tug on your dress. Like the calm of your storms.

No answer, but the tiniest phantom of a smile graces your lips.

"Tell me about Grace"

Harry's grip tightens on your hands. "What about her?"

"I don't think she's the villain you're trying to make her be"

He narrows his eyes. "Give it a few days. She's just a pretty face"

"You say it like that's all there is"

"No" he's quick to answer. Then pauses, probably pondering. "But it certainly helps"

He looks at your lips. Under the lights, it's hard to distinguish if the red across your face is of anger or just a blush.

"Harry-" you beg without knowing why. A greater woman wouldn't.

"What?" like he's dealing with a naive kid.

"Don't lie to me" you seethe.

Not you. Everyone but you.

The song keeps playing in the distance, yet all you can hear is the ringing of your ears.

"I'm not"

It's pathetic to care this much about someone you claim to despise, finding hurt in a rift across the laces of trust in such strange interwoven bond. A phantom thread.

"Where are you going?"

Your feet develop a mind of it's own. You don't spare him a glance, breathing suddenly a difficult task.

"Outside"

The cool evening breeze hits you. So does the smell of water, the soft sounds of a fountain in the background.

"At least this time it's a garden"

You and balconies. Another of your rules broken. By Harry, again.

"What are you doing?"

You admire his persistance. With shaky fingers, you reach for one of your dress' pockets.

"Thinking"

"It's such a nice evening to be doing that" as if nothing happened.

You roll your eyes, pulling out the lighter with your mother's initials.

"I'm trying to think who is lying to me"

His face falls.

"Y/n" as a warning, maybe a plea. "The answer is obvious. You don't know her, but you know me"

"I don't" you cut, harsh. "As you don't know me either"

You keep saying the same words, as if they were a shield of some sorts, to protect you from falling under his spell.

Harry Castillo scoffs.

"I'm trying, trust me. But you never make it easy" then, his charming smile is back on, slipping on it like a costume of some sorts. Tailored suit: just for him. "Lucky for you, I'm not a quitter"

"Do you have a cigarette?"

His face betrays surprise. Still, he pulls a Marlboro Gold and hands it like a peace offering.

"You said you quit"

The light flickers, smell of nicotine mixed with that of the flowers of the night garden.

You hold his gaze. "I'm not a quitter"

Harry pulls one of his own too. Takes a long drag, tired, before asking.

"Do you want the truth?"

You face him, expression unreadable. A weak smoke cloud billows over your eyes, masking their shine.

"I don't care"

"Don't lie to me" he repeats your words, but instead of the severity of your own, his are laced with benignity.

"I don't care"

"I didn't want to be alone"

You take another drag, silent, wishing for louder words and not spaces of silence that leave your mind restless.

"Harry Castillo, who could buy all of Manhattan, can't find a simple escort?"

He scoffs, seemingly offended. "That's not what I meant"

But not for the accusation at his expense, rather at your lack of (or lack of wanting to) understand.

"Too low for you, I get it. Where all your model friends busy?"

"One, they're not my friends. I can count those with my fingers" he lifts six. "Besides, I doubt twenty something year olds would be friends with a forty-seven year old finance guy"

You take a drag. "What does that make us then, Harry?"

Harry exhales. "We aren't friends"

Your lips curve up. "And two?"

It's his turn to smile.

"I doubt they would choose to accompany me to an old people dinner instead of a night clubbing with their age appropriate friends" he casts you a look, deliberate. "What would you do?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

His smile widens.

"Tricked, but you are"

You smash the half burnt cigarette against a stone statue next to you.

"Grace isn't the problem"

"Sweet Grace may be eleven years younger, and we know what that means in our world, but God, doesn't that woman love Paul?"

You chuckle, lowly.

"Jealous?" you find yourself teasing him.

He casts you a quick look. "Of course I am"

Even if his tone is light and playful, there is a quiet longing laced within. You gulp harshly.

"Why me?"

"Because you're you"

Your heart shouldn't beat this fast. You chuckle, weakly.

"Elaborate"

"Of course you have to know everything, don't you? You can't help but want to understand it all"

You laugh. "Is that so bad?"

"It's very... you"

"Got it. I'm the bad I was asking about"

For the first time, you both join in laughter. It's so easy feeling this comfortable with Harry, you think. Like it's meant to be. All pretenses left behind for a moment of too loud unguarded laughs.

When the laughter dies, he takes one last drag before putting his cigarette out.

"It's because you're the only one who could play along and not make more out of it"

You're not sure you want to face him. Still, you do, offering a tight lipped smile his way.

"Because I'm smart"

"Of course, you're a Beaumont"

A beat.

"You could've told me"

He shots a look your way, eyebrow arched.

"Would've you accepted if I told you the truth?"

You ponder for a moment before answering.

"No"

"Be honest"

"No, but I would've told you to fuck yourself"

Harry smiles. "That's better"

You join him. "I could send a lawsuit your way for lying"

"I doubt that, divorce lawyer"

You let out a dramatic gasp.

"I went to law school. I know this things"

"I'd like to see you try"

"Are you challenging me, Mr. Castillo?" you dare, mischievous.

"Please, don't call me that. You make me feel old"

"That you are"

"You're impossible" he sighs. "Older, then"

The wind blows your hair a little wild. It gets on your face.

"We should go inside" you say.

"Yeah. We should"

You feel a hot rush through your face when his fingers remove the loose strands, touch delicate. His gentle ministrations find a way inside your tense heart, nesting inside in a pulsating soft ache.

He offers his hand. "Dance with me. As an apology"

"That sounds like another favor"

"Yeah. So we get more prying and envious glances thrown our way"

"I feel I'm getting the short end of the stick here"

Harry laughs. "I'm the old man with a pretty lady on my arm"

"The lady in red" and the color matches your cheeks and dress.

"Is dancing with me"

You take his arm. "Lyric?"

"Truth as well"

When you get back inside, Paul's eyes find you soon enough. You try not to think too much about the meaning behind his smile.

"So..."

"So?"

You take his hands first, diving in. They're warm, holding yours back without second thoughts.

"Let's dance"

And you do, trying not to feel special for being the one Harry Castillo chose.

The door opens, and the familiar click of shoes and wooden musk invades the place. You don't dare pronounce his name.

"This office is for married people only"

He chuckles at your dry tone. Petty even.

"Thought you were allergic to 'em"

"I am, but they bring money to the table"

"Thought it was your daddy's" he's quick to retort.

You try to keep neutral, your view busy on the same file you've had open since he entered the room.

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not offended by the trust-fund baby calling" you reply, nonchalant. He takes a sit without you allowing it, that stupid soft smile on his face while crossing his legs. You finally look at him. "What do you want, Harry?"

Because, why was he, the last person you'd like to see, inside your office on a weekday, let alone, almost at closing hours?

"I want a truce"

His words fall into the silence of your office, partly iluminated by the moonlight. It isn't your worst wednesday night but it sure deserves a spot on the list.

You arch an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware we were at war"

"With you, honey" he leans in closer, his shadow hovering over your desk, "there's always a fight"

"Then why take the trouble to come?"

"See what I mean?" he's quick to smile like he knows something you don't. "Anyway, I came because it's urgent. Wouldn't, otherwise"

"Huh. I've heard that before"

Harry stands up, looking at your condecorated wall, seemingly impressed by the papers hanging inside frames, a testament to your intelligence.

"Well?"

"Do you know why people come to you?" he asks, still facing the wall.

"Because I'm the best"

He turns around, smiling in amusement. "So humble, aren't you?"

"I take you didn't come to compliment me. Tell me, Mr. Castillo, why is it you're here?"

