#foxtrology

Harry looked at you like he didn’t need to own you to want you. And somehow that made you want him more.

He sent flowers. Peonies, when they were out of season. Small arrangements from a florist in the West Village that wrote notes by hand. You saved the cards in a cigar box at the foot of your bed. Your sister had teased you for it until she realized you were serious.

You were serious. You had told him, directly, that you weren’t seeing anyone else. He’d responded without flinching. “Me neither,” he said. “I couldn’t.”

That was months ago, and nothing had changed since—except everything had.

You had started sleeping over.

Not just the way you had that first time—tangled and breathless from sex, still dressed from dinner, limbs coiled in instinct. Now it was softer. Quieter. You kept a toothbrush there. Hair ties. A copy of The Talented Mr. Ripley in his bookshelf that you swore had always been yours, though he claimed he bought it to impress you.

Breakfasts became your ritual.

He’d pour you tea before he poured his coffee. You’d take your seat on the stool by the kitchen island and read out loud to him while he shaved—NYT headlines, art reviews, occasionally one of your texts from your sister, if only for comedic effect.

Sloane: you better not skip pilates again, or mom is going to think you’re pregnant or depressed.

Sometimes you’d skip anyway.

You’d started driving into the city from Brooklyn just for those mornings. He’d leave for the office, and you’d linger in his robe, listening to voicemail notes from your father about the film set, about blocking and camera angles and whatever new tantrum the lead actor was throwing.

You were needed there, sure. But Harry needed you too, in a way that didn’t feel like obligation. And so you carved out time. You gave yourself permission.

Even your sister noticed.

“Do you know what it’s like to explain to mom that you’re on set,” she said once, dramatically plucking an almond from her kale salad, “when I know for a fact you’re having sex in the penthouse of a man who made his first million before the Bush administration?”

You rolled your eyes and stole her matcha. “It was before Obama. Not Bush.”

“Same era. Different war.” She shrugged. “Anyway, good for you. Just don’t make me lie to mom when she starts asking questions about your juice cleanse and you’re out drinking orange wine on a rooftop in SoHo with your geriatric boyfriend.”

“He’s forty-seven.”

“Exactly.”

She didn’t not like him. She just liked being in the know. After her setting you up with him she thought she had the right to know. She liked being right. And she wasn’t wrong—Harry Castillo was complicated. He was handling the trust restructuring for your family’s estate, which in and of itself was a bloodsport of red tape, dead men’s lawyers, and multiple properties no one had stepped foot in since the premiere of Cleopatra.

It was a conflict of interest. It was inappropriate. It was reckless.

It was perfect.

So when your sister let it slip—one minor, snide comment over a glass of wine with your mother at lunch—you weren’t there to catch it.

You were in the city, somewhere with Harry. It might’ve been the bookstore in Nolita with the secret staircase. It might’ve been that small jazz club where he held your hand under the table all night. It might’ve been his bed.

You’d left your phone in your bag. You didn’t feel it buzz when your sister texted you, not once, not twice, but seventimes in a row:

Sloane: okay i fucked up

Sloane: she knows! she KNOWS!

Sloane: i didn’t mean to say his name…but it came out

Sloane: she put it together

Sloane: i’m so sorry but like i’m also mad at you for skipping this weekend

Sloane: come home. she’s in a mood.

By the time you checked your phone, it was too late.

You were sitting in Harry’s kitchen, one leg pulled up onto the stool, eating slices of cold pear with your fingers. He was barefoot in slate gray joggers, reading something on his laptop with his glasses sliding down his nose. You looked at him like you could paint him from memory.

“Everything okay?” he asked, when your expression shifted.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You were thinking about the way your mother’s voice got quiet when she was truly upset. The way her silences had weight, the way her disappointment lived in details. The coffee you forgot to make. The call you didn’t return. The name you didn’t hide well enough.

“Do you think,” you asked Harry, “that dating the man handling our family’s estate is…technically a scandal?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Technically?”

You shrugged, letting your head tip back. “God. She knows.”

He closed the laptop. Slowly. “Your mother?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And how did she—”

“My sister. Who I will now be disowning.”

There was a long pause.

And then Harry smiled, the kind of smile that made you feel like the room was warmer. Like the problem wasn’t so bad. Like maybe he didn’t care about the optics, about the clients, about the clauses in the paperwork with your last name stamped in faded ink.

“I’ll draft the NDA myself,” he said. “Make it romantic.”

You laughed into your tea. You wanted to crawl into his chest and live there for a week.

But you couldn’t. You had to go.

And so you did. You kissed him in the doorway like it wasn’t a war you were walking into. You got into the waiting car like a soldier. The car rolled across the bridge while your phone buzzed again.

One last message from your sister…

Sloane: she’s waiting in the garden. everyone is actually. bring wine. and maybe like…don’t wear anything boring.

When the house appeared slowly through the trees, all limestone and shadow, as though it had grown there—born of wealth and misremembered decades, you let out a groan disguised as a sigh.

Your grandfather had bought it in 1962, back when it was still possible to find real estate like this in the city. A hidden estate just off the edge of Central Park, behind wrought-iron gates and hedges that never stopped growing. The deed still had his name on it, written in cursive so elaborate it looked forged.

He left it to your mother, who never changed a single thing. Not the tapestries, not the pool tile, not the oil painting of herself in the front hall that made guests think she was dead.

You used to love this house. Now it made your stomach twist.

The gravel crunched beneath your tires as you pulled in. There were too many cars in the drive—cousins, second husbands, third husbands, your aunt with the fake accent and her “business partner.” The air smelled like rain that hadn’t come yet and freshly clipped vines. Your hands were still sticky from the pear you ate in Harry’s kitchen.

You parked under the magnolia tree like you used to do when you were sixteen and sneaking cigarettes with Sloane out by the garage. You texted her only one word…

You: here.

You didn’t ring the bell. That would’ve made it worse.

Instead, you entered through the side door, the one that opened directly into the mudroom lined with coats that hadn’t been worn in ten years. You slipped off your ballet flats. You moved quietly, the way you used to when your father was on a call with his agent or your mother was in one of her moods.

The house echoed in the same places it always had. The hallways were too long. The ceilings too tall. Time didn’t pass in here so much as stretch.

You reached the stairs and paused. From the bottom of the bannister, you could hear faint voices drifting in from the garden—glasses clinking, someone laughing, your mother’s signature lilting “mmm” that meant someone had said something she didn’t like but didn’t want to argue with publicly. You felt your spine straighten instinctively.

And then you climbed.

Your childhood bedroom had been turned into a “guest dressing suite.” Your father’s office was still locked, even though he hadn’t worked in it since 2004. Sloane’s old room had become storage, full of unused furniture, old magazine covers with your mother’s face on them, and vacuum-sealed gowns in color coded garment bags.

But your mother’s closet was untouched. Like a museum. A reliquary.

You pushed open the door and stepped into a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and cedar.

The room was too clean. Too cold. Shoes aligned like soldiers. Scarves folded like napkins at a table set for war. The dresses were still in garment bags, except for one—slinky, black, backless. Draped lazily on a velvet hanger as though it had been worn recently. You knew it hadn’t. It had been there since you were a teenager. You remembered the first time you noticed it, half-hidden in a Vogue editorial, your mother nodding coolly and saying, I have that one. Never wore it. Too obvious.

It wasn’t obvious now. It was armor.

You stepped out of your clothes. Peeled off the day. You slid the dress on without a bra and found a pair of heels your sister left in the closet years ago, metallic and sharp. You did your makeup in the mirror using your fingertips, mascara smudged into place, lipstick borrowed from a gold tube with your mother’s initials engraved on it.

When you stepped back and looked at yourself, you saw her. Not your mother, but her—the woman she always wanted you to become. You wanted to spit. But instead, you smiled. Just slightly. A controlled weapon.

You descended the stairs slowly, one hand trailing the mahogany railing. The chandelier trembled in its chain above you. As you passed the portrait in the entry hall, your painted mother seemed to raise an eyebrow.

Outside, the garden opened up like a stage. White tablecloths. Crystal tumblers. A hired string quartet playing something too classical to be charming. Your mother believed in elegance the way some people believed in God—religiously, and without irony.

The pool shimmered. The air was warm but tight. You felt it the moment you stepped onto the flagstone patio.

Heads turned.

You saw her first—your mother.

She was seated under a cream parasol, one long hand resting over her sunglasses, her hair pulled back in a chignon so tight it looked lacquered. She was wearing cream silk pants, kitten heels, and an expression like she had just tasted something slightly sour.

Sloane was beside her, already drinking. She gave you a look that said…I tried.

And then your mother smiled.

You hated that smile. It was the kind that meant game on.

“There she is,” she said, like you’d just come down the runway. “The elusive daughter returns. Did you bring the gin?”

You held up the bottle wordlessly. Hendrick’s, chilled, tucked in a linen bag.

Sloane snorted into her spritz. “She brought the good gin.”

Your mother ignored her.

She gestured for you to sit. The seat across from her was conspicuously empty. You walked toward it like it was a trap. Because it was.

“My darling,” she said, as you lowered yourself into the wrought-iron chair. “How was the Castiilo penthouse?”

The table went quiet. You heard a distant laugh from one of the cousins. A bird chirped. Somewhere in the city, a siren began and faded.

You didn’t flinch.

You poured the gin into a glass without asking and topped it with exactly one ice cube.

“Lovely view,” you said, taking a sip. “You’d hate the furniture.”

Your mother tilted her head. “So minimalist. I’m sure it doesn’t even have curtains.”

“It has curtains,” you said, voice calm. “Linen. Custom. From Milan.”

She blinked. Just once. “How intimate. Imagine knowing a man’s curtains before his middle name.”

“Mom,” Sloane warned, already knowing this was going to spiral.

But it was too late.

Your mother leaned forward, her elbows resting delicately on the table. “I simply find it fascinating, darling. That you’d choose to entangle yourself with the man hired to unravel your family’s legacy. It’s almost poetic. Tragic, yes—but very you.”

You looked down at your glass. The gin caught the light. You remembered Harry’s hands on your back that morning. The sound he made when you laughed against his neck.

You looked up again. “I didn’t choose him. He was my match.”

“From a dating service,” your mother said, with the same tone she used for words like costco or cruise ship.

“It wasn’t intentional.”

She smiled again, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing ever is with you.”

You saw Sloane flinch at that. She reached for your hand under the table but you didn’t take it.

You held your mother’s gaze instead.

“I like him,” you said. “I respect him. He listens to me.”

Your mother laughed, soft and cruel. “Of course he does. You’re young and tragic and you remind him of a life he couldn’t afford the first time around.”

You felt the burn crawl up your throat, but you didn’t let it show. You just raised your glass.

“Well,” you said. “At least I don’t remind him of you.”

Sloane nearly choked on her drink.

Your mother didn’t blink. But you saw it. A crack, a fissure, right in the center of her mask.

The wind picked up. The trees rustled like applause.

You sat back in your chair and smiled, for the first time, not out of victory—but defense.

She took off her sunglasses slowly. Set them on the table.

Her eyes, when she looked at you, were darker than you remembered. Like the past was still living in them.

“To be continued,” she said.

And you knew—it would be.

The moment shattered like glass in your chest, delicate and cutting. Your mother leaned back in her chair as though she’d won something. You stared down into your gin, let the silence spool out like silk, let everyone else pretend they hadn’t heard what just happened.

Then—footsteps on the flagstone. You didn’t look up until someone cleared their throat.

“Hey, stranger.”

It was your cousin Graham, the one with the trust fund and the chain-smoking girlfriend he kept trying to make a model. He leaned down to kiss your cheek and smelled like weed he thought he’d masked with cologne.

“You look—fuck, are you wearing one of Aunt Evelyn’s dresses?”

You smiled tightly. “She never wore it.”

“Tragic,” he said, sipping something vodka-based out of a glass that clinked with far too much ice. “You look like an assassin. In a good way.”

You didn’t ask what the bad way was.

“You staying the whole afternoon?”

“Not if I can help it.”

He laughed, a single snort. “God, same. I’m sitting next to Uncle Vic and he’s already trying to get me to invest in his pickleball startup.”

You raised a brow. “Is it worse than the electric boat thing?”

“Marginally.” He winked. “I’ll bring you a plate if you don’t make it to lunch. You know. In exile.”

And then he disappeared—back to the table of half-blood relatives and summer affair stepchildren.

You turned, ready to take a breath, and instead—

A hand on your arm. Light. Paper thin.

“Darling,” said a voice just behind your ear. “Ignore her.”

Your grandmother.

She had moved like a shadow, no noise, no scent, only the brush of her pearls against your bare shoulder and the faintest trace of lilac. Her hair was light and weightless, like thread pulled from snow. 

“She’s only cruel when she’s scared,” she whispered, almost like she was telling you a secret about someone else entirely.

You didn’t say anything. Just reached up and placed your hand on hers, the one still resting on your arm.

She gave it a soft pat.

“You look just like her,” she said. “Before all the…bitterness.”

You weren’t sure if that was a compliment or a warning. She didn’t clarify. She never did.

When she slipped back into the shade of the pergola, she was already being helped into a seat by a staff member you didn’t recognize. Someone in cream linen, holding a clipboard, ushering servers with tiny plates of things that looked too delicate to eat.

Lunch was beginning.

It always started the same way. Like theatre. Like a meal staged for ghosts.

First, the amuse-bouche. Then the chilled soup. Then the four kinds of bread no one touched except your cousin Lina, who was perpetually hungover and needed carbs to survive social interaction.

You picked a seat at the far end, one with partial shade and a broken umbrella that no one wanted to sit beneath because the stand creaked. You liked it there. You could see everyone without having to talk to them.

Sloane slipped in beside you with a full wineglass and the expression of a woman mid-rescue mission.

“Felt like a war zone out here,” she muttered, sliding the glass across the table to you. “Can’t believe she went full-Mommie Dearest on you?”

“And accused me of being a tragic man’s youth fantasy.”

Sloane winced. “Oof. That’s a classic.”

“Told her I don’t remind him of her.”

Sloane’s eyebrows went up so high you thought they might leave her skull.

“You’re going to hell for that.”

“Hopefully it has central air.”

There was a lull then. Plates being set down. Polite conversation building back up in clinks and murmurs. Someone laughed too loudly from the opposite end of the garden—Aunt Jenna, probably already on her fourth mimosa.

You were about to reach for your fork when your phone buzzed.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him. You felt it. Like a pull in your spine.

Still, you glanced down.

Harry: Thinking about you. Are you okay?

You stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.

Sloane peeked over your shoulder and rolled her eyes. “Ugh. You guys are so in love.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s gross. I love it.”

You typed quickly under the table.

You: Fine. Wish I wasn’t here.

You: Wish I was with you.

Three dots appeared instantly. Then—

Harry: Come back tonight.

Harry: I’ll keep the sheets warm.

Across the table, your uncle was already three bourbons in and talking about cryptocurrency. Your cousin Mila was trying to convince your dad to invest in a sustainable fashion brand run out of Portland. Someone down the table was crying drunk already—quietly, but visibly. You didn’t know who. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

Your eyes drifted from plate to plate—tartlets, cold lobster, a green foam no one could identify.

You wanted to be upstairs in Harry’s penthouse, barefoot in his shirt, drinking tea while he read the news aloud to you like it was gossip. You wanted to be pressed against the window of his kitchen while he kissed your neck. You wanted to feel his hands on your back again—grounded, warm, silent. You wanted to be wantedthe way he wanted you.

Not like this.

Not like them.

Because here—every person at this table was a story unraveling.

Uncle Vic’s startup was a thinly veiled money laundering scheme. Aunt Jenna was on her fifth divorce, and her current husband had already started flirting with a sommelier from Cipriani. Your cousin Henry was on his third stint in rehab, still talking about opening a gallery in Berlin. Your father had lent out so many loans to family members in crisis that you were starting to wonder if the estate would even survive the year.

And your mother—

You swallowed.

Well. She was pretending none of it was happening. Like she always did.

You looked down at your phone again.

Harry: Tonight?

Harry: Yes or no.

Your fingers hovered. You could say yes. You could make up some excuse, slip out after dessert, tell your mother you had to be back on set or fix your father’s script mistakes. 

But you knew how she’d look at you. Knew the knife of it.

And still.

You: Yes.

You locked your phone and slid it onto your lap.

The sky above you was perfect—blue and cruel.

Lunch carried on.

But now you had a reason to get through it. A reason to smile through the champagne toast and nod politely when your great-aunt asked if you were still doing that film thing.

You’d be gone by dusk.

And Harry would be waiting.

You waited until your mother was distracted.

It wasn’t hard.

She was mid-monologue, wine glass tilted in one hand, her mouth painted coral and pursed into a shape that only opened for self-reference. Across the table, your great-aunt was nodding sagely as your mother launched into some story about Cannes in the eighties, about sharing oysters with a costume designer who later won an Oscar and lost a husband. There was laughter. There was a pause for effect. There was a name drop.

And you moved.

Quietly.

Like fog.

You pushed your chair back with the gentlest scrape of iron on stone. No one noticed. No one ever did when your mother was talking. Not even Sloane, who was now four drinks in and dabbing at the condensation on her glass like it was a ritual, watching your mother the way some people watched controlled burns.

You stood.

Carefully.

The hem of the black dress—your mother’s black dress—whispered against your legs. It had shifted in the evening air, the silk catching the light like oil on pavement. You adjusted one strap absentmindedly, felt the faint ache of the wine in your thighs, the gin in your collarbone. Your heels clicked once on the stone before you slipped them off.

Back to ballet flats.

The ones you had tossed under a bench near the house when you arrived—soft, broken in, smelling faintly of the city. They didn’t match the dress. They didn’t have to. You weren’t matching anymore. You were leaving.

Inside the house, the lights had been dimmed. The long hall glowed gold. You found your clutch abandoned on a vintage armchair near the piano. The lipstick was still inside, the cap loose, the bullet tipped from heat. You paused by the hall mirror. Smoothed your hair. Checked your teeth. You looked—expensive. And tired.

But beneath the fatigue was something warm. Soft. Flickering.

You were going to him.

You were going to Harry.

You could’ve said goodbye. Could’ve kissed your grandmother’s cheek, waved to your cousin Graham, whispered something sharp to Sloane. But you didn’t. You couldn’t risk the weight of your mother’s gaze again.

That unbearable, bone-deep disappointment, dressed as concern.

So instead—

You slipped through the side entrance.

The same one you’d come in through. The same one you always used.

The mudroom was quiet. The coats still hung like ghosts. You reached for the door handle, paused only briefly to listen. The string quartet was gone. There was only the sound of forks scraping against plates, someone coughing, the slight hum of the pool filter still running.

You stepped into the dusk like a girl walking into a dream.

The garden lights were flickering on now, slow and automatic, casting soft halos onto the stone paths. The hydrangeas leaned heavy with the heat. You moved carefully, barefoot across the lawn, holding your shoes by their straps, clutch tucked under one arm. You passed the outdoor kitchen, the hedge maze, the old gazebo that your grandfather had commissioned for some long-forgotten birthday.

And then you reached the gravel drive.

Claude was waiting.

Of course he was.

He always waited for you like that—engine purring, air conditioning humming low, music at a soft enough volume you didn’t feel like you had to talk. You opened the back door and slipped in, tucking your shoes beside you, exhaling for the first time in what felt like hours.

He looked at you once in the mirror. Said nothing. Didn’t have to.

You leaned your head against the seat and closed your eyes as he pulled away from the house.

The further you got from the estate, the more your body began to unclench. The car turned down the long gravel drive, and you glanced back only once—just in time to see the cream parasols receding behind the trees, the wrought-iron gate swinging slowly shut.

Goodbye.

You didn’t say it. But it was there.

In the air.

The wine had settled low in your belly, and the gin was somewhere in your fingertips, making them warm, making them loose. You felt—not drunk, but soft around the edges. Tilted. Your thoughts blooming wide like flowers turned toward light.

Your phone was warm in your hand. You typed without looking..

You: On my way.

You added a heart. Then deleted it. Then added it again.

Sent.

Harry didn’t reply right away. But you knew—he was already preparing. The way he always did. Tidy. Gentle. Quietly thrilled.

Claude turned onto the West Side Highway. The sky was bleeding gold now, like dusk had finally split open. The buildings rose like teeth, familiar and sharp. You leaned your head against the glass, watched the lights flicker on one by one like someone was drawing the city back to life.

Each turn of the car felt like a heartbeat.

You were getting closer.

You remembered the way Harry’s hands looked first thing in the morning—veined, warm, half-buttoning his shirt while the kettle hissed in the background. You remembered the way he touched your back when you weren’t looking, just to make sure you were there. The way he kissed your forehead without making it soft, the way he never asked you to explain yourself, only nodded when you did.

The city grew louder. The traffic pulled in tighter. You didn’t care.

You thought about his apartment. The quiet, warm lighting. The linen curtains your mother hated. The tea cupboard. The candle he pretended not to care about but always relit when you were over. The toothbrush you left. The book you’d forgotten and found again. Your scarf on the back of his kitchen chair.

A life.

Tiny things, but still.

Claude pulled onto his street and you sat up straighter. Smoothed your dress down your thighs. Checked your lipstick in the mirror. Your pulse kicked up the closer you got. You didn’t know why it still made you nervous. Maybe because you knew it mattered. Maybe because it did.

The doorman clocked you immediately.

He opened the door with a slight smirk. “Good evening, miss.”

You smiled back. “Evening.”

He didn’t ask your name. Didn’t need to. You were past that now.

The elevator smelled like citrus and money. You pressed the button with a finger that still felt a little like someone else’s. Watched the numbers climb. Watched your own reflection in the brushed brass of the door—flushed, slightly unfocused, hair falling over your brow in waves.

And then—

The bell.

The doors parted.

You stepped out into the quiet corridor, heartbeat steady now. Almost reverent.

Harry’s door was already unlocked.

You didn’t even have to knock.

When you opened it, the apartment was dimly lit. Warm. Inviting in a way no penthouse had a right to be. You stepped inside, kicked off your flats, closed the door behind you with the kind of care you only gave to things you wanted to last.

And then you saw him. Standing by the kitchen island, sleeves rolled, barefoot, a tea towel slung over one shoulder. His glasses low on his nose, eyes catching the light as he looked up and saw you.

“Hi,” you said, voice soft, breathier than usual.

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not yet. “Hi.”

You crossed the room slowly, the silk dress whispering with every step.

He didn’t move.

Not until you were close enough to touch.

Then he reached for you—hands at your waist, then your face, then your hair.

You kissed him before he could ask anything. Before he could make space for your explanation. You kissed him like you were drinking the city out of your mouth. Like he was the only thing in the world that still felt real.

He kissed you back just as hard.

His hand found the zipper at your back.

You pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “I’m not drunk, by the way.”

He smiled against your jaw. “I know.”

“I just missed you.”

“I know that too.”

You pressed your mouth to his again, slow this time, aching in the way that only comes after too much pretending. He lifted you onto the counter, pushed your hair out of your face, kissed the line of your collarbone with a kind of reverence that made your throat tight.

And for the first time all day—

You exhaled. You were home. The city was still spinning. The family would still be fighting. Your mother would still be finding new ways to weaponize her elegance.

But here—Harry was taking off your dress with steady hands. Here, his mouth was on your shoulder. Here, you were wanted.

Not for performance. Not for myth. Not for legacy. Just—wanted.

And you let him. There in the kitchen, with the lights low and the linen curtains drawn and the hum of the city far, far below.

Because Harry was waiting. And now—you’d come back. 

He let you come up for air first. Just barely.

One kiss still clung to your mouth when he pulled away, eyes searching yours, warm but unreadable. The kitchen was silent now—just the low hum of the fridge, the muted buzz of the city thirty floors below. Your fingers were still laced behind his neck, your knees bracketing his hips on the counter.

His hands had slowed.

One still rested at the side of your thigh, thumb brushing the silk hem of your mother’s dress. The zipper had been undone, halfway down your spine. The straps had slipped. It wouldn’t have taken much. One more movement and it would’ve fallen entirely.

But Harry didn’t tug it further. Instead, he pressed a kiss to the slope of your shoulder. Then another, more gentle this time, like a period at the end of a sentence. A quiet closing.

You blinked down at him. “What?”

“Bath,” he said, voice low, rough. “You’re wound tight.”

You exhaled. Realized you hadn’t even noticed the ache in your shoulders until he named it. Until he saw it.

He stepped back, hands dragging lightly down your waist as he pulled away. You reached to keep him close but didn’t say anything when he moved. He just touched your wrist, a promise. Then he was gone—walking down the hallway toward his bathroom, bare feet quiet on the hardwood.

You slid off the counter, still dizzy from the wine, from the day, from him. You ran your fingers through your hair. It was messy. 

Harry’s bathroom was already glowing when you stepped in. He’d dimmed the lights—just the sconces on, low and golden. There were candles. Not many. Not on purpose, at least.  The tub was filling. Steam kissed the tile.

He turned when he heard you, eyes soft as they landed on you again.

The dress hung halfway off your frame, strap dangling, silk clinging to your ribs. His eyes lingered, just for a breath, then flicked up to meet yours. He didn’t ask. Just came closer.

He took his time with you. He always did.

His hands were sure as he peeled the dress down the rest of the way—past your hips, your thighs, to the floor. His thumbs brushed the line of your waist, slow and reverent, like he was taking a mental photograph of how you looked under candlelight. You felt bare, but not exposed.

He kissed your collarbone. Whispered, “Water’s hot.”

Then handed you a stack of towels and stepped out without another word.

He left you his clothes—folded neatly on the stool beside the tub: boxers, soft from wear, a navy T-shirt that smelled like his cologne and skin. You traced your fingers over them once before slipping into the bath.

The water held you like a secret. You sank into it slowly, breath catching. Your hair floated. Your body unwound inch by inch. It smelled like him—his shampoo, his conditioner, the body wash you’d teased him for once because it was something a beauty editor would recommend. Lavender and bergamot and cedar.

You closed your eyes and tipped your head back.

For a moment—just one—you didn’t think about your mother. Or the way your name had sounded when she’d said it in front of the family like a verdict.

You just thought of him. The way Harry had looked when you walked through his door. That tiny flicker in his eyes. Not surprise. Not relief. Something else. Something closer to inevitability.

You stayed in the bath until the water cooled. Until your fingers pruned and the air kissed your wet skin with a shiver.

When you stepped out, the air smelled like rosemary and oil. He was cooking.

You dried quickly, wrapping the towel around yourself for only a moment before reaching for his boxers and shirt. You didn’t bother with the sweats—just tugged the boxers up over your hips, loose and soft, then pulled the shirt on over your head.

It was big on you. Perfect. The neckline drooped wide enough to expose one shoulder. The hem hit mid-thigh. Your hair was damp down your back. Your skin clean. You looked at yourself in the mirror and didn’t flinch. For once.

At the sink, you quickly went through your skincare—the routine you’d recreated in a pouch you left at his place weeks ago. Toner. Serum. Moisturizer. A dab of balm on your lips. You knew the order by muscle memory, didn’t even need the mirror.

After, you wandered barefoot out into the apartment.

The kitchen was alive. Harry stood by the stove, back turned, stirring something in a pan. There was music now—low jazz, something old and warm. He moved like he didn’t notice you, but you knew he did. His senses were too sharp for that. He was giving you space. Letting you exist here, quietly.

You drifted. Touched the spines of his books—lined up alphabetically, nonfiction on one shelf, novels on another. You dragged a finger down the cracked spine of a copy of Siddhartha, a pressed flower between pages. You recognized the way he folded corners, the way he annotated in pencil and never ink.

You passed his desk. There—your hair tie, forgotten at the edge. You smiled. His blazer was draped over a chair, a single cuff buttoned. You brushed your hand over the fabric. Beneath it, one of his watches. The one with the leather band he only wore to meetings. You lifted it, just for a second, felt the weight of it in your palm.

The space didn’t look like yours. But it felt like it.

Your scarf hung over the back of the armchair—careless, forgotten, a splash of color in the neutral palette. Your toothbrush stood next to his, slightly tilted, the bristles worn. On his nightstand: your book. Half-read. Spine cracked. Bookmark halfway through.

You drifted to the doorway of the kitchen. He was still cooking. 

He wore a soft black T-shirt, the one that clung to his shoulders. His sleeves were pushed up again. His forearms flexed as he stirred, wrist moving in slow circles. You could smell garlic now. Rosemary. Something faintly citrusy beneath it all.

He looked up. Finally. Took you in. The shirt. The bare legs. The damp hair. The softness of you. Something behind his eyes changed. But he didn’t say anything.

Just nodded toward the table. “Five minutes.”

You padded over. Leaned against the counter. “You knew I’d stay?”

“I hoped.” He glanced at you. “But yeah. I knew.”

You didn’t answer. Just let the silence stretch again, safe and warm between you. In his kitchen, in his clothes, you felt like something essential had been returned to you.

Harry slid a pan off the burner.

“You hungry?”

You nodded. “Starving.”

He smiled. “Good. I made too much.”

You stayed like that—near him, not quite touching—as he plated the food. Two wine glasses already set. Candles flickering again. A linen napkin folded beside your fork like it had been waiting for you all day.

You sat. He joined you. You ate in quiet.

You caught him looking at you between bites. Like he was trying to memorize something. You didn’t ask what.

Later, you’d tell him you loved him. Not tonight. Not now. But soon. Soon.

You get full quickly, pushing your plate back with a sigh, slumping just slightly in your chair, and caught Harry watching you with a crooked sort of smile. That smile he wore when he was waiting for you to say something, anything—he didn’t mind what, so long as it was true.

He took another sip of his wine. “So,” he said, casually, like he wasn’t already bracing for impact. “How was the… circus?”

You let out a groan so loud it rattled the candlelight.

“Don’t,” you said, dragging a hand down your face. “I can still hear the string quartet in my skull.”

Harry raised his brows, amused. “That bad?”

You gave him a flat look. “They’re vultures.”

“All of them?”

“Every single one.”

He laughed, leaned back in his chair, and looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing that ever graced his table. “Tell me everything.”

So you did. Not all at once, and not in any order that would’ve made sense to someone who didn’t already know the lore. But Harry did. You told him about your mother’s expression when you sat down, the way she weaponized her tone like a scalpel. You told him about Uncle Vic and his pickleball startup. About the gin, the patio setup, the awful bread basket that only Sloane touched.

Harry refilled your glass halfway through your rant, but you didn’t finish it. The warmth from earlier had started to drag through your limbs, low and heavy. You leaned your cheek against your hand, blinking slower than usual.

Harry noticed. Of course he did. He stood first, took your plate and his, stacked them easily, and walked them over to the sink.

You followed him, not because you needed to, but because it felt wrong to be far from him now.

You stood beside him while he rinsed the dishes, water running quietly. You didn’t speak. Just leaned against the counter, watching his profile, the way the low light from the hood above the stove carved lines across his jaw, softened the hard cut of his features.

He glanced down at you, your shoulder grazing his elbow.

“Tired?”

You blinked up at him. “Is it time for bed yet?”

He grinned. “Sweetheart, you’ve been ready for bed since the car ride.”

“Not true.”

“Your eyes are half-shut.”

“They’re resting.”

He reached up and tucked a piece of damp hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered at your jaw. “Then let’s rest.”

You padded behind him down the hall, passing that now-familiar string of soft yellow lights built into the floor, the ones that lit his place like a dream.

The master bathroom was already warm when he opened the door, and you sighed at the scent that always hit you in there—clean, the echo of your bath earlier still hanging in the air. He flicked the dimmer lower, casting the room in a muted amber glow. The sconces hummed gently.

Harry pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion and tossed it onto the chair in the corner. He didn’t look at you while he did it, like it was the most normal thing in the world to slowly strip in front of you. Which, by now, it was.

Still—your breath caught a little. You weren’t used to someone like him.

He stepped out of his sweats, now in nothing but his boxers, and bent to pull the covers down on his side of the bed. You stood frozen for a moment, watching the muscles of his back shift beneath his skin, the way the light touched him there like it had missed him. He didn’t move like someone performing. He moved like someone real.

“You brushing your teeth?” he asked, glancing at you over his shoulder.

You nodded, suddenly remembering you were still standing in the doorway like you’d been hypnotized.

You crossed the tile and reached for your toothbrush, the one next to his, and let yourself move through the familiar rhythm. He was already in bed by the time you turned the faucet off, one arm propped behind his head, hair a little mussed, chest bare against the white sheets.