Harry faces you. "Drop the formalities, we're not strangers"

"I don't know you"

It's sharp, but he doesn't flinch.

"You could if you wanted to"

Your heart picks up a faster beat. It's starting again, like the two times before, this new off-putting feeling you hate and can't stop.

"You came here for bussiness, I pressume. Not comradeship, Harry"

To talk with you is to wrestle with a seething tongue.

"We can always have tea or a nice dinner other day. I know this pasta place downtown; I'm friend's with the owner" at your narrowed eyes and lack of response, he clears his throat and continues. "Alright, not the talker. I'll go straight to the point"

"Finally"

He contains the urge to roll his eyes.

"Nevermind. You do talk the talk" he sighs. "But I'm here for a favor"

Now it's your turn to sigh. "Could've said that first. Time's money and you've wasted me enough. This is a law firn, not a charity"

His lips quirk into a smirk. "I don't want your alms. Just you"

Two simple words shouldn't affect you this much.

"Besides, haven't you got plenty?" he continues, tone joking, at your lack of response.

"It's never enough"

His eyes shine with an inexplicable anticipation.

"I can always try"

You cross your arms, leaning against your leather chair. Maybe he won't notice the slight tremble to them.

"You said you needed me"

"Precisely" Harry seems content. "Now we're talking"

"Speak"

"So bossy" you roll your eyes. "Do you know Paul Lauder?"

"If you're rich and leave in New York, it's impossible you haven't"

"He's a friend of mine" he offers.

You scoff. "Would be weird if he wasn't"

"I don't have as many friends as you think I do"

"Who you befriend isn't my problem. Or what I think isn't yours" Harry looks about to correct you, but you don't allow him. You place your elbows on your desk, assesing, in that pose he thinks you use to intimidate. You ressemble a hunter, ready to bounce over it's prey. It sends shivers down his spine, despite mantaining his natural facade. "Continue"

"I need your help"

You grin like a cat. "If you need my help, as you say, and they only way I can help you is the only way I know, you could've sent an e-mail"

"But that's the problem" he smiles, albeit a bit sad. "He doesn't want to get a divorce"

His shoulders slump, face frowned and a serious glint over his eyes that makes him look like he carries the world's whole weight within them. You're taken back by how used you're to his usual happy and confident self. For a moment, you think you want to do everything in your power to make him smile again. The treacherous thought is pushed down as quick as it came.

"Then why are you here?" you ask, this time curious above anything else. "I thought you believed in marriage"

He doesn't take your little bait. "No. I believe in love"

You push back a smile. "Right, how could I be so dumb?"

"You're not, which is why I came to you. Do you think I would put up with your charming personality for nothing? There are tons of other divorce lawyers out there"

"Yet here you are" you interrupt, harsh.

"Yet here I am" he repeats, softly.

"Harry..."

"I know this is sudden, and I know it's late. That you don't care for me, or my friend"

"I don't"

His gaze turns hard for a second, maybe as a warning, expecting less judging and more sympathy.

"Don't expect anything from me"

"I don't expect you to understand what you don't know, y/n" he replies, tone patient yet condescending. "But know this: love tends to bring the strongest down"

"Love" you savour the word, rolling off your tongue like a snake who seethes. "You speak a lot about it. Tell me, Harry, have you ever been in love?"

A pin could drop and be heard.

"I think you'll know when I do"

You decide to serve yourself some coffee, and when the cup spills, filled to the brim with shaky movements, he doesn't say anything. You don't offer him a cup either.

"Listen, I pride myself in reading people. Wonder how I ever got so far in this industry? I know what people want, and that's the key. The rest is sweet talk and paper. So, when I tell you it took me less than two seconds to figure her, I'm serious. Paul may have married this girl out of love, but she obviously hasn't. As Lauder is charmed by her heart, she's by the numbers of his bank account"

A true player, you think cynically.

"You expect me to fill sorry for the poor filthy rich?" you tilt your head, the annoyance palpable.

"That's funny coming from you"

The roughness of his tone surprises you. You don't reply anything.

"He's self-made"

"And I'm supposed to assign bonus pity points for that?" you find your voice again.

He rolls his eyes, composed demeanor faltering a bit. You smile, delighted.

"I wouldn't want all his hard work to go to waste for a fairy tale he's deluded himself with"

"Now you're speaking my language"

"Don't confuse yourself. True love is still out there" he counters.

"You're a believer, Harry. I'm still deciding if that's heroic or stupid"

"You may think I'm being selfish, but I know my friend. This isn't Paul. He's gone in her cold smile he perceives as warm, and his pockets keeps emptying as his love into the place her heart is supposed to be, but he's just pouring worship into a hollow pit with a hole in the bottom that leaks with indifference. Apathy. Aversion even" he makes a pause, seemingly pained by just recalling. "I believe love makes you grow, so does devotion. But devotion isn't servitude. Surrendering, in flesh and bone, to another soul isn't the same as losing yourself"

"Poetic" you drop with a bitter tone. Almost humiliating.

He shrugs, not affected. "I'm not a poet, just a friend who wants to help"

"By seeking out a divorce" you reply, entertained.

"No" sharp. "I'm helping my good friend before he makes the biggest mistake of his life"

"You will break his heart" you add, not knowing why.

"A heart only breaks once. The rest are just scratches"

You can't help but wonder about your father and mother. If he loved her; if she's the only woman he ever loved. Maybe that's why he was so fucked up now. You still remember the weeks after her departure, how he'd drunkenly call her name after shots of tears. In the following morning, he wouldn't recall, and you wouldn't tell him either. Out of empathy or pity, you don't know. He never did again after he married his second, neither when she left. Nor with the next one, and so on. His polite smile when arriving to your office to finalize each never faltered, so maybe Harry was right, at least in that. You won't give him that much credit though, let alone tell him.

You sigh. "If he doesn't want a divorce, there's nothing I can do. What I do, is the legal procedures. Not magic"

"I think you're underestimating yourself" like a nurturing father. You don't know how much you need those words, the forbidden warmth in your chest rather embarrassing. "You could change anyone's mind"

"Right. I'm not a witch"

"Pretty sure I heard a few of your employees call you Wicked Witch of the East Coast as I walked by" he smirks.

"Well, Broadway isn't that far. I'm glad you appreciate their wit" but your gaze is cold. "When you keep them close, they're pretty much the same, but I know I've got both admirers and enemies" a breath goes by. "I'm curious, though. Which are you?"

He's as surprised by your boldness as yourself. Maybe it's the late hour or the bitter adrenaline of caffeine in your veins.

"I'm whatever you want me to be" in that infuriating tone you've yet to decipher; you hate the unknown.

"Always the gentleman" you concede, icy. "Now be the one who tells me why the hell I'm supposed to help your fallen friend"

"Because I'm asking you to"

The tension could be cut with kid scissors.

"Are you paying in advance?" you ask, throat dry.

The billionare smiles.

"A true business woman. Your dad was right"

You give him a tight smile. "He mocks me"

"I don't"

He raises from his seat, an indentation in the shape of him where he just sat. More of Harry in your life, in guarded spaces previously only your own.

"Good. Do we have a deal?"

You extend your hand. When he takes it in his, something clicks.

Harry smiles. "We do"

Your hand burns as if you've just made a deal with the devil.

"Goodnight" he exits your office, voice as soft as only Harry Castillo can.

For a moment, your hand still in the air as his back loses in the dark shadows of your closed office, you can't help but think you've made the worst mistake of your life by agreeing.

"A White Russian, for the lady"

Before you get to ask, the waiter is gone. Rachel arches and eyebrow.