You flicked the light off on your way out of the bathroom. The bedroom was darker now, quieter, but not cold.

You climbed into bed slowly, carefully, almost reverently, like the bed was something sacred and you were still learning how to belong inside it.

Harry lifted the corner of the comforter for you. You slid under and pressed your legs to his immediately, cold feet and all. He didn’t flinch. Just curled one arm around you, pulled you into his chest, and buried his nose into your hair like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

You sighed into him. He kissed your forehead. And then—

His hand slipped under the hem of the boxers you were wearing. His boxers, technically. They still smelled like him—warm cotton and soap and something expensive that clung to his skin, like cedar and amber burned low.

His fingertips skimmed your hip, then lower. Down the soft curve of your thigh, then up again, teasing, tracing.

You looked up at him, eyes adjusting to the dark.

“You okay?” he whispered, his voice already lower, already different—roughened with want.

You nodded. Too breathless to speak. The backs of his fingers brushed against the heat between your legs, and you inhaled sharply, pressing closer to him on instinct.

His palm cupped you over the fabric—just the lightest pressure, but it made your spine arch.

“I was gonna let you sleep,” he murmured, “but you feel too fucking good against me.”

Your pulse fluttered. Your thighs parted automatically, letting him in. Inviting him.

“Take these off,” he said, voice firmer now, a rasp of command right against your ear. “Let me see you.”

You lifted your hips. Slid the boxers down and off, the sheets rustling quietly around you. Harry pushed the covers back, exposing your legs to the air, then dropped to his stomach, settling between your thighs like he’d done it a hundred times. Like he lived there.

You gasped when his breath hit you—hot and close.

He looked up at you. The way he always did before he kissed you, like asking a question without saying a word.

And then he leaned in.

His mouth found you slowly, reverently, like he needed a taste just to remember how to breathe. His tongue slid through your folds, thick and hot, flattening over your clit before he sucked—soft at first, then firmer. Lazily. Greedily.

Your head fell back against the pillow.

“Fuck—Harry—”

He didn’t respond. Just groaned into you, low and guttural, like you were his favorite thing on earth. The sound vibrated straight through your body. His tongue moved in slow, deliberate circles, then faster, flicking lightly, teasing your clit with maddening precision.

Your hips lifted but he pushed them down, one hand flat against your stomach, holding you there. You could barely breathe.

He buried his face deeper into you, tongue working you open, every flick and press more vulgar than the last. He moaned again, like he couldn’t help it, like the taste of you was driving him fucking crazy.

He was messier now. Less careful. Spit and slick and his own desperation coating his lips and chin.

His stubble scraped softly against your inner thighs and you loved it.

“Please,” you gasped. You didn’t even know what you were begging for.

He answered with two fingers, sliding them inside you like he knew your body better than you did. They curled up, slow and firm, hitting that spot that made you bite your lip and whimper.

You tangled your hands in his hair, tugging, anchoring yourself to him.

“Look at me,” he said, voice hoarse, mouth wet.

You forced your eyes open.

He was staring up at you, face half-shadowed, lips shiny with you.

“Good girl,” he said.

The words hit you like a punch. Your stomach clenched. Your legs trembled.

His fingers fucked into you faster now, deeper, his mouth still wrapped around your clit like he had no intention of letting go. You were soaked. Writhing. Completely undone.

The pressure built fast. Sharp. White-hot. You didn’t even know when you started crying out his name.

You came hard, thighs shaking, back arching, a low scream caught in your throat. He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, fingers slowing, coaxing the orgasm out of you like it was something sacred.

Your entire body pulsed.

Harry finally pulled back, his face wrecked with heat. He looked like sin incarnate—hair wild, mouth swollen, jaw damp and flushed.

“Fuck,” he whispered, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand but not looking away from you. “You look so fucking pretty when you come.”

You were still panting, chest heaving. You reached for him. He crawled back up the bed, settling beside you, gathering you close like he hadn’t just ruined you with his mouth.

You felt raw. Electric.

He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then your lips—slow and soft, like a promise.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your mouth. “Every part of you.”

You nodded. There was nothing else to say. Only the sound of your breathing, and his heartbeat under your palm.

Later, after the warmth had spread out and softened, after the rise and fall of your breaths matched his and you were nothing but skin and quiet, he tucked a curl of hair behind your ear and whispered something you almost didn’t catch.

“Stay,” he said, even though you already had.

You turned your head, nose brushing his collarbone. “I wasn’t going to leave.”

“I know,” he said, voice low. “But I still like hearing you say it.”

You kissed his shoulder. “I’ll stay.”

He shifted then, not to get comfortable, but to make you more comfortable. Like his only goal was to make sure you slept before he did. You draped your leg over his. Your arm curled against his side. The shirt you wore had bunched up somewhere around your waist, but you didn’t care.

You were in his bed. You were clean. Full. Warm. You were home. Eventually, your eyelids got too heavy. You let yourself drift, lulled by his hand moving in soft, slow lines up and down your spine.

And just before you fully slipped under, you heard him murmur—

“Good girl.”

It followed you into sleep like a thread of gold.

And stayed with you, even after you’d turned over twice, once against Harry’s chest and once away from it, nestling your cheek into the warm indent where his body had been.

You didn’t hear him get up. Didn’t feel the shift of the mattress or the way the comforter was carefully drawn over you again after you rolled away from him in your sleep. But he was gone when you opened your eyes—only the faint, residual heat of his presence clung to the sheets.

The room was hazy with early morning sun, soft and cream-colored through the linen curtains. One of them was half-undone, like he’d meant to draw it and changed his mind halfway through. You turned your face into the pillow and inhaled deeply. It still smelled like him. Like salt and cedar and whatever shampoo he used that you’d now permanently associated with sex and safety.

You stretched. Your body, every inch of it, felt heavy with comfort and something more—like you’d been carefully put back together again in the night. Like every nerve had been seen to.

The sheets rustled around your thighs. His shirt rumpled now, slid down one shoulder as you reached for the edge of the comforter and flung it off. The air against your bare legs made you shiver, but not enough to cover back up. You sat there on the edge of the bed, blinking into the soft morning, your toes brushing the rug he said was some limited run Scandinavian designer’s last collection.

From down the hallway, you heard movement. Clinking. A pan against the stove. The warm hum of music—low but unmistakable. Brenton Wood.

You smiled. Of course Harry would be playing Brenton Wood.

You padded out of the bedroom, bare legged, hair still tangled from the night before, Harry’s shirt hanging off your body like it had always belonged to you. You didn’t bother fixing it. You liked the way it looked. 

As you neared the kitchen, the smell hit you first—toast, eggs, a splash of black coffee, the citrus tang of the soap Harry always used when he wiped down the counters himself (which he did, even though he had staff). He was particular like that. Deliberate.

You slowed when you saw him.

Back to you, standing by the stovetop in a soft grey tee and linen pants. His feet bare. Hair still a little mussed at the crown, like he’d dragged a hand through it but hadn’t bothered smoothing it down yet. A newspaper folded lengthwise in one hand, a fork in the other.

He was chewing toast while scanning the headlines, a plate with eggs slowly cooling at the island beside him. There was something so domestic about it, so unreasonably intimate, that you stopped for a second, just to look. To watch.

You didn’t know what you’d done in your life to deserve this view. Him. The quiet safety of it.

You came up behind him like instinct. Your arms slid around his waist, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. His shirt—your shirt now—soft against your skin, the hem falling down your thighs.

He stilled for half a second and then let out a quiet, pleased sound.

“Good morning,” he said, not looking away from the paper.

You kissed the back of his neck. “Mm. What time is it?”

He turned slightly, glancing down at you, already smiling. “Late enough for breakfast. Early enough that you don’t have to do anything yet.”

“Mmm. Good.”

You leaned into him. You didn’t want to let go. He smelled like toast and toothpaste and the faintest trace of his cologne, and it was addictive.

When he finally turned to kiss you, his hand already sliding up your spine, your nose brushed his, lips parting—

Your phone rang. Loud, aggressive. A reminder of everything outside this penthouse.

You flinched against him. Harry sighed but didn’t move. His hand stayed at your lower back, fingers curling slightly.

You groaned. “Jesus.”

He didn’t say anything. Just leaned against the island and watched you with his usual, unreadable expression—equal parts patient and assessing. Like he was cataloguing you in real-time.

You crossed to the phone, still buzzing against the marble where you’ve thrown it last night. You recognize the number almost immediately.

Sloane.

You answered with a sigh. “You’re awake.”

Your sister’s voice came through like gravel. “Barely.”

Behind you, Harry took a bite of toast. You could feel his eyes on you even as you turned toward the window, voice softening automatically, like you were trying to protect the pocket of peace you’d just woken up inside.

“I feel like death,” Sloane groaned. “Do you know how much I had to drink yesterday?”

“Don’t tell me.”

“I think I stopped counting at six. Mom’s furious, by the way.”

You rolled your eyes. “What else is new.”

“She’s mad you left early.”

You snorted. “She should be grateful I came at all.”

“True.” A pause. Then, quieter—“You’re at his place?”

You didn’t answer.

“I knew it,” she whispered, triumphant. “God, you’re so in love with him it’s disgusting.”

Your lips twitched. “Drink some water.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re hungover.”

“You didn’t even say no—”

“I’ll call you later.”

“You’re blushing, aren’t you—”

You hung up mid laugh and turned back around, tossing your phone onto the counter like it had personally offended you. Harry was still standing there, arms folded, one hip resting against the island.

He’d heard most of it. You could tell. There was a flicker in his eyes—amusement. .

“Sorry,” you said, brushing your hair back. “That was—”

“Your sister,” he said.

You nodded.

“She doesn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t not like you.”

He arched a brow.

You sighed and crossed the room again, resting your cheek against his chest. He let you. Wrapped an arm around you and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“She just wants to be right,” you muttered.

“And what would being right look like?”

You hesitated. “Us not falling apart.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, “We’re not going to.”

You tilted your face up. “How do you know?”

He touched your jaw, his thumb brushing just below your cheekbone. “Because you’re still here.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Not with words. But you closed your eyes and leaned into his touch, and that said enough.

Still—when you opened them again, there was a weight in your chest you couldn’t name. Not guilt, exactly. Not fear. Something older. Something gnawing.

Something like shame.

You hadn’t told your mother. Not really. Not about Harry. Not about the abortion. Not about anything that mattered.

You didn’t owe her, but still—she was your mother.

You swallowed hard and stepped back. Poured yourself a glass of water just to have something to do with your hands.

Harry watched you in silence. You could feel the question in the air.

Ever since that interview, ever since Lucian decided to get revenge in the form of exposure, your mother hadn’t so much as looked you in the eye. Not that you’d given her the chance.

Harry smiled, but didn’t press. You were grateful for that. For his quiet. For the space he gave you, even in moments like this.

He took your empty glass, rinsed it without a word, and set it in the sink. The song changed. Outside the window, the city was just beginning to wake. And somewhere, deep in your chest, something uncurled.

You looked at him—really looked—and thought: I love this man. And he looked back, like he already knew.

He turned from the counter without a word and began fixing a plate for you. Toast first, then eggs, both handled with that same quiet precision you’d come to recognize as his love language. He wasn’t flashy about it. Just methodical. Gentle. His version of affection was never loud—it was well-buttered toast, it was not letting your coffee go cold, it was knowing the exact way you liked your eggs without having to ask.

You leaned against the island, watching him. The sunlight from the wide windows hit the back of his neck, golden and warm. His hair curled slightly there, still damp from the shower he must’ve taken while you were sleeping. He wore a soft white T-shirt and linen drawstring pants. Domestic armor.

When he placed the plate down in front of you, he kissed your cheek first. You caught his wrist lightly before he moved away and tugged him closer. He came willingly.

“You always do that,” you said.

“Do what?”

“Feed me before I ask.”

He shrugged, pretending not to smile. “You get cranky.”

You scoffed and let go of his wrist, sitting at the island. “Do not.”

“You do,” he said, sitting beside you with his own plate. “Your mouth gets pouty. More than usual.”

You gave him a narrowed look but couldn’t fight your grin. He bumped his knee against yours beneath the island and passed you a little ramekin of sea salt like it was a peace offering.

You ate side by side in a kind of quiet that would’ve made most people uncomfortable. But not you. Not him.

He pointed to something in the paper—some article about a new tower being approved downtown. “Your grandfather would’ve hated this.”

You peered over. “He said anything taller than the Paramount was a terrible idea.”

Harry smirked. “He wasn’t wrong.”

You chewed slowly, savoring everything—the crisped edge of the toast, the taste of the butter, the simple, perfect way the egg yolk broke just the way you liked. It was so normal it almost made your chest hurt.

And yet—

You glanced at Harry, sitting across from you, and it was almost funny.

You thought of how people had always imagined your future. The society pages. Your mother’s crisp comments. How they’d described you as some heirloom waiting to be placed on the right mantle.

They’d seen you with a diplomat. A prince. Once, some journalist from Tatler had tried to match you with some prince in an article titled Modern Heiresses: What Comes After Trust Funds?

And here you were. Sitting in a Tribeca penthouse, eating toast beside a man nearly twenty years older than you. A man with crow’s feet and a permanent crease between his brows and the kind of hands that looked like they’d fixed more than just his tie.

And you liked it. You liked being with him. Not because it was forbidden or messy or strange—but because it was good. Solid. Real. Quiet, in a way that still made your pulse jump.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, drawing you out of your thoughts.

You blinked at him. “Yeah?”

He chewed his bite slowly, buying time in that way he did when he wanted to say something but didn’t know if he should yet. He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, folded it again, and leaned his forearms on the table.

“There’s a gala Wednesday,” he said. “My parents’ foundation is sponsoring.”

You tilted your head. “You hate galas.”

“I do.”

“So don’t go.”

“Well, I wasn’t supposed to,” he said, reaching for his coffee. “Peter was. But his wife’s due any day now, so he’s staying home. I got the call this morning.”

You stirred your fork through the yolk of your egg. “So now you’re going.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smiled at the way he said it—like it was jury duty. Then he looked at you. Really looked. Like there was something else behind his words.

“I want you to come.”

The fork stopped in your hand.

“To the gala?”

He nodded.

You searched his face, but he was already offering more. “It’s been three months,” he said, his tone casual but not light. “You’ve basically moved in. You know what kind of coffee I drink, what wine I keep for bad weeks, which side of the bed I sleep on. I think it’s time.”

You stared at him for a second longer.

“And your family?” you asked.

He shrugged. “You’ll like my mother. She’ll love you. My dad’s mostly quiet, but he always remembers birthdays. He used to sneak me out of prep school when I got overwhelmed. They’re not like…”

“Mine?”

He didn’t say it, but you both knew. You were quiet for a beat. Your teeth dug lightly into your bottom lip, and you looked down at your plate, only half-finished now.

He waited. You looked back up.

“Okay,” you said.

His expression didn’t change for a moment—he just held your gaze like he was weighing your words. Making sure you weren’t saying it to please him. But then he softened.

You added, “I actually want to. I mean—I want to meet them.”

His brow lifted slightly.

“Minus your brother,” you added quickly. “He sounds like an asshole.”

Harry laughed then, deep and low. “He is.”

You smiled and reached for his hand across the island. He met you halfway, fingers threading together without hesitation. His palm was warm. Familiar.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. The silence between you swelled, but it didn’t burst.

Instead, he said: “You’ll need a dress.”

You hummed. “A new one?”

“You look good in anything.”

“In a trash bag too?”

“I like you exactly how you are,” he said, quiet. “But yes. Show up in a trash bag and you’ll still look better than anyone there.”

You tilted your head and gave him that sly, soft grin—the one you only used on him. “You’re lucky I love you.”

The words came out before you could stop them. And the room held still. He didn’t look surprised. His eyes just softened, his fingers tightening around yours.

“I know,” he said. “I’m lucky too.”

It was strange, the way life slipped back into its weekday rhythm like nothing had changed, even though it had.

The gala looming on the calendar now had weight to it—his parents. His family. An introduction not just into his past, but his context. And maybe, in a way, your future.

But that was still a few days away.

Monday came quietly. It always did.

You woke alone in your own bed for the first time in over a week. The sheets felt colder. Less lived-in. You hadn’t meant to stay at Harry’s for so many nights in a row—it just kept happening. One dinner became two, one sleepover bled into five, and then suddenly you had your own drawer. Your favorite brand of floss in his bathroom. Your skin adjusting to his water pressure. A part of you still hadn’t fully come back.

You’d returned to your apartment only because work called—scripts stacked on the dining table, a pile of another that needed to be ready for location scouting. Your dad was directing again, which meant you were assisting again, unofficially. He liked to joke that he trusted you more than a second AD, and you liked to remind him that he paid you less than one, too.

He texted you “Car’s downstairs” at 8:07 AM. You were down by 8:10, still tucking your script binder into your tote, coffee half-drunk and your phone already buzzing with a group thread about camera tests.

The day moved fast from there.

By 10, you were across the bridge looking at a run down bowling alley your dad was considering re-dressing as a dive bar.

By noon, you were back in the city, peering through the glass of an old laundromat on Canal that still had coin-operated machines. Your dad had a thing about texture, you knew that—he liked walls that had lived, places that already had their own stories before his actors stepped into them.

By two, you were in a quiet stretch of the Lower East Side, where everything smelled like deli oil and the tail end of morning rain. Your dad pulled the car over in front of a shuttered record store and gestured for you to follow him down the block.

He was wearing his usual uniform—jeans, button-down, scarf, sunglasses. A director who still looked like a student. He waved at the storefronts like they were mood boards.

“I wanted Jacob Elordi for this role,” he said, out of nowhere, as he paused in front of an alleyway. “But his schedule was a mess.”

You nodded, scribbling notes in the margin of your binder.

“So I got Chalamet,” he added.

You groaned. Loudly.

“What?” he laughed, knowing exactly what he was doing.

“You always bring him up.”

“You two had a thing, didn’t you?”

“We went out twice.”

“You kissed.”

“Once.”

He chuckled and kept walking. “It’s still something.”

You gave him a look. “You sound like Mom.”

“I’m just saying.”

“No,” you said firmly. “You’re trying to set me up again.”

“I’m not.”

You raised your brows.

He paused mid-step. “Okay, a little. But not because you need it. Just—look, I know you’re seeing someone. I’m not an idiot.”

You stopped. He turned around slowly, brows raised, hands shoved in his coat pockets like he hadn’t just dropped a small bomb.

You blinked at him. “You… know?”

“I mean, I figured,” he said, shrugging. “You’re always at someone else’s place. You’ve been smiling more. You’ve been…less irritable. Even your mother noticed, and you know how little she notices.”

You rolled your eyes.

He continued, more gently now. “I didn’t know if it was a he or she or they. So I didn’t ask. I figured when you wanted to tell me, you would.”

Something in your chest caught. He had his sunglasses pushed back into his hair, and you could see his eyes clearly now—softer than usual. Not probing. Just…present.

That was the thing about your father. He didn’t pry. He waited. You’re surprised that your Mom didn’t tell him. And somehow, that always made you want to tell him more.

You looked down at the sidewalk..

“It’s a him,” you said, voice quiet.

He nodded once. No sarcasm. No tease. Just listening.

“He’s older.”

Another nod. “Okay.”

“Like—really older.”

He let a smile tug at one corner of his mouth. “Okay.”

“And…” You hesitated. “It’s been about three months.”

“Okay.”

You glanced up. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“I don’t know anything yet,” he said, matter-of-fact. “What’s his name?”

You exhaled. “Harry.”

“Harry what?”

“Castillo.”

His brows lifted slightly.

“Yeah,” you said. “That Castillo.”

He whistled low. “Harry damn Castillo?”

You laughed in spite of yourself. “Yes.”

“The one who handled your trust?”

You nodded.

He gave you a look. Not judgment. Not disapproval. Just surprise. A little curiosity. The kind of parental concern that didn’t come with punishment, just…a long pause.

But then he said, “Is he good to you?”

And your heart tugged sideways.

You nodded. “He’s…very good to me.”

That was all it took.

Your dad clapped a hand gently on your shoulder. “Then I like him.”

You smiled, small but real. You kept walking, side by side now. And when you reached the end of the block, your phone finally buzzed in your tote. You pulled it out to find a text from Harry, hours old, probably from mid-morning:

Harry: Did you make it to the locations okay?

Harry: Hope your dad doesn’t drag you into another 3-hour debate over period-accurate light switches.

Harry: Thinking about you.

You stared at the screen for a long moment before typing back.

You: Just told my dad about you.

You: He likes you already.

You: You win.

Three dots appeared.

Then:

Harry: Of course I win. I have you.

He meant to put his phone down after that. He meant to. But he stared at your reply—He likes you already. You win.—for a little longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the screen, the corner of his mouth pulled into a crooked, almost disbelieving smile.

His cheeks hurt. Actually hurt.

He laughed once under his breath and set the phone down face-up on the edge of his desk, resisting the urge to re-read the message again. He leaned back in the leather chair he’d had since he started at the firm, one that creaked a little now when he moved, as if reminding him he was no longer thirty-five, or even forty-two.

But today, with your text still buzzing in the back of his mind, he felt younger. The kind of younger that had nothing to do with years. The kind that felt like color returning to a face that hadn’t realized it had gone pale.

He tried to focus on the documents in front of him—contract addendums, a couple of portfolio reviews, his notes on the quarterly report—but none of it stuck. His mind kept drifting. Back to the way you’d wrapped your arms around him that morning. Back to the sound of your laugh when your sister called you out for being in love. Back to your sleepy body curled into, skin warm, shirt hanging off one shoulder.

He didn’t even hear Peter walk in until he heard the deliberate click of the office door shutting behind him.

Harry looked up.

His brother stood just inside the doorway in that cocky, unbothered stance he’d perfected in prep school. Loafers, cashmere crewneck, portfolio binder under one arm like he’d just come from a lunch meeting with someone influential and a little boring.

“You forgot to submit the Glenville contract,” Peter said flatly.

Harry blinked. “What?”

Peter walked in further, tossing the binder onto Harry’s desk. “The Glenville thing. It was due Saturday. You didn’t send it.”

Harry reached for the folder, flipping through the pages. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll send it now.”

Peter plopped into the chair across from him and made a dramatic show of sighing. “Too late. I already submitted it for you this morning.”

Harry looked up, slightly exasperated. “Then why the performance?”

“Because I like watching you squirm.” Peter smirked. “And because I know exactly why you forgot.”

Harry raised a brow. “Do tell.”

“Oh, come on,” Peter scoffed. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The I’ve-been-having-too-much-sex-to-do-my-job look.”

Harry rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

Peter continued, unfazed. “It’s been months now, and you’re still walking around like someone knocked the cynicism right out of you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re obsessed.”

“I’m happy,” Harry corrected.

Peter whistled. “Oh wow. We’re using that word now.”

Harry didn’t say anything.

Peter watched him for a beat longer, then leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk. “Look, I wish I could come Wednesday.”

Harry softened. “You’ve got a wife about to go into labor.”

“Still. I wanted to be there. Just to meet her. Make fun of you both all night. In a supportive, deeply annoying younger brother way.”

Harry smiled.

“She’s the one, huh?” Peter asked.

Harry hesitated.

Then: “Yeah.”

Peter sat back. “Figured.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. Even before today. You’ve been different.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “How?”

“I don’t know. Lighter.” Peter shrugged. “Less…calcified.”

Harry snorted. “Thanks.”

“It’s a compliment. Sort of.”

They fell into silence for a moment, the sounds of the city drifting up through the office’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Car horns. Distant construction. The ever-present hum of New York refusing to slow down.

Peter looked over at him again, this time more seriously.

“I’m glad Lucy left.”

Harry looked up.

“Not that it wasn’t hard at the time. But…if she hadn’t, you wouldn’t have met her.” He nodded at Harry’s phone, still face-up on the desk, your name the last notification on the lock screen. “And I like this version of you better. You’re not trying so hard to be someone else.”

Harry let the words settle.

It wasn’t that he’d ever disliked who he was before. He just hadn’t realized how many of his choices were made with someone else’s approval in mind. His father. His colleagues. Even Lucy, in her own icy, withholding way. But you? You didn’t want anything from him except who he already was. That was the difference.

“I’m glad too,” Harry said, voice quiet.

Peter stood, stretching. “I’ll let you get back to your spreadsheets and your…domestic bliss.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Tell Charlotte I’ll stop by this week.”

“Do. She thinks you’re avoiding her.”

“I’m not.”

“She also thinks you’re secretly soft under that whole stoic thing.”

Harry gave him a look.

Peter grinned and walked to the door. “You prove her right every day you let that girl wear your shirts, by the way.”

Harry didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because as the door clicked shut and his office fell back into quiet, Harry reached for his phone again. Not to re-read your text this time.

Just to type:

Harry: Gala’s in three days. Thinking about what you’ll wear. 

And after a pause, he added:

Harry: I miss you already.

You’d reread the message more times than you’d admit out loud.

Not because it was particularly poetic. But because it was simple. And true. And it made your stomach flip the way it always did when Harry said something quietly intense like that—no flourish, no drama, just honesty.

That was two days ago.

You hadn’t seen him since Sunday night, after he dropped you off, which wasn’t unusual, not really. Not in the way your lives moved. You were both used to the intensity of your own worlds—his filled with contracts and client meetings and high-rise tension, yours with scripts and schedules and whispered debates over natural light versus golden hour. But you still felt the gap.

Even if you tried not to say it out loud.

He had texted the next day in the middle of your location scouting in Brooklyn:

Harry: New client is hell. No, really. Imagine trying to explain basic finance to a frat house made of hedge fund interns.

Harry: They keep asking me to do things that aren’t possible unless I invent time travel.

You’d texted back:

You: I believe in you. Even if they don’t.

You: Also I’d look hot in a time machine.

He’d replied:

Harry: Undeniably.

Harry: Miss you again.

And of course the accident had to have happened on the gala day.

Your phone buzzed at 2:40 PM while you were standing in line at a cafe to pick up a decent coffee for yourself, and it was a production assistant near tears on the other end of the line, saying there was a prop fire on the Brooklyn set and nobody could find your dad.

Of course you stepped in.

Because that’s what you did. Always.

Even when you didn’t want to. Even when you had something else planned. Even when you were supposed to be slipping into a dress and letting your somewhat partner of three months introduce you to his parents for the first time.

You spent the rest of the afternoon putting out fires—literal and otherwise. Assuring the fire marshal. Coordinating the DP and the art department while making sure no one had a nervous breakdown in the middle of the soundstage. It wasn’t your movie. Not your name on the chair. But everyone still looked to you the way they always did when things spun out of control.

When you finally left, the sun was dipping behind buildings and your phone buzzed with a message from Harry:

Harry: I’ll be at your place in 30. Can’t wait to see you.

You groaned—half at the time, half at your own insane appearance. Hair tied up with a pen, makeup melted off from stress and sweat, your blouse stained with concealer from where you rubbed your face earlier in frustration.

Your place was a 30-minute drive away.

You had exactly that long to look like you hadn’t spent the day coordinating an emergency.

The second you walked into your apartment, you dropped your bag at the door and headed straight for the bathroom, stripping off clothes as you moved—your blouse hitting the hallway floor, your pants halfway off before you even hit the tile.

The shower was fast and hot, your body humming as the steam wrapped around you. You didn’t have time for the full routine. You double-shampooed, skipped shaving, and scrubbed your body like you were trying to erase the whole day from your skin.

You could feel your pulse fluttering. From the rush. From knowing he was going to be here in twenty-three minutes now. From what tonight meant—not just the suit and the venue and the photos—but his family. His name. The part of him he didn’t let most people see.

You towel-dried in record time, wrapped your hair in a twist, and slipped into the bedroom wrapped in only your robe. You stood in front of the mirror and started your makeup, skipping primer and going straight into skin tint and concealer. You didn’t have time to be perfect—you just had to be presentable. A blur of blush, a swipe of highlighter, mascara in a rush that nearly made you poke your eye out.

Your hair fell in big damp waves down your back, still warm from the blowdryer. You didn’t even touch a curler.

You crossed the room to your closet and stared at the row of dresses you’d tried on earlier in the week. One was red—dangerous, striking—but too loud. Another was white, but the fabric snagged on your rings.

Your fingers landed on the one. Midnight silk. Cut on the bias. Thin straps and an open back. The kind of dress that whispered rather than shouted.

You stepped into it carefully, the fabric hugging your hips like it was made for you. No bra. Just a shimmer of perfume at your neck. A pair of earrings you borrowed from your grandmother’s safe, vintage Chanel. Heels with a faint scuff on the arch that no one but you would notice.

Just as you zipped up the side, your buzzer went off. You paused, heart jumping. A second later, your phone lit up with a text:

Harry: I’m downstairs.

You stared at your reflection one last time. You looked…good. Not perfect. Not airbrushed. But flushed and alive and yourself. Slightly rushed, slightly breathless, but not in a bad way.

You felt like something that had just stepped out of one of your grandfather’s films—light-slicked skin, loose hair, a dress that belonged to another decade. You smiled, small but knowing.

Then you grabbed your clutch, slipped on your heels, and headed out the door to meet him.

The lobby was quiet in the way that buildings like yours always were—thick with old money silence, the kind that absorbed footsteps and softened voices. Still, the second the elevator doors opened, your doorman, Stephen, straightened up like he’d been waiting for you all day.

“Evening, miss,” he said with a knowing little smile, already pulling the front door wide.

And there he was. Harry.

Standing outside the car in a black suit that looked like it had been tailored to his exact breath. The streetlight haloed his profile, casting long shadows across the sharp line of his jaw, the thoughtful slope of his brow. His hair was slightly pushed back but still soft around the ears, like he hadn’t let anyone touch it but you.

He was watching the building, waiting for you.

And the moment he saw you—actually saw you, the shape of you emerging in silk and light and heels he hadn’t seen before—he froze, just for a second. Something quiet passed over his face, like he forgot where he was. Forgot his name.

You saw it happen. That flicker in his eyes. That ache behind them. He looked at you like you were unreal. Like you weren’t walking toward him but through him.

A beat passed. Then he moved.

He didn’t say anything as you crossed the sidewalk to him, just reached out, one hand warm and sure against your waist as he pulled you close, close enough to smell the citrus of his cologne and the starch of his collar. His other hand rose instinctively to your hair, fingers slipping through the waves at the back of your neck.

And then—then—he kissed you.

Slow, purposeful, entirely without hurry.

His mouth was warm and familiar, the kind of kiss that made you forget where you were, who might see, what the rest of the night held. His thumb stroked the hinge of your jaw like he was committing it to memory. When he pulled back, just slightly, he didn’t drop his hand. He kept it curled in your hair, like you might disappear if he let go.

“You look…” he tried, voice low. He swallowed. “There’s not a word for it.”

You smiled, your face already flushed.

“I’m going to kill everyone tonight,” he said, still half in awe, still stunned. “No one’s allowed to look at you.”

You laughed, your fingers brushing the lapel of his jacket.

“Let me get the door,” he murmured.

He opened the car door himself, not waiting for his driver, and when you slid in, you could feel his gaze still on you. When he followed, it was with a reverence he couldn’t quite hide.

The car pulled away from the curb smoothly, the city unfolding around you like it always did, glittering and dark, the air whispering at the windows. Harry shifted closer, resting a hand gently—possessively—on your thigh. His thumb rubbed lazy circles just above your knee, through the silk of your dress.

“You excited?” you asked.

He nodded, but there was something else in his expression. “Of course, I want you to meet them.”

“Your family?”

“My cousins, yeah. My niece’s going to lose her mind over you.” A pause. “So will my mother.”

You looked at him sideways.

He was looking straight ahead, a faint smile at his mouth, like he was thinking ten minutes ahead. “It’s not like I planned it,” he said. “Bringing you to something like this. But it felt…right.”

You squeezed his hand.

“And Peter—” he added, “—is annoyed he’s missing this. I told him you’d probably prefer it that way.”

“I would.” You smirked. “I can’t be mocked yet. You haven’t even officially asked me to be your girlfriend.”

He looked at you then, fully. “You don’t think I already have?”

You blinked.

“You’re mine,” he said simply. “Whether we say the words or not.”

Your stomach did that stupid, spiraling thing it always did when he said things like that. Like there was a string inside you, and he was gently pulling it taut.

He was yours. And you were his. 

You let your head fall lightly onto his shoulder, the scent of his skin already anchoring you. His fingers stayed curled over your thigh the entire drive.

When the car pulled to a stop, you knew before you even saw them. The flashbulbs. The low murmur of voices rising like fog.

You sat up slowly, adjusting the strap of your dress, your hand brushing over the smooth line of your hair. Harry exhaled once, then turned to you with a crooked smile.

“You ready?”

“I thought this was your brother’s job.”

“Trust me,” he said, kissing your cheek. “I’d give it back to him in a second but you’re here.”

He stepped out of the car first. Then walked around the car, eyes scanning the sidewalk, and opened your door himself.

He offered his hand, and you took it.

The second you stepped out, the flashes started. You were half-blinded, but Harry didn’t let go of your hand.

You walked up the steps together, his fingers threaded through yours like they’d always belonged there, his other hand grazing the small of your back every few moments as if to remind you he was there. That this was real.

You didn’t look at the photographers. You looked at him. And he only looked at you.

It wasn’t until you passed through the marble front doors, the heavy weight of the gala’s grand entry swallowing you whole, that you realized it:

This was your first public appearance together. As a couple. But this—this—was the world knowing.

By the time dessert was served, you knew your phone would be buzzing nonstop. Your friends would see the photos. Your cousins. Your mother especially. But you weren’t thinking about any of that as Harry leaned down, brushing a kiss against your temple.

“You’re doing perfect,” he murmured.

And in that moment, wrapped in his warmth, his world, his hand in yours—you felt like maybe, just maybe, you were.

The air inside the venue was chilled, perfumed, reverent—like a cathedral dressed in silk and champagne. Strings played somewhere above the murmur of conversation, and every surface glittered. Candlelight floated in gold-rimmed glass cylinders, refracted by crystal and polished silver, everything in warm hues of copper, ivory, and midnight blue.

Harry stayed beside you. He hadn’t let go of your hand since you stepped out of the car. Now, indoors, he adjusted—his fingers slipped instead to your lower back, the pressure subtle but grounding, thumb brushing back and forth over the silk of your dress like he couldn’t help himself. A tether. A reminder. You felt it with every breath.

The minute you stepped into the main hall, you could tell he was searching—scanning faces, scanning tables, trying to locate the familiar in a room full of diamonds and politics. It didn’t take long.

“Shit,” he murmured under his breath. 

You blinked up at him. “What?”

But you didn’t need to wait for the answer.

Because suddenly a man was making his way across the room, grinning like he’d just won a bet. A few years younger than Harry, probably, though there was something distinctly youthful about him. Like he was the kind of man who still got kicked out of places just to say he had.

“Here we go,” Harry muttered.

The man reached you both in seconds.

“Well fuck,” he said, drawing Harry into a back-slapping hug. “You clean up nice for an old man.”

“You’re two years younger than me.”

“Still counts.”

When he pulled back, his eyes landed on you—and paused. You watched them flicker, scan, calculate. Not in a threatening way. Just in that deeply male, deeply cousin kind of way.

“This must be her,” he said, stepping back to get a better look.

Harry didn’t look smug. He didn’t say anything possessive or stupid like your ex would say.

He just slipped his arm more firmly around your waist and said, “This is her.”

You held out your hand. The man ignored it and went in for a hug.

“I’m Luis,” he said into your ear. “I’ve known him since he was stupid.”

Harry groaned. “Luis and I used to get kicked out of Math class together.”

“You tried to cheat and got caught.”

“And you left the answer key on the copier tray.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

Luis grinned. “We’re sitting near each other, right?”

“I think so.”

“Good. You’re gonna need someone to make fun of him with when he starts talking finance after his third glass of wine.”

“Leave,” Harry deadpanned.

Luis winked at you and faded back into the crowd, already flagging down a server for another glass of champagne.

Harry turned to you. “You okay?”

You nodded. But there was a shift in your expression—small, almost imperceptible. One only someone like him would catch. Your fingers curled tighter around your clutch. Your shoulders tensed slightly.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly. “I’m just—”

He touched your wrist. “Tell me.”

You paused. “I think I’m likable.”

He looked confused.

“I mean, I am. I’m thoughtful, I don’t say dumb shit in public, I know how to carry myself.”

“You’re incredibly likable.”

“But people don’t always…like me.”

His face softened. “Sweetheart.”

“I don’t know why. My sister says it’s because I seem too cool. Or like I don’t care. But I do care.”

Harry stepped into your space a little more, tilting his head down to meet your gaze.

“You don’t have to perform anything,” he said gently. “You don’t have to win anyone. Least of all my parents.”

“But I want them to like me.”

“They will.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” His voice was firm, but not unkind. “Because I know them. And I know you.”

You looked at him, a little unsure. 

He took both your hands in his, warm and steady. “You already won me. And if that doesn’t say enough, I don’t know what does.”

There was something so sincere in his expression it made your stomach go tight.

“I didn’t bring you here to prove anything,” he added. “I brought you because I want you with me. That’s it. You just have to be.”

You exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

His thumb traced your knuckle. “If you start to spiral, squeeze my hand.”

You smiled faintly. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I know.”

He leaned in, kissed your cheek. “Come on. Let’s go say hi.”

The table was stunning. Long and rectangular, white linen cascading to the floor, set with porcelain and watermarked menus. Harry’s name printed in a serif font beside a tall wine glass.

His parents stood as you approached. You felt them before you heard them—his mother’s bright laugh, his father’s low voice humming beside it.

Harry gave your hand one last squeeze before letting go.

“Mom,” he said. “Dad.”

They both turned.

His mother saw you first. She was elegant, unmistakably so—dark eyes like Harry’s, a cream silk blouse under a gold-threaded blazer. She looked at you and smiled with real warmth, a glimmer of curiosity lighting her face.

His father followed a second later. Taller than Harry, gray at the temples, with the kind of posture that said he’d been respected in every room he walked into for the past thirty years.

“You must be the woman making my son impossible to reach after 5 p.m.,” his mother said, stepping forward and kissing your cheek.

You laughed, surprised. “I’m guilty, I think.”

“She’s charming,” his mother said to Harry, then looked at you again. “And tall. Thank god. We were worried he’d start dating actresses.”

“Mom,” Harry muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What? I’m not wrong.”

His father stepped forward, extended a hand. “It’s good to meet you. He doesn’t bring people around often.”

“I’m honored.”

“You should be. He’s picky.”

Harry sighed. You tried not to laugh.

The four of you sat. Harry reached for your hand under the table once more. And as the lights dimmed and the string quartet resumed, you realized you weren’t nervous anymore. Because you weren’t trying to be impressive. You were just there. With him.

The table felt less formal now, softer somehow. Candlelight flickered low between the four of you, gold wax pooling into the grooves of crystal holders, the clinking of silverware against fine porcelain fading into the background hum of the room. It smelled of saffron and salt, of wine being poured and perfume lingering as guests leaned closer, murmuring hellos, trading gossip.

Harry’s mother rested her chin lightly in one palm, watching you with open curiosity.

“So, tell us—Harry mentioned you’re in film?”

You nodded, the tightness in your shoulders easing. “Producing. Mostly. I help guide the story from idea to screen, in a very unglamorous, completely sleep-deprived way.”

Her father chuckled. “That sounds about right. I remember when Harry worked on that fund for that Italian streaming platform—he looked like death for six months.”

Harry made a sound beside you. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You were pale.”

“I was not pale.”

His parents laughed, and so did you.

Your fingers skimmed the edge of your wine glass. “My grandfather was in film—back when film still meant tape. He helped build a few studios in L.A. His name’s still on a couple. My mother…well, she acted, but not in the way people do now. She was the kind who’d disappear into a role and forget to collect her award when it came.”

Harry’s mother sat back, clearly intrigued. “I know that name,” she murmured, half to herself. “Yes, yes, of course. Your mother had that run in the eighties—three films, back to back. I remember watching her on a tiny screen at a boarding school in Madrid. She didn’t blink the whole scene.”

You smiled. “That sounds like her.”

“And your father?”

“He writes. Directs, sometimes. He likes to build new stories, but he also spends a lot of time pretending he hates the old ones he created. It’s very artiste.”

They laughed again, warm and real.

Harry reached for his wineglass but didn’t drink—his gaze was fixed on you, the smallest smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. His fingers brushed lightly against your thigh under the table, as if to say You’re doing so well. Or maybe just You’re mine.

His mother tilted her head. “You two met through the estate, didn’t you? Our firm’s handling the…will?”

You nodded, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “Yes. But technically, Rose our matchmaker is the reason we’re sitting here. She’s the one who made the match.”

Harry’s father raised a brow at him. “You two used Adore?”

“Yes, I did.”

You gave him a look. “My sister did. I was—completely unaware.”

His mother was delighted. “That’s even better.”

Harry leaned in slightly. “She didn’t even know my name. She didn’t recognize me in my profile.”

“I didn't know!” you reminded, nudging him.

His father grinned and the table lapsed into laughter, again.

And then—midway through your second glass of wine, as you were recounting a disastrous production in Brooklyn that involved an actress demanding her iced oat milk lattes be frothed by a certain time each morning—a voice interrupted.

“Sorry—excuse me.”

You turned.

A photographer. Well-dressed, polite, clearly cleared by the event organizers. He held a camera with both hands and offered a deferential smile.

“Would it be alright to get a photo of all four of you? Just for the sponsor portfolio. You’re a very photogenic group.”

Harry glanced at you. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist.

You nodded. “Of course.”

The four of you stood. Harry’s father helped his wife out of her seat. You adjusted the hem of your dress as the photographer led you to a velvet-curtained backdrop a few feet from the table, near a chandelier dripping with low light.

Harry guided you gently, his hand never leaving your back. When you stood beneath the light, he slipped his arm around your waist, anchoring you to him without hesitation.

His parents stood beside you both, the kind of practiced posture of people who’d attended events like these their entire lives.

But for you—this was different. You’d taken hundreds of photos in the past. With Lucian. At premieres, parties, on rooftops in Cannes. You knew the choreography—angle your face, drop your shoulders, soften your eyes, let the camera find you.

But this was different. This was not posing next to a man who wanted the image more than the intimacy. This was Harry.

And you felt it in the smallest things; the way his thumb rubbed against the curve of your side; the way he tilted slightly toward you, like you were the center of gravity. The way he smiled—not wide, but soft, private. Just for you.

The shutter clicked. Once. Twice. A third. The flash reflected against the sheen of your dress. And in that split second, you thought—this will be the one people send me. The one they text about. The one that ends up on some page somewhere with a headline that tries to define what we are.

But no headline would understand that photo. Because it wasn’t just a picture. It was evidence. Evidence that you’d stopped running. Evidence that he’d let someone in. Evidence that you were each other’s beginning.

When the photos were done, Harry leaned down, whispered in your ear: “You okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and warm.

And as you walked back to the table, hand in his, you realized something so obvious it almost hurt—

This was real. Not curated. Not arranged. Not legacy or obligation or performance. Just real. With him.

The chandelier overhead glimmered like a net of glass stars, suspended in soft light, and the music shifted from strings to something brighter, a piano-led jazz tune that filled the space with the kind of levity only possible once everyone had eaten, once the drinks had begun to settle in.

Harry’s mother gently touched your arm.

“I want you to meet the rest of the family,” she said, already standing. “Everyone’s been dying to put a face to the girl who’s been making my son so intolerably happy.”

You laughed softly, the compliment catching you off guard. You glanced over your shoulder to Harry. He nodded at you with a smile so warm it loosened something in your chest. You followed his mother across the floor, her arm linking lightly with yours.

The second table was smaller—some cousins, a few family friends, a woman who once worked with Harry’s mother at the firm before retiring and starting a ceramic studio upstate. They were all so open, so curious about you, but not in a way that felt invasive.

They asked about your job, your upbringing, your favorite places in the city. Someone asked if the rumors about your mother living in Paris for a year without telling anyone were true (they were), and whether your father actually once got in a fistfight with a critic outside the Ziegfeld Theatre (also true).

It didn’t feel like an interrogation. It felt like…belonging.

“I remember when Harry was ten,” one aunt said, swirling the wine in her glass. “He used to pretend he was some kind of stock market tycoon, made his brother invest his allowance in this fake fund he made up. Told him if he held long enough, he’d get a new Game Boy.”

Another chimed in: “He charged his little cousins interest on Monopoly loans.”

You giggled, imagining a small Harry in a blazer two sizes too big, brow furrowed in pretend mergers and acquisitions. It all made a strange kind of sense.

Then one of the younger cousins, no more than six, reached up and tapped your hand.

“Do you want to dance with me?”

You blinked. “Are you asking me?”

He nodded, serious.

You looked around the table, then down at your heels, but something in his wide eyes made you soften instantly.

“Okay,” you said. “But you better be good.”

He took your hand with the solemnity of a tiny prince. Harry, across the room, had been watching the whole thing.

From his vantage point near the bar, the noise of the gala folding around him like water, he could only see fragments of you—your dress twirling as you spun the boy around, your head tossed back in laughter, the way you knelt to fix the clip in his jacket pocket, your hand brushing his cheek as he said thank you.

Something in his chest gave. And that’s when Luis appeared beside him, two fingers of scotch in hand.

“Jesus,” Luis said, watching you. “She’s gonna eat you alive, man.”

Harry didn’t take his eyes off you. “She already has.”

Luis took a sip. “You’re a different person.”

Harry shrugged.

“You are. You’re…lighter. Like you stopped holding your breath.”

“She makes me breathe.”

Luis gave him a long look, then bumped his shoulder against his. “So what happened to Lucy?”

Harry’s jaw shifted slightly.

Luis caught it. “Sorry. Too soon?”

“No,” Harry said. “Just…irrelevant.”

Luis raised an eyebrow.

Harry finally looked at him. “It wasn’t real. Not in the way this is.”

Luis tilted his glass. “Come on. She was around forever.”

“That’s just it,” Harry said. “She was around. Present. Scheduled. Convenient. We had mutual friends. She got along with my team. We looked good on paper. But that was it. A paper relationship. One strong breeze and it tore.”

Luis considered that, nodded slowly.

Harry looked back at you—now crouched beside a toddler who had spilled a juice box, dabbing at the small mess with a napkin and soothing him with a smile.

You didn’t see him watching. You never seemed to.

“She’s…” he trailed off, the words slow in his mouth, heavier than usual. “I can’t explain her.”

Luis didn’t say anything.

“She doesn’t care about any of this,” Harry continued. “The money. The name. She doesn’t need me.”

“Then why are you with her?” Luis asked, genuinely curious.

Harry turned, eyes steady.

“Because she wants me.”

Luis blinked.

“And that,” Harry said, “means more than anything else ever did.”

They stood there in silence for a moment.

Then Luis, with that same boyish smirk, nudged him again. “You going to marry her?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately.

He looked back at you one more time, now standing with the little cousins gathered around your legs like a human bouquet. You were laughing, eyes lit, shoulders relaxed, like this world had always been yours and no one else had noticed until now.

“Yes,” he said softly.

Luis smiled.

Harry looked down at his drink. “I think I knew it the moment she didn’t know who I was.”

Luis clinked his glass against Harry’s. “Then you’re fucked.”

Harry let out a low laugh. “Yeah,” he said, eyes still on you. “I really am.”

He says it with a grin, low and fond, one hand still around his glass, the other tucked into his pocket like he’s keeping something precious there—something only he knows he’s holding.

And Luis laughs. Of course he does. Because Harry’s face, his entire body language, has given him away.

But then—

Harry glances back across the room.

And his smile falters.

You’re no longer surrounded by the cousins, no longer spinning with small hands in yours or crouched in your gown, laughing about spilled juice or childhood mischief. You’re standing near the marble railing now, a glass of sparkling water in your hand, head slightly tilted in that way that says you’re being polite but not necessarily pleased.

And you’re not alone.

A man stands in front of you, tall, lean, in a well-fitted tux that clearly cost something obscene. A perfectly neutral man. Forgettable, even, in a catalog sort of way. But Harry knows him.

Harry knows exactly who he is.

His stomach tightens, all the air in his lungs sucked into something small and silent.

Luis is still talking beside him—something about how he can’t believe someone like you even exists, and how Harry’s somehow managed to not fuck it up—but the words grow quiet, swallowed in Harry’s ears as his eyes lock on the conversation unfolding across the room.

Because that man—the one standing a little too close to you, a little too casual with his posture—that man is Dr. Robert Ellman.

The man who, over a decade ago, took Harry’s body apart and put it back together again.

The man who sawed his femurs, inserted titanium rods, broke bone with precision, and lengthened his legs—inch by inch, fraction by fraction.

The man who gave him six extra inches and, in Harry’s mind at the time, a new chance at life.

He hasn’t seen him in years.

He never thought he would again.

And now he’s standing there, talking to you.

Yes, Harry had already told you about the surgery. You knew. You hadn’t judged him for it—if anything, you’d offered up one of your own truths in return.

But that didn’t mean this moment wasn’t complicated.

Because it wasn’t just his surgeon standing there—it was a man who knew Harry from before. From the time when he wasn’t six feet tall, when he hadn’t remade himself into the version the world took seriously.

And the thought of that man recounting any of it to you—even casually, even innocently—landed in Harry’s chest like a stone.

Harry moves.

Fast, but not desperate. Smooth, but not entirely casual. There’s something electric under his skin now, a charge that snaps at the base of his neck as he crosses the floor, weaving through guests and servers, all gold dresses and laughter and noise he suddenly can’t stand.

You had gotten the man’s name too late.

“Dr. Ellman,” he says, extending a hand, his tone pleasant in a way that feels practiced.

You shake it automatically, polite but guarded. “Hi…”

“I’m Harry’s surgeon,” he explains with an easy smile, sipping from his drink. “We met a long time ago—back when he came in for the tibial lengthening procedure.”

Your chest tightens, though not from surprise.

Harry had already told you. He’d shown you more of himself that morning than most men ever dared.

You knew the story. You knew the scar.

But hearing it spoken aloud, so casually, in a room full of champagne and sequins—hearing it from the man who’d known Harry before—made something in you twist.

“Yes,” you say evenly, voice cool but not unkind. “I know.”

Ellman’s confidence flickers, just slightly. He hadn’t expected that.

You don’t flinch. But you do feel the echo of what this moment means—not secrecy, but exposure. Not discovery, but intrusion.

And then—

“Excuse me,” a voice cuts in.

You turn.

Harry.

He’s already there, standing close, eyes cutting once to Ellman before settling on you, scanning your face like he can read every flicker. His hand settles at your back, warm, grounding.

“Robert,” Harry says, calm, controlled.

Dr. Ellman clears his throat. “Harry. Good to see you. It’s been a while.”

“It has.”

“I didn’t realize you’d be here. I was invited last-minute—one of the donors I did a procedure for brought me.”

Harry nods once, flat. “That’s great.”

A silence.

Then Harry looks at you again, voice softer, protective. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say gently. “Fine.”

His thumb brushes your back once, almost imperceptibly, before he turns back to Ellman. “We’ll catch up another time.”

Ellman lifts his glass in some vague farewell and drifts back into the crowd.

You watch him go, but your focus is already sliding back to Harry—the cut of his jaw tighter now, the faint tension in his shoulders.

You lower your voice. “You don’t like him seeing me.”

Harry’s eyes stay on yours. “I don’t like him reminding you who I used to be.”

You nod.

And you let it be.

Because this wasn’t the place. This wasn’t the moment. And more than anything, you trusted him.

But still, as he leaned in and kissed your temple, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking.

And as he drew you closer and led you back toward the warmth of the crowd—back into the lights and the laughter and the version of you both that everyone could see—you held onto his hand just a little tighter.

The first cold morning caught you by surprise. You woke to a thin, winter light slicing through the linen curtains of his bedroom, the city outside hushed under its first real frost.

Harry was still asleep beside you, breath slow and even, one arm flung across your waist like he’d staked a quiet claim in the night. The heat of him seeped into you, steady and reassuring, and for once the instinct to leave—to escape, to chase warmth—never arrived.

Instead, you pressed closer.

The cold didn’t feel like punishment this year. It felt like permission.

Harry had started calling in sick sometime after the gala, though “sick” was a generous word for it. He took meetings in the den with the door half-closed, collar open, glasses perched low on his nose, voice calm and controlled as he dismantled someone else’s panic over quarterly projections.

You’d lie stretched out on the couch just out of frame, feet tucked under his thigh, listening to him talk like the world still mattered, even though he hadn’t left the apartment in days.

The perks of a family business, he’d said once, with a crooked smile. No one questioned him. No one dared.

You liked that he chose to stay.

There was something indecently intimate about it—this decision to remain, to let the city turn hostile and stay anyway. You watched the weather shift from rain to sleet to snow, the streets below his penthouse turning slick and metallic, then soft and white. You watched it all from behind glass, wrapped in one of his sweaters, a mug of tea warming your hands.

You hadn’t gone back to your apartment in weeks.

At first, you told yourself it was temporary. A few nights here, a few nights there. But then your toothbrush had been joined by a second, then the rest of your skincare bottles migrated into his bathroom one by one, lined up neatly beside his as if they’d always belonged. Your favorite books appeared on his shelves. Your bra's draped itself over the back of a chair and stayed there.

When you realized you’d run out of clean underwear, you laughed—actually laughed—and ordered more. When you realized you needed clothes fit for the cold, you didn’t send someone to retrieve them from your place.

You went shopping.

Harry came with you, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, watching with quiet amusement as you drifted through boutiques like you were curating a new version of yourself. Other times, he stayed back, working from the dining table, glancing up only when you emerged from the bedroom in something new.

He loved it more than he admitted.

You learned that quickly.

You learned it in the way his eyes darkened when you stepped out in a fitted black dress, hem just above the knee, heels sharp enough to make you taller than him. You learned it in the way his jaw tightened—not with insecurity, but with desire—when you stood over him, hands on his shoulders, looking down like you were considering whether he was worth keeping.

He fucking loved it.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said once, toeing off your heels and stepping closer, the hardwood cold under your feet.

He didn’t deny it. He never did.

“I like watching you take up space,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “You don’t shrink for anyone.”

And it was true. With him, you didn’t feel the need to make yourself smaller. You didn’t soften your edges or pretend not to notice the way rooms recalibrated around you. You wore coats that swallowed you whole and dresses that showed too much collarbone, boots that echoed when you walked and heels that made your posture ruthless.

Harry watched it all like a man who understood value when he saw it.

He was older in ways that mattered. Lines at the corners of his eyes that deepened when he smiled. Salt threaded through his dark hair, especially at the temples, catching the winter light. A body that moved with intention rather than urgency—broad shoulders, strong hands, a steadiness that came from years of choosing restraint over impulse.

You liked the contrast. Your sharpness against his calm. Your restlessness tempered by his gravity.

You fell into a rhythm that felt dangerously like a life.

Mornings began slow. Snow muffled the city, turning even the busiest streets into something contemplative. Harry made coffee while you hovered near the window, watching the weather like it was something new. You wore his shirts, sleeves too long, collar open enough to make him pause when he looked at you.

He worked from home more often than not, laptop open, calls punctuated by the occasional glance in your direction. You’d read on the couch, feet tucked under you, or sit at the kitchen island pretending to be busy while he pretended not to watch the way you moved.

Sometimes, you didn’t pretend at all.

Sometimes you sat in his lap while he worked, arms looped around his neck, your weight grounding him. He’d mutter about distraction, but his hands always found your waist, thumbs pressing into familiar places like muscle memory.

The cold pressed in from the outside, but inside his apartment everything was warm—lamplight, wool, the low hum of jazz he played on quiet afternoons.

You started to associate winter with this: with Harry’s hand on the small of your back, with the way he kissed your knuckles absentmindedly when he passed you, with the indulgent domesticity of staying in when the city demanded resilience.

You cooked together, badly at first, then better. He chopped vegetables with surgical precision. You drank wine and made commentary. You learned that he liked feeding you more than eating himself, that he watched your reactions carefully, storing them away.

At night, the snow turned the city luminous. You stood at the windows, bare feet on cold stone, watching headlights smear gold across the streets below. Harry would come up behind you, arms circling your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“You’re not leaving,” he said once. Not a question.

“No,” you answered. And you meant it.

Sex took on a different quality in winter.

It was slower. More deliberate. Bodies seeking warmth, yes—but also something deeper. You learned each other in ways that felt unguarded. Mornings tangled in sheets, his hands warm against your skin, his mouth finding familiar places like he was reminding himself you were real.

He loved when you wore heels around the apartment, loved the way they changed your posture, your gait. He loved standing beneath you when you were taller, his hands sliding up your thighs, looking up at you like you were something rare and worth studying.

There was no rush. No urgency to define anything.

Outside, the city hardened. Inside, you softened.

You started to think that you might be someone who stayed.

That winter in New York could be something other than endured. That cold could be an excuse to linger, to build rituals instead of escapes. That love—this love—could be a reason to remain exactly where you were.

Harry never said it out loud, but you saw it in the way he looked at you when you chose to stay in instead of booking a flight. In the way he reached for your hand when the snow fell heavier, like he was anchoring you both.

You stayed

And the city, indifferent as ever, kept turning outside the glass—while inside, something settled into place.

That night, you decided not to stay in.

It wasn’t boredom that pushed you out the door. It was something quieter. A desire to be seen together, maybe. Or to step back into the city on your own terms—not as escape, not as performance, but as choice.

Harry didn’t ask. He just said, “I made a reservation,” like it was a fact of nature. Like dinner had always been inevitable.

You were stretched across his bed when he said it, robe loose at your shoulders, scrolling absently on your phone. You looked up at him, eyebrow lifting. “Oh?”

“A place I’ve wanted to take you,” he said, tugging his sweater over his head, already moving toward the closet. “It’s not loud. Or flashy. You’ll like it.”

You smiled. You trusted him now. Which still startled you, sometimes—how easily that trust had come, how quietly it had embedded itself into your bones.

When you went to get ready, he followed you into the bedroom without comment, leaned against the doorframe while you sat at the vanity. The room was warm, lights low, rain tapping faintly against the windows like punctuation.

You took your time.

Harry watched the way you always did—unapologetically, openly, like observation was a form of intimacy for him. You caught his reflection in the mirror as you leaned forward, elbows on the table, lining your eyes with careful precision. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, dark hair a little mussed, mouth curved in a smile he didn’t bother to hide.

“You don’t have to stare,” you said lightly, reaching for mascara.

“I absolutely do,” he replied.

You laughed under your breath and kept going, aware of him behind you in that acute, electric way that had become familiar. He shifted closer at some point, sat down on the edge of the bed, sprawling back on his hands like he was settling in for a film. You felt his gaze on the nape of your neck, your shoulders, the curve of your spine as you leaned closer to the mirror.

“You always do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

“Look like you’re about to make a decision,” he said. “Even when you’re just putting on lipstick.”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “I am making a decision.”

“About?”

“Everything.”

That earned you a low laugh. He shook his head, fond. “Dangerous woman.”

You stood finally, letting the robe fall open just long enough to make his breath hitch before stepping into the dress laid out on the bed.

Black. Of course.

The fabric hugged you like it had been waiting, smooth and deliberate, clinging to your hips, your waist, the line of your back. It was simple in a way that wasn’t—clean lines, thin straps, the kind of dress that didn’t ask for attention but commanded it anyway.

Harry went quiet.

You felt it before you saw it. That shift in the room. That charged stillness that always preceded him touching you.

You stepped into your heels—those heels—and straightened slowly. The extra inches changed everything. Your posture sharpened. Your chin lifted. When you turned to face him, you were taller than him now.

It was almost cruelly ironic that he had once paid a fortune to lengthen his bones just to stand taller than women in a room, only to fall in love with one who slipped into heels that made her tower over him—and to discover, with something close to reverence, that he loved looking up at her.

He didn’t blink.

“Fuck,” he said softly, like it had slipped out against his will.

You walked toward him, slow, measured. Stopped just in front of him. He tilted his head up to look at you, eyes dark, appreciative, entirely unbothered by the difference in height.

“You’re staring again,” you said.

“I’m having a moment,” he replied.

You placed a hand on his shoulder, fingers brushing the warm skin of his neck. “You okay down there?”

He smiled—slow, dangrous. “Very.”

He stood then, close enough that your body aligned with his without effort. His hands came to your waist, thumbs pressing lightly, grounding you. He kissed you once, quick but loaded, like punctuation before a longer sentence.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He nodded, satisfied, and turned toward the door—then paused, doubled back, grabbed an umbrella from the stand by the closet.

“It’s raining,” he said, like he’d remembered something important. “I don’t want you wet.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

“Not like that,” he said, deadpan.

You laughed as he took your hand, fingers warm, familiar. He guided you out of the apartment and down to the elevator, his arm settling around your shoulders as the doors closed.

The garage was quiet and cavernous, polished concrete reflecting soft overhead lights. Harry’s collection sat there like a curated exhibit—sleek lines, understated luxury, cars chosen not for spectacle but for craft. He didn’t comment on them. Just walked you toward one without ceremony, dark and elegant, already unlocking it.

He opened your door first, letting you in first before buckling himself in the drivers seat. 

Outside, the rain had settled into something steady and insistent, blurring the city into streaks of light. You caught his jaw tightening slightly as he glanced at you sitting there—black dress, the city bending around you.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “Drive.”

The car glided through the city like it knew where it was going. Rain traced delicate patterns down the windshield, streetlights stretching into gold lines as you passed. Harry drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, thumb moving in absent circles like it belonged there.

You watched him from the corner of your eye—the focused calm of his expression, the way his brow furrowed slightly when he concentrated, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening when he smiled at something you said.

“You’ve been quiet,” he noted.

“I’m enjoying it,” you said. “This. You. The rain.”

He nodded. “Good.”

The restaurant was tucked away, discreet, glowing softly against the wet night. No sign screaming its name. Just warmth spilling onto the sidewalk, the promise of something intentional inside.

Harry parked, killed the engine, and turned to you. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

He was out of the car first again, umbrella already open. When he reached your side, he didn’t rush you. He offered his hand, steady, solid, as you stepped into the night.

Inside, the air was warm and low-lit, all dark wood and quiet confidence. Harry spoke to the host with ease, a familiarity that told you he’d been here before—just never with you. You felt that weight, that significance, settle gently on your shoulders.

Your table was tucked into a corner, intimate, candlelight catching on glassware and polished silver. Harry pulled out your chair, waited until you sat before taking his own seat across from you.

He watched you like he always did—like the room could fade away and he wouldn’t notice.

“You really look incredible,” he said finally.

“So do you,” you replied. And it was true—button up tailored just right, collar open, the quiet authority of a man who knew exactly who he was.

Wine was poured. Menus opened. Conversation flowed easily, meandering through nothing and everything—work you weren’t rushing back to, places you’d both been, things you’d never said out loud before.

At some point, Harry reached across the table, fingers brushing yours. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, under candlelight and quiet murmurs, you felt it again—that sense of staying. Of choosing. Of something deepening, not dramatically, but irrevocably.

And for once, the city could do whatever it wanted.

He wasn't going anywhere.

The menus sat open between you longer than necessary, the low candlelight making the pages look softer than they were. You went back and forth in the careful, almost ceremonial way people do when neither of them is really thinking about food. Harry tilted his head, considering a dish like it mattered. You vetoed something on principle alone. He smiled at that, the corner of his mouth lifting like he enjoyed your contradictions.

“You always do that,” he said.

“Have standards?” you asked.

“No. Decide and undecide like you’re testing fate.”

You shrugged, but smiled. “Someone has to.

When you finally ordered—something good, something indulgent—the waiter disappeared and the space between you widened just enough for something else to slip in.

It always happened like this with you. Not in a rush. Not theatrically. Just quietly, when your guard loosened enough to let the real questions breathe.

You wrapped your fingers around the stem of your wine glass. Watched the condensation trail downward.

“There’s something coming up,” you said, casually enough that it almost passed as nothing.

Harry looked at you immediately. Not sharply. Just…present. His attention  landd on you the way it always did when you shifted tone, like he knew to listen before you even knew what you were going to say.

“Thanksgiving,” you added, as if that explained everything.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

You took a breath. Let it out. “My parents host it every year. Have forever. It’s…a thing.”

“A big thing?” he asked.

You huffed softly. “An absurd thing.”

You told him then. About the apartment your family had owned longer than you’d been alive, about the balcony that overlooked the parade route like it was a private screening. About the way the Macy’s balloons drifted past at eye level while people balanced champagne flutes and commented on floats like they were film stills.

You told him about the guests—film executives who pretended they weren’t scouting, actors who swore they were "off duty", old friends who’d been coming so long they didn’t need to be invited anymore. Family friends who had watched you grow up, who still called you by a childhood nickname you pretended not to hear.