"If this was a bar, I'd be flattered. Right now, I'm just confused"

Your eyes search his in the bustling room, only to find him already staring.

You scoff. "That makes us two, then"

You raise your glass, wearing a daring smile. Drink for over ten seconds, holding his gaze across the room. If he wanted to play, so be it; didn't matter it was your father's birthday.

His eyes shine, amused. Harry Castillo likes to think he knows when a woman is looking for trouble. The faintest of a smile tugs at his lips when you lick yours. He's coming over. You're up to no good when you stare up, saying his name like a pebble on your shoe.

"I hope I guessed it right" it's what he says instead.

You finish what's left in one gulp. "Nothing too special about it"

He grimaces.

"Hello, Harry"

"Hello, Rachel" but he doesn't even bother to look her way, so unlike his manners.

"Dance with me"

As sudden as the shiver that runs down the spine. Rachel gives you a quizzical look when you turn her way for support.

"Alright"

The music is soft, an instrumental. Your dad hired an orquestra to play, the mellow sound of music filling the room he had rented, in the outskirts of the city. Annabelle wanted a DJ, said it was more modern. But your dad was always a classical man, and that was her way of calling him old, one of many. At least, she was older than you.

He guides you, hand on your back.

Somewhere along the sway, your steps get lost in the spaces between the chords of the violin.

"Why?"

You liked knowing. Answers.

"Because the music is nice" yet Harry preferred the unspoken of your relationship, if you could call it that. Strangers who knew too much about the other. Who revelled in the others' falter. Like a contest to win; you've yet decided the prize. "Don't you think?"

"My father likes nice"

Harry smirks.

"Cheers to David" he gives you a little spin, word reduced to a blur. It's just you and him, "and nice things"

You feel his body irradiate heat. Close proximity suffocating.

"We can't have nice things"

Harry shakes his head, something akin to disappointment circling in his brown eyes.

"Only if you allow yourself to"

Rage bubbles up your throat like champagne. This isn't like your father, who makes you feel small. Harry Castillo makes you feel seen, and that's worst.

He steps forward and you step back at the sound of the music.

"What do you want?"

His grip in your hands tightens, and then he drops you, but his hand on your back stays firm. It's like this with him: always on edge but never quite falling. Head centimeters above the floor, hair brushing the wooden floors; almost crushing.

You lose yourself in the white of his smile.

"To dance"

He pulls you up, face so close to yours. A faint smell of whiskey ghosts his breath.

"I think we're talking about different things"

He smiles, sadly so. He too pulls back, and you hate that small voice in your head that misses the proximity.

"You have yet to understand we aren't"

Anger rises again. You let go of his hands.

"Do you think it's funny to go around confusing people?" you spit.

He looks at you, stern gaze as the music stops.

"I've been clear since the first day"

People clap and the music resumes, but all you hear is the beat of your heart, ringing in your ears.

He leaves first.

Harry doesn't know when it started, but he knows the moment he knew.

You were late, sat next to him: with your long hair and tight black dress. Narrowed eyes as sharp as your fresh manicure. Judgmental. Appalled. Fresh out of law school, as David said.

It was during his fourth. Lasted less than a year; Harry can't remember her name.

He heard your venomous spit at his side: I hate weddings. Doesn't know if you were talking to him but listened.

How could he not? It was clear, in the way you reminded everyone what kind of lawyer you were. Jokes too rough, clipped laughs yet you didn't falter. Too obvious, refusal to be pictured in the family portrait when David married Annabelle the next winter.

But Harry too saw when you followed the bride with your gaze, something raw, not practiced nor learnt, imprisioned behind a neutral expression in your eyes.

It was summer when the wedding happened but Harry was drawn to your cold. The way you had mastered the common art to shove down any emotion, because to feel was to be human.

And to be human was to be weak. You loathed being weak.

Which is why, when you turned to him and mumbled a polite Excuse me to walk out during your father's vows, he understood.

There were dying stars in the dark scope of your eyes, begging to be pulled out of their slow death, pulsing with the same moribund sound of your heart. Hiding behind the sharp comfort of knowing no one would notice. A latent desire to be seen betraying the arm's length drive to keep people away.

Harry was one of those people. The type to notice the quiet breaths of the world that reminded of the painful experience it was to be alive.

And in that moment, he knew there was more to the carefully crafted you.

It was easy then, to figure you. To unravel the mystery of the one he had made to be impossible to decode.

You drank and mingled with the crowd, but each sip seemed labored, like you'd wish for it to be poison and kill you. You were focused, loved your career, but when the noise of the court died down, all that was left was mourning, even if he couldn't quite place your grief. You were all disdain and apathy, but hidden among your clipped conversations was the ravenous desire for attention.

Behind every fake smile and mascara layers, Harry saw the corners of your mouth twitch and the tired eyes.

It was there: the little girl he met, hiding behind mother's legs as if you took a step forward, the world would swallow you.

She was gone, and you had changed your approach: now you were to eat the world as revenge.

You could lie to everyone, yourself even, but Harry knew.

He wasn't a patient man, yet for you? He could wait.

Wait until you let him in. Until you take the hand he's been extending your way, hoping you'd take the leap and jump.

"Should I always chase for you?" Harry jokes after finding you. "Either you love running away or have a thing for balconies"

"Nobody obligues you" you turn to face him.

Harry couldn't voice out loud nor explain the pull he felt towards you. Like magnets. Moth to a flame; things meant to happen. Things that are unavoidable. Or just how easy it was to fall into your orbit. You were a black hole sun: burning and consuming.

"You dipped"

You dipped my head so close to the floor I thought I was falling. Dipped after making my skin feel like a burden and not the one I live in.

He's taken back by your barely concealed reproach.

"Would've you want me to stay?"

Life is a game, and you hate how he's the only one who makes you lose.

You scoff. "Bet that's what you would've wanted"

"You still haven't answered"

You rub your nose. "Is it so important for you that I do?"

For the first time, he doesn't know what to say.

"I'm not here to please you"

He smirks. "Do you ever aim to please anyone but yourself?"

"Are you calling me egotistical?"

"I'm not one to throw stones" he shrugs, then makes his way towards you.

"That's all I feel you do"

He let's his body rest against the marble of today's selected balcony.

"Are you accusing me of being disparaging?"

"I guess we're just throwing big words around" you laugh, dryly.

Harry exhales loudly. "Do you want me to go?"

Stay.

"It's fine" you shrug, nonchalant.

Some minutes fly by, the soft orchestral music from inside the only sound to be heard in the aphony.

"How long do you think this'll last?"

He turns to you, but before he asks for clarification, you're speaking again:

"Dad and Annabelle"

"You shouldn't be betting on your old man" he berates, but there's no bite in his words.

"It always ends"

He doesn't like the finality in your tone. Like you knew it all.

"At least you'll never run out of'a job"

"You're not going to correct me?" you snort at his attempt to humor you. "Tell me that love is real or some shit?"

Harry gives you a knowing smirk.

"Has it ever worked before?"

You don't quite smile, but your lips press together.

The music comes to a stop, people clapping and then a microphone turning on. It's your father's voice.

"Guess it's coming to an end"

Now it's his turn to speak. "Like everything else"

You're about to walk inside when he speaks.

"What about our dance?"

Your turn around. A soft breeze passes by.

"What?"

He gives you a half smile. "It hasn't finished"

Harry extends his hand towards you, waiting for you to take it.

"Shall we?"

You don't have the answer, but when the warmth of his hand covers your freezing smaller ones, you feel you've chosen the right one.

His steps are measured, each brush of your fingers and lingering touch deliberate. You lose yourself in the quiet of the night, the symphony of his heartbeat intertwined with yours, alike to that connection that holds your hands together.