“It’s loud,” you said. “And crowded. And curated. My mother plans it like a premiere.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Sounds…intense.”

“It is,” you said. Then, quieter, “But it’s also home.”

You hadn’t meant to say that last part. It slipped out unguarded, honest. You stared at your glass for a second longer than necessary before continuing.

“My dad asked about you,” you said.

Harry didn’t move. But something in him stilled.

“He keeps saying I’m missing family days,” you went on, words tumbling now that you’d started. “Which I am. Because I’ve been with you. And he wants to meet the man who has his daughter disappearing for weeks at a time.”

You rushed the next part, like speed might dull the vulnerability.

“And I know it’s soon. And I don’t know what you usually do for Thanksgiving, or if you go somewhere with your family, or if you’d even want to step into something like that, and it’s really fine if you don’t—”

He cut you off.

“I’d love to go.”

The words landed cleanly. Decisively. No hesitation.

You looked up at him.

“I’d love to meet your father,” he continued, voice steady, warm. “Your mother. Your sister. I’d love to see you with your family.”

The room felt suddenly too quiet.

You didn’t speak.

Harry watched the realization move through your face—the surprise, the disbelief, the flicker of something that looked dangerously like hope. His eyes softened, lines at their corners deepening, his expression open in a way he didn’t offer easily.

“I wasn’t trying to pressure you,” he added gently. “But I want to be there. With you.”

Your throat tightened. You swallowed, hard.

It hit you all at once, like a delayed wave.

You were asking him to meet your family.

You, who had spent years deflecting, compartmentalizing, keeping the worlds of your life carefully separate...had just invited a man into the most entrenched ritual of your childhood. Into decades of tradition. Into history.

And he hadn’t flinched.

Worse—better—he’d said yes like it was obvious. Like it was already decided.

You stared at him, really stared. At the salt threaded through his dark hair. At the quiet confidence in his posture. At the way his hands rested on the table, steady, capable, unafraid.

You felt it then. Sharp and undeniable.

The itch.

The terrifying, thrilling sense that you wanted this man not just now, not just here—but always. That the idea of him standing beside you on that balcony, surrounded by your past and your people, didn’t feel intrusive.

It felt right.

Your chest tightened, emotion pressing up like it was searching for air.

“I don’t usually do this,” you said finally, voice softer than you intended.

“I know,” Harry replied.

That almost undid you.

You laughed once, breathless. “I didn’t think I’d ever ask anyone.”

He reached across the table then, fingers brushing yours. Not grasping. Just there.

“I’m glad you asked me,” he said.

You nodded, because if you spoke you weren’t sure what would come out. The waiter returned with bread and small plates, the interruption merciful. You took a sip of wine to steady yourself, hands trembling just slightly.

Harry watched you with that same attentive patience, like he understood the magnitude of what you’d just done even if you hadn’t said it out loud.

Outside, the rain continued its quiet insistence against the windows. Inside, something shifted again—subtle but irreversible.

You had invited him in.

And he had stepped forward without fear.

Dinner resumed, but everything tasted different now. Richer. and sharper. You caught yourself imagining it—Harry in your parents apartment, coat draped over a chair, wine glass in hand. The way your father would size him up, curious and cautious. Your mother’s smile, polite and probing and fake. Your sister’s barely concealed delight.

Harry, unbothered. Present. Watching you the way he always did, like the room rearranged itself around your gravity.

The thought made your pulse quicken.

You weren’t going anywhere. 

Dessert should have been an afterthought.

That’s what it felt like at first—an indulgence tacked onto the end of a night that had already given you more than you’d expected. The tension had softened after the Thanksgiving conversation, replaced by something quieter and fuller, like the last glass of wine poured without asking. Harry leaned back in his chair, jacket open now, tie loosened just enough to look intentional rather than undone. The candle between you had burned low, wax pooling unevenly, casting shadows that made his face look even more sculpted—strong nose, dark eyes, mouth that always seemed to know something before he said it.

“Dessert?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

You smiled. “If you don’t get dessert at a place like this, it feels rude.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “There’s a green tea ice cream here I’ve heard about.”

You looked up, surprised. “That’s my favorite.”

“I know,” he said simply.

You rolled your eyes, but your chest warmed. “You’re infuriating.”

“I’ve been told.”

The server returned, hovering with practiced grace, and you ordered almost lazily now—sharing, deciding together, the way couples do when they aren’t trying to impress anymore.

Green tea ice cream for you. Something chocolate and dramatic for him, because he claimed it balanced you out.

The server smiled, nodded, and disappeared.

And then—

You heard it.

Laughter, light and performative, drifting from somewhere behind you. The kind that didn’t belong to the room so much as sit on top of it. It was louder than it needed to be, pitched for attention. There was a voice too, male, smooth in a way that always felt rehearsed.

You didn’t mean to turn.

Your body did it before your mind caught up—some old instinct tugging at you, some buried reflex you hadn’t known was still sharp.

You glanced over your shoulder.

At first, you only registered the shape of him.

Tall. Lean. Dressed expensively but carelessly, like the clothes existed to be noticed rather than worn.

He was leaning in close to two girls at the bar—young, glossy lips, already laughing too hard at something he’d said. One of them held up her phone, angling it just so, and he dipped his head in without hesitation, smile practiced, chin tilted like he’d done this a thousand times.

He had.

When he turned his head, just slightly, the light caught his face.

And there he was.

Lucian Voss.

The room didn’t spin. It didn’t go dark. There was no dramatic rupture.

Instead, something colder happened.

Your stomach dropped, sharp and immediate, like you’d missed a step on a staircase you’d walked a hundred times before. Nausea crept up your throat, thick and sour, your chest tightening so suddenly it felt like someone had reached inside and squeezed.

You turned back around too fast.

The movement made Harry look up.

“What—” His brows furrowed instantly. “Hey. You okay?”

You nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. Just—felt dizzy for a second.”

He didn’t look convinced. His eyes searched your face, attentive in that way that made lying to him feel harder than it should have.

“I’m fine,” you added, softer. “Really. Don’t worry.”

You didn’t want to ruin this. You didn’t want to pull that man—that man—into this space, into this night. You had worked too hard to carve out something safe with Harry, something untainted. You weren’t going to let a ghost from your worst year take it from you.

Harry hesitated, then nodded slowly, though his hand shifted closer to yours on the table, his fingers brushing your knuckles like an anchor.

The server returned just then, mercifully, setting down the dishes with a quiet apology for the wait. The scent of matcha and cream rose between you, gentle and familiar.

“I’ll give you two a moment,” the server said, retreating.

You stared at the ice cream like it might dissolve if you looked away.

Behind you, laughter flared again.

You could feel him there now—not physically, not touching—but present in the way certain people nevr fully leave your nervous system. The man who had once looked at you with reverence and later with resentment. The man who had taken something private and bled it into the public eye for sympathy, for absolution, for a narrative that made him the survivor and you the footnote.

After what I’ve been through—especially in my last relationship, when my partner chose to terminate our pregnancy…

The words replayed without permission, sharp and invasive. You tasted bile.

Harry picked up his spoon, paused. “You sure you’re okay?”

You forced a smile. “Just tired.”

He didn’t push, but he didn’t look away either. His gaze stayed on you, steady and assessing, like he was cataloguing every micro-shift in your posture, every tension you hadn’t meant to show.

Then—

A man passed your table, laughing loudly, gesturing with his hands as he walked by. Two girls trailed behind him, still giggling, one of them tucking her hair behind her ear in a way that felt painfully familiar.

As he moved, your line of sight opened.

You saw Lucian clearly now.

And he saw you.

It happened in stages.

First, the flicker of recognition—his eyes narrowing just slightly, the smile still on his face but no longer aimed at the girls. Then the calculation, quick and unmistakable, the way his posture shifted as if he’d just remembered the weight of a camera. Of an audience.

He stopped laughing.

He stopped moving.

The girls kept going for half a step before realizing he wasn’t with them anymore, turning back, confused.

Lucian stayed where he was.

Looking directly at you.

The air around your table seemed to tighten, the hum of the restaurant fading into something distant and unreal. You felt Harry’s attention shift too, felt him straighten subtly, his body responding to something before his mind fully named it.

You hadn’t moved.

Lucian took a step closer.

And then another.

Until he was standing beside your table.

The smile he wore now was smaller. Sharper. Curious in the way that had always made your skin crawl.

“Hey you,” he said.

And the night, which had been so carefully held together, finally stilled—waiting.

For a fraction of a second, nothing happens.

The restaurant doesn’t dissolve. The candle doesn’t flicker out. Harry doesn’t move. Lucian doesn’t speak again. It’s as if the world has paused out of courtesy, holding its breath to see which version of the past you’re about to step into.

And then it rushes back.

Not forward—backward.

Because this is how it’s always been with Lucian Voss. He doesn’t arrive as a person so much as a trigger. A sound. A smell. A memory that doesn’t ask permission before it opens every locked door you’ve spent years carefully closing.

You don’t look up at him. Not yet.

Your eyes fix instead on the edge of the table, on the faint scratch in the wood that looks like a crescent moon. You remember noticing it earlier and thinking it gave the place character. Now it feels like an anchor—something solid, something real, something now.

Lucian’s voice drifts over you anyway.

Too familiar. Too practiced. Still smooth, still designed to sound harmless.

“Wow,” he says lightly. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

The word here feels loaded. Like he means alive. Like he means happy. Like he means without him.

Your body reacts before your mind does.

Your shoulders tighten. Your stomach twists. There’s a pulse in your ears, loud enough to drown out the ambient noise of the room. You are aware, acutely, of Harry beside you—his presence steady, warm, grounding—but Lucian’s proximity drags you somewhere else entirely.

Back to the beginning.

Back to when you didn’t yet know what kind of man he was.

Back to when you mistook attention for admiration.

You remember how impressed he’d been at first.

Not by you, exactly—but by what surrounded you.

Your last name. Your family. The way people greeted you at premieres without needing an introduction. The way you moved through rooms like they already belonged to you, even when you barely noticed.

He liked that. At first.

He liked telling people he was dating you. He liked the way heads turned when you walked in together. He liked being photographed beside you, liked that your history lent him weight.

But it didn’t take long for admiration to curdle.

You remember the first argument that felt…off. Not loud. Not explosive. Just sharp in a way that left you confused afterward, replaying it in your head like a scene that didn’t quite make sense.

You’d come home late from a meeting—something boring, production-related, spreadsheets and schedules—and he’d been waiting.

“So,” he’d said, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “You ever think about actually using what you’ve got?”

You hadn’t understood at first. “Using what?”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Come on. Your family. Your access. Your name. You could’ve been in Oscar films by now. You could’ve had a career handed to you and instead you’re—what—organizing other people’s visions?”

“I like producing,” you’d said, frowning. “I like being behind the camera.”

He’d rolled his eyes. “That’s such a waste.”

A waste.

That word came up a lot after that.

When you told him you’d turned down a role—small but prestigious, a Paul Thomas Anderson project your agent had gently pushed—you’d expected surprise. Maybe curiosity.

Instead, he’d looked at you like you’d committed a personal offense.

“Are you fucking serious?” he’d asked.

“Yes,” you’d said, calmly. “It didn’t feel right.”

“You don’t get to say no to things like that,” he’d snapped. “Do you know how many people would kill for that opportunity?”

You’d shrugged. “I don’t want to act.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” he’d shot back. “You’ve never had to want for anything.”

That was the first time he called you spoiled.

It wouldn’t be the last.

Lucian hated that you had what he didn’t—and worse, that you didn’t seem desperate to cling to it. He hated that you moved through the industry with a quiet confidence instead of a hunger. That you could walk away from things he would’ve begged for.

It scared him.

You see that now.

But back then, all you felt was the slow tightening of something around your ribs. A sense that you were being watched, measured, resented.

And then there was the Met Gala after-party.

You can still picture it perfectly—the heat of the room, the blur of sequins and champagne, the bass vibrating through your bones. You’d been standing near the bar, laughing with someone—an actor, wildly successful, the kind of name that didn’t need context.

You hadn’t been flirting. Not really. Just talking. Just existing.

Lucian had appeared at your side without warning.

His hand had landed on your waist, fingers digging in harder than necessary.

You’d flinched.

He’d leaned in close, smiling for the cameras, and whispered through his teeth, “Stay with me.”

“I was just—” you’d started.

His fingers had pinched, sharp and sudden, right above your hip bone.

Hard enough that you gasped.

“Don’t,” he’d murmured, still smiling. “Embarrass me.”

The bruise bloomed dark the next morning.

You remember standing in front of the mirror, touching it gently, telling yourself it was an accident. That he hadn’t meant it. That it was just the chaos of the night.

But it happened again.

And again.

At events. At dinners. At premieres where you drifted too far from his side. His hand always found your waist, your arm, your lower back—never where anyone else could see. Never where it could be questioned.

He became crueler after that night.

More cutting. More possessive.

He criticized the way you dressed, the way you spoke, the way people listened when you talked. He accused you of thinking you were better than him. Of not needing him.

And maybe that was the real sin.

Because Lucian needed to be needed.

He needed to feel bigger, more important, more central.

And you—without ever trying to—made him feel small.

The flashbacks come fast now, layered and relentless, as Lucian stands beside your table like he hasn’t torn through your life and left wreckage behind him.

You feel sick.

You feel cold.

You feel thirteen different versions of yourself pressing against your ribs, all of them asking the same question: Why is he here?

Harry’s chair shifts slightly.

It’s subtle. Protective. Intentional.

Lucian’s gaze flicks to him for the first time, really looks at him.

And something in Lucian’s expression changes.

Interest. Calculation. The faintest flicker of envy.

Of course.

Lucian straightens, his voice warm again, performative. “Didn’t realize you were…occupied.”

You still haven’t looked at him.

Not directly.

But you feel Harry’s presence like a wall at your side—solid, immovable. His hand rests on the table now, close enough that your fingers could touch it if you wanted. Close enough that you don’t feel alone in this moment, no matter how loudly the past tries to speak.

Lucian waits.

Smiles.

And you know—deep in your bones—that this isn’t over.

Not yet. Not when he’s standing right there, finally face to face with the life you rebuilt without him.

Lucian doesn’t like the silence.

He never has.

It unnerves him, the way you don’t rush to fill the space anymore, the way you don’t look at him like you’re bracing for impact. Your quiet used to be something he could crack open with a comment, a jab, a look that implied you owed him a reaction.

So he tries.

“Cat got your tongue?” he says lightly, tilting his head, eyes glittering with that same familiar cruelty. “You always did go quiet when you knew you were wrong.”

Wrong.

The word lands like muscle memory. You feel it in your shoulders, the old instinct to apologize, to explain yourself into something smaller and more palatable.

You don’t.

You keep your gaze fixed on the candle between you and Harry, on the steady flame that hasn’t wavered once through this entire interruption.

Lucian chuckles under his breath. “Still playing mysterious, huh? Guess some things never change.”

He leans an elbow against the back of an empty chair like he belongs there, like he hasn’t inserted himself uninvited into your night.

“You always liked pretending you were above it all,” he continues, voice lowering, sharpening. “Above ambition. Above wanting more. Guess you found someone who lets you keep pretending.”

That one is deliberate.

You feel it then—the old dynamic rearing its head, the way he speaks around you instead of to you, narrating you like you’re a character he still owns. Like you’re back together again, trapped in that strange half-space where he talks and you absorb the damage.

Harry shifts.

Not abruptly. Not theatrically.

But he stands.

The movement is slow, controlled, unmistakable.

The chair scrapes softly against the floor, a sound that seems to echo louder than it should. You look up instinctively, heart stuttering once as Harry straightens to his full height.

The contrast is immediate.

Lucian had always felt tall to you once—looming, imposing, made larger by the way he took up space emotionally. But next to Harry, the illusion collapses.

Harry is broader. Solid in a way that doesn’t need to announce itself. His shoulders fill the air, his presence grounded and immovable. There’s a quiet strength in the way he stands, spine straight, hands relaxed at his sides but heavy with restraint. His face is calm, but his jaw is tight, the muscle there flexing like it’s holding something back.

Lucian looks up.

For the first time since he arrived, he falters.

Just a fraction of a second—but you see it. The surprise. The recalibration. The realization that he is not the biggest thing in the room anymore.

Harry’s voice is low when he speaks. Even. Dangerous in its composure.

“Watch it.”

That’s all.

Two words.

Lucian blinks.

You have never seen him stunned like this.

Not when you left him. Not when the press cycle turned ugly. Not when you stopped answering his calls. He had always been able to talk his way back into control, to reframe, to perform.

But this—this is new.

His mouth opens slightly, then closes. His eyes flick over Harry’s face, his posture, the quiet authority radiating off him.

And then, inevitably, the smirk returns.

Because Lucian can’t help himself.

“Well,” he says, forcing a laugh, straightening as if to reclaim ground, “this is…unexpected.”

His gaze drifts back to you, then returns to Harry, openly assessing now.

“Didn’t realize you had a type,” Lucian adds, voice slick. “Older. Distinguished. Guess daddy issues come in all forms.”

You feel your stomach twist.

You know Harry is older. Of course you do.

You know the way his knees crack when he stands after sitting too long. The way silver has started threading through his dark hair, unapologetic and unhidden. The way his face carries years—real years, lived-in years.

Forty-seven.

It’s never been a secret.

And Harry doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t rise to the bait.

If anything, he looks bored.

Harry exhales slowly through his nose, eyes steady on Lucian. “You’re done here.”

Lucian laughs again, too loudly. “Relax. We’re just talking.”

Harry’s jaw tightens. You see it now—the effort it’s taking for him to stay where he is, to keep his voice level. His hands curl once at his sides, fingers flexing like he’s grounding himself.

“I’m not asking,” Harry says calmly. “Leave.”

The word hangs there.

Lucian’s eyes flash. “Who do you think you are—”

Harry takes a step forward.

Just one.

It’s not aggressive. It’s not sudden.

But it’s enough.

Enough that Lucian’s voice cuts off mid-sentence. Enough that the distance between them disappears, that Harry’s shadow falls over him, unmissable.

You know this moment.

You know what comes next.

Lucian won’t stop. He never does. Not until something breaks. Not until you’re the one who retreats.

Your heart kicks hard in your chest.

And you move.

You reach out and grab Harry’s shoulder.

Firm. Certain.

“Harry,” you say quietly. “Let’s go home.”

The word home feels radical on your tongue.

You don’t say it loudly. You don’t need to.

But it lands like a bomb.

Harry stills beneath your hand. You feel the tension in him ease just slightly at your touch, his head turning just enough to look at you. His eyes soften immediately, concern replacing the edge.

“Okay,” he says, without hesitation.

Behind him—

Lucian’s eye twitches.

Just once.

Small. Involuntary.

But you see it.

Home.

With him.

With the man Lucian wishes he could be—solid, respected, unafraid. A man who doesn’t need to tear you down to feel tall. A man who stands between you and the world without asking for applause.

Lucian’s gaze darts between the two of you now, sharp and searching.

“How long?” he asks suddenly, the question brittle. “How long have you been with him?” 

There it is.

The crack.

The realization that his grip is gone. That you didn’t just leave him—you replaced the version of yourself he could control.

Harry shifts slightly, placing himself just a fraction more in front of you without blocking your view. Protective, but not possessive. Present.

You don’t answer Lucian.

You don’t owe him that.

Harry reaches for your hand instead, warm and solid, fingers threading through yours like they’ve always belonged there.

“Come on,” he says softly, throwing a couple hundred dollar bills on the table. “We’re leaving.”

Lucian watches you like a man watching a door close in slow motion.

And for the first time since you’ve known him, he has nothing left to say.

The car ride back is quiet.

Not tense. Not fractured. Just quiet in a way that feels deliberate. The rain has thickened, streaking the windows in silver lines that blur the city into something abstract and distant. Harry drives with both hands on the wheel, jaw set, eyes forward. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask.

He reaches over once and rests his hand on your knee.

Just there.

Just grounding.

You didn’t realize you were shivering until the car stops.

It’s subtle at first—your fingers trembling against your clutch, your shoulders tightening under the thin silk of your dress. But by the time you’re inside the building, warmth wrapping around you in that polished, citrus-scented lobby air, your teeth are nearly chattering.

The cold has gotten into you.

Not just the November air. Not just the rain soaking into the hem of your dress when you stepped from the car.

Lucian’s voice has lodged somewhere beneath your ribs.

The thought of him seeing Harry.

Of him knowing what you have now.

Of his eyes on something sacred.

It makes you nauseous.

Harry notices immediately.

He doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t ask what you’re thinking. He simply guides you toward the elevator, one hand firm at the small of your back. You lean into him without meaning to. The ride up feels longer than usual.

By the time you step into the apartment, your body is shaking.

Not violently.

Just enough that he sees it.

He closes the door quietly behind you, locks it, and turns.

“Come here,” he says softly.

You don’t argue.

He leads you down the hallway, past the warm glow of the living room lamps, into the bathroom already familiar enough to feel like yours. He flips the lights on low, amber against marble.

He sits you down gently on the closed toilet lid.

You don’t speak.

He doesn’t ask you to.

He turns the water on.

The sound fills the space immediately—steady, constant, grounding. Steam begins to gather along the edges of the mirror. He tests the temperature with his hand, adjusts it, waits until it’s warm enough.

You watch him move.

Deliberate. Calm. Focused.

He knows what to do.

He’s not trying to fix the past. He’s not trying to force you into talking. He’s simply taking care of you.

When the bath begins to fill, he turns back to you.

“Stand up for me,” he murmurs.

Your legs feel heavy, but you rise. He steps closer, fingers brushing the zipper at the side of your dress. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t make it something charged.

He just unzips you.

The silk loosens, sliding down your hips, pooling at your feet. He helps you step out of it carefully, setting it aside without comment.

Your bra next.

He unclips it gently, careful with the clasp, lifting the straps from your shoulders like he’s unwrapping something fragile. He hangs it neatly over the towel rack, not tossing it, not careless.

You’re shivering harder now.

“Almost there,” he says quietly.

He removes the rest of your clothes without ceremony followed by your heels he carefully took off. No hunger. No distraction. Just care.

When the water is ready, he steadies you as you step in.

The warmth hits your skin and you inhale sharply.

It’s immediate relief. The heat wrapping around you, seeping into muscle and bone, undoing the cold in layers. You lower yourself slowly into the tub, the water rising to your collarbones.

Harry doesn’t hesitate.

He strips quickly—shirt over his head, belt undone, trousers dropped. You don’t look at him the way you normally would. You don’t feel that spark of want.

Tonight it’s something else.

He steps into the tub behind you, water shifting with his weight. He settles back, pulls you gently into his lap.

You fold into him without thinking.

His arms wrap around your torso, solid and warm, chest against your back. His skin is hotter than the water.

He presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s slow. Grounding.

Then he reaches forward, cupping water in his hands and letting it fall over your hair. Again. And again.

He gathers your hair back carefully, massaging shampoo into your scalp with slow, firm circles. You close your eyes. The sensation is almost hypnotic. His fingers move with confidence, steady and knowing.

He rinses. Applies conditioner. Works it through the length of your hair with the same patience he brings to everything.

He doesn’t speak.

The silence is intentional. Respectful.

After your hair, he moves lower. Soap. Warm water. His hands glide over your shoulders, your arms, your back. He washes you without possessiveness, without urgency. Just care.

Like you are something worth tending to.

When he’s finished, he reaches for a towel and sets it within reach, but you stop him.

You turn slowly in his lap.

Face to face.

Water sloshes gently around you. His dark hair is damp now, curling slightly at the edges. His eyes search yours, softer than they’ve been all night.

You lift your hands to his head.

“Let me,” you whisper.

He doesn’t argue.

You squeeze shampoo into your palm and work it into his hair. His eyes close almost immediately. You massage his scalp the way he did yours, fingers threading through silver-streaked strands. You rinse him carefully, watching the water slide down the strong planes of his face.

You wash his shoulders. His chest. The faint line of scars and years and everything that made him who he is.

He watches you quietly when you’re done.

No performance. No ego.

Just trust.

When the water begins to cool, he stands first, stepping out and wrapping a towel around his waist. He reaches back for you, steadying you as you rise. The air hits your damp skin and you shiver again.

He wraps a large towel around you immediately.

Firm. Enveloping.

You let him.

And that’s when it happens.

The words slip out, small and fragile.

“I’m sorry.”

He freezes.

His hands tighten slightly around the towel at your shoulders. He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper.

His brows knit together. “For what?”

You swallow.

“I didn’t want you to ever meet him.”

Understanding moves slowly across his face.

You look down, unable to hold his gaze for a moment. “I didn’t want him anywhere near you. I didn’t want him to know who you are. I didn’t want… that part of my life touching this one.”

Harry’s expression shifts—not to anger. Not to frustration.

To something deeper.

“Hey,” he says gently.

You shake your head. “He was so hard on me. You don’t understand. He—” You stop, breath catching. “He made me feel small. All the time. Like I wasn’t enough. Or like I was too much. I don’t even know which.”

Your voice cracks.

“He was cruel,” you continue. “And I worked so hard to forget that version of myself. I didn’t want you involved in it. I didn’t want him looking at you like he had any right.”

Harry steps closer, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he says firmly.

You blink up at him.

“Nothing,” he repeats.

His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the edge of something you hadn’t realized had spilled over.

“I don’t care that I met him,” he says quietly. “I care that he ever made you feel like that.”

You inhale shakily.

“He doesn’t get to define you,” Harry continues. “He doesn’t get to own any part of you. Not now. Not ever.”

You press your forehead to his chest, towel slipping slightly at your shoulders.

“I just didn’t want him near you,” you whisper.

His arms close around you, strong and certain.

“He’s not,” he says.

And for the first time since you walked into that restaurant, you believe it.

You believe that Lucian cannot reach you here.

Harry dries you slowly, methodically, like there is nowhere else he needs to be.

He rubs the towel along your arms, your shoulders, kneels to dry your legs. Not rushed. Not distracted. His movements are deliberate, reverent almost, like he’s returning you to yourself inch by inch.

He pulls one of his soft T-shirts over your head. The fabric falls past your hips, warm from the dryer because he always thinks ahead like that. He doesn’t comment on the way you lean into him more than usual tonight. He just lets you.

In bed, he doesn’t touch you with urgency. No heat. No hunger. He lies on his side facing you, one arm tucked under your pillow, the other draped across your waist. His thumb draws lazy circles over your skin through cotton. He presses his lips to your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

And he does.

He falls asleep last. You know this because every time you stir, he’s there—adjusting the blanket, pulling you closer, tucking your cold feet against his calves. His breathing stays steady, protective, like a guard dog that doesn’t bark unless it has to.

Outside the windows, the city hums, indifferent.

But across town, something else hums too.

Lucian doesn’t go home.

He goes to a bar first, then another. He laughs too loud. He buys drinks he doesn’t finish. The girls from earlier cling to him, still impressed, still hoping proximity means relevance.

He doesn’t care about them.

He cares about you.

Or rather—he cares about losing.

He sits in the back of a black car at two in the morning, staring at his phone like it owes him something.

He types your name into search.

Again.

And again.

And there it is.

A paparazzi shot from a gala a few weeks ago—grainy but clear enough. You stepping out of a car. A man’s hand reaching for yours. The angle isn’t perfect, but Lucian knows faces.

He zooms in.

The man beside you is older. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair threaded with silver. Strong jaw. He looks like he belongs there. Like he doesn’t have to try.

Lucian scrolls.

Another photo.

Inside the gala. You beside him. His arm around your waist. His family nearby.

Lucian’s stomach drops.

How did he miss this?

How did no one tell him?

His jaw tightens. His fingers move faster now, frantic, swiping, searching. There are whispers in comment sections. Blind items half-formed. Someone speculating about “mystery older financier.” Someone else noting how comfortable you look.

Comfortable.

The word makes his blood boil.

He has a child on the way. An Instagram model with a curated feed and a surgically perfected face. He made sure the pregnancy announcement was soft-lit and tasteful. He made sure the caption sounded vulnerable.

After what I’ve been through...

He stares at that post now.

He hates how sincere he looks in it.

He hates that he meant it, at least partially.

But none of it replaces you.

He doesn’t love the model. He doesn’t love the idea of fatherhood. He loves the optics. The redemption arc.

He loves control.

And you slipping from it—so visibly, so publicly—makes something dark coil in his chest.

If he can’t have you, no one will.

The thought doesn’t feel dramatic to him. It feels logical.

He scrolls again and then—

A message pops up from one of the girls he was with earlier.

(646) 555-0189: omg btw i took this when you were talking to her lol [Attached: photo]

You and Harry walking out of the restaurant. Rain falling. His coat draped over your shoulders. His hand firm at your back. Your head tilted toward him like you’re listening to something only he gets to hear.

It’s intimate.

It’s real.

Lucian’s vision goes red.

Bingo.

He saves it immediately.

Then he opens another thread.

A contact saved under a first name only.

Works at The New Yorker.

He types quickly.

Lucian: You’ll never believe who I saw tonight....

Deletes.

Too obvious.

He starts again.

Lucian: Got something interesting for you. Off the record—for now.

He attaches the photo.

Adds: 

Lucian: She’s been seeing someone. Big name in finance. Older. Very older. You might want to dig into that.

He pauses.

Then adds, because cruelty is second nature:

Lucian: Especially considering her “history.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

He doesn’t need to.

He knows how the game works. How suggestion is more powerful than accusation. How a whisper travels faster than a scream.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

Lucian smiles.

He leans back in the seat, the city lights streaking past the window like something burning.

He imagines the headline.

Young Hollywood Heiress Linked to Powerful Older Executive.

He imagines the comments.

Gold digger. Daddy issues. Trauma bonding.

He imagines you waking up to it.

He imagines Harry reading it.

He wants the man to suffer. To feel exposed. To feel the same public humiliation Lucian once spun into sympathy.

He imagines you in bed right now. Curled against that older body. Safe. Warm.

His jaw clenches so hard it aches.

He types one more message to the girl who sent the photo.

Lucian: Don’t post it yet. I’ll tell you when.

Control.

He needs to believe he still has it.

Across town, you turn in your sleep.

Harry wakes instantly.

You’re murmuring something, breath uneven. He smooths your hair back from your face, presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, even though you’re not fully awake. “You’re safe.”

He pulls you closer, his arm heavy and certain around your waist. His hand rests over your ribs like he can physically guard your heart.

You settle against him.

Outside, snow begins to fall—light, quiet, almost invisible against the glass.

Inside, he holds you like nothing in the world could touch you.

He has no idea that somewhere else, someone is already trying.

But if he did—

He would not be the one afraid.

The next morning arrives with light.

Not the grey, low-hanging kind that usually presses against the windows in November, but actual sun—thin and pale, but determined. It stretches across the hardwood floors in long rectangles, warming the edges of the bed, catching in the faint silver strands at Harry’s temples.

You wake before your alarm.

For a moment, you don’t remember why your chest feels tight.

Then you feel his arm around your waist, heavy and protective, and the memory of the night before rushes back in fragments—rain on the pavement, Lucian’s voice, Harry standing.

Your body relaxes instinctively against him.

He’s still asleep.

Almost fifty and exhausted in a way he rarely admits. Even when he works from home, even when he calls in “sick” and sets up at the dining table in soft sweatpants and glasses perched low on his nose, he doesn’t stop. His laptop hums late into the night. Conference calls spill into dinner. He’s been picking up his brother’s slack without complaint, quietly absorbing the workload because that’s what he does—he builds, he stabilizes, he carries.

His brow is slightly furrowed even in sleep.

You lift his arm gently from your waist, careful not to wake him. He stirs faintly, something unintelligible slipping from his lips, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

You brush a kiss against his shoulder before you slide out of bed.

It’s only 6:30.

He doesn’t need to be up until nine.

Let him rest, you think.

You move quietly through the apartment, the floor cool under your feet. The air smells faintly of cedar and coffee grounds from the night before. You step into the walk-in closet.

It used to be his.

All of it.

Dark suits. Crisp shirts. Shoes lined up in disciplined rows.

Now half of it belongs to you.

No—more than half.

Your dresses hang along one wall in careful order—silk, satin, wool, cotton. Heels arranged along the racks beneath them. Boots tucked beside his leather Oxfords. Jewelry boxes stacked on shelves that once held nothing but ties.

He cleared space without a speech.

One day, the closet was simply bigger.

Drawers that once held his T-shirts now hold your workout sets, your sweaters, your lace bras folded neatly beside his watch boxes.