"This is nice"

Outloud. You don't realize it's been you who has said it until he stops dancing, lips parted as he looks at you.

"Y/n-"

The brittle vulnerability is fleeting, like the laughs at your father's drunken speech. It comes and goes, the sound drowning each time you look at his eyes.

All words are futile devices. You're the one who knows such thing best.

"Don't"

Don't speak.

Don't ruin this.

Don't make me think of questions I'm too afraid to hear the answers.

"Okay" he coincides. "We won't"

We won't talk.

We won't ruin this.

We won't think about what this is and what it means.

But all the forbidden is lost when his touch and perfume stay in your skin even as you sink down on your lavender sheets and the feeling of knowing something you hadn't before remains.

Your birthday had been a day before, the sun casting it's rays as your feet walked barefoot through the marble frigid floors; it could've been an omen about the cold to come. Around you, staff scrubbed floors with remanents of confetti. Some balloons were still standing in the garden. There was some leftover cake in the fridge.

"Y/n. You're awake"

Your father's gaze was one of pity. You were too young to understand that.

"Where's mommy?"

You hadn't even opened the mountain of presents awaiting in the living room and Sofía Reyes was gone.

She never came back.

Maybe that's why you hate your birthday. Maybe that's why you hate marriages. Love. It was a cruel lie sold to you and then taken away, to be locked behind a part of you that died the day you turned eight. You were forced to grow up, devoid of the loving touch of a mother who didn't hesitate to leave you behind like the discarded dolls you tore that day, futile attempts of replicating her touch with the maids, a sea of faces who failed to last long, characters broken by your desperate wails and short temper.

All you had was the rage of an unloved child. Hate.

Hate turned into resent, then barely a quiet rage, enough to carry you through cold interactions and your father's second, third, fourth, now fifth marriage. Enough to fuel the determination that had driven you to excel in your classes. Conquer. Crush. No one dared to mess with you. And that's what made you raise to the top: the best of the very best. Paired with your father's money and contacts, a few years later and you were New York's most sought after divorce lawyer.

It filled you with a wicked pride. A cruel sense of satisfaction of some sorts. May be the power of ending what once was love, and now had dwindled into apathy, bitterness or just the cold silence of a foretold death, ending with just the twisted knife of your signature. In a way, it made you feel like a god: capable of doing and undoing what people considered sacred. You laughed about that. Forever was, indeed, the sweetest con.

You didn't believe in love.

And you were final about it, just like with everything else.

"Mrs. Wallace is outside" your secretary's voice chimes in. You told her to stop using the phone and instead come to your door directly: you never know when you could answer and it'd be your dad, the last person you want to hear ask you about anything going on in your life. "Should I tell her to come in?"

Your latest client. About to end a marriage of almost two decades because her husband cheated. The goal? Keep her lavish lifestyle, which meant winning a part of his money.

Of course, she had come to your office for help.

"Yes. Thank you"

You search for her file in your computer, feeling disoriented all of a sudden.

"Um, I'm sorry, Caro" she stops on her tracks at your office's door. "What day is today?"

"June 17th"

It's today.

Carolina quirks an eyebrow, and you hate the way she squints her eyes, as if to decipher you.

"Should I clear your schedule for the rest of the day?"

A beat goes by.

"No" you resume your typing, probably to avoid her gaze or to busy yourself. Maybe both. "As a matter of fact, pack it up as much as you can"

She sighs, turning her heels, not before looking at you one last time.

"Happy birthday, Ms. Beaumont"

She leaves you alone, closing the door softly after her. The Reyes is silent, as the room. You shake your head, typing your thoughts away.

There is nothing to celebrate.

The door flings open, the loud click of heels against your office floors. You just hope Mrs. Wallace doesn't ruin your handmade carpet from Morocco with her shoes.

"Hello, Y/n!" her voice may be annoying, but at least she took the weight of your last name off. "Ugh, I've been dying to see you"

"It's good to see you too, Mrs. Wallace"

"Drop that. Just Mia" winking while placing her Hermès on the chair to her side. "And it's all thanks to you"

Mia isn't an awful person, just annoying. Annoyingly rich.

You pull out a stack of documents neatly organized inside a carpet.

"Okay, so I just need you to check this documents-"

"No need" she's quick to dissmiss coolly, in that elegant yet frigid way of her kind. Then, her red lips (try to) form a smile through her botox injections. "Do me a favor and entertain this soon to be divorcee, dear. Show me your client list, maybe set me up with another hot-"

You let out your first real laugh in a while.

"Oh, you're funny Mia! But I'm not a matchmaker" you lean back in your chair, giving you a perfect peek of your degree, diploma and doctorate. You smile, satisfied. "See those behind you? I don't bring couples together. I tear them apart"

She stares at you, dumbfounded.

"That was cold" Mia deadpans.

Bit ironic, innit?

You shrug, unbothered. "It's my job and I'm the best. Which is why you came to me, right?"

She nods, slowly.

"Well then!" you clasp your hands together, startling the blonde woman. "Let's get back to what matters, shall we? I promise you that pathetic excuse of a husband you have named Mark will pay"

There's only two things you know: money and heartbreak. Born into New York's posh society, all your life you've been surrounded by the lavish of the elite world: a world that smells like unaffordable cologne, brands, burnt cigars, exclusivity and superciliousity.

You're as familiar with extravangance and parties as you are with big lonely houses and no one to call when you're down. It is all a blur of strenuous music of bars and drinks down, but when it's quiet, it's all about the silence like someone has died.

It's the price to pay, you think as you look down, to the tiny passerby walking on the bustling streets. You like to wonder about their lives and if they're happier than you, a secret torture kept hidden between you and the glass walls of your office at the firm.

You're already thinking what movie you'll choose for tonight as Joaquín, your personal chauffeur, drives up to your apartment.

He opens the door for you, lending a hand.

"Have a good night, Ms. Y/n"

For some reason, be it his respect for your chosen aphony or the familiarity not to be confused with warmth, you let him address you by your name, unlike the rest of your staff.

"Thank you" a word so small and repetitive yet foreign in your lips.

No congratulations, but his last look over the shoulder and nod may be. He probably is the only one who has seen the faces of distate as you answered your phone through his rearview mirror, displeased at the words of supposed affection of your acquaintances.

As you step inside, the bright lights and minimalist decoration wash over your tired form.

"Ms. Beaumont" it's your concierge. Your feet are killing you, and all you want is to take a bath and order some sushi. Not more human interactions for the day. "There's someone waiting for you"

Just what you needed.

"It's nine, Clark" you seethe his name, rolling your eyes. "Who could possibly need me?"

"Hey, little one"

Never have those words felt more out of place. He has never felt more out of place.

"Dad" you force a smile. He takes some strides across the lobby until he's stading in front of you, close as to see the new spots on his skin but not enough to be at hug's length. It's not like you ever did. "You could've called, you know?"

To say those two words I could care less about.

"It's important" he makes a gesture of remembering. "Oh! Happy birthday, by the way" you didn't expect less, "how much is it?"

Of course he didn't cross half Manhattan to congratulate you.

"Twenty-six" you reply, nonchalant.

"Time flies by, does it?" he tries to sound nostalgic, but it falls flat and artificial, as a rehearsed speech. It all felt like that, anyways.

"It does" you cut his bullshit off. "What do you want?"

He laughs, loudly. "Ah, that's my girl! Look at you" he points your suit, making your cheeks flare up between anger and embarrassement. "In this tight attire, talking like a bussiness woman!"