He builds space.

Makes room.

You pause, fingers brushing the sleeve of one of your coats.

You realize, with a slow, almost dizzy clarity:

He’s not playing.

This isn’t temporary. This isn’t convenient. He has rearranged his life in quiet, practical ways. Not dramatic declarations. Not grand gestures.

Space.

You change into a fitted black workout set you bought last week and left in his drawer without asking. It fits like you meant it to be here.

Your phone buzzes on the dresser.

Sloane.

A photo of her in front of the Pilates studio mirror, lips pursed.

Sloane: you better not bail

You roll your eyes and type back:

You: Already on my way.

You slip on sneakers, grab your coat, and pause once more at the bedroom door.

Harry is still asleep, sprawled on his stomach now, one arm tucked under the pillow. The sun touches his cheekbone, softening the lines of his face.

You don’t wake him.

You leave.

The air outside is sharper than you expect, sunlight deceptive against the cold. You shove your headphones into your ears as you walk, music low and comforting. The studio is only a few blocks away. The neighborhood feels quiet, weekday subdued.

You’re halfway to the corner when you hear something.

Muffled at first.

A shout.

You frown, slowing as you approach the crosswalk. The light turns green. You step forward.

“Hey!”

The sound is louder now. Chaotic.

You turn your head just in time to nearly collide with a man on a bike. He swerves, curses, pedals off.

You pull one headphone out of your ear.

And then you see them.

Five—no, six—men clustered near the curb, cameras already raised. One of them steps forward, lens pointed directly at your face.

Your stomach drops.

“How do you feel about helping the Castillo family lose credibility?” one of them shouts.

The question hits you like ice water.

You blink.

Another voice cuts in. “Is it true you’ve been secretly seeing Harry Castillo for months?”

“Are you worried about the age difference?”

“Is this about money?”

“Is this a strategic move?”

The flashes start.

Even in daylight.

Your pulse spikes.

You’ve dealt with paparazzi before. You grew up with them. You know how to keep your head down, how to walk, how to say nothing.

But this—

This is different.

This is pointed.

“How do you think his investors feel about you?”

“Are you using him?”

“Is this a distraction from your family’s estate issues?”

You feel the old heat rising in your chest. The old humiliation. The old sensation of being reduced to a headline.

You take a step back instinctively.

They step forward.

Cameras clicking. Voices overlapping.

You know half the public respects your family. Knows your grandfather’s name. Respects your father’s work. But the other half—

They don’t care.

They want spectacle. They want blood. They want to watch you squirm.

And then—

The question that derails you entirely.

“How does Lucian feel about this?”

Your breath catches.

Of course.

Of course.

The name is deliberate. Planned.

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

They know exactly what they’re doing.

“How does it feel to move on so publicly?”

“Did you ever tell him about this man?”

“Is this revenge?”

“Is Harry aware of your past?”

Your skin feels hot and cold at the same time.

You know this pattern.

Lucian has done this before.

Not the first time.

After your first fight. After you denied that Paul Thomas Anderson film. After he decided to recast your abortion as his tragedy. There had been sudden spikes in media interest. Random photographers appearing outside events you hadn’t announced. Questions that felt too specific. Too tailored.

He feeds them.

He knows which outlets bite.

He pays just enough.

You swallow hard.

They keep coming.

“Are you worried he’ll leave you when the press turns?”

“Does Harry know what he’s getting into?”

“How do you respond to people saying you ruin men?”

That one lands.

It’s a knife.

Your vision blurs for half a second.

Lucian’s voice echoes in your memory.

You ruin things.

You don’t know how to keep anything good.

You make men smaller.

He used to say it in private.

Now it’s public.

You straighten.

Your face goes still.

You don’t give them what they want.

You walk.

They follow.

“Did Lucian know you were already seeing someone?”

“Is this about the abortion?”

That word—

You stumble slightly.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

They see it.

They push harder.

“Do you regret it?”

“Was it a mistake?”

“Does Harry want children?”

Your throat closes.

You stop walking.

Just for a second.

You look at them.

Not with fear.

Not with tears.

With something colder.

“I’m not answering that,” you say quietly.

It’s not loud.

But it’s steady.

A camera zooms in.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s none of your business.”

Your voice doesn’t shake.

You turn and keep walking.

They shout after you. The questions get uglier. Meaner.

They always do when you don’t give them blood.

“Is he just another phase?”

“Does he know you get bored?”

“Are you going to destroy him too?”

The cruelty is intentional.

Lucian-level cruelty.

Designed to destabilize.

You reach the studio doors.

Sloane is inside, already moving toward you because she’s seen the chaos through the glass.

She yanks the door open and pulls you in before they can follow.

The door slams shut.

The noise muffles instantly.

Your breathing is uneven.

Your hands are shaking now.

Sloane’s eyes are wide. “What the hell was that?”

You swallow.

“Lucian,” you say simply.

Her jaw tightens.

“Of course it was.”

You lean against the wall, closing your eyes for a second.

You know exactly what he’s doing.

He doesn’t need you back.

He just needs you unsettled.

He wants you anxious. Reactive. Defensive.

He wants Harry dragged into the mud.

He wants you to question whether peace is worth the price.

And across town, Lucian sits in his apartment, phone in hand, watching notifications roll in as small gossip accounts begin to repost the photo of you and Harry leaving the restaurant.

He smirks when he sees it circulate.

He imagines you seeing it.

He imagines you panicking.

He imagines Harry reading the comments.

He tells himself it’s not jealousy.

It’s justice.

If he can’t have you, he will control the narrative.

He will make sure the world chews on your name until you choke.

Back at the studio, Sloane grips your shoulders.

“You need to tell him.”

You nod.

You will.

Because Harry doesn’t hide.

And he will not be the one afraid.

Not of Lucian.

Not of headlines.

Not of men who confuse cruelty with power.

But as you step into the Pilates room, trying to steady your breathing, one thought settles heavy in your chest:

Lucian doesn’t want you back.

He wants you broken.

And this time—

You’re not alone.

That’s what you tell yourself as you lie back against the reformer, toes pointed, breath measured, Sloane counting under hers like she’s trying to keep you tethered to the earth.

“Slow,” she murmurs. “Don’t lock your knees.”

The studio smells faintly of eucalyptus and lemon disinfectant. Sunlight pours in through the high windows, pale but insistent, cutting across the polished floors in geometric blocks. Outside, the city has brightened fully now—clean winter light, deceptive in its gentleness.

Inside, your muscles tremble under controlled resistance.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Pull.

You focus on the burn in your thighs, the strain in your core. The way your body feels present, physical, contained. There is comfort in structure. In repetition. In the discipline of breath.

You don’t know that across Manhattan, servers are spiking.

You don’t know that a headline has gone live.

You don’t know that your name is trending.

You stretch your arms overhead, fingers grazing the straps.

Sloane glances at you mid-movement. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

You are almost convincing.

Back at the apartment, sunlight reaches the bedroom slowly, creeping across white sheets and up the length of Harry’s bare back.

He’s still asleep.

One arm is thrown across your side of the bed, instinctively searching for a body that isn’t there.

His phone sits face-down on the nightstand.

It begins to vibrate.

Once.

Twice.

Then again.

A cluster of notifications.

He doesn’t stir yet.

The first person to read it in your world is not you.

It’s a junior associate at the Castillo Group, twenty-five, sharp, perpetually anxious, sipping coffee at her desk before nine. She refreshes her news alerts the way she always does.

And then she freezes.

The headline is not subtle.

It is not cautious.

It is not neutral.

“Conflict of Interest: Harry Castillo’s Romantic Entanglement Raises Legal Questions Over Hollywood Family Trust”

The subheading was worse.

“Sources suggest potential fiduciary breach as trustee engages in relationship with beneficiary.”

The byline belongs to a staff writer known for dismantling reputations with surgical calm.

The article is long.

Meticulous.

And brutal.

It opens with your names in full.

Harry Castillo, forty-seven, senior partner at the Castillo Group.

You.

Heiress.

Producer.

Beneficiary.

It explains fiduciary law in precise, almost academic language. It outlines ethical frameworks. It cites professional conduct standards. It references legal scholars who describe romantic involvement between trustees and beneficiaries as “inherently compromising.”

There are no screaming accusations.

There are no tabloid exclamation points.

That would be easier to dismiss.

Instead, the article is cold.

Measured. 

Devastating.

"While no formal charges have been filed, experts note that even the appearance of undue influence may expose both parties to legal scrutiny. Trustees are obligated to act solely in the best interest of beneficiaries. A romantic relationship complicates this duty, introducing questions of bias, preferential treatment, and breach of fiduciary responsibility."

It references your family’s trust structure.

It names specific clauses.

It quotes anonymous “sources familiar with the estate.”

It suggests that other beneficiaries—cousins, extended family members—could legally challenge decisions made under Harry’s oversight.

It uses the phrase “legal exposure” repeatedly.

It states plainly,

“Even absent misconduct, the relationship itself creates risk. Communications between the parties—texts, emails, financial records—may become subject to discovery should litigation arise.”

It does not call you immoral.

It does not call Harry corrupt.

It does something worse.

It frames you as a liability.

It frames him as reckless.

It frames your love as a governance failure.

By 8:12 a.m., the article is circulating on Wall Street.

By 8:18, a rival firm partner has sent it to three investors of Harry's.

By 8:25, someone has forwarded it to your mother’s assistant.

By 8:30, your father’s phone lights up on set.

And still—

You are on the reformer.

Sweat at your temples.

Breathing through another set of lunges.

“Hold,” the instructor says.

You hold.

Across town, Harry’s phone vibrates again.

And again.

Finally, he stirs.

He squints into the light, disoriented for half a second, hand reaching for you before remembering you left early.

He rolls onto his back and grabs his phone.

The lock screen is a wall of notifications.

Missed calls.

Texts.

Emails.

A message from his brother.

Four from the firm’s compliance officer.

Three from his father.

A dozen Slack notifications.

And the article link.

He sits up immediately.

His expression changes before he even opens it.

His jaw tightens.

The line between his brows deepens.

He reads. Slowly. Fully.

He does not skim.

He does not panic.

He reads every word.

The sunlight that had felt warm a moment ago now seems too bright, too invasive.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet on the floor, phone in hand.

He scrolls.

He reads the legal citations. He reads the quotes from fiduciary scholars.

He reads your name in print, tethered to phrases like “risk exposure” and “potential invalidation of trust decisions.”

He inhales sharply once.

Not fear. Calculation.

He knows the law.

He knows the optics.

He knows exactly how this will look in a courtroom.

He knows what opposing counsel would argue.

He also knows this is not an accident.

The timing. The source. The framing.

Lucian.

He doesn’t say the name out loud.

But he feels it.

He stands, already moving toward the closet, toward clothes, toward response.

Back at Pilates, Sloane’s phone buzzes on the bench near the wall.

She ignores it at first.

Then it buzzes again.

And again.

She glances over mid-set.

Her face changes. Subtle.

You don’t notice. You’re focused on your breath.

She steps off the reformer for a second, pretending to grab water.

Her thumb swipes across the screen. She reads the headline. Her mouth goes dry.

She scrolls.

Her stomach drops.

She looks at you.

You’re still on your back, legs extended, concentrating on the instructor’s cues.

You look peaceful. For the first time in a while.

She doesn’t tell you. Not yet. She doesn’t know how. Because the article is not just gossip.

It’s institutional. It’s legal. It’s dangerous. It outlines how trustees can be removed. How decisions can be challenged retroactively. How romantic entanglement can be construed as undue influence.

It suggests that any recent modifications to the trust could be reviewed under scrutiny.

It hints—carefully—that litigation is likely.

And if litigation begins—

Your private life becomes evidence. Discovery. Subpoenas. Depositions. Your messages. Your emails. Your bank transfers. Your sleepovers. Everything.

You would not be protected by innocence. Process is process.

Sloane’s throat tightens. She locks her phone.

“Five more,” the instructor calls.

You push through.

You don’t know that you are, in this moment, being described online as a fiduciary hazard.

You don’t know that anonymous commenters are already speculating about your motives.

You don’t know that financial blogs are dissecting Harry’s oversight.

You don’t know that someone has already written:

“She’s going to cost him everything.”

And yet—

When you exhale and lower your legs slowly, something in your chest feels off.

A tremor you can’t name.

Like the air has shifted. Like the sun outside is too bright for no reason.

You sit up slowly, wiping sweat from your collarbone.

Sloane is watching you. Too intently.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” she says too quickly.

You narrow your eyes.

But the session isn’t over.

And for now—

You are still just a woman in a studio, breathing through resistance.

You don’t know that by the time you step back onto the street, the world will feel different.

You don’t know that Harry is already dressed, already on the phone with the firm’s legal team, already speaking in that low, controlled voice he uses when he is furious but refusing to show it.

You don’t know that he is not thinking about his own reputation.

He is thinking about you.

About subpoenas. About your name in court documents.

About protecting you from something you haven’t even seen yet.

The city hums on. Traffic moves. Coffee shops fill.

And above it all, your names sit in black serif font, steady and merciless.

You’re still moving through planks and pulses and controlled breaths.

Unaware. For now.

But here, at four in the morning, in the hush of his bedroom where the city hasn’t yet remembered itself, he’s slow. Soft. Worshipful.

You shift under his mouth and feel it—that throb of ache already curling low in your stomach. He hums, half amusement, half approval, and kisses just beneath your waistband again.

You’ve lost count of how many nights you’ve slept in his bed, how many mornings you’ve woken up tangled in his sheets, his arms, his mouth.

But it never stops being surreal.

The way Joel fucks. The way Joel touches. The way he makes you feel like the center of something brutal and quiet and holy all at once.

“Morning,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and wrecked with sleep.

You manage a groggy noise, somewhere between a laugh and a moan, eyes still shut.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You did,” you murmur, voice scratchy, “but not complaining.

He kisses your hipbone. Trails lower. His hands—those big, calloused fucking hands—slide beneath your thighs, shifting you so gently you might as well be made of silk.

“You were twitchin’ in your sleep,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Whimperin’. Thinkin’ about last night?”

You smile with your eyes closed. Yesterday: warm sun on your back at the farmers market, his hand at the small of your spine, lunch at some overpriced spot on South Congress where Joel bitched about the kale but finished the entire salad anyway. The way he stood behind you in the scrub outlet, muttering about how all the new ones were too thin, too cheap, too easy to see through—while very obviously checking out your ass in the mirror.

And then dinner, the quiet kind, with the windows open and music low and his eyes on you like he’d never seen you before.

Then the sex—because of course there was sex. Joel had you on the couch before the dishes were even dry. Again in the shower. And then again, hours later when he’d apparently decided sleep was for cowards.

Now it’s Monday. Which means it’s a day for saving lives. For bleeding hands and screaming families and trauma codes and things you won’t want to talk about later. Which makes what Joel’s doing now feel almost medicinal. Like he’s trying to armor you from the inside out.

He kisses the crease where your thigh meets your hip and you breathe a little deeper.

"Joel..." It's barely a sound.

“Shh,” he says, voice all gravel and reverence, “Lemme take care of you.”

You let your legs fall open without thinking. Muscle memory. Trust. Desire.

His mouth moves lower, no hesitation. He licks a slow stripe up your cunt, groaning at the taste like it’s the first time, not the hundredth. Your hips twitch, breath hitching in your chest. His hands are under your thighs now, thumbs pressing just enough to keep you open, to keep you where he wants you. Which is exactly fucking here.

He starts slow—he always starts slow—tongue flicking over your clit in soft, maddening strokes. He knows your body better than you do at this point. Knows how to draw it out, how to keep you just on the edge without slipping over.

“You're soaked,” he mutters into you, voice full of lazy satisfaction. “Jesus, baby. You missed me?”

You whine, because yes, of course you did, even if it’s only been a few hours.

He keeps working you open, tongue circling your clit, dragging low to fuck into you with slow, wet strokes. Every sound he makes goes straight to your core—the quiet hums, the soft cursing, the muttered nothings like he's not even aware he’s speaking.

“Sweetest fuckin’ pussy,” he grunts. “Always so good for me. Look at you.”

You reach for his hair, threading your fingers through the curls at the base of his neck, holding on.

It’s not long before your thighs are shaking and your hips are grinding up into his face. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Just locks his arms under your thighs and keeps his mouth on you like he’s starving. Like the only way to survive this goddamn Monday is to wring every last drop of pleasure from your body before the sun rises.

And when you come—fuck, when you come—it’s with his name on your lips and his mouth still buried between your legs, groaning like he needs it as bad as you do.

You’re trembling. Sweating. He finally pulls away, mustache soaked, eyes heavy.

“Time is it?” you murmur, voice wrecked.

He glances at the clock on the nightstand. “Four thirty.”

You groan, covering your face with one hand. “We have to be at the hospital in thirty minutes.”

He grins actually grins—and kisses your inner thigh, soft and sweet now. “You can shower. I’ll make coffee.”

You lower your hand and look at him. His hair’s a mess. His shirt’s still on, sleeves rolled up. His mouth is slick with you and he’s looking at you like you’re the last quiet thing in the world.

“Joel.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re insane.”

He leans over you, presses a kiss to your mouth—unhurried and tender.

“You love it.”

You do. God help you, you do.

The sheets fall back into place as you rise, and Joel watches. Still half-lying, shirt wrinkled and pushed up his stomach, hair mussed like a man who slept hard, fucked harder.

His eyes track you as you walk across the room, bare feet silent against the wood, hips moving with the lazy ache he put there.

There’s reverence in the way he looks at you now—soft, unreadable. Like if he blinks you might vanish. But he doesn’t say anything. Just watches. Soaks it in. The backs of his knuckles rest on his stomach. There’s a pinkness to his lips, slightly swollen from where his mouth had been on you minutes ago.

He looks wrecked in the most possessive, satisfied way imaginable.

You close the bathroom door behind you, heart still thudding. The mirror is fogged from yesterday's bath, your skin glowing under the overhead light. You don’t linger. No time. The water’s warm when it hits you, cutting through the haze, but the ghost of his mouth still lingers between your legs like memory. You brace a hand against the tile and let yourself breathe.

His soap is sharp, woodsy. You use it anyway. Towel too. Deodorant too. You’ve long since stopped pretending you don’t like the way it makes you smell like him all day—like pine, like cedar, like something grounded.

You towel off fast, fingers running through damp hair before you pull it into a low twist. Your fresh clean black scrubs are folded over the arm of the chair by the door, exactly where Joel left them last night.

He’s not in bed anymore. When you emerge, dressed and shoeless, you can hear the clink of a mug. The low scrape of toast from a pan. The kitchen is dimly lit, and Joel stands by the counter in his own black scrubs—sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Two mugs of coffee sit steaming on the counter, and beside them, plates with burnt toast. There’s a smear of butter melting into one of them, haphazard and crooked. You smile despite yourself.

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t make toast anymore,” you say, slipping past him to grab a mug.

He shrugs. “Better’n nothing.”

You sip. It’s strong. Bitter. Perfect.

Joel eyes you over his shoulder as he grabs his own mug. His eyes are heavy-lidded, but alert—already sliding back into the persona the hospital knows. The man who snaps orders in trauma bays, barks at nurses, clears rooms with one look. But not here. Here, with you, he’s softer around the edges. Still made of iron, but warmed.

“You packin’ extra socks?” he asks.

You nod, chewing toast.

“Granola bars?”

You nod again.

He grunts, pleased. That’s love, in his language. Socks and protein. Warm coffee and burnt bread. The way he looks at you across the counter like you’re the only thing worth remembering about this house.

Then—his gaze flicks toward the clock.

You both freeze.

“Shit,” he says.

Shoes. You’re bolting. Joel’s yanking his ID badge from the hook by the door, slipping it into the breast pocket of his scrub top. You grab your bag. The laces of your sneakers are still half-undone as you stumble out the door behind him.

In the truck, he’s muttering under his breath before the key’s even in the ignition.

“Every goddamn day—six fuckin’ alarms, and somehow we’re still almost late. You’d think after thirty years in this job I’d’ve figured out time management.”

You hide a smile. His hand finds your thigh automatically as he drives, rough and steady. Thumb brushing slow circles into the fabric of your scrubs. It grounds you. Makes you forget the ache behind your knees, the burn in your calves. You lean back into the seat and close your eyes for a moment, listening to the familiar rasp of his voice as he rants at the traffic light.

“Whole fuckin’ city’s decided to get up at the same time. Should’ve left ten minutes ago. Bill’s gonna have a goddamn aneurysm.”

You hum softly. His thumb tightens, a brief squeeze.

“Coulda skipped breakfast,” you offer, teasing.

He cuts you a sharp glance. “Coulda skipped your orgasm, too.”

You laugh, cheeks burning, and he looks smug for the next three blocks.

By the time you pull into the lot behind the ED, it’s already flooded with overnight shift cars and the early risers for dayside.

You both climb out. Joel doesn’t rush—he never does—but there’s a coiled tension in his shoulders that reads urgency. You fall into step beside him, bag slung over your shoulder, coffee mug still in hand.

Bill stands at the back employee entrance, arms crossed, leaning against the brick wall like he’s been there since midnight.

His eyes narrow slightly as the two of you approach. He doesn’t say anything—he never does—but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Not quite. More like recognition. Suspicion.

He knows.

Joel just nods. “Mornin’.”

Bill lets you pass without a word, but you can feel his eyes on your back.

Inside, the hospital is already humming.

The fluorescent lights are brutal. The nurses’ station is half-occupied, and the whiteboard is already filling with names. Trauma 2 has someone intubated, you can hear the beep of the vent down the hall. Someone’s laughing in the break room. Someone’s crying in the family consult room.

The place never sleeps. Not really.

At the main bay, Jesse is leaning against the desk with a granola bar in his mouth and one hand flipping through charts.

“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes sliding from Joel to you. “The king and his favorite subject.”

Joel gives him a look—just a flicker—and Jesse immediately shuts up. That’s the power of Joel Miller.

“Quiet night?” you ask.

He snorts. “Couple overdoses. One GSW, through-and-through. Kid coded but came back after two rounds of epi. Oh—and Ellie threw up mid-lac repair. Real exorcist shit. It was beautiful.”

You wince. “She okay?”

“Yeah,” Jesse grins. “She’s mortified.”

You glance across the hallway and spot Ellie at the med cart, rifling through gauze packs with excessive concentration. Mel is next to her, pretending not to supervise, while Abby stitches something in an open bay.

Joel’s already moving. He peels away toward the chart rack with the ease of a man entering his kingdom. The second he walks in, the air changes—nurses straighten, voices drop, a ripple of movement following his path like the wake of a storm.

Maria walks past you with two coffees in hand and raises an eyebrow. “Just getting here?”

You nod, trying not to look guilty.

She smiles, tight and polite. “Don’t let Joel make you late again.”

You know it’s a joke. Maybe. Maybe not.

Dina slides up next, tablet in hand, exhaustion already painted across her face.

“Three psych evals in the waiting room,” she says. “Two minors, one adult. All involuntary.”

You groan. “Already?”

“Welcome to Monday.”

Tess joins you near the nursing station, flipping through the triage notes. Her hair’s pulled back tight, sleeves already rolled, like she’s been here for hours.

“Two traumas en route. One MVC, one stabbing. ETA ten.”

She glances at you.

“You good?”

You nod. “Always.”

Tess eyes you for a second longer, then shrugs. “Better be. You're with me.”

Henry and Riley appear from the lounge, both looking over-caffeinated and under-slept. Riley mutters something about her preceptor being a sadist. Henry looks like he’s trying to walk fast enough to escape her.

You catch Joel's eye across the floor.

He nods once.

You nod back.

You’re here. You’re ready. And the day has only just begun.

Tess walks beside you, her steps fast and clipped, shoes silent on the polished floor as the two of you move toward Exam 3. She doesn’t look at you when she says it—just glances over the rim of the chart in her hands, like the words are just another line in a patient note.

“So,” she says, cool and casual, “you and Joel.”

Your chest tightens for a breath. Not with fear—nothing like that—but with the strange thrill of something private being named aloud.

“What about us?” you ask, too fast, too neutral.

She gives a faint smirk, one that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Don’t play dumb, kid. It’s beneath you.”

The hallway bends. You follow her through the curve, the murmur of nurses and machines rising in the background.

“You’re not exactly subtle,” she continues. “And Joel—he’s quieter, sure, but you don’t have to say anything when you look at someone the way he looks at you.”

You open your mouth. Then close it.

There’s a lot you could say. A lot you want to. But none of it is safe, not here, not in this hallway at the edge of sunrise. And Tess, for all her sharp edges and steel nerves, isn’t trying to start a fight. Her voice doesn’t carry the judgment you’ve braced for. Just curiosity. Something older. Something knowing.

She’s been here longer than you. Longer than almost anyone.

“How long have you known him?” you ask finally, voice low.

“Over a decade,” she says, with a kind of fond exasperation. “Met him back when we were both still working trauma nights. He was meaner then, if you can believe it.”

You glance at her.

She’s serious.

“I’ve seen him tear apart entire surgical teams. Make seasoned ER nurses cry. But I’ve also seen him rebuild the entire trauma bay with his own hands during a flood. He’s…not simple.”

No. He’s not.

You reach the exam room. The curtain is half drawn. Inside, bundled in layers of torn flannel and two ER blankets, is a man in his late thirties—lean, gray-faced, lips tinged with blue. Skin pale and waxy beneath the stubble. The monitor is off. There’s a dried smear of blood near his temple.

“Found under the bridge near Waller Creek,” Tess says, scanning the chart. “Unresponsive when EMS picked him up, now GCS eleven. Hypothermic, likely dehydrated. No ID. Vitals are shit.”

You step inside.

He groans softly as you approach, his body twitching under the thermal layers. He stinks of damp wool and urine. His breath fogs in front of his mouth like smoke.

You tug on gloves, gesture for the temp probe.

“Core temp?”

“Eighty-nine,” Tess answers. “Rectal. EMS started warm saline but didn’t have time to push much.”

You begin the exam, hands practiced and efficient. Pupils sluggish. Breath shallow. You listen to his heart, press fingers into his neck for a pulse, check his extremities—cold, rigid, but still perfusing.

“Get another set of warm fluids going,” you tell the nurse stepping in behind you. “Let’s push a liter, see if we can bring him up a degree. We’ll get heat packs around his torso.”

Tess hums in approval. She’s watching you, but not just your hands. She watches the way you move. The way you speak. And then, softly,

“I’ve never seen him like this, you know.”

You look up. “Joel?”

She nods. “He’s been alone a long time. By choice. Doesn’t let people in. Doesn’t trust easy. Doesn’t bend for anyone.”

You pause. The patient groans again, shifting slightly. His lips are chapped, bleeding at the corners.

“But he bends for you,” Tess says.

Your throat tightens.

You focus on inserting a nasal cannula, on adjusting the oxygen flow. You don’t respond.

She steps closer, voice quieter now.

“Does he ever talk about a daughter?”

The world stills. Just slightly.

Like a glass set down too fast on a table.

You turn your head slowly, brows furrowed. “What?”

Tess blinks. Her mouth opens, then shuts. She looks suddenly uncertain, which is a strange thing to see on someone like her.

“Never mind,” she mutters, brushing it off. “Forget it.”

You step forward, heart punching the inside of your ribs. “Wait, what do you—”

The curtain jerks open behind you.

“Hey,” Ellie says breathlessly, out of place in her black scrubs and damp hair, badge crooked, “your guy’s back. The frequent flyer. Came in bleeding again. Head lac. Jesse’s about to lose it.”

You blink. It takes a moment to shift gears.

The alcoholic. Your usual. The one who tried to trip Jesse with a pocketful of tic tacs and told Dina she looked like a cop more than a social worker.

You glance back at the hypothermic man. Still shivering, still alive.

Then back to Tess.

“I’ll—” you start.

“Go,” she says. “I’ve got this.”

You follow Ellie out, mind spinning. The pace of the ER pulls you under again like a tide.

You find him in Bay 6.

He’s half-sitting on the gurney, a piece of gauze pressed sloppily to the side of his head, crusted blood down one temple. Shirt stained with vomit, jeans soaking wet.

Henry is beside him, standing far too close, clearly trying to take a history. Ellie is holding a vomit bag like a shield. Jesse stands a few feet back, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold like it’s theater.

“I told you,” the man slurs, voice raised, “I don’t drink on Mondays.”

“You’re literally bleeding,” Ellie mutters.

Joel had told you last time—next time this guy comes in, don’t touch him. Just flag Joel. Let him handle it. No more time wasted.

But Joel is busy right now.

And Henry and Ellie need to see this for experience.

You step into the room, nodding to Jesse, pulling on fresh gloves.

“Let’s get him cleaned up,” you say. “I’ll suture.”

Jesse raises an eyebrow. “Dr. Miller said—”

“I know what he said.”

Jesse says nothing else. Just walks away.

Ellie helps you hold the man steady. Henry is at your side with a suture tray, trying not to breathe through his nose.

The drunk talks the entire time.

Tells you about his missing shoe, about the dog that bit him last week, about the time he met Willie Nelson in a gas station parking lot. You clean the wound, numb the skin, and begin stitching, slow and careful. The thread pulls smooth, each knot tying off a piece of your own spiraling thoughts.

Joel had a daughter.

Tess said it like she wasn’t supposed to. Like it was something hidden, buried under years of silence.

You didn’t know.

You should’ve known.

How hadn’t you?

The man groans as you tie the last stitch. You nod to Henry, who presses gauze to the wound. Ellie writes something on the chart with a red pen, bold and crooked.

You step back, pulling your gloves off slow. The sharp scent of antiseptic clings to your skin.

Joel had a daughter.

The thought buzzes behind your eyes like a fever. You can’t shake it. Can’t quiet it. And you won’t ask anyone else—not here, not yet.

But the silence inside you grows louder.

You don’t have time to chase it—not in this place, not in this hour. Not when the department breathes around you like a living thing, pulling you from one moment to the next.

A nurse flags you just as you're pulling off your gloves from the last patient.

“Bay 4. Allergic reaction. Peds. He’s seven.”

You nod, heart already shifting gears. You don’t need the chart. Just the room number and the tone of voice. It’s urgent, but not frantic—yet.

Riley catches up with you halfway there, clutching a folded note pad, eyes wide but trying to play it cool.

“I can shadow?” she asks, slightly breathless.

You glance at her. She’s eager, nervous. It reminds you of yourself, not so long ago. She’s not ready to lead—not yet—but she’s sharp. Attentive. She’ll learn.

“You can observe,” you say. “Listen. Write everything down. Ask later.”

She nods, tucking a pen behind her ear.

You step into Bay 4.

The kid’s sitting upright on the gurney, legs swinging, eyes swollen almost shut. His lips are beginning to puff, and there’s a faint wheeze in his chest with every breath. He’s scared. Already sweating. His skin is blotched red, and you spot the hives crawling up his arms like wildfire.

The parents are flanking him. Mother to the left, wide-eyed and pale. Father on the right, arms crossed too tight, jaw set like he’s already decided not to like you.

You speak calmly, gently.

“What’s his name?”

“Logan,” the mother says quickly. “He had a muffin—he said it had something weird in it and then he started… he couldn’t—he couldn’t—”

She swallows hard. Her hands flutter near her chest.

You kneel slightly, eye level with the kid.

“Logan,” you say. “Hey, buddy. Can you breathe okay?”

He tries to answer. It comes out half-strangled. His hands are pressing against his throat now—not clutching, not choking—but seeking something he can’t find.

You stand, already reaching for the tray.

“Vitals?” you ask over your shoulder.

“BP’s dropping,” a nurse says. “Wheezing’s louder. Sp O2 eighty-six.”

You open the med drawer and pull the EpiPen, moving with speed but not panic.

“This is going to help,” you say to the room. “It’s epinephrine. Will open his airway, stop the reaction.”

You move toward the boy.

The father steps between you and the gurney.

“Hold on,” he says.

You blink.

“I said,” he repeats, “hold on.”

The room shifts. Riley stiffens beside you. The mother looks between the two of you, like she’s suddenly remembering where she is.

“We’re not putting chemicals in my kid,” the father says. “That shit’ll mess up his heart. You’re not injecting him with that crap.”

You inhale once, deep.

“Sir, he’s having an anaphylactic reaction. His airway is closing. This is the standard of care. It’s life saving. If we don’t treat him right now—”

“There’s gotta be another option,” he snaps. “Antihistamines. Fluids. I’ve read about this stuff. You people push this poison—”

You step to the side, reaching again for the Epi.