Your father looked as if you had slapped him in his face when you told him you wanted to be a lawyer. He could've cut you off, but you were his only family. I will make you proud, you assured him. At the end of the day, above all, you were still a daughter. So you used his money and your skills to build where you stand today. Despite it all, he still found ways to put you down and make you feel eighteen again, as the weak little girl who quietly cried herself to sleep, Yale acceptance letter tucked harshly in the trash.

But he started this.

Your father would never understand this choice was his fault.

"Now, let's talk, then" you snicker a small finally in there. "Impatient one, as always. Aren't you? Here, take a look for yourself"

He hands you an envelope. It doesn't take you two to put the pieces together.

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Annabelle is sick" he's quick to explain. "I want you to come with me"

Sick could mean many things: the flu, sick of me... Maybe he'll show up in a few months at your office to end his fifth.

You quirk an eyebrow, annoyed. "Do you want me or need me to?"

"Whatever suits you" he adopts that posture of his, as to indicate the conversation is over. "I just need you to be there"

Not an option. You eye the envelope again, tearing it open. The first words you see, big in bold are Open Bar. You place the invitation inside again, not bothering to read the rest. That's enough for now.

"I will be"

If you knew all that was to come, you would've declined.

The image of your father on the lobby of your apartment, one he just hadn't bothered to visit since you moved in two years ago, has been in your mind since last night.

Why was he there? It must've been important.

"What do you mean you were busy?" your friend, Rachel, huffs. You roll your eyes at her over the top voice for a simple conversation at brunch. Your head pounds, probably for tonight's event or the guilty bottle of wine emptied alone now turned hangover.

"I was working" you reply, stuffing a bit of salad on your mouth to avoid a gag.

"You're always working" she's quick to counter. "You're supposed to have fun in your birthday! And, you know, reply to your friend's texts"

You look at a spot on the white tablecloth.

"You know I'm not one to celebrate my birthday. We can go out any other day you'd like"

Rachel twirls a loose strand of her curly ginger hair, absentminded.

"You still ignored me"

You stiffle a laugh. "Should I apologize?"

"You never do" she leans back on her seat. "By the way, what's that?"

Your phone chimes in again, as on cue.

"Ugh, it's Nessa. No idea? My personal stylist, Rach" you turn off your phone, annoyed. "I don't get the point of validating my appointment. If I booked it last minute, urgently, why would I cancel?"

Rachel wiggles her brows, teasingly.

"Is it for a date? Please tell me it's for a date"

Last time you went on one, it was last year; you just didn't want to go to Rachel's New Year's Eve party alone. You haven't spoken to Barret (or was it Baxter?) ever since.

"It's a gala" you sigh.

"That's pretty much the same to me" she raises her glass. "Any cute boys going?"

"I didn't check the invitation. My dad forced me to go" you yawn. "Is it important, anyway? It's for amFAR. Won't be the first nor the last of the year"

"Figures. My dad is going" she casually mentions, diving back to her forgotten croissant.

"Wait" a beat. "If my dad and your dad are going, then-"

"Harry Castillo" you seethe.

He's in the back, surrounded by a crowd, wrapped around his finger. He may be aware, by his charming smile. All the world, licking at his hand for scraps of his precious attention, hovering around as dirty flies over the most exquisite banquet. Harry is like the sun: everyone can't help but orbit around him, drawn by his light.

But he was never like the others.

Which is why you despised him.

Him, who is now walking towards you with purposeful strides and a polite smile.

"Ah, David!" his voice utters in a deep tone. It's cheerful, too cheerful for a gala full of the cold echo of cutlery and rehearsed smiles. "How's Annabelle?"

"Sick" he smiles, but it sounds scornful. "Do you remember my daughter, Y/n? She's here on behalf of her"

Your father offers the same tight smile your way. Behave, as if you were the same little kid who cried to be taken home.

He lets out a boisterous laugh. "Of course I do"

Him, who knew exactly how to get under your skin: could be the way his brown orbs shine with sincere warmth as he leans forward, or his tone, charged with an autority that demanded respect. Like the world owed him a favor just for existing. But it is too the way he takes in your hand, chapped lips pressing against the soft of your skin, the sound of a kiss as he whispers your name like he owns it: as if Harry Castillo was the only man capable of saying it.

You can feel his moustache scratch your palm. Can feel his cologne start to invade your nostrils. Your mind. Your common sense. Your head spins, but you haven't even had a drink yet.

What is happening and why does he look at you like he knows?

"Always a gentleman, my friend" your father bursts your train of thoughts.

"Someone has to" he replies, velvet voice laced with something you can't quite place.

Why does he affect you so much, down to the marrow of your silver bones?

"Don't you think so, Y/n?"

"What?"

"The world needs more people" your father speaks, "like Harry"

More people with gelled curls pulled backwards. With expensive cologne that enters the room before they did, as intoxicating as their presence. With more new spots on their skin, blooming as the grays that have started to sprout between the chocolate of their hair.

More people who preferred a dinner and conversation over a club and a drink. Who took their time to search all of Manhattan for the perfect bouquet. That kissed with a force so inebriating, your cheeks turned vinious and body went limp.

More people who still believed in love. Good old-fashioned lover boys.

You purse your lips. "Sure thing. Would be wonderful"

Harry Castillo gives you his best smile. "I'm glad you agree"

You so desperately need a drink.

Outside, the world seems quiet.

Just at your feet, cars zoom and people walk, sounds beating raw with the hearbeat of a city that never sleeps.

But up here, you like the con of a lull night.

For a moment, it's like the world let's you breath, and no matter how much you love the club's strobbing lights and loud beat, or the sharp edge of words thrown in the court's enclosed space, you would still choose this fleeting moment of calm.

Your heart has never felt at peace.

"You have a bit of a habit of running away, don't you?"

Your breath steadies a bit. Like you expected this to happen.

"And you have one of prying into other people's bussiness"

Just like that, your wall is up again, long gone the sense of silent ease.

He chuckles, lightly so. "It's kind of what I do for a living. Guess old habits die hard"

Speaking of which, he pulls out a cigarette from his pocket.

"Do you mind?"

You look at him, puzzled. He pats his pristine suit, then shoots you an apologetic smile.

"I seem to have forgotten my lighter"

"I quit"

He raises an eyebrow. "Good for you" but his tone is full of mockery.

Like he doesn't believe you to be capable of holding to your promises.

Surrendering to Harry felt easy, not humiliating. It's not like you would be the first, nor last to do so.

"I still carry some for emergencies"

It's the same lighter he's seen all this years, accompanying you on lonely balconies and packed rooms, yet looking as new as the day you were given so, because you had a knack for caring too much.

It had an S, a B and an R, but even as he heard some things, he never dared to ask why you treasured it so much.

"Is this an emergency enough?"

The corner of his lips curve upwards at the same time he leans closer. You recognize the Myrrhe Mystère he's bathed his honeyed skin in.

You flicker the light once.

"Come closer and find out"

You flick it again, and it's just him and you, in that terrace, the wind blowing hard but not enough to kill the flame: for a moment, barely seconds, the blaze bathes his auburn eyes in a warm glow, as if they were the very same fire in your hand.

"There you go" voice impossibly soft.

This is hate: the way your breaths seems to mingle with your pulse, paused. Afraid to reveal more than meets the eye. The way your voice reduces to a whisper, as if speaking loudly would give your thoughts away.

This is the real reason you hate him: because no matter how many roads you take, the world is a sphere, and at the end of the day, it all leads to Harry Castillo's irritating, irksome and exasperating way of haunting your mind when you give him just a small space.

But that was him. Demanding. It was never enough. He needed more: even in the scope of your thoughts. Consuming. As the cigarette that hangs from his lips.

"Thanks" he pulls back, taking a drag. "Aren't you a doll?"

You remain emotionless. You try. Try, try, try.

"Dolls don't speak. They just look pretty"

Another drag. Slow. Your eyes drift to the shape of his mouth.

His eyes find yours, smirking. "Then you're already halfway there"

You give him your back, already done with this conversation. But he isn't: something about rich people and not knowing how to lose. You know it all too well, carry the disease yourself.

Harry Castillo always needs to have the last word. Like the last bullet of a gun.

It's got to land.

"You know, you're just like your dad"

The bitter aftertaste of champagne bubbles up your throat. You turn around, with pounding head and heart.

"I'm his daughter" you reply.

"I mean you're shit at pretending"

You laugh, incredulously. "Oh, aren't you a know it all? What, is that your job too?"

"Sometimes, we enjoy doing things that aren't our duty. Nonetheless, they capture our interest"

You feel a myriad of things: angry, humiliated, brave, stupid. Briefly reminds you of Rufus, your dad's old hunting dog. When he got sick, he got mean and angry. Bit the hand of his owner and licked it after.

"And what could I possibly offer to capture yours?"

He smiles. You feel him walk closer, cut the distance between your cold bodies, until the green of his ring becomes clear in your visual field.

"Your inability to keep your lies alive"

You forget how to breath until his arm brushes past yours. He kills the cigarette with a learnt casualty, the flame going out with a hss. His body remains rooted in place, caging you against the cold metal until it presses on the bare back your dress shows.

"Fuck you, Harry" you seethe.

How he always managed to ruin your day was a mystery, but it's always been like this: the push and pull, until someone gives in.

Small cuts until the wound is too big to ignore.

Dards thrown against the biggest of dartboards to exist, where every hit hurts.

"S' not the first time I've been told so" he chuckles. "Not by you, either. Looking forward to that"

The bewilderment in your face must be obvious by the way he smiles, sadly so. He starts to walk away, back to the on-going party.

"Hey! Where are you going?" you shout, "this isn't over yet"

You think he mumbles a You can't have it all.

"I can" you feel your body shake with vitriol. "Don't you know who I am?"

Why do you keep letting him get away with it?

You tell yourself each time that this is it, but it's impossible to ignore how he always makes you lose the mask you have carefully crafted.

He's like a mirror, but where light meets his reflection, you meet the darks of his shadow. It's like his sole purpose it's to remind you of the filth within you and the heavy weight of the crown with your father's last name. The more you stare at his eyes, the easier is to pick apart the flaws you know but don't feel in yourself to change.

It's like he knows you. Like Harry truly sees you for who you are: past your silver spoon, your spiteful remarks meant to wound, night life, expensive brands and opulence.

Worst part? He doesn't seem to mind the crisp of your rotten skin. You don't, either: a burnt child loves the fire.

"I do" he replies, his soft remark washing over your ember flaming anger. "But do you?"

You let him walk away. It's too much. You look at the the expanse of water surrounding the island, all to not drown on his eyes and the thoughts in your head he always makes you second-guess.

Pathetic.

Then, one final time, he turns around, glancing at you deeply, as if remembering something.

"I know it was yesterday but, happy birthday, Y/n" whispered in a fragile breath that gets lost in the sea of buildings and smog of Manhattan.

It lingers. Like his perfume over your clothes and the smell of the smashed cigarrette against the railing. It too lingers like the weight that's pressed over your chest and you can't name.

He doesn't wait for an answer. You don't have one.

And then he leaves.

You look to the skycrapers, coldly trying to replicate the beauty of the stars above, trying to reach the sky but falling short.

Trying, trying, trying.

You close your eyes and breath.

Falling, falling, falling.

Two words. Almost two decades of hating it. All it took was Harry Castillo's mouth to utter them as if it was important.

You shake your head in disbelief.

Because, for the first time in a lifetime, your birthday feels like it matters.

Your lashes fluttered open slowly and there he was, leaning over you beneath the pale morning light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his bedroom. His hair was slightly messy from sleep, dark curls falling carelessly onto his forehead, his jaw still rough with the beginnings of stubble. Bare. Warm. One arm braced beside your head while the other stayed wrapped around your waist beneath the sheets, like even in sleep he hadn’t risked letting you drift too far away.

His mouth brushed yours again, warm and slow, carrying traces of whiskey from last night mixed with his cologne and yours still lingering faintly on his skin. Beneath it all was the unmistakable scent of sex still clinging to both of you — slept-in sheets, bare skin, sweat, tangled limbs, and hours spent wrapped around each other instead of sleeping.

Your breath caught softly against his lips, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief.

“Mm… good morning to you too, handsome,” you murmured sleepily, stretching slightly beneath him.

Harry’s eyes softened instantly at the sound of your voice. “Marry me,” he repeated, lower this time, his lips leaving yours to press slow kisses along your jaw and down the side of your neck.

You let out a quiet breath at the sensation, fingers sliding lazily into his hair. “You’re very persistent this morning, Mr. Castillo.”

“Consistent,” he corrected smugly against your skin.

His mouth drifted lower, brushing over your collarbone now, lingering there just long enough to make your breathing deepen. You felt his smile against your skin when a small sigh escaped you.

You laughed softly under your breath. “Consistently trying to manipulate me while I’m half asleep, apparently.”

Harry hummed thoughtfully. “Worth trying.” His hand slid slowly along your bare thigh, his warm palm smoothing over soft skin as he pulled you closer against his naked body beneath the sheets, like there hadn’t been a single moment during the night where he hadn’t needed to touch you somehow. The lingering warmth between your thighs made you shift slightly, still sticky and oversensitive from hours earlier, the feeling clinging to your skin with every small movement beneath the blankets. Sleep still fogged your mind, but the faint reminder of him left against your body made your cheeks warm as you tucked yourself closer into his chest.

“Manipulation before breakfast. Impressive.”

“I prefer strategic persistence.”

Your stomach tightened instantly. “Harry,” you murmured, finally opening your eyes properly now.

Your hand pressed lightly against his chest, trying to push him back enough to look at him, but the moment his hand settled higher against your thigh, your breath caught again.

“Not wearing the ring yet is not the same thing as rejecting you.”

A slow smile pulled at his mouth. “Still sounded suspiciously close to rejection.”

You rolled your eyes lightly, fingers brushing through his curls before your gaze flicked toward the digital clock sitting on the nightstand beside the bed. “You proposed less than ten hours ago.”

“And I’m already prepared to ask again,” he murmured against your jaw. A kiss. “Repeatedly.” Another. “Until you say…” Then another, on the lips. “…yes.”

You laughed softly into the kiss this time, your arms slipping around his neck as you finally gave up trying to resist him entirely, letting yourself melt back into the sheets beneath him.

Eight hours earlier…

The Vestry— 8:17 p.m.

The Vestry had never looked like this before.

The restaurant still breathed with its usual elegance—low golden lighting, dark polished wood, the distant clink of crystal and silver somewhere far from the private section hidden deeper inside—but tonight, everything near your table had been transformed into something quieter. More intimate.

Every surrounding table had been cleared for the evening. Reserved. Untouched.

Deep red peonies bloomed across the room in low arrangements surrounded by candlelight, their petals scattered carefully along the dark floor leading toward the center table like someone had spent hours making sure every detail felt intentional.

And someone had.

Harry stood near the table in a black suit he very clearly had not worn all day. Everything about him looked deliberate tonight.

The sharp lines of the tailored jacket. The crisp black shirt beneath. The silver watch at his wrist. Even his curls had been styled back more carefully than usual, though a few strands had already fallen loose again from how many times he’d dragged his hand through them in the last twenty minutes alone.