He puts his hand on the boy’s arm and pulls him toward his chest. Rougher than necessary. The child whimpers, arms flailing slightly. Riley steps back.

“We’re leaving,” the father says. “We’ll go somewhere else.”

“No, no—please—” the mother is crying now. She grabs your arm, fingers digging into your bicep. “Please, don’t let him—please—he needs help.”

“Sir,” you say, voice clipped now. “You need to stop. Right now. If you take him out of here, he could die in the car before you reach another hospital.”

“I said we’re leaving.”

The boy is crying now. Red-faced. Chest rising too fast. His lips are turning gray.

And then—

“Hey!”

Joel’s voice cuts through the hallway.

You don’t even need to turn to know it’s him.

Everyone else in the department already has. Heads turn. A nurse stops walking mid-step. The clatter of a dropped clipboard onto a desk echoes behind you like punctuation.

He steps into the bay without hesitation.

You glance at him once.

His eyes are on the boy. On the father. Then on the mother’s hand still gripping your arm.

“What’s goin’ on?” Joel asks. Not loud. Not angry. But the weight in his voice is unmistakable.

“She’s trying to inject him,” the father growls. “I said no. We don’t want chemicals in our kid.”

Joel turns to you.

“Epi?” he asks.

You nod. “Severe anaphylaxis. Oxygen’s tanking.”

Joel steps forward slowly.

“Sir,” he says, “that boy needs treatment. Right now. I’m not gonna debate this with you. You are putting him in danger. Please step aside.”

“I’m his father,” the man says.

Joel’s mouth hardens. “Then act like it.”

The man squares his shoulders. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t fold. Joel tilts his head, watching him, eyes narrowed slightly, like he’s already figured him out and is just waiting for the performance to end.

“You think you can come in here and intimidate me?” the man snaps.

Joel doesn’t move. Doesn’t raise his voice.

“No,” he says. “I think you’re scared. And I think you’re wrong. And I think if you don’t back the fuck away from your son, I’m going to have to call security while he stops breathing and dies. Your choice.”

The man looks like he’s about to say something else.

But then Logan gasps—sharp, wheezing, choking on air.

It’s the sound that changes everything.

The father looks down. Sees the color draining from his son’s face.

Something breaks. In his shoulders. In his grip.

He lets go.

Joel is already pulling him back by the arm, just enough to make space.

“Go,” he says to you, voice low.

You don’t hesitate.

You pull the cap off the Epipen and inject it into Logan’s thigh, steady and sure. One Mississippi, two Mississippi.

He jerks. Cries out.

Then breathes. Deeper. Still shaky. But air moves. His ribs stop heaving quite so hard.

The mother sobs with relief.

Joel stands between the bed and the father, arms folded, saying nothing now. Just watching. The father steps back, stunned, his face collapsing in on itself.

You check the boy’s pulse again. Better.

His eyes flutter open, glassy and tear filled.

“You’re okay,” you say quietly. “You’re okay, buddy. You’re safe.”

The mother takes his hand. Holds it like she’s afraid he’ll disappear.

Joel waits until the monitor stabilizes before he turns to you.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod once.

He doesn’t touch you—not here—but his eyes linger just a second longer than necessary.

Then he turns to the father.

“You’ll stay,” he says. “Until we’ve cleared him. And you won’t interfere with medical care again.”

The father doesn’t speak. Just sits down in the nearest chair, head in his hands.

Joel leaves without looking back.

You take a breath.

So does Riley.

When you step out of the room a few minutes later, the adrenaline still in your limbs, the hallway is silent again. Normal. Almost like nothing happened.

Except now, everyone’s watching you with just a little more curiosity.

And Tess’s voice from earlier echoes in your mind like something unfinished.

The next thing you know, you’ve treated five patients since.

Burns, chest pain, a seizure that resolved on its own, a dog bite, a bad fall. You’ve sutured, reassured, documented, moved. Said the same lines over and over, “You’re okay.” “We’ve got you.” “Just a little pinch.”

But Tess’s voice won’t leave you.

Joel had a kid.

You say it silently. Over and over. Like if you repeat it enough it’ll feel less foreign in your mouth.

You don’t know how to ask. You don’t know if you even should.

So instead, you walk to the nurses station, peel open a half-smashed granola bar from your pocket, and lean your elbows on the counter. You take a bite and chew like it’s a job. You’re running on coffee, adrenaline, and stubbornness. The bar tastes like dust.

The whiteboard behind Jesse is already full. Every trauma bay is marked with a patient. Hallway beds are overflowing. Ellie walks by holding three EKGs at once, and Abby’s arguing with a pharmacist on the phone over dosage authorization. Mel stands behind her, watching, mouth tight.

It’s all movement, constant and loud.

You’re not sure you’re breathing.

You close your eyes for a second.

“You fine?”

His voice is soft—softer than it should be for this hour, for this place.

You open your eyes and he’s right there, standing on the other side of the counter like he doesn’t own this whole goddamn building.

Joel.

He looks tired, but less so than you. His black scrubs are rumpled but still tucked, badge clipped to them. His hair is wild from the amount of times he's ran his hands through his hair.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

He doesn’t answer, just looks at you. Like he’s reading the space behind your eyes.

You want to ask. You do.

But you know if you do, it won’t be a five minute conversation. And right now, everything inside you is tied up in triage.

You take another bite of granola to keep from speaking.

Joel leans forward on his forearms. Close. Private.

“You’ve been movin’ fast all morning.”

“So have you,” you reply, forcing a small smile.

He doesn’t smile back. Just scans your face. His thumb flicks once against the edge of the counter like he wants to touch you but can’t.

Then—

The doors slam open. Hard.

Your head jerks up.

Two EMTs barrel in first—Frank at the head, Tommy behind the gurney. They’re flanked by five cops, all grim-faced and twitchy.

On the stretcher is a kid—barely sixteen, shirtless, drenched in sweat. Eyes wide, dilated. Screaming nonsense. Chest heaving. Arms restrained in cuffs. He’s thrashing so hard the stretcher wheels lift off the floor.

“Teenager on PCP,” Frank says, breathless. “Found him tearing apart a bus stop off East 11th. Took four officers to get him tied down.”

“Heart rate’s through the roof,” Tommy adds. “202 and climbing.”

The kid lets out a howl. A deep, guttural, animal sound. His back arches. He slams his heels into the stretcher. You hear a pop in one of the wheels.

The officers move closer again, hands near their belts, one of them reaching for taser straps like it’s instinct.

“No,” Joel says sharply, stepping forward. “Back off.”

“Sir, we need to—”

“You’ve done your part,” Joel growls. “He’s here now. Go.”

“This is an unstable—”

“He’s a patient,” Joel snaps. “Not your prisoner. You don’t touch him again.”

The air stills. The lead officer opens his mouth to argue, but one glance from Joel and he folds. Backs away. One by one, they turn. Exit.

Joel turns to you.

“Come with me.”

You toss the granola wrapper. Fall in step beside him.

The gurney rolls fast down the hallway, the patient thrashing so hard he nearly tips it. Dina passes by and winces as the kid kicks out, nearly catching her in the leg.

“We need restraints and meds,” you say, already cataloging options.

“Ellie,” Joel barks. “Get Haldol, Ativan, and a cardiac monitor.”

“On it,” she says, sprinting.

“Mel, Jesse,” you add, “grab soft restraints. Not leather. Chest leads too.”

“Room 9,” Joel mutters. “We’ll isolate.”

Inside the room, the chaos doubles.

The kid kicks a tray over, sends a monitor crashing. Blood pressure cuff rips from his arm. He’s crying, yelling, sweating through the paper sheet.

“Make it stop! Stop it! They’re in my skin—don’t touch me—don’t—!”

“Paranoia’s peaking,” you say. “He’s going to hurt himself.”

“I got his leg,” Tommy grunts, pressing down.

You and Joel move like choreography.

You take the right arm. Joel takes the left.

“Deep breaths, kid,” Joel mutters. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

The kid doesn’t hear. He bucks again, almost knocks Jesse backwards.

Mel swoops in and straps the chest belt. You press his wrist to the gurney, avoiding the flex cuff abrasions.

“Hold,” Joel says. “On three—”

You all anchor down.

“One, two—three.”

The kid writhes once more, then sinks. Still awake. Still shaking. But the sudden calm is eerie. You watch his heart rate tick on the monitor—still over one-ninety.

Ellie arrives with the Haldol and Ativan. You draw them up. You talk him through it even if he can’t hear.

“This is gonna help,” you murmur, voice low. “This is gonna slow your brain down. Help you breathe.”

You inject the meds. Slowly.

He twitches. Gasps. But his body starts to go soft beneath the straps.

Abby steps in with a wet cloth and starts wiping his face, her expression unreadable.

It takes ten minutes for the heart rate to come below one-fifty.

You step back.

Sweat clings to your neck. Your hands ache from holding him down. Your scrubs are wrinkled, your chest tight, and your mouth dry.

Joel stands beside you, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling.

He looks at the boy—just a boy, under all the noise—and exhales.

You glance at him.

And you wonder what kind of father he might have been.

What he lost.

What he buried.

What made him so good at walking into chaos without flinching.

You don’t ask.

Not yet.

But it’s there. Lodged between your ribs like a splinter.

Unseen. Untouched.

Waiting.

The information sits with you as you stand at the boy’s bedside. You’re still watching the rhythm of his breathing. Slow now. Shallow, but steady. Sweat has dried in patches along his collarbone. His pupils are less wide. The tremble in his hands has dulled into a post-chemical shiver.

The monitor hums soft beside him. Vitals stabilizing. You're not sure if it's the meds or exhaustion sedating him, but it’s calm now. Calm enough.

Joel hasn’t moved.

He stands near the foot of the gurney, arms crossed, watching the boy like a fuse that hasn’t burned out yet. You sense it before you see it—his glance toward you. Measuring. Reading. Not for performance, not like the others. He only watches you to know if you're okay.

You give a small nod. He nods back.

Around you, the room begins to loosen. Mel’s already stepped out. Tommy follows. Ellie peeks in, waiting to be dismissed. Jesse lingers in the doorway, chart in hand, sneakers damp with something you don’t want to think about. He’s about to say something—then hesitates, raps the door lightly with the back of his knuckles.

“Got a trauma rolling in,” Jesse says. “I think you’re gonna want this one.”

Joel raises an eyebrow.

“Massive hemo,” Jesse continues, grin crooked. “AutoT. Bilateral chest tubes.”

Your heart catches a little—something like heat curling through your spine. You don’t say it. You don’t have to. Joel already knows.

His eyes cut to you, steady.

“Go,” he says.

You’re already moving.

Jesse turns, and you fall into step with him. Your sneakers squeak against the tile. The granola bar sits like a stone in your stomach, and your pulse is already ahead of you, rising.

As you round the corner, you hear Maria’s voice behind you—sharp, loud.

“There’s no beds left! None!”

She’s directing Henry with clipped urgency, pointing down the hallway. “Head trauma in 6A needs to go to the hall. Now. Roll him out. I don’t care. We need a space.”

“But he’s intubated,” Henry stammers, already pushing the stretcher.

“And he’s stable. That trauma is not!”

You keep walking.

By the time you reach the trauma bay, the double doors slam open again.

The stretcher barrels in hard. A mess of limbs, blood, tubes, and shouting. The patient is male, mid-thirties, unconscious. Blood is everywhere—his chest, his thighs, the sheet beneath him soaking fast. Two paramedics flank the sides.

“He’s exsanguinating,” one of them shouts over the noise. “Chest wound—left side. Motor vehicle rollover. Unrestrained. Chest caved in.”

“Two liters down already,” the other adds. “No response to fluids. Pressure’s eighty over nothing.”

You snap on gloves.

“I’m taking over,” you say, already moving to the head of the bed.

“He’s lost at least four units,” the medic says. “We couldn’t get another line in.”

“Give me access,” you bark. “Push 1 of Epi, wide bore, both arms, get me O neg—”

Before you can finish, someone from upstairs bursts into the bay, panting. Clipboard in hand. Lab coat wrinkled. Wide-eyed.

“There’s a shortage,” they say. “Blood bank just called down—we’re out of O neg. Across the board.”

“What?”

“We had a supply issue from the donor center this week—power outage. Storage units failed. Stock’s half of what it should be.”

You pause. Just for a second. Just enough to feel the drop in your stomach.

The patient gasps—a wet, rattling noise, chest barely rising.

You push past the nurse trying to start a line and reach for the ultrasound probe. The window is thin. You know it.

“There’s blood in the chest,” you say aloud. “Left lung’s collapsing.”

“Trachea’s shifting,” Jesse murmurs. “Tension’s building.”

You press your stethoscope to the chest. Nothing on the left. Dull percussion.

“Prep for bilateral chest tubes.”

“No O neg,” the nurse says again.

“Then autotransfuse.”

“What?”

You look up.

“Get the Autolog,” you say. “We’re pulling it from his own chest.”

Mel appears beside you, hair pulled back, eyes sharp.

“I’ll tube,” she says.

You nod. “Do it.”

Someone slides the thoracostomy tray onto a nearby table. You reach for the scalpel without hesitation.

“Jesse—betadine, gloves, tube set up.”

“Got it.”

You glance at the monitor—heart rate tanking. Seventy. Then sixty.

You slice into the fifth intercostal space. Blood spills thick and fast. Dark. Heavy. The whole room smells like iron and heat and urgency.

You slide the tube in. Blood floods out. Jesse connects the tube to the auto-transfuser. The reservoir starts to fill.

You look up at the nurse.

“When it hits 500cc, push it back.”

He nods, breathless.

“Right side,” you say.

Jesse is already draping.

You slice again.

The patient jerks once, then stills.

“Pressure’s crashing,” someone says.

“Push another Epi,” you bark.

“He’s fibrillating.”

You press down—start compressions. Hard. You count each one like a prayer.

Blood flows in reverse, filtered and returned. His face is gray, lips purple. Your arms burn from the effort, sweat slick on your neck.

Someone pulls open the crash cart. Pads go on.

“Charging—”

“Clear—”

Shock.

The body jerks.

Flatline.

You go back in.

Chest tubes still draining. Blood seeping under your shoes. You don’t stop. You won’t. The rhythm is yours now. Like your pulse. Like your breath.

You don’t look up.

You keep going.

And going.

And going.

Your arms are numb, your shoulders locking with every beat you drive into the man's chest.

You count silently—three, four, five—your breath coming hard through clenched teeth. Someone passes you a new syringe, another round of epinephrine, and you push it without hesitation. The monitor beside you stutters. Then falls flat again.

You don’t stop.

You’ve tuned the room out. It’s narrowed, now, to the ribs beneath your palms, the blood seeping down the table, the sound of the Autolog as it spins and drains, a mechanical prayer. You watch the reservoir fill—slow, not enough. You think maybe if you buy just another minute, maybe thirty seconds, maybe you can bring him back.

But you know what this looks like.

You know what it is to pour your everything into a body that’s already gone cold.

You just aren’t ready to admit it yet.

You’re vaguely aware of someone entering—then standing still.

A shadow in your periphery.

But your hands are still moving, chest still pressing, your voice hoarse from calling for meds, for pads, for someone to check femoral pulses, for anything that might turn the tide.

The heart remains still. The monitor flat.

And then,

“Enough.”

Joel’s voice cuts clean through the air behind you. Calm, low.

You don’t stop.

You look down at the man's chest, blood coating your gloves, your scrubs, your shoes. You try again. Push harder.

Six seconds of silence stretch.

“Call it,” Joel says, louder now.

You don’t realize your own hands are shaking until he speaks again. This time with weight behind it, steel laced in the tone.

“Call it.”

Your hands fall still.

You stare at the body.

There’s a strange tightness in your chest. Not grief, exactly. Not yet. Just that heavy numbness that sets in when effort doesn’t meet outcome. When you’ve used everything in you and it still wasn’t enough.

Someone calls time of death. You’re not sure if it’s you.

The sound of the monitor being silenced is almost worse than the flatline.

You back up.

Blood has soaked through the mesh of your shoes, cooling against your socks. It squelches faintly with every step you take away from the gurney. Your gloves are dark with it. The chest tubes still hang, swinging slightly, useless now.

Another one gone.

Your fifth.

Not your first. But not easier.

It’s never the screaming ones, never the ones with the dramatic endings, that stick. It’s the quiet ones. The slow losses. The ones where you tried. You really fucking tried.

You turn, finally, and see Joel.

He’s been watching.

He’s standing at the end of the bed, arms folded across his chest, face unreadable. But you know that stance. You know the set of his jaw when he’s holding something back.

Your eyes meet. You expect disappointment, maybe. Frustration. A correction.

Instead, he just nods once. Barely there.

He knows you did everything. He knows it cost you something.

And that’s the only thing that makes the ache inside your chest loosen, just barely.

You remember something he told you once, early on, back when you were new, still learning to steady your hands after bad outcomes:

You’re not infallible. None of us are. All we can do is give the best we’ve got and live with what we couldn’t change.

You hold onto that now like a lifeline.

You peel off your gloves. They snap like bone.

You make it to the scrub exchange without saying a word.

Your scrubs are soaked, front to knee. Sticky. You feel the blood clinging to your thighs, your forearms, even a streak across your cheek you hadn’t noticed until the nurse stared a little too long in the hallway.

The bin is open and empty. Nothing but a few crumpled disposable caps and an unclaimed hoodie inside. You rest your hand on the metal edge, head bowed.

You don’t cry. You just feel very tired.

Footsteps. Quick, rubbery. Familiar.

Ellie appears in your peripheral vision, already unzipping her bag.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just pulls out her extra pair of black crocs—standard issue, scuffed at the heel, her size.

“You uh—here,” she says, holding them out. “I keep backups for days like this.”

You look at her. She shrugs like it’s nothing. But you know she noticed the blood on your shoes.

You take them without a word, too overwhelmed to speak. Too grateful.

“Thanks,” you manage.

Ellie nods. “Dude looked like he’d been chewed through a blender. That wasn’t on you.”

You nod. You don’t trust yourself to say more.

“I’ll cover your next case if they page again before you’re done,” she says, already turning to leave.

You duck into the changing stall, peel off your soaked scrubs, toss them into the red bag. You splash water on your face, run your hands through your hair. Pull on a fresh black set from the scrub dispenser. They feel dry and cold and unfamiliar. You slide into Ellie’s crocs.

They fit.

You stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment. Blood streaked at your hairline. Bruise forming on your upper arm you hadn’t noticed. But your eyes—they’re steady.

You did what you could.

You’ll keep going.

You open the door, step back into the corridor.

And the shift rolls on.

You catch Ellie across the corridor, her hair tied back with one of those ridiculous neon bands she keeps in her bag. She’s with Mel now, both of them masked and focused, pulling the curtain shut behind a new patient.

You make a mental note to check in later, see how it went—see how she’s holding up after handing you her shoes like it was nothing. She’s learning fast. This place demands it.

You turn back to your tablet, flick through the endless queue in the waiting room. A half-dozen chest pains, a few twisted ankles, two burn wounds from a house fire in East Austin, a seizure follow-up, someone vomiting blood. It’s endless. You scroll down until you find something manageable.

Laceration. Walk-in. Woman in her early thirties. Reported hand injury. Mild. Likely simple. Maybe it’ll buy you ten minutes of quiet. Maybe it won’t.

You tuck the tablet under your arm and buzz the door open into the noise.

The waiting room is thick with people. Slouched bodies. Crying children. Phones glowing too bright in tired hands. You call her name over the murmur, and a woman stands quickly from the far end of the row—too quickly, like she’d been waiting for her cue.

She follows you with careful steps, her gaze flickering across the floor like she’s checking for landmines.

You lead her through the hallway, past the nurses’ station, and into an empty exam bay. She sits on the edge of the bed with a little flinch. Barely a sound, but your eyes catch it. You close the curtain slowly.

“Morning,” you say gently, pulling on fresh gloves. “I’m just gonna take a look at your chart and ask a few questions, then we’ll get you cleaned up and stitched.”

She nods. Doesn’t speak.

You sit across from her, scan the basics on the file—name, age, no listed allergies. Then you glance at her hand. The cut is clean. Straight. Sharp. Like it was made with something glass, maybe porcelain. But not jagged. No gravel, no foreign bodies.

You start with your usual.

“How are you feeling today?”

“I’m okay,” she says, too quickly.

“Any dizziness? Headache? Trouble breathing?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me how this happened?”

“I…dropped a mug in the kitchen. Tried to catch it. It broke. I cut my hand.”

You look up from the tray you’re prepping.

Her voice is too steady. The story sounds memorized. Rehearsed. You’ve heard enough real accidents to know what it sounds like when someone’s telling the truth.

This isn’t that.

You nod slowly, then gently take her hand. As you start to clean the laceration, you notice how tense she is—shoulders locked, spine straight like she’s waiting for impact. The wound is deeper than she said, but not too wide. Doable. Still…

As you adjust her sleeve to clean a bit higher up her arm, you catch a glimpse of something.

Scratches.

Upper arm. Faint, but healing. A little bruised along the edge.

She tenses as your fingers brush her skin. Her eyes don’t move from the floor.

You say nothing. You just keep working, gentle and patient. But now you’re cataloging everything.

The way her hair falls, a little too deliberately, covering her throat.

The faint redness just under her jaw. Another scratch, hidden.

Your pulse picks up. But you keep your voice even.

“I’m just going to get more sutures,” you say with a soft smile. “I’ll be right back.”

She nods, gaze never lifting.

You step outside the curtain and don’t stop moving until you find Dina charting near the nurses’ station, flipping through forms.

You don’t waste time.

“Room 12,” you say, low. “Female, thirties. Laceration on her hand doesn’t match her posture. She’s too scared. She’s got bruising—arm, neck. Hidden. No history of falls. Claims she dropped a mug.”

Dina stiffens slightly, nodding once.

“She’s afraid,” you continue. “But if we spook her, she’ll vanish.”

“Okay,” Dina says, already grabbing her badge. “So I’m your extra pair of hands for stitching.”

“Exactly.”

You both walk back slowly. Purposeful.

Inside the room, the woman hasn’t moved. She straightens slightly when you enter, then glances at Dina.

“This is Dina,” you say casually, setting down the new sterile pack. “She’s here to help out while I suture. Just makes things quicker.”

Dina smiles softly. “Hi there. I’ll just be charting for the doctor. Nothing to worry about.”

The woman swallows and nods.

You go back to work, keeping your touch gentle, your tone light. Dina’s presence in the corner is quiet, but steady. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t probe. Just watches. Listens.

As you suture, you keep the rhythm smooth. No sudden movements. You ask her about benign things—what music she listens to, whether she likes dogs or cats, if she’s from Austin. All surface-level. She answers, slowly, a little less stiff each time.

And as you finish the last stitch, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours.

You apply the bandage. “There we go. All done.”

She looks at you. Something flickers in her eyes. Maybe it's fear. Maybe it’s relief.

“You did great,” you say. “We’ll just have you wait here a minute, and Dina will talk you through aftercare, make sure everything’s okay.”

You step outside first, giving them space. You don’t look back. You know Dina will handle it right. She always does.

You scrub your hands in the sink outside the bay. Let the water run hot over your knuckles. You stare at the backsplash tile as it flashes white under the fluorescents.

Another woman hiding pain.

Another one stitched up and sent back into the storm.

Your stomach twists. It’s not enough, it’s never enough—but at least she’s not alone in that room. At least you noticed. At least she was seen.

That’s something.

You dry your hands. Roll your shoulders back. Breathe.

Then you look at your tablet again. The waiting list hasn’t shrunk.

And your shift kept on moving.

You don’t even make it halfway down the hall before the trauma alert bell hits, sharp and loud and echoing too deep in your bones.

“Construction site. Male, twenties. Crush injury to pelvis. Unstable,” someone shouts down the corridor, and you barely have time to grab a fresh gown before you hear Joel’s voice cut across the chaos.

“You’re with me.”

He doesn’t wait for confirmation. Just turns down the corridor toward the trauma bay. His gait is tight, controlled, and you follow. You always do.

The air feels different in Trauma Two. He’s already gloved and gowned by the time you enter, standing beside the tech prepping the monitors. You can feel his gaze slide to you the second you cross the threshold, the second your fingers reach for your gloves.

The medics come barreling in with the gurney. The patient is barely conscious, groaning weakly, face gray with pain. His lower half is soaked in blood, pants torn off, pressure dressings already in place and already failing.

“Name’s Devin, twenty-six. Steel beam fell onto his hips—OSHA shut the site down. BP’s been tanking since the ride started. We couldn’t stabilize him.”

The words come fast, clipped, panicked.

Joel looks at you, waiting.

You take point.

“Two large-bore IVs. O-neg blood now. Call radiology, trauma X-ray at bedside. Page Ortho. Watch his airway.”

The nurses move like a tide around you. Jesse appears at the foot of the bed, wheeling over the crash cart. He catches your eye and nods once.

You cut through the clothing what’s left of it, exposing the damage beneath.

His pelvis is a nightmare. Misshapen, swelling fast, the skin mottled. His thighs are already bruising top to bottom. It’s a miracle he’s still conscious.

You reach for the ultrasound probe. FAST scan first. Blood's everywhere. The abdomen’s lighting up like a red warning. Internal bleeding. Massive.

“He needs blood,” you mutter.

Joel’s voice behind you, “We’re low. Five units left for the floor.”

“He’ll be dead before the CT,” you fire back, still scanning.

“You give him those units, someone else dies later.”

You stop. Glance over your shoulder.

Your voice is sharper than you intend, “Then I guess we better keep him alive.”

You think he might push again, but Joel just exhales through his nose and moves toward the monitors. His presence fills the space behind you—steady, heavy, watching. Always watching.

You work fast. Foley in. Central line. Manual pressure. You shout for a pelvic binder, and Ellie, who’s been helping Jesse at the foot of the bed, startles slightly when her gloves slip against the slick plastic tray.

She looks up. Her eyes are wide, stricken.

You give her one look. Just one.

It’s not even stern. Just pointed. And enough.

She swallows hard, refocuses, and steadies the tray again. That’s all she needs. You’ll talk to her later.

You glance up at the monitor—BP’s dropping. Sixties. Then fifties. Heart rate in the 140s and climbing. He moans, barely.

“Push another unit,” you call out, and Joel’s beside you now, handing you the tubing.

“He’s circling the drain,” he says low, to you only.

You nod. “Get the autotransfusion ready. If we lose him—”

“We won’t.”

The room is loud. Too loud. The thrum of alarms, the rapid shuffle of feet, the buzz of the X-ray team as they wheel in, the medics still talking to Jesse, the crush of blood loss you can’t stop. But Joel is still, composed, unmoving next to you.

Until—

You turn to reach for another suture kit and Joel places a hand on your wrist, stopping you for just a breath.

“You’ve done enough,” he says under his breath. “Let me—”

You shake him off. Not cruelly. Not unkind.

“I’m not stepping back. Not after earlier. I need to finish this.”

His eyes flicker. Something flicks in the space between you, too quick to name.

“This isn’t about atonement,” he murmurs. “It’s about survival.”

You stare at him. “Then let me do what you taught me.”

And he does.

He steps back.

Lets you lead.

You move fast, no hesitation. No time for doubt. Jesse’s handing you the binder, Ellie’s prepping for the next IV bolus. Dina’s arrived at the door, waiting to step in with social work if this guy makes it. Maria’s just behind her, scowling, arms crossed.

“There’s no beds,” she barks. “If he survives, he’s staying right here until someone dies upstairs.”

You don’t answer. Your hands are soaked in blood, sleeves damp to the elbow, sweat sticking to your spine. The X-ray tech starts snapping plates and you raise your voice to get through the noise.

“Lungs look clear—no pneumo yet. Ortho ETA?”

“Fifteen minutes,” someone yells back.

He won’t make fifteen minutes.

You feel it in the way his pulse starts to slip beneath your fingers, the way his chest rises too fast. His eyes flutter. His hand twitches once beside yours on the gurney.

“BP forty,” Jesse calls. “We’re losing him.”

Joel is at your side again before you say anything.

“Do it,” he says. “Autotransfuse now.”

The suction kicks in. You move together—Joel stabilizing the tubing, you loading the reservoir. It’s a dance you’ve done a dozen times, but it feels different now. Like something vital is resting on this one rhythm.

He’s still crashing.

Still going.

But you’re not giving up.

Not again.

You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. Glove snaps. Blood’s in your lashes now, you think. Doesn’t matter. You’re working.

You’re trying.

And beside you, Joel—silent, grim, all presence and shadow and grit—lets you lead. Lets you fight.

Lets you stay exactly where you need to be.

You keep working. Because he’s still bleeding. Because he’s still breathing. Because he's still here.

And because that means you are too.

Your gloves are slick and nearly peeling at the seams, fingers aching from the clamp pressure and all your breath trapped in your chest, shoulders locked in a posture you’ve held too long. You don’t look up as the numbers finally start to creep—not spike, not rush—just quietly crawl toward stability. Like the body is willing to listen again. As if your effort carved a small channel back to life.

You can feel Joel beside you, still. He hasn’t moved. Not since you shut him down. Not since he let you lead.

But you know his eyes are on you. Not the patient. Not the screen.

You keep your gaze on the monitor, but you feel him. The weight of his attention, heavy and concerned and burning hot through the thin barrier of professionalism.

And maybe something else.

You don’t give it space to breathe. Not now.

The color creeps back into the patient’s face—he’s groaning now, body twitching under the sedatives. The numbers steady just enough. Still critical, still hanging by a thread, but the tide turned. You pulled him out.

And Joel knows it.

Jesse mutters something under his breath—relief, disbelief—and moves to coordinate transfer to the hallway. Still no beds. Still no blood. But one life temporarily tethered to the earth.

Joel steps in close, helps secure the binder as Jesse tapes it down. His voice low, “You good?”

You nod, eyes unfocused, voice thin. “Yeah.”

But it’s a lie. He knows that too.

You leave before he can ask again.

Scrub exchange is dim, cool, quiet. The kind of silence that hums in your ears after hours of fluorescent noise. You strip the top half of your scrubs with a hiss, peeling the fabric away from sweat and dried blood, the smell of metal and effort clinging to your skin.

Second top today. The waistband of your bottoms is starting to curl from being worn too long, but at least they’re clean. For now.

You dig through the scrub exchange for a replacement top, something that fits and doesn’t reek of starch or bleach, and your hand is still shaking slightly when you find one. It’s too big in the shoulders, hangs wrong on your frame, but you don’t care. You just need dry.

The moment you shove your arm through the sleeve, the door creaks open.

“Busy?”

Tess. Leaning on the doorframe like she owns the room, coffee in one hand, a knowing tilt to her head. She looks almost smug. Not in a mean way—more like a woman who sees a puzzle and is halfway through solving it.

You sigh through your nose and reach for your badge. “You’re about to make me regret this entire shift.”

Tess shrugs. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just thought you’d like something a little less dramatic this time.”

You shoot her a look. “Does that exist here?”

“Ish,” she says, taking a long sip. “Older guy. Says his stomach hurts real bad. Walked in alone. No ID. He’s either really sick…or really not.”

You narrow your eyes. “And you want me to find out which?”

She flashes a grin over her cup. “I’m mentoring.”

You snort. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Both can be true.”

Still, you follow her. Not because you’re curious—well, not just that—but because your adrenaline needs somewhere to land. Because your brain can’t sit still, not after what you just did. Not with Joel’s voice still echoing in the back of your skull like an unfinished sentence.

You follow Tess to one of the curtained bays, low light, patient already sitting up and shifting uncomfortably. He’s gaunt, hollow around the eyes, smells like stale cigarettes and something else underneath. Pain? Dirt? Shame?

He gives you a tight smile when you walk in.

“Hey, doc. Finally.”

You flick your gaze over him quickly—posture curled forward, one arm crossed over his abdomen like it helps, skin yellowing faintly under bad lighting.

“What brings you in?” you ask, already pulling gloves on.

“Stomach’s been killin’ me all night,” he says, too fast. “Nothin’ helps.”

You nod, keeping your face neutral. “Where does it hurt exactly?”

He jabs a finger toward his left side. “Right here.”

You press gently—nothing in his response feels right. No guarding. No grimace. Nothing real. But his eyes watch you like he wants a reaction.

You move your fingers to a different quadrant—he flinches.

“Still hurts?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That too.”

Tess is behind you, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Silent.

You finish your exam, blood pressure normal, heart rate slightly elevated but not enough. He winces when he thinks he’s supposed to wince.