Because Harry Castillo— was nervous. Actually nervous.

The small velvet ring box rested in his hand while he stared at it for what was probably the hundredth time tonight.

That ring.

Fresh from Harry Winston after being professionally restored only days ago, the diamond caught the candlelight in violent flashes every time he moved it.

Harry turned the ring slowly between his fingers, quiet for a moment as he imagined it where it belonged.

Back on your hand.

A faint smile pulled at his mouth before he could stop it.

Around him, the staff moved carefully, attentively, adjusting candles, straightening glasses, checking the flowers for what was probably the tenth time tonight. The Vestry had always treated the two of you differently. It was where you first met, where your first dinner turned into something neither of you had managed to walk away from afterward. Everyone here knew that.

And everyone in Manhattan knew Harry Castillo.

Some of the staff had watched your first marriage unfold in real time from these very tables. Some remembered the nights Harry used to come here alone after the divorce, sitting at the same table for hours with a whiskey in front of him he barely touched.

So the second the private reservations came in tonight, whispers had spread through the restaurant almost instantly.

Mr. Castillo is proposing again.

Which explained why every single detail tonight had been handled with almost ridiculous care. The red peonies. The candles. The completely cleared section of the restaurant surrounding your table. Even the musicians near the bar had been quietly instructed to hold At Last until the exact moment you arrived.

A few lingering guests near the main dining area had started noticing the atmosphere, especially the women openly watching Harry with varying levels of envy and emotional investment.

Because unfortunately for everyone involved— he looked devastating tonight.

One of the managers approached carefully.

“Mr. Castillo, the wine pairing has been prepared and the kitchen is ready whenever you are.”

Harry nodded once. “Thanks.”

“The flowers were refreshed twenty minutes ago as requested.”

Another nod.

“And the musicians have your timing.”

“Perfect.”

The manager smiled knowingly before stepping away again.

Harry exhaled slowly and pulled out his phone. Ron picked up almost immediately.

“Well?” Harry asked.

“She just left,” Ron said proudly. “Dana confirmed it herself.”

Harry’s stomach tightened instantly. “She’s on her way?”

“She’s on her way.”

Ron paused. Then—

“You okay?”

Harry looked down at the ring again. “…no.”

“Boss, relax. She’s going to say yes.”

“You sound very confident about that.”

“You’re wearing that suit. At this point saying no would qualify as a felony in at least three states.”

Harry laughed at that, then, before he could answer, one of the servers approached him quickly.

“Mr. Castillo,” he said softly, unable to hide his smile, “Ms. Queen just arrived.”

Everything inside Harry seemed to stop.

Then immediately start all over again twice as hard. His pulse slammed against his ribs. He swallowed. Adjusted his cuff. Straightened his jacket unnecessarily.

The server discreetly disappeared again while Harry reached for one of the untouched glasses of water on the table, taking a slow sip just to give his hands something to do besides shake.

Then— he turned toward the entrance.

And there you were.

The moment you stepped inside, the entire room seemed to narrow around you automatically.

The hostess greeted you softly while another employee carefully took your coat, but your attention had already drifted past them into the restaurant itself.

At first, all you noticed were the empty tables. The flowers. The candlelight. The scattered crimson petals across the floor.

Then your eyes lifted further.

And found him.

Harry stood waiting near the center table, one hand resting loosely near his pocket, the black suit fitting him so perfectly it almost knocked the breath from your lungs entirely.

No. Not almost. It did.

For one suspended second, you genuinely forgot how to breathe.

He looked— more handsome than you remembered. More handsome than your wedding day somehow.

And nervous.

That part hit you hardest.

His smile widened the second your eyes met, something vulnerable flickering behind all that composure so briefly most people would’ve missed it completely.

But you never missed things when it came to him.

Soft jazz drifted through the room around you.

At Last.

Without thinking, you started walking toward him. Drawn. Like your body already knew where it belonged.

Harry didn’t move either.

He just watched you approach him slowly, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made the entire room disappear piece by piece until it felt like only the two of you still existed inside it.

You stopped inches away from him. Close enough to feel his warmth. Close enough to smell the faint cedar and amber of his cologne.

Your lips parted slightly, but your thoughts had stopped functioning somewhere halfway across the restaurant.

“Harry…”

Your eyes flicked around the room once more before returning to him helplessly.

Harry smiled crookedly.

God. That smile.

“Welcome, baby.”

His voice gave him away immediately. Harry tilted his head slightly, wetting his lips once before extending one hand toward you.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

You automatically placed your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours instantly before he lifted your hand and pressed a soft kiss against your knuckles.

And suddenly— you understood.

Really understood.

All of it.

The flowers. The empty room. The music. The way he looked at you.

Your heart climbed straight into your throat. Your eyes burned almost immediately, emotion crashing into you so fast it nearly made you dizzy. A small part of you—the part that still hated losing control, hated surprises, hated not being emotionally prepared—tried to panic for half a second.

But Harry’s thumb brushed slowly over your hand. And the panic disappeared beneath something louder. Something warmer.

Harry took one slow breath. Then another. Like he was steadying himself.

Finally— without letting go of your hand— he lowered himself onto one knee.

Your breath caught completely.

This felt nothing like the first proposal.

That one had been impulsive. Reckless. Like the two of you had collided into something inevitable too fast to stop yourselves from falling into it.

But this— this had been chosen. Thought about. Planned carefully. Earned through every mistake, every heartbreak, every impossible road that somehow led you back to each other anyway. Built carefully piece by piece by someone who knew exactly what this moment meant.

And because you knew him so well, you could see every emotion fighting behind his eyes all at once.

Hope. Fear. Love.

And something unbearably vulnerable underneath all of it.

Harry lifted your hand again, pressing another kiss against your skin before finally speaking.

“My love…”

Your tears spilled instantly at the way he said it.

“I wanted to do this here,” he said softly, glancing briefly around the restaurant. “At the place where I first held your hand. Where we had our very first dinner.” His gaze returned to yours. “It didn’t feel right anywhere else.”

Your lips trembled.

Harry smiled gently when you nodded through your tears.

Then he inhaled deeply and reached into his jacket pocket.

The moment you saw the black velvet box— your heart stopped.

Harry opened it carefully.

And there it was.

The same ring. The same one he had proposed with seven years ago. The same ring you wore for two years. The same ring you placed back into his hand on the courthouse steps the day your marriage ended.

The same ring he had apparently kept through every year apart.

Every what if. Every almost. Every version of losing you.

But now— it somehow looked different.

Not because the diamond had been restored.

Because you had.

Your vision blurred completely.

“Harry you--” you whispered shakily.

“Wait,” he said softly, smiling through his own emotion now. “Please let me ask properly.”

You nodded immediately despite the tears slipping endlessly down your cheeks.

Because suddenly you realized— he had probably spent all night thinking about this moment.

Harry looked at you for a long second before speaking again.

“Do you remember what I said the first time I asked you?”

You didn’t even have to think.

“‘I feel like I found something everyone spends their whole life looking for.’”

Your voice broke halfway through repeating the words.

The memory hit both of you instantly.

Harry smiled softly.

“When we... lost each other…” he admitted quietly, “I thought I lost that too.”

Your face crumpled immediately.

“Harry…”

He shook his head gently before you could stop him.

“But somehow…” His eyes held yours completely now. “Years later, you still chose me again.”

A tear slipped down his cheek this time too.

“You have no idea how lucky that makes me feel.”

Your hand covered your mouth as another sob escaped you.

Harry looked down briefly at the ring before lifting his gaze back to yours one final time. Completely open. Completely in love.