“Any vomiting? Fever?”

“No. Just pain. I need somethin’. Something strong. It’s gettin’ worse.”

You write a quick note in your tablet. “Any history of ulcers? GI issues?”

“Nah. Just bad luck.”

You lower your hand slowly and meet his eyes. “What’s your pain level on a scale of one to ten?”

“Eleven,” he says without blinking.

Tess raises one eyebrow from behind you. That’s all the confirmation you need.

You step back, nodding. “We’re gonna run some labs, get you comfortable.”

He perks up. “What kind of comfortable?”

You don’t answer. You turn to Tess instead. “Let’s get a tox screen.”

She gives you a slight smile. “Atta girl.”

You step out with her, and as the curtain falls behind you, you let out a breath.

“Seeking,” you say under your breath.

“Likely,” Tess confirms. “We’ll see. Either way, he’s not your real patient. I just wanted to see if your head was still in the game.”

You glance sideways at her. “You mean after I bled through another pair of scrubs?”

“No,” she says. “I mean after what I told you. Earlier. About Joel.”

You blink. “Oh.”

Tess doesn’t respond. Just smiles. And walks away.

You hate her a little for it. But not enough to chase her.

Instead, you return to the nurses’ station, stomach tight. You’ve got half a dozen charts flagged for follow-up, two labs pending, a social work consult still hanging from earlier, and a headache blooming quietly behind your eyes.

But your hands are steady. And your lungs are full. And your feet, in Ellie’s shoes, are still moving.

So you keep going.

You’re halfway through charting when you feel the presence at your elbow, not loud or abrupt, just there. A shape in your peripheral vision—broad-shouldered, quiet-footed, familiar.

“Hey,” Abby says.

You glance over, tapping in vitals on your tablet. “Hey, what’s up?”

Her face is unreadable. Arms crossed, mouth set in a tight line. She’s not looking at you. Instead, she’s scanning the corridor ahead, the controlled chaos of a morning still burning too hot, moving too fast.

“Was Owen here last night?”

You frown but don’t stop typing. “Yeah. Caught the tail end of swing shift. Why?”

She doesn’t answer right away, and something in the pause makes you look at her again, this time more closely.

“I mean,” you offer, lightly, “your boyfriend was definitely here.”

It’s meant to be a nudge. You’ve seen the way she is around him—sharp and soft at once, something cautious behind her eyes like she’s been burned by the possibility of wanting. But he’s with Mel. Has been, for a while. Everyone knows that too.

Abby doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t blink. Just stares ahead.

The noise of the hospital filters in around you—monitors chiming, the squawk of the overhead system paging a neuro consult, a distant, angry cough.

You stop typing.

“What’s going on?”

Abby swallows and turns her head just enough to meet your gaze. Her voice is low. “Can we talk somewhere else?”

You nod, and she leads you—briskly, wordless—to the back hallway near the ADC, the automated dispensing cabinet tucked beside the storage lockers and half-functioning water cooler. It’s quieter here. Removed. Tucked into the spine of the hospital like a secret.

She pulls her badge from her pocket and slides it into the reader. The screen wakes up, humming softly. Her fingers fly over the screen with muscle memory—med, dosage, confirmation—and you watch as the compartment clicks open with a muted hiss.

She reaches in and removes a vial. Holds it up like it’s something breakable.

Hydromorphone. You recognize it instantly. You’ve drawn it before. Every resident has.

“The top was loose,” Abby says. “Not all the way off, but it felt wrong. I thought it was just faulty packaging—some QC fuckup at the distributor.”

You nod slowly, eyes flicking between the vial and her face. “Okay.”

“But then I looked up the lot number.”

“And?”

Her jaw tenses. “No recalls. Nothing wrong with the lot.”

Your stomach dips, cold and sudden.

She turns the vial in her fingers, like it might tell her more. Like it hasn’t already told her everything.

“I pulled the dispense logs,” she adds, quietly. “This one was logged under Owen’s ID.”

The weight of her words settles into the space between you. Heavy. Dense. A patient crashing in slow motion.

You blink. “Wait. You’re saying he—”

“I don’t know what I’m saying,” she cuts in. “I’m not—fuck, I didn’t come here to accuse him. I just—”

She trails off and leans against the cabinet, head tipping back against the cold metal like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

“I didn’t want to bring it to Joel,” she says after a moment. “Not yet.”

That makes sense. Joel doesn’t tolerate bullshit. Doesn’t tolerate theft, manipulation, risk. Especially not when it comes to his department. And the idea of bringing this to him without proof, without something airtight—it would mean hell. For everyone.

So she came to you.

Because you’re close to Joel. Because she trusts you to know what to do.

You stare at the vial in her hand. Your mind is already moving too fast—calculating, assessing, building the branches of what this could mean. What it might already mean.

“Do you think he’s using?” you ask, low.

She flinches. “I don’t know. Maybe. Or selling. Or hoarding. I don’t know what the fuck it is. But it’s not right.”

You nod, slowly, trying to pull the emotion out of your thoughts. Trying to see this clearly, like a case, like something you can dissect and triage and file.

“Does Mel know?”

“No,” Abby says. “And don’t—don’t tell her. Not yet. Please.”

You nod again. Not because you’re agreeing, exactly. Just grounding yourself in movement.

“I need time,” she says. “To watch him. To be sure. Can you just—keep an eye too?”

You take the vial gently from her, read the label again, even though you know it’s not going to tell you anything new.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’ll watch.”

She exhales and closes her eyes for a second. “Thank you.”

You slip the vial into your pocket and push off the wall, brain already turning toward what comes next. You won’t go to Joel yet. Not until you know more. But something has shifted. A tension braided into the bones of your day.

You walk back into the ER like nothing’s changed.

But everything has.

You barely register your own movement anymore—each hallway a loop, each trauma bay a variation of the same hum, same pacing breath of oxygen from a wall port, the same scuff of your shoes against slick tile.

You’re carrying it all now.

The weight of what Tess said earlier—like a missed beat in a familiar song you can’t unhear.

Joel had a daughter.

Had.

Past tense, maybe. Or maybe not.

You don’t know, because there hasn’t been a quiet second since, not even the suggestion of one.

And now Abby, wide-eyed and breaking, coming to you like she’s hanging onto the ledge of something unspeakable. A stolen vial. Owen’s name in the system.

The shift was already brutal. A maze of blood and scarcity and sound. But now it’s emotional calculus on top of physical chaos. And of all people, it’s falling to you to hold it steady.

You reach the nurses’ station, mind still spinning, and spot Joel’s black metal water bottle where he always leaves it. He doesn’t say it aloud anymore—doesn’t have to—but he used to: It’s there if you need it.

You grab it without hesitation, twist the lid, and just as you tip the mouth to your lips—

The front doors slam open.

Someone screams.

You’re moving before you even understand what you’re seeing.

The girl is maybe sixteen, seventeen. Petite. Sweat-soaked hair matted to her forehead. She’s holding a metal mixing bowl in both hands—blood slicked and pooled inside—and she’s bringing it to her mouth like she’s trying not to let anything fall out. Like if she opens it, something worse might come.

“She was—she was vaping—it fucking blew up—I didn’t know what to do—”

“Let’s go,” you say instantly, waving them both in with a hand, pressing the comm beside the trauma bay with the other. “Jesse! Henry!”

Footsteps behind you. Jesse appears from the other corridor, Henry right on his heels, still scribbling something onto a chart. Ellie shows up too, uncalled, uninvited but determined, shadowing the chaos like she’s always ready for more.

You guide the girl onto the bed—gently, carefully. She’s pale under the blood, trembling, but awake. You take the bowl from her slowly, trying not to startle her. You see it clearly now—her lips are torn open, blistered at the corners. Her chin is cracked and scorched. Blood coats her lower face and neck like a bib.

You set the bowl aside.

“What’s your name?” you ask gently, already snapping gloves on.

Her boyfriend, wide-eyed and shaking, rushes at her side, his voice overlapping the doors still hissing closed behind them.

“Danielle,” she whispers, voice barely there.

“Okay, Danielle. I’m a doctor. This is Jesse and Henry. We’re gonna take care of you, okay? Can you breathe?”

She nods, shallow and twitchy.

“Any trouble breathing? Tightness in your throat or chest?”

She shakes her head no, but her hands tremble too hard to trust that answer.

“Henry, grab vitals. Jesse, saline flush and gauze. Ellie, bring the burn kit and alert dental consult.”

Everyone moves.

You examine her face while you talk, fingers moving gently. There’s a jagged laceration just below her lip, and her lower front teeth are fractured—one pushed back slightly into the gum. Her upper lip is singed, the skin already starting to blister.

“Danielle, I’m going to touch your face now, okay? Just breathe. You’re doing great.”

The boyfriend is still talking, rambling, pacing near the window with his hands in his hair.

“I told her to stop vaping. I told her it’s not safe. It just—it just exploded. It was right in her fucking mouth, I didn’t know it could do that—”

“Hey,” Jesse says calmly, placing a hand on his arm, guiding him toward the wall. “You’re not helping her right now. Just take a seat and breathe.”

You keep your voice steady as you speak to Danielle again. “You’re lucky, okay? You’re hurt, but you’re alive. No airway compromise, no burns to the eyes. But you’ve got some deep soft tissue trauma, and your teeth took a hit. We’re going to clean you up and get specialists to see you.”

Ellie sets the burn tray beside you, snapping on fresh gloves. You nod to her.

You flush the wound first. Warm saline, slow and gentle. Danielle flinches but stays still. You wipe away the blood, bit by bit, revealing the full extent of her injuries. The split lip is deep but clean. Burns trace along her lower face in irregular patterns—likely from superheated metal and battery acid.

You numb the area with local anesthetic and begin irrigating more thoroughly. You talk through every step, partly for Danielle, partly for Henry and Ellie, who both watch with furrowed brows.

“Thermal burns like this are deceptive,” you explain. “They can look better than they are. The mouth and face bleed a lot, but healing’s faster if the patient is young and the burns aren’t full thickness.”

You clean, dress, and apply a silvadene layer to the worst spots. The lip will need suturing—you do it slowly, careful to line it up perfectly so the scar is minimal.

Dental calls back as you finish. No open OR beds available yet. They’ll come evaluate soon.

“Ellie,” you say softly, handing her the bloodied gauze. “Thanks for the tray.”

She nods, serious, and takes the bowl and trash away without a word.

Danielle leans her head back. She’s shaking again, but not from pain now—from release. Shock.

You touch her shoulder gently. “You did great.”

The boyfriend whispers a thank you. Henry moves to check the vitals again.

And for one second, you stand still.

You think of the blood shortage. You think of the vial in your pocket. You think of Joel, and the way he always knows when something’s wrong.

You think of all the small explosions that happen before the big ones.

He rolls in just as you’re stepping out of the exam bay, still stripping off your gloves, still wiping the ghost of blood from your knuckles. You smell alcohol wipes, the metallic tang of old blood, the briefest whiff of floor polish. You’re hoping for one minute—just one—before the next wave, but you should’ve known better.

Because fate doesn’t blink in this place. And timing, in this hospital, has teeth.

Tommy’s voice hits first, half calling, half already talking as the stretcher wheels in—“Agitated dementia, restraint required, vitals tanking, barely got him in the truck without a goddamn bite.”

You see Frank behind the stretcher, a long, raw scratch running from his jaw to below his cheekbone, just starting to scab. His face is taut with irritation, but he’s moving fine. Unbothered in the way only someone who’s seen the inside of a thousand calls can be.

The patient on the stretcher is maybe mid-seventies, bones too visible beneath thin skin, his wrists tied down with soft leather straps that don’t look soft enough. His chest rises unevenly, and there’s a wetness to each breath that makes your stomach clench.

You’re still reaching for the chart when you feel it—that low hum that always warns you he’s close. Joel. Solid. Quiet. Dense with presence.

He comes up beside you without ceremony, a hand already pulling off his own bloodied gloves, hair a little damp from sweat or maybe the trauma bay, sleeves pushed up like always. He’s still catching his breath from whatever he just finished, but his eyes are sharp.

Tommy starts talking directly to Joel now. You step aside half a foot, letting the two of them fall into that unspoken rhythm you’ve learned to observe in moments like this. Brothers in sync. Shared cadence. Familiar shorthand.

“Multiple episodes all week,” Tommy says. “Hasn’t eaten more than a few bites. Fluids at home were cut when he refused to drink anything. Took a bad fall when we showed up—right hip’s lookin’ weird, probably fractured. Also spiking a temp—nursing staff said lungs been rattling for two days now, so I’m guessing pneumonia. He clawed Frank on the ride in.”

“Fucker’s strong,” Frank mutters behind them.

Joel doesn’t look at you yet, but you feel him glance over.

“All right,” he mutters, flipping through the chart, then passing it to you. “Let’s move.”

You follow him in, the room closing around the four of you fast. Joel strips off his gloves and pulls on a new pair. You do the same, already reaching for the pulse ox and blood pressure cuff.

The man on the stretcher groans as you touch his arm, flinching hard despite the restraints. Joel steadies the man’s wrist with one hand, firm but not cruel.

“Easy, partner,” he says low. “We’re just checkin’ your numbers.”

The man mutters something guttural, unintelligible, straining against the restraints again. His eyes are unfocused, rolling from Joel to you, then to the lights above.

“Temp’s 102.4,” you murmur, watching the screen. “Pressure’s low—78/44.”

Joel exhales through his nose, voice steady. “We’ll need a line. Two. Get fluids goin’, ceftriaxone and azithro stat.”

You nod and turn to the wall, grabbing the supplies. Jesse slips in silently with the cart, sets it at the bedside and then slips out again like he was never there.

You prep the IV site, wiping his arm clean. Joel’s at the man’s other side, lifting the gown to check for bruising, obvious trauma from the fall.

“Right hip’s already swelling,” he mutters. “Probably broke the femoral neck.”

You slide the needle in clean, draw back for flash, flush it. The man twitches but doesn’t fight. Too far gone now.

“Fluids are hanging,” you say, taping the line down. “How do you wanna manage the agitation?”

Joel’s quiet for a second.

“Let’s avoid benzos,” he says. “Already hypoxic. Dexmedetomidine if you can get it. Start slow.”

You nod, grabbing the order sheet and punching it into the system.

Joel adjusts the oxygen mask on the man’s face, checks his pupils, then finally looks over at you. And for the first time in an hour—maybe more—you lock eyes.

He sees it. Not just the sweat, or the exhaustion, or the stain at the hem of your second fresh set of scrubs—but all of it. The pieces that have cracked and spread thin beneath the surface. The weight you haven’t had time to put down. The hurt you’ve gotten too good at hiding.

He says nothing.

But it’s loud in his silence.

He hands you the chart, and you take it without looking away from him.

“Go,” he says quietly, like it’s a choice and a command at once. “I got him now.”

You want to stay. You want to ask if he’s okay, if he knows about what Tess said, if he’d ever tell you about the daughter-shaped ghost that lingers in his every silence. You want to ask if he’s felt the shift too—if the axis between you is tilting. If he notices the way you're shaking more now when you're alone.

But there’s no time. And asking means unraveling. And there’s no room for that, not here, not today.

So you nod. Step out of the room. And you keep going.

The water is cold in your mouth, metallic from the bottle Joel left behind, and for one fleeting moment, it feels like something resembling peace. Your elbows rest on the nurses station, chin tipped toward your chest, eyes half-lidded. You think maybe—maybe—you’ve earned just two minutes of stillness. A breath that doesn’t feel borrowed.

You barely get one.

Because you see him.

Owen.

He’s not supposed to be here. His shift isn’t for hours. His scrubs are gone, replaced by jeans and a hoodie, backpack slung casually over one shoulder like he’s a student again, like he didn’t leave behind a trail of suspicion.

Mel spots him before anyone else does—of course she does—and she moves toward him like a magnet, her smile quick and familiar, pressing a kiss to his cheek like they’re something from a postcard.

You pretend to be charting. You scroll through vitals you’ve already reviewed three times. Your eyes keep flicking up anyway.

He’s holding something—lunch, it looks like. Maybe he brought her food. He always brings her food.

You expect him to leave after that. You wait for the rhythm of his retreating footsteps, the shuffle of a man going home to sleep off the coming night shift.

But he doesn’t leave.

He walks deeper into the staff corridor, toward the lockers.

Your gut twists.

You don’t want to follow him. You tell yourself it’s none of your business. You tell yourself you should inform Joel and walk away. But you don’t. You can’t. Because if Abby’s right—and god, it looks like she is—this place, this department, this machine held together with caffeine and duct tape and impossible willpower, will crack wide open.

So you go.

You move slow, deliberate. Your footsteps muted against the tile. Your breath sharp in your nose, your ears full of it.

You stop just short of the locker room’s corner, the soft clack of hinges and the rattle of a duffel zipper drawing you in.

And then you see it.

Owen, half-shadowed, facing his open locker. His posture too stiff for someone retrieving a clean shirt. The bag in his hand isn’t zipped all the way. And from where you stand, you can see the contents clearly.

Vials. Two. Maybe three. A small bottle of pills. A tight plastic bag around them, like they need to be hidden from air and light and truth.

Your voice cuts through the silence, flat and sharp and undeniable.

“Owen.”

His shoulders tense like a pulled wire, hands freezing in place. He doesn’t turn right away, but you see the shake start in his fingers.

“Fuck,” he says, almost inaudible. “Fuck.”

You step further in, slow but certain.

“Turn around.”

He does.

His face is pale, not with guilt exactly—but with resignation. Like he always knew this was coming. Like he just didn’t know when.

“You working today?” you ask, voice even. Clinical.

“No,” he says. “No, I was just dropping lunch off for Mel.”

Your eyes fall to the bag again. “That lunch?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Owen,” you say, softer now, but it’s not mercy—it’s warning. “Is that from the ADC?”

He swallows, jaw flexing. “Look. It’s not—I didn’t mean for this to happen. It wasn’t supposed to go this far.”

“What is this?” you say. “Are you stealing? Or selling? Or using?”

“None of it,” he snaps, voice too fast, too loud. “I’m not—look, I’m not hurting anybody, okay? No patients have gone without. I swear to god. I just—sometimes you’re up at four in the morning, you’re three codes deep, and you’ve got this ache in your spine that feels like someone took a bat to you. You pop one to take the edge off. You keep going. That’s it.”

You stare at him. “That’s it?”

“I’ve still done my job,” he says. “I’ve never put anyone at risk. And you know that. You’ve seen me.”

You shake your head slowly. “And I’ve seen how easy it is to miss things. You think you’re careful until you’re not. You think you’ve got control until you don’t.”

“I’m not some junkie,” he spits, and your stomach clenches because yes, you are, because this is exactly how it starts. “I’m not one of the ones who OD in the on-call room. I just needed—fuck, I just needed a little bit of quiet in my body. That’s all.”

You don’t say anything.

He looks at you, eyes desperate. “Don’t go to Joel.”

You blink.

“I mean it,” he says, stepping toward you, voice suddenly low, pleading. “Please. Don’t go to him. You know how he is. He’ll torch everything. He won’t ask questions, he’ll go straight to destroying me. You think I’m done now? I’ll be done before I ever clock in again. You don’t know what he’ll do.”

You fold your arms, steadying yourself. “Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before you started taking shit from the hospital.”

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he says, voice cracking. “I didn’t plan this. I’m not a threat. I just—I’m tired. I was tired, and it helped.”

You exhale through your nose, trying to steady the spiral in your chest. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to punch the metal locker behind him just to feel something cold and clean and immediate. But you don’t.

“You’re not a resident,” you say, voice low. “You’re an attending. You’re someone people look up to. Abby. Mel. Fuck, me. You don’t get to do this and ask for pity. This isn’t a mistake. It’s a choice.”

He looks at you like you’ve already left. Like the space between you is now something vast and unfixable.

“Please,” he says one more time.

But you shake your head.

Because this isn’t about you anymore. It’s about every patient who trusted a name tag and a white coat. It’s about every dose that might’ve been short, every delay that could’ve cost someone their breath. It’s about the hospital that’s already hanging on by threads.

You don’t say any of that.

You just look at him. Then down at the bag. Then back at him.

“Just get the fuck out. Leave,” you say, voice flat. “Now.”

Not critically, at first. Just… looking.

The light is too honest. It always is at night. It doesn’t soften anything the way daylight does. It shows the stretch marks low on your stomach, faint but there. The softness in your hips that wasn’t there before. The way your breasts feel heavier, fuller, not quite yours in the same way anymore.

You touch your stomach lightly.

It still feels unfamiliar, even after all this time. Even after carrying two lives inside it.

You hear the door creak softly behind you.

You don’t turn right away.

Harry pauses in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame. He’s in a worn t-shirt and sweats, hair a little messy, the silver at his temples catching the low light. His face is softer at night. Less guarded. Like the world has finally loosened its grip on him.

“You hiding from me?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head. “Just… standing here.”

He steps in, slow, like he’s approaching something delicate. “That’s a dangerous activity at this hour.”

You huff a small laugh. “Is it?”

“Yeah. That’s when the thoughts get loud.”

You glance at him through the mirror. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“I’ve known you a while.”

He comes up behind you, not touching you yet. Just standing there, his presence warm, steady. You can feel the heat of him before his hands ever find you.

“You should be in bed,” he says softly.

“So should you.”

“I was,” he says. “You left.”

You swallow, eyes flicking back to your reflection. “I needed a minute.”

“For what?”

You hesitate.

And that hesitation is enough.

His gaze shifts, sharpens just slightly. Not in a way that’s harsh. In a way that pays attention. That reads between the lines you haven’t spoken out loud.

“You’re doing that thing,” he says.

“What thing?”

“Where you pretend you’re fine while staring at yourself like you’re trying to solve a problem.”

You exhale slowly. “I’m not trying to solve anything.”

“Then what are you doing?”

You don’t answer right away.

Your fingers drift again, this time lower, tracing the soft curve of your stomach. Not with disgust. Not even with sadness. Just… awareness.

“I don’t look like I used to,” you say finally.

It’s quiet. Not dramatic. Not self pitying. Just a fact, spoken into the space between you.

Harry doesn’t respond immediately.

And for a second, that silence makes something in your chest tighten.

But then his hands come to your hips. Warm. Solid. Certain.

He doesn’t grab you or pull. He just rests them there, thumbs pressing lightly into your skin like he’s grounding you.

“You’re right,” he says.

You blink, a little surprised.

“I don’t,” you repeat, softer now.

“No,” he agrees. “You don’t.”

His voice isn’t hesitant. It isn’t trying to fix it or soften it or twist it into something else.

He’s just… meeting you there.

And then, gently, he turns you.

Not fast. Not forceful. Just enough so you’re facing him instead of the mirror.

His hands slide up, one settling at your waist, the other coming up to your face. His thumb brushes just under your eye, slow and thoughtful.

“You look better,” he says.

You let out a small breath. “Harry—”

“No,” he cuts in, not sharply. Just firm. “You do.”

You shake your head a little. “That’s not—”

“It is.”

His voice drops, quieter now. Closer.

“You look like the woman who carried my children,” he says. “You look like the person I come home to. You look like the reason I stopped needing anything else.”

Your throat tightens.

“That’s not the same as—”

“It is to me.”

His hand slides from your face down your neck, over your shoulder, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. Not rushed. Not distracted. Intentional.

Like he’s reminding both of you that your body isn’t something to analyze.

It’s something to know.

To love.

To recognize.

“You think I don’t see this?” he murmurs, his fingers tracing lightly along your side. “You think I don’t notice every change?”

You swallow. “I just—”

“You made two people,” he continues, softer now. “You gave me a family. You think I’m standing here wishing you looked like you did before that?”

Your eyes flicker. “I don’t know what you’re thinking half the time.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s because you don’t listen when I tell you.”

You almost smile.

His forehead presses to yours, the contact grounding, familiar.

“I’ve never wanted you more,” he says, so quietly it almost disappears into the room.

And that does something to you.

Not sudden. Not explosive. Just a slow, steady shift. Like something uncoiling in your chest that’s been tight for too long.

Your hands come up, almost without thinking, resting against his chest. His heartbeat is steady under your palms.

“You’re tired,” you murmur.

“So are you.”

“We should go to bed.”

“We should.”

Neither of you move.

His hands are still on you. Yours are still on him. The space between you is gone now, replaced by something heavier. Warmer.

Alive.

He tilts his head slightly, his nose brushing yours. “You sure you just needed a minute?”

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been sitting in your lungs all day. “I don’t know what I need.”

“I do,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow, a small flicker of your usual self. “Oh, do you?”

“Yeah.”

“And what’s that?”

His mouth curves just slightly. Not cocky. Not smug. Just certain.

“You need to stop thinking,” he says. “And let me take care of you for a minute.”

Your stomach flips.

There’s something about the way he says it. Not like a demand. Not like an assumption.

Like a promise.

Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt. “Harry…”

His lips find yours in a kiss that's soft and unhurried, like he's savoring the taste of you after a long day apart.

You melt into it, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer.

Harry's arms wrap around your waist, lifting you just enough to guide you backward toward the bedroom, his steps steady and sure.

The door clicks shut behind you, and he doesn't break the kiss as he eases you down onto the bed.

The mattress dips under your weight, and he follows, hovering over you with that gentle weight that makes you feel safe, cherished.

His mouth trails from your lips to your jaw, then down your neck, each press of his lips warm and deliberate.

"Let me take care of you," he whispers against your skin, his voice rough with emotion but soft in intent.

His fingers work at the buttons of your shirt, undoing them one by one, exposing your skin inch by inch. He pushes the fabric aside, his hands gliding over your shoulders to slip it off, then traces the curve of your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing lightly over the peaks until they harden under his touch.

You arch into him, a quiet sigh escaping as he unhooks the clasp and lets the lace fall away.

His eyes meet yours, full of that unwavering love, before he lowers his head to kiss the swell of one breast, then the other, his tongue flicking out to circle your nipple.

He sucks gently, drawing a soft moan from you, his hand cupping the other side, kneading with just enough pressure to send warmth pooling low in your belly.

He moves lower, kissing along your stomach, pausing to nuzzle the faint lines there—marks from carrying his children, reminders he treasures.

"Every part of you," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. "I love every part." His hands undo your shorts, sliding them down your hips along with your underwear, leaving you bare before him.

Harry settles between your legs, his broad shoulders nudging your thighs apart. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then higher, his mouth finding your core.

His tongue laps slowly at your folds, tasting you with reverence, circling your clit with feather-light strokes that build the ache inside you gradually.

You thread your fingers through his hair, hips lifting slightly as he slides one finger inside you, curling it just right to brush that spot that makes your breath hitch.

He adds a second finger, pumping them in a lazy rhythm while his mouth continues its worship, sucking softly on your clit until you're trembling, the tension coiling tighter.

"That's it," he breathes, looking up at you with eyes dark and devoted. "Let go for me, darlin'. I've got you."

The release comes like a warm wave, washing over you in shudders, your body clenching around his fingers as you cry out his name. Harry doesn't stop until you're spent, kissing his way back up your body, his lips glistening with you.

He strips off his own clothes then, efficient but not rushed, his cock hard and ready but he makes no move to rush. Instead, he pulls you into his arms, skin to skin, holding you close as your heartbeats sync.

"You feel so good," he says, nuzzling your temple. His hand strokes down your back, soothing circles that ease any lingering tension.

When you're ready, he rolls you onto your side, spooning behind you, his chest to your back. He lifts your leg gently, guiding himself to your entrance, sliding in slow and deep with a groan that vibrates through you.

It's intimate like this, his arm banded around your waist, hand splayed over your belly as he rocks into you with measured thrusts, each one hitting deep and tender.

"God, I love you," he whispers, lips at your ear, his free hand finding yours to lace fingers together.

The pace stays gentle, building that sweet friction until you're both gasping, bodies moving as one.

He reaches around to circle your clit again, matching his thrusts, drawing out your pleasure until it peaks once more, pulling him over the edge with you.

He spills inside you with a low moan, holding you tight as he comes down, peppering kisses along your shoulder.

Neither of you move for a long while, wrapped in each other, the world outside forgotten. Harry pulls the covers over you both, his touch lingering, reassuring.

You stand at the sink, hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea, and watch the morning unfold through the window.

The yard is different too.

Smaller, somehow.

Or maybe it’s just that the children who once filled it have grown.

Behind you, you hear the low murmur of a voice.

Harry.

He’s in the living room, and you don’t have to turn to know what it looks like. You’ve seen this version of him a thousand times now, worn soft by years in a way that has nothing to do with weakness and everything to do with love.

“Careful,” he says, voice calm, steady.

There’s a small thud.

Then a giggle.

“I am being careful,” Estelle insists.

She’s ten now.

Ten, and tall in that in-between way, all elbows and knees and bright, serious eyes. She stands in the doorway with a book tucked under her arm and a braid half finished down her back, the bottom unraveling because she never quite has the patience to finish what she starts.

“You’re climbing the couch,” Harry says.

“I’m leaning,” she corrects.

“You’re leaning in a way that’s going to end with me calling your mother.”

You smile into your tea.

The youngest one is on the floor at Harry’s feet, surrounded by blocks he’s already knocked over twice. Three years old and built like a small storm, all movement and noise and stubborn determination.

“Daddy, look,” he says, holding up something that is vaguely a tower and mostly a mess.

Harry bends, slower than he used to.

That’s the thing.

You notice it in moments like this. The way he moves. Not weak. Never that. But careful. Measured. Like his body is something he listens to now instead of something he pushes through.

“I see it,” he says, crouching down, one hand braced against his knee. “That’s a strong structure.”

“It’s a rocket,” your son corrects.

“Of course it is.”

Estelle rolls her eyes but smiles anyway.

And then—

Footsteps.

Heavier. Slower. Certain.

Adella.

Sixteen now.

Sixteen and no longer something you can hold in your arms, though sometimes, when she leans into you just right, you still feel the echo of it. She’s taller than you expected she’d be at this age, taller than you were, her presence filling a room in a way that is both new and achingly familiar.

She stands in the doorway for a moment, just watching.

Watching her father on the floor.

Watching her sister on the couch.

Watching her brother knocking over his own creation and laughing about it.

There’s something in her face that doesn’t quite belong to the morning.

You notice it immediately.

“Mama,” she says softly.

You turn. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

She hesitates.

That hesitation is new too.

“I… can I talk to Dad?”

You glance toward Harry.

He’s already looking at her.

Of course he is.

“Yeah,” you say gently. “Go ahead.”

She nods, then turns back toward the living room.

“Dad?”

Harry looks up, one hand still resting on the floor beside your son’s blocks. “Yeah, bug?”

“I need to talk to you. Like… alone.”

Estelle perks up instantly. “That sounds serious.”

“It’s not,” Adella says quickly.

“It sounds serious,” Estelle repeats, delighted.

Harry pushes himself up slowly, one hand pressing into his thigh as he stands. He doesn’t hide it. He never has. But Adella notices.

She always notices.

“Hey,” he says, brushing a hand over your son’s hair. “Give me a minute, okay?”

Your son nods, already distracted again.

Harry gestures toward the back porch. “Come on.”

Adella follows him outside.

The door slides shut behind them.

And for a moment, the house feels like it’s holding its breath.

—

The porch is quiet.

The ocean is just visible through the trees, a strip of pale blue under the morning sky. The air smells like salt and something faintly floral from the garden you planted years ago.

Harry lowers himself into one of the chairs.

Adella doesn’t sit right away.

She leans against the railing, arms folded, looking out instead of at him.

He watches her.

Waits.

He learned that a long time ago.

“Okay,” he says after a moment. “What’s going on?”

She exhales slowly.

“I’ve been thinking about something.”

“That’s usually how these start.”

She huffs a small laugh, but it doesn’t stick.

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“I know you,” he says.

That quiets her.

She looks down at her hands, picking at her sleeve the way she used to when she was little, when she didn’t have the words yet for what she was feeling.

And then—

“Why are you different?”

He doesn’t react immediately.

“Different how?”

She finally looks at him.

And there it is.

Not accusation. Not embarrassment.

Fear.

“You just are,” she says. “Like… compared to other dads.”

He leans back slightly in the chair. “Okay.”

“You’re older,” she says, the words coming out too fast now, like she’s been holding them in for too long. “Your hair is grayer. And your hands—”

She stops, swallows.

“My hands?” he prompts gently.

“They look different,” she says, softer now. “And you… you move slower in the mornings. And when you stand up sometimes you make that face like it hurts.”

Harry lets out a small breath through his nose.

Not annoyed.

Not offended.

Just… aware.

“And I know it’s not a big deal,” she rushes on. “I know people get older and that’s normal and I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you, I just—”

She stops again.

Her voice cracks.

And that’s when it shifts.

That’s when he understands.

“It scares you,” he says quietly.

She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t have to.

He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Come here,” he says.

She hesitates for half a second.

Then she walks over.

Not like a little kid.

Not like she used to.

But still… coming to him.

He reaches for her hand.

Her hand is bigger now. Longer fingers. Stronger. But it still fits in his the same way.

He turns it over gently.

“You’re looking at the outside of things,” he says. “That’s what you’re noticing.”

She nods, barely.

“I am older,” he continues. “That’s true. I’ve lived a long time before you came along.”

She swallows. “I know.”

“My hair’s gray because of that,” he says. “My hands look like this because I’ve used them. A lot.”

She traces the lines on his knuckles without thinking.

“And yeah,” he adds, a little quieter, “I move slower sometimes. My body’s not the same as it was when I was your age.”

Her chest tightens. You can see it even from inside, through the glass.

“I don’t like it,” she admits.

He squeezes her hand gently.

“I figured.”

“I just—” She shakes her head. “I look at other dads and they’re… younger. They run faster. They don’t look tired when they wake up.”

He studies her face.

“You think I’m tired of you?”

Her head snaps up. “No. That’s not what I—”

“Because I’m not,” he says, steady.

“I know you’re not,” she says quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Her eyes fill, just slightly.

“I’m scared you won’t be here as long.”

And there it is.

Not vanity.

Not comparison.

Time.

Harry goes still.

Not frozen.

Just… present in a way that feels almost heavy.

“Hey,” he says softly.

She shakes her head, frustrated with herself now. “I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“I shouldn’t be thinking about stuff like that.”

“You’re sixteen,” he says. “You’re supposed to think about things like that.”

She looks at him, eyes shining. “It just hit me. Like… really hit me. That you’re not like the other dads. That you were already older when I was born and now you’re—”

“Older now,” he finishes for her.

She nods.

“And that means… less time,” she whispers.

Harry inhales slowly.

The ocean moves behind them.

The house stays quiet.

And then he reaches up, cupping the side of her face.

“Look at me,” he says.

She does.

“I was older when I had you,” he says. “That’s true. But you know what that also means?”

She shakes her head.

“It means I knew exactly what I was doing when I chose this life.”

Her brows knit.

“I wasn’t guessing,” he says. “I wasn’t figuring it out as I went along. I knew what mattered. I knew what I wanted. And I chose you. I chose your mother. I chose this.”

Her lip trembles.

“I don’t get to control time,” he continues, voice steady but softer now. “Nobody does. But I do get to decide what I do with it.”

She nods, barely.

“And I’ve spent every second I can with you,” he says. “Every morning. Every night. Every stupid little moment in between.”

Her eyes close for a second.

“You think those other dads love their kids more because they run faster?” he asks gently.

She lets out a small, broken laugh. “No.”

“You think I’d trade a single second of being yours for younger knees?”

Her eyes snap open.

“No,” she says, stronger now.

“Then don’t measure me like that,” he says. “Don’t measure me against something that doesn’t matter.”

A tear slips down her cheek.

He wipes it away with his thumb.

“I’m here,” he says. “Right now. With you.”

She nods again.

“And I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,” he adds, a little firmer. “You hear me?”

She nods harder this time.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

She leans into him then.

Not small.

Not fragile.

But still his.

And he wraps his arms around her, holding her close in a way that doesn’t try to stop time, doesn’t try to fix it, just… meets it where it is.

Inside, Estelle watches through the glass.

She tilts her head.

“Are they crying?” she asks.

You glance out, your chest tight.

“I think,” you say.

“Why?”

You look at them again.

At your oldest, wrapped around her father.

At the man who has lived long enough to understand exactly what that means.

“Because they love each other,” you say quietly.

Your youngest looks up from the floor. “I love Daddy.”

You smile.

“I know.”

And outside, on the porch, Harry holds his daughter like time is something you don’t fight.

Just something you fill.

Behind you, he stirs. It’s slow, just a shift of muscle, a deeper breath, his hand dragging lazily over your stomach like he’s waking up through touch instead of thought. His fingers flex once, then settle, his thumb brushing along your side like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Morning,” he mutters, voice wrecked from sleep.

You hum back, soft and automatic. His mouth finds your shoulder, not rushed, not demanding... just warm, slow, familiar. It lingers, like he’s reminding himself you’re still here.

“You’re already awake,” he says, quieter.

“Just woke up,” you answer. Lie.

His hand slides down your side, fingers tracing the curve of your hip. You feel the hardness of his cock pressing against your ass already, insistent even in the lazy haze of waking.

“Missed this,” he murmurs, half under his breath.

You turn slowly in his arms, careful, like the moment might break if you move too fast. His eyes meet yours— soft and unguarded in a way that doesn’t exist anywhere else.

For a second, it almost feels normal. That’s what makes it so fucking dangerous. He's dressed only in his boxers, his head dusted with salt and pepper hair, soft muscles toned from years of ranch work before politics took over. At forty-eight, he's got that mature strength, the kind that makes you feel small and cherished all at once.

“Ted,” you say, quieter than you meant to.

Your hand slides down his chest, feeling the heat of him, the steady rhythm under your palm. He exhales at that, something in him easing like he didn’t realize how tight he was holding himself together.

“Don’t start,” he mutters, thumb brushing your cheek. “I’ve got a meeting in an hour.”

You nod like you give a shit about that. Like the world outside this bed isn’t already waiting to tear everything apart.

His mouth hits yours, slow at first, then deeper, his hand coming up to the back of your neck like he needs to keep you right there. He kisses you like he’s not leaving in an hour. Like there’s nothing waiting for him outside this room.

“Jesus,” he breathes against your mouth. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your chest tightens. If he knew—if he had any idea what’s sitting on your counter—he wouldn’t sound like that. But he doesn’t. So you let yourself fall into it.

Ted's an astonishing lover, the kind who reads your body like a map he's memorized, pushing you to edges you didn't know existed. As the kiss deepens, his hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it hardens under his touch. You arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. 

You don’t stop him. You don’t think. Because this part is easy. This part doesn’t ask questions you don’t want to answer.

"That's my girl," he says against your mouth, his voice dropping to that loving rumble. "So responsive for me. I swear, you make me feel like a kid again, all excited and stupid in love."

He rolls you onto your back, settling between your legs, his weight pressing you into the mattress. The age difference hits you once again... his solid frame over your lithe one, his experience guiding every move while your body responds with eager fire.

You shut your eyes as he touches you—slow, deliberate, like he’s dragging it out on purpose. Your body reacts immediately, hips shifting, chasing the pressure without thinking about it.

“Easy,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. “I’ve got you. Never gonna lose you.”

The words hit harder than they should. You wrap your legs around him anyway. Pull him closer. Let him believe it.

His mouth trails down your neck, sucking at the skin, not careful enough, leaving marks that could raise questions in this gossip hungry town.

"I hate leaving you," he confesses, nipping at your collarbone. "Wish I could stay buried inside you all day, just like this."

You feel his cock twitch against your thigh, thick and ready, and your core aches in response. 

Ted's hands roam lower, parting your thighs with firm insistence. He looks up at you, eyes sparkling with that cute affection.

"You're so perfect, you know that? My sweet, sexy girl. Gonna make you feel so good before I go," His fingers slide between your folds, finding you already wet for him. He groans, circling your clit with just the right pressure. "Fuck, you're soaked. All for me, huh? That's what I love about you, always ready, always wanting your old man."

You gasp as he dips a finger inside, then two, curling them to hit that spot that makes your toes curl.

“You feel—” he cuts himself off with a sharp breath. “Fuck.”

The desert heat seeps into the room, making your skin slick, but it's nothing compared to the fire he's stoking. He pumps his fingers slowly at first, building the tension, his thumb still working your clit.

"Look at you, taking my fingers like a champ," he praises, his tone loving and playful. "Bet you can't wait for my cock, can you, baby? Gonna fill you up so full you'll feel me all day."

The roughness starts to creep in as his pace quickens, his free hand pinning your wrist above your head. He's strong, unyielding, but his eyes stay soft, locked on yours. Your hand tightens on him, grounding yourself in something real—his skin, his weight, the way he whispers your name like it actually means something.

Not the fucking envelope or what's in it. Just this.

"I love you like this... wild and mine." He leans down to capture your nipple in his mouth, sucking hard while his fingers thrust deeper, faster. Your hips buck against his hand, chasing the building pleasure, and he smiles against your skin. "That's it, ride my hand. Show me how much you need it."

By the time he withdraws his fingers, you're trembling, on the edge but not quite there—he knows your body too well, pulling back just to heighten the ache.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters, voice rough.

You don’t answer. He shifts up, shoving his boxers down to free his cock. It's thick, veined, the head already glistening with precum, and at his age, he stays hard like he's got endless stamina just for you.

"Gonna fuck you now, sweetheart," he says, positioning himself at your entrance. “Don’t hold back.” 

You don’t. With one smooth thrust, he buries himself inside you, stretching your pussy around his girth. You cry out, the fullness overwhelming, and he pauses, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against yours.

"Shh, I've got you," he whispers cutely, kissing your nose. "My beautiful girl, so tight for me. Love how you squeeze my cock like you never want me to leave."

Then he starts moving, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, setting a rhythm that's intense from the start. His hips snap against yours, the bed creaking under the force, but his words stay loving.

"Fuck, you feel amazing. You're my everything, you know? This pussy was made for me."

Each thrust is rough, his cock hitting deep, brushing your cervix with every plunge. Sweat beads on his brow, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, but he checks in with a soft, "Too much, baby? Tell me if it's too rough—I just can't hold back with you."

You shake your head, urging him on, and he grins that boyish smile that contrasts his forceful pace.

"Good girl. Gonna make you cum so hard." He angles his hips, grinding against your clit with every inward stroke, the friction building that coil in your belly tighter.

The room fills with the sounds of skin slapping skin, your wetness coating him, easing the way for his relentless pounding. Ted's breath comes in heavy pants, but he doesn't falter, driving into you like he needs to imprint himself before the world pulls him away.

He flips you suddenly, pulling out just long enough to maneuver you onto your hands and knees.

"Ass up for me, baby," he commands gently, his hand stroking your back.

You comply, and he slams back in from behind, the new angle letting him go even deeper. His palm comes down on your ass cheek, hard enough to sting and send sparks through you.

"God, this view," he groans, thrusting harder. "Your pretty pussy taking my cock so well. I love you, you hear me? Love every inch of you."

The roughness intensifies, he grips your hair, pulling your head back slightly to arch your spine, his other hand reaching around to rub your clit in fast circles.

You're moaning loudly now, the pleasure and pain mix pushing you toward the brink.

"That's my baby, scream for me. Let it out— no one's gonna hear but me."

His cock pistons in and out, the head dragging along your walls, hitting every sensitive spot. The desert morning heat makes your bodies slick, sliding together effortlessly despite the ferocity.

Ted's loving talk keeps flowing, lovingly amid the intensity. "You're doing so good, sweetheart. Squeezing me just right. Gonna make me cum inside you, fill my girl up."

He spanks you again, lighter this time, then soothes the skin with a kiss to your shoulder as he leans over you. The position lets him wrap an arm around your waist, holding you close even as he fucks you raw. Your orgasm crashes over you first, waves of ecstasy ripping through your body, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.

"Yes, cum for me, baby! That's i-it—my perfect love." He doesn't stop, riding through your spasms, prolonging the high until you're shaking.

Only then does he let go, thrusting erratically as he buries himself deep one last time.

"Fuck, here it comes. Take it all, sweet thing," His cock pulses, hot cum flooding your pussy, marking you as his in the most intimate way. He groans your praises through it, "Love you so much, filling you up... you're mine."

He collapses over you gently, both of you panting in the aftermath. Ted pulls out slowly, a mix of your releases trickling down your thigh, but he turns you to face him, cradling your face in his hands.

"Hey, baby," he says softly, kissing your forehead. "You okay? Was that good for my girl?" His eyes are full of that tender affection, the roughness giving way to care.

You nod, spent and glowing, and he smiles, pulling you into his chest. But reality intrudes too soon. He glances at the clock—9:15. The spell snaps.

"Shit."

He checks the clock again, already pulling away, already putting himself back together piece by piece.

“I’ve gotta go,” he mutters. “Meeting’s in forty five.”

You watch him from the bed, the warmth already fading.

“Your computer still fucked?” you ask.

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Piece of shit froze twice yesterday.”

“I’ll come by later,” you say. “Fix it.”

He looks at you—really looks this time. Something shifts. Something searching.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He nods once. “Good.”

He grabs his jacket, steps into his shoes, hesitates just long enough to come back. This kiss is different. Slower. Deeper. Like he knows something’s off, even if he can’t name it.

“Be careful,” he murmurs.

Your chest tightens.

“You too.”

He lingers. Then he’s gone. The door shuts. And just like that, it’s quiet again. Wrong quiet.

You sit there for a long moment before moving. mThen you get up. Walk into the kitchen. And see the envelope is still there. Waiting.

You stand there for a long time. Not moving. Not breathing right. Just staring at it. It sits exactly where you left it—on the counter, crooked at the corner like it shifted when you dropped it there, like it knows you’ve been trying not to look at it.

Like it’s patient. Like it can wait you out. Your body still feels like him. Ted. That’s the worst part.

His warmth hasn’t left yet. It clings to your skin, settles into your muscles, lives in the quiet ache between your legs, in the faint marks blooming along your neck and collarbone. You can still hear his voice if you let yourself... low, rough, saying things that sounded too much like truth to be just heat.

You’re gonna ruin me.

You press your lips together.

“Bullshit,” you mutter, but it comes out thin.

Because you didn’t tell him. Didn't tell him about the danger imposing on him and his career. You let him touch you, kiss you, hold you like nothing was wrong... like there wasn’t a loaded gun sitting ten feet away on your kitchen counter. You chose not to tell him. And that choice sits heavy in your chest now, something sharp and unfamiliar. Not guilt. Not exactly. Something worse. Care.

You laugh once, under your breath. It sounds wrong in the empty house. Of course that’s what this is. Of course.

You didn’t tell him because you didn’t want to watch his face change. Didn’t want to see that moment where everything in him goes hard and cold and dangerous. Didn’t want him storming down to that station, badge-less but still powerful enough to ruin himself trying to protect you.

You didn’t tell him because you know him. And because somewhere along the way—quiet, stupid, irreversible—you started to matter to him. And he started to matter to you. Deeply. Too deeply.

Your fingers curl against the counter.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

The word lands heavy in the still air. You push off the counter hard enough that the chair legs scrape behind you, the sound loud and jarring. You don’t look at the envelope again. You can’t. Not if you’re going to do what you’re about to do.

You turn and head back to your room. Fast. No hesitation now. The mirror catches you for half a second—bare skin, messy hair, marks that don’t belong in a town like this—and you almost stop. Almost. But then Joe’s voice cuts through your head like a blade.

Thought the Mayor should be more careful who he screws.

Something in you snaps. You grab the first clothes you can find—a thin tank top, soft from too many washes, and a pair of leggings that cling to your hips like they were made for you. You don’t think about how they look. You don’t think about anything except getting dressed.

You don’t shower. Not even for a second. You could. You should. You know what’s still on your skin, what’s still inside you, what any normal person would wash away before stepping out into the world. But you don’t. Because this... this is yours.

This is the one thing in this entire goddamn town that isn’t fake, or whispered about, or turned into something ugly. You don’t want to scrub it off. You don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. Let them look. Let them think whatever they want. You’re done shrinking for people who already decided who you were.

By the time you’re out the door, your pulse is loud in your ears. The heat hits you immediately. The kind that settles into your lungs and makes every breath feel like work. You don’t slow down. You walk fast. Faster than usual. Almost running.

Dust kicks up around your ankles as you cut through the road, past houses that all look the same, past windows that might have eyes behind them. You don’t care. Not today.

The church comes into view before you expect it.

White paint peeling, cross casting a long shadow across the cracked ground. A handful of people stand outside—spaced awkwardly apart, masks half on, half off, like even they don’t know what rules they’re supposed to follow anymore.

The pastor is talking with his hands clasped and voice calm. Until they see you. Every single one of them.

It’s like a ripple. Heads turning. Eyes narrowing. You feel it before you fully register it. The weight of their attention, the judgment, the quiet disgust they don’t even bother to hide.

One woman pulls her cardigan tighter around herself. Another leans closer to the man beside her, whispering something that makes him glance at you, then quickly look away. You almost stop. Almost. But then something hot and ugly rises in your chest, and you keep walking. Head high. Chin up. Let them look. Let them choke on it.

You’re not the one sneaking around in the dark pretending to be something you’re not. You’re not the one hiding behind a pulpit or a wedding ring. You’re just honest about it. And somehow that makes you the problem.

Your jaw tightens.

“Yeah,” you mutter under your breath as you pass them. “Real fucking sinners, right?”

No one answers. Of course they don’t. They never do. You keep moving. Faster now.

The flat, beige, and unwelcoming station comes into view like a bad memory you can’t shake. The flag barely moves in the lazy wind like even it’s too tired to care.

By the time you reach the steps, sweat is sliding down your chest, sticking your shirt to your skin. Your hair is already coming loose, strands clinging to your neck. You don’t slow down. You shove the door open. And the cold hits you like a shock. You freeze for half a second. Just enough to feel it.

Air conditioning blasting like a miracle, like stepping into a different world entirely. Your skin prickles, goosebumps rising instantly, your breath catching as your body tries to adjust.

For a second—just one—you forget why you’re here. And then you see him. And you laugh. You can’t help it. It bursts out of you, loud and sharp and completely out of place in the sterile quiet of the station.

Joe Cross stands in the middle of the room, squared up like he’s on a stage instead of in a half empty office that smells like paper and bleach. An iPhone is pointed at him. One of his officers—some kid who looks like he regrets every life choice that led him here—is holding it up, trying to keep it steady.

Joe clears his throat.

“For the people of Eddington,” he starts, voice already too stiff, too rehearsed, “I believe in strong leadership. Real leadership. Not the kind that hides behind—”

He stumbles. Just a little. Enough. Your laugh gets louder. He falters completely this time, eyes snapping toward you. The officer lowers the phone slightly, confused. Joe straightens, irritation flashing across his face like a crack in glass.

“What the hell is so funny?” he snaps.

You lean against the doorframe, still laughing, shaking your head.

“This?” you gesture vaguely at him, the phone, the whole pathetic setup. “This is your campaign?”

He bristles. “We’re filming—”

“No, I can tell,” you cut in, wiping under your eye like you’re actually crying from it. “I just didn’t realize it was supposed to be comedy.”

The officer snorts before he can stop himself. Joe shoots him a look that could kill. You push off the wall, stepping further inside, the cool air wrapping around you, grounding you just enough to keep going.

“You don’t even know what you’re saying,” you go on, voice lighter than you feel. “You’re just…standing there. Talking. About nothing.”

His jaw tightens.

“I’m talking about change,” he says, forcing control back into his voice.

“Yeah?” you tilt your head. “Name one thing.”

Silence. Just for a second. But it’s enough. Your smile widens, slow and sharp.

“Thought so.”

The room shifts. You can feel it—the tension, the attention, the way every set of eyes is now on you instead of him. And for once? You don’t hate it. You step closer. Slow and deliberate. Your voice drops just enough to make it personal.

“You really think you can run this town?” you ask. “You? With nothing to say and nothing to offer except whatever dirt you think you’ve got on people?”

His expression changes. Not much. But enough. There it is. That flicker. You see it. And now he knows you see it too.

“Careful,” he says quietly.

You smile.

“Or what?”

It lands sharper than you expect. Like you finally stopped flinching. Joe watches you for a second too long. Something in his face shifts—not anger, not yet. Something meaner. Like he’s been waiting for you to step into this exact spot so he can pull the ground out from under you.

The officer with the phone lowers it completely now, glancing between the two of you like he’s watching something he shouldn’t be. Joe exhales through his nose, slow. Then he smiles.

“Tell me something,” he says, tone suddenly casual, like you’re back to small talk. “You know when the Horseshoe's opening back up?”

It hits strange. Out of nowhere. You blink once, thrown off just enough to hate it.

“What?”

“The club,” he repeats, tilting his head. “You still working there, right?”

You stiffen. You don’t like how he says it. Working there. Like it’s something sticky. Like it leaves residue.

“I don’t know,” you answer, clipped. “Nobody does.”

That part’s true. Everything’s been limbo. Waiting. Delayed announcements and empty promises. You’ve been surviving day to day, same as everyone else. Joe hums like he expected that.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought.”

There’s a beat.

You shift your weight, impatient. “You got a point, or—”

He cuts you off.

“They’re opening the diner next week.”

You frown. “I know that.”

“Mechanic’s right after,” he adds, watching you carefully now.

“I know that too.”

You feel irritation climbing your spine. Why is he telling you this? You’ve talked about this with Ted. Late nights, early mornings, quiet moments where the world felt almost normal again. You’d joked about eating greasy takeout food in his SUV like nothing had changed. You remember telling him—clear as anything—you couldn’t wait for the greasiest burger and a strawberry shake. You remember the way his mouth had twitched at that. The way he’d said, “I know.”

Joe keeps going.

“And after that…” he shrugs lightly, like it’s nothing. “Garcia’s place.”

Your body goes still. Not visibly. But inside? Everything halts.

“What?” you ask, slower this time.

Joe watches it happen. Watches the exact second something in you catches.

“His bar,” he says, like you’re the one who’s behind. “He’s got the paperwork ready. Just waiting for the green light after the first two reopenings go smooth.”

The words don’t land right. Like your brain doesn’t want to hold them. You blink.

“That’s not—” you start, then stop.

Because suddenly you’re not sure. You think back. Every conversation. Every night he’s been in your bed, in your kitchen, in your space like he belongs there. You talked about the diner. You talked about town hall. You talked about Joe, about the campaign, about everything. He never mentioned the reopening of his bar. Not once.

Your chest tightens.

“That doesn’t make sense,” you say, but it comes out quieter now. Less certain.

Joe shrugs again, easy.

“Why wouldn’t it?”

Because he would’ve told me. The thought hits hard. He tells you everything that matters. Doesn’t he? You remember...

Him showing up late, exhausted, talking about council votes like they weighed on him. Him muttering into your shoulder about budgets, closures, pressure from the county and state. Him asking what you thought. Actually asking. Like your opinion mattered.

Your stomach twists.

“You’re lying,” you say, trying to remain composed.

Joe smiles. There it is again. That knowing look.

“I don’t have to lie to you,” he says. “Not about this.”

Silence stretches. The officer shifts awkwardly behind the counter, clearly wishing he was anywhere else. You don’t look at him. You can’t.

Your brain is moving too fast now. Replaying things. Small things. Ted checking his phone more often. Ted getting quiet mid conversation sometimes. Ted saying “we’ll figure it out” instead of anything concrete.

Your pulse ticks up. No. No, that doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t. He’s busy. He’s the mayor.

Of course there are things he doesn’t say out loud right away.

Of course—

Joe interrupts your thoughts like he can hear them.

“Funny thing about small towns,” he says lightly. “Nothing stays quiet for long. Especially not decisions that big.”

Your jaw tightens. “Spit it out.”

You don’t want him dragging this. You don’t want him enjoying it.

He tilts his head, studying you like you’re something under glass. And then—

He drops it.

“They already voted.”

The words don’t register at first.

“What?”

“At the last closed session,” he continues, almost bored now. “Couple weeks ago.”

Your heart stutters.

You swallow. “Voted on what?”

You already know. Somewhere deep down, you already know. But you need him to say it. You need to hear it. Joe doesn’t rush. He leans back against the desk, crossing his arms like he’s settling in for a show.

“The Horseshoe,” he says. “Permanent closure.”

Everything inside you goes quiet. Just... gone. Like someone cut the power.

You stare at him. Not moving. Not breathing right.

“That’s not…” your voice trails off. “No.”

Joe watches your face carefully.

Enjoying this.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

“No,” you repeat, sharper now. “They can’t just—”

“They can,” he cuts in. “And they did.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. Your mind is scrambling now. Trying to catch up. Trying to find a version of reality where this makes sense.

“They didn’t announce anything,” you say. “There would’ve been—people would’ve—”

“It’s coming,” Joe says. “They’re waiting to stagger the reopenings. Make it look less…targeted.”

Targeted. The word burns.

“Bullshit,” you snap. “That place employs half the girls in this town.”

Joe lifts a brow. “Did.”

The officer winces. Actually winces. You don’t even notice.

Your chest is tight now. Too tight. You think of the Horseshoe. The lights. The noise. The way it felt alive. The way it paid your rent, your bills, your life. Gone. Just like that.

“You’re lying,” you say again, but there’s no bite left in it now.

Joe doesn’t even react this time. He just watches you.

And then because he’s not done. Of course he’s not done.

“He knew,” Joe says.

That one hits. Clean and precise.

You blink. “What?”

“The mayor,” he clarifies, voice almost gentle now. “He’s been aware for weeks.”

Your stomach drops.

No. No, no—

“He didn’t—” you start, but the words won’t finish.

Joe tilts his head.

“He voted for it.”

Everything stops. This time for real. You feel it happen. Something inside you—something you didn’t even realize you were holding—just…gives.

“No,” you say, barely above a whisper.

Joe doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften.

“He signed off,” he says. “Same as the rest of them.”

You stare at him. And suddenly you’re not in the station anymore. You’re in your kitchen. You’re in your bed. You’re on your couch, watching him on that stupid campaign video, talking about protecting the town. You’re laughing at his texts. You’re waiting for him to show up with takeout.

You’re remembering...

Strawberry milkshakes.Cheeseburgers wrapped in paper. Him handing them to you like it was something important. Like you were something important.

Your throat tightens painfully. He knew.

All those nights...

All those conversations...

All those times you talked about things opening back up, about getting back to normal, about surviving this...

He knew. And he didn’t say a word. Your hands feel numb. You look down at them like they belong to someone else. The officer is staring at you now. Not smug. Not amused. Just… watching. Like he knows something just broke.

Joe pushes off the desk, slow and measured. 

“Guess he forgot to mention that part,” he says.

You don’t respond. You can’t. Your brain is trying to rearrange him. Trying to make the man you know fit into this new shape.

The man who holds you like you matter. The man who says your name like it’s something soft. The man who just this morning told you...

Never gonna lose you.

Your chest aches. Because now it sounds different.

Now it sounds like something else. Like a promise he made knowing exactly what he’d already taken from you. Your job. Your stability. Your place in this town, shitty as it was. Gone. And he helped make it happen.

You feel sick.

“You’re wrong,” you say finally, but it’s hollow.

Even you can hear it. Joe doesn’t argue. He doesn’t need to.

“You can ask him,” he says.

The words sit there. Daring you. The station feels too cold now. Too bright. You suddenly hate being here. Hate him. Hate this town. Hate the way everything is always just out of reach—normal, decent, fair.

Your jaw tightens hard.

“Stay out of my life,” you say, voice low and shaking just enough to betray you.

Joe smiles again. Because he knows. He knows he doesn’t have to. He’s already in it.

You turn before he can say anything else. Before you can see whatever expression he’s wearing now. Before you break in front of him.The door slams harder than you mean it to. Heat crashes into you again. Blinding and immediate. But it doesn’t feel the same now. Nothing does.

You stand there for a second on the steps, breathing hard, the sun beating down on you like punishment.

Your head is spinning. Your chest feels tight. Ted’s face flashes in your mind... soft, half asleep, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

You swallow hard.

“Fuck you,” you whisper, but you don’t know who you’re saying it to.

Him. Joe. Yourself. Maybe all three.

The town stretches out in front of you. Same as always. But something about it feels different now. Like it’s already moved on without you. Like it always was going to.

And you—

You’re just standing here, realizing you might not have known him at all.

You decide not to go to Ted.

That’s the first decision you make, even if it doesn’t feel like one. It just… happens. Your body turns away from the station, away from the hill where his house sits like something permanent and unreachable, and instead you start walking in the opposite direction.

Home.

You don’t run or rush. You just walk.

Step after step, the heat pressing into your skin, the sun high and merciless like it wants to expose everything you’ve been trying not to see. The same streets stretch out in front of you, the same cracked pavement, the same sagging porches , the same desert wind dragging dust across everything like a quiet warning.

You pass the same houses you passed an hour ago, but now they feel different. The windows feel sharper, like eyes instead of glass. The silence feels heavier, like it’s not just empty but watching. You can feel it in the way people look at you when you pass—still the same judgment, the same quiet disgust but now it lands differently.

Before, it was them versus you. Now it feels like him too.

Your jaw tightens. You keep walking. You don’t look at anyone directly, but you see everything anyway. A woman pulling her kid a little closer as you pass. A man pretending to check his phone while his eyes follow your ass. Someone across the street pausing mid-conversation, voice lowering just enough that you know it’s about you.

It’s always about you. But now your mind isn’t on them. It’s on him. On the way his name sits in your chest like something that used to be solid. You keep replaying it. He knew. Weeks.

Joe didn’t hesitate when he said it. Didn’t fumble, didn’t guess. He knew exactly what he was saying, exactly where it would land. And worse—worse than Joe knowing is the way it fits.

Too easily. Too fucking clean.

Your steps slow without you meaning them to. You pass one of his posters nailed to a wooden post, the paper curling slightly at the edges from the heat. His face stares out at you, calm, composed, and steady. The kind of face people trust. The kind of face that promises things without saying them outright.

You stop. Just for a second. Look at it. Really look at it. Before, you liked seeing him like this. It made you proud in a quiet, private way you never admitted out loud. Like you knew something no one else did. Like the man on the poster and the man in your bed were two versions of the same truth.

It looks fake now. Though not entirely fake. That’s the worst part.

It’s still him. The same eyes. The same mouth. The same quiet strength that made people listen when he spoke. But now it feels…constructed. Like something built. Like something chosen.

Like something that doesn’t include you.

You look away. Keep walking. Your chest feels tight, like something is pressing inward from all sides.

You think about his speeches. The way he stands at a podium, voice steady, talking about community and safety and doing what’s right. You think about the way he picks his words carefully, the way he pauses just long enough to make people lean in.

It all felt real before. Now it feels calculated. Intentional.

Like he knows exactly what people need to hear and gives it to them. Even if it costs something else. Even if it costs you.

Your chest tightens.

You think about the nights he spent in your house. The way he’d talk to you like you mattered. The way he’d ask what you thought about things like it wasn’t just polite, like it actually meant something. The way he’d listen.

And now you can’t stop hearing it...

Everything he didn’t say.

Every time you brought up the club. Every time you joked about going back, about getting your life back, about things returning to normal. Every time you said you couldn’t wait.

And he—

What? Nodded? Changed the subject? Kissed you?

Your stomach twists.

He didn’t trust you enough to tell you. That’s what it comes down to.

Not just that he voted. Not just that he chose. That he decided your future for you. Quietly. Without you in the room. Without giving you a chance to react, to fight, to even know.

Your pace picks up again, anger starting to bleed into something hotter, sharper.

He protected the town. Of course he did. That’s his job. That’s what he does. That’s what everyone loves him for.

But he did it while still coming to your house. While still crawling into your bed, touching you like you were something precious, saying things that felt dangerously close to love.

He chose the town. And still chose you. Like you were separate. Like you weren’t affected by the same decisions. Like you could just… exist in the space he carved out for you.

Your chest aches. Because you know. You know he cares.

You know he loves you in the only way he knows how—quiet, restrained, and careful, like he’s always one step away from losing something.

You’ve felt it. In the way he holds you. In the way he looks at you when he forgets himself. In the way he says your name when he’s not thinking about anything else.

But he still chose them. Over you.

And that...

That’s what breaks something.

By the time your house comes into view, your head is buzzing with it. Every memory reframed, every moment turned over and over until it doesn’t fit the same way anymore.

You don’t slow down when you reach the porch. You don’t hesitate. You push the door open, step inside, and the air hits you like something stale, something waiting.

The envelope is still there. Exactly where you left it.You stare at it. For one second. Two. And then you cross the room, grab it, and throw it straight into the trash like it burned you.

You don’t want to look at it again. You don’t want to give it that power. Fuck Ted. And fuck his political career. 

Your hands are shaking now. Not from fear. From something else.

You turn and head straight to the bathroom.

The shower turns on with a violent hiss