He held the ring toward you carefully.

“Will you marry me again, baby?”

Your hand covered your mouth as another shaky breath left you. Tears blurred your vision so badly you could barely see him anymore.

Harry stayed there in front of you, still holding the ring carefully between his fingers, his eyes locked on yours with so much hope it almost hurt to look at him.

For a second— you couldn’t speak.

Your heart was screaming yes.

God.

Every part of you wanted to say yes. Right now. Immediately.

But another feeling crashed into it just as hard.

Fear.

Not of him. Never him.

Of everything else.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out at first.

Harry’s smile faltered only slightly. Just enough for you to notice.

“Baby…” he said softly after a moment, his voice careful now. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head quickly, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Harry…” You pressed a hand against your chest helplessly. “This is… this is everything.”

The tension in his face loosened a fraction.

But only a fraction.

“I...” you whispered instantly. “I love you. Harry, I love you so much.”

“Then say yes.”

You let out another uneven breath, looking down briefly as you tried to steady your thoughts enough to speak.

Harry waited.

Silent now.

Watching you carefully.

Still kneeling.

Still holding the ring.

Like he would’ve stayed there all night if that’s what you needed.

And slowly— the hope in his expression began to shift into something quieter.

“…is it the ring?”

You blinked. “What?”

A faint, almost teasing smile pulled weakly at the corner of his mouth despite the hurt still sitting underneath it.

“Did I make a mistake not getting a new one?”

“Harry, no,” you sighed. “Of course not.”

His thumb brushed slowly against your hand.

“Then what is it?” he asked gently.

“Because I don’t want this to happen in the middle of chaos,” you whispered.

Harry’s mouth twitched faintly despite the disappointment still lingering there.

“Baby,” he murmured softly, “our entire relationship has been chaos.”

“Exactly,” you sniffled. “And look how that turned out for us the first time.”

Somewhere behind you, a tray of untouched champagne glasses shifted softly.

The staff had still been waiting. Watching carefully from a respectful distance near the back of the private room, all clearly expecting the moment the ring slipped onto your finger.

A few of the younger servers had started leaning forward slightly, curiosity getting the better of them the longer the two of you stayed there talking quietly instead of celebrating.

The manager immediately shot them a look.

The staff scattered subtly after that, pretending very hard not to be emotionally invested while absolutely being emotionally invested.

You bent down, your hands finding his jaw gently as you pressed a soft kiss against his cheek. Then another against his lips.

Harry closed his eyes briefly at the contact.

“Don’t do that,” you murmured softly against his mouth. “Don’t look so heartbroken.”

A quiet laugh escaped him despite himself, eyes glassy now too.

“How exactly am I supposed to look right now, baby?”

Your chest tightened painfully.

You brushed your thumb gently beneath his eye before kissing him once more.

Then softer—

“Come here,” you whispered softly. “Let’s sit down and eat something while we talk, okay? I’m sttarving.”

A tiny smile pulled at your mouth through the tears.

“Apparently I’m eating for three now.”

That finally made Harry smile properly.

You took his hand carefully, helping him back to his feet.

The second he stood fully again, he pressed his lips together briefly, the faintest pout pulling at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

It was subtle. Small.

But devastatingly obvious to you anyway.

Your chest ached instantly.

“Harry…”

“I’m okay.”

Which unfortunately sounded very much like he was not okay at all.

You let out the smallest laugh through your tears and reached for his hand again before he could retreat further into himself.

“Harry, listen to me.”

He looked up quietly.

“Okay, look…” You glanced around the room helplessly. The candles. The flowers. The music still playing softly somewhere behind you. “This is beautiful.”

Your voice softened immediately.

“No, actually, it’s more than beautiful. I swear, I couldn’t have imagined something this perfect.”

Harry stayed quiet.

You squeezed his hand gently.

“And thank you,” you whispered honestly. “For all of this.”

Some of the tension in his shoulders eased slightly at that.

“But…” You exhaled shakily. “You deserve an explanation.”

Harry’s eyes stayed locked on yours.

“And if I say yes… if we get engaged again…” You shook your head slightly. “I need it to feel right this time.”

A quiet silence settled between you before you continued.

“Our lives are already constantly in front of cameras, Harry. Every relationship headline turns into a business headline too.”

You swallowed softly.

“And now with the company barely stabilizing after the scandal…”

Harry’s jaw tightened slightly.

“The board’s watching every move I make right now,” you continued quietly. “I just became executive chair. Investors are nervous. The press practically lives outside my building.”

You let out a weak breath.

“If we announce another engagement now, it becomes another spectacle. Another distraction. Another thing people use against us.”

“Baby,” Harry said softly, “the company is not more important than us.”

“I know it’s not.” Your voice caught slightly. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

You stepped closer again.

“I’m saying this matters too much for me to let it become part of all that noise.”

That landed.

You saw it immediately in his face.

Not anger. Not frustration.

Just hurt.

Quiet hurt.

“And now we’re having twins,” you whispered shakily. “Everything in my life changed overnight again.”

A weak laugh escaped you through the emotion.

“Which apparently is very on brand for us.”

That finally pulled the faintest breath of amusement from him.

But your eyes filled again almost immediately.

“I just got you back, Harry.” Your fingers tightened around his hand. “And I’m terrified of something ruining this again before we even get the chance to really live it.”

Harry swallowed once before speaking quietly.

“You think marrying me ruins this?”

“No,” you answered instantly, stepping closer again. “God, no.”

Your free hand moved gently against his chest.

“I’m saying this matters too much.”

The honesty in your voice softened something in his expression immediately.

“I’m happy,” you admitted shakily. “Too happy, actually.”

A weak laugh escaped you.

“That’s what scares me.”

Silence settled softly between you again.

Jazz music drifted through the restaurant quietly behind you while candlelight flickered against the empty tables around you.

Harry looked down briefly at the ring still sitting in his hand before lifting his eyes back to yours.

“You’re not saying no,” he said softly.

Your answer came immediately.

“No.”

Relief flickered across his face so fast it almost hurt to look at.

You stepped even closer then, your voice gentler now.

“I want you to ask me again.”

Harry’s brows lifted slightly.

“When all of this settles down a little,” you whispered. “When I can actually breathe long enough to enjoy it properly.”

Your eyes dropped briefly toward the ring.

“Because when I wear that ring again…” Your throat tightened softly. “I don’t want it to feel tied to scandals or headlines or board meetings.”

You looked back up at him.

“I just want it to mean you and me.”

Harry stared at you quietly.

So you smiled through your tears and squeezed his hand again.

“So…” Your voice softened almost shyly now. “Give me a little more time.”

A tiny smile pulled weakly at your mouth.

“Then ask me again.”

Back to now.

Honestly, you still weren’t entirely sure how you had ended up back in his bed after not saying yes the night before.

Not that you regretted it.

Because, in your defense— Harry had looked unfairly good last night.

By the end of dinner, every time he glanced at you with those dark brown eyes and that heartbreakingly soft expression, heat had curled lower and lower in your stomach until simply sitting across from him had started feeling impossible.

And the worst part?

The sad puppy look had somehow made him even more attractive.

Which felt deeply unfair to your hormonal state.

So maybe— maybe that was why, the second you got into the limousine, you had looked over at him and quietly told him how devastatingly handsome he looked tonight.

Harry had blinked at you at first. Surprised.

Then slowly smiled.

And once your hand slid across his thigh beneath the dim lights of the car— everything after that had completely unraveled.

Because Harry had touched you back immediately.

And the second your mouths found each other— logic disappeared.

After that there had only been heat. Need. Hunger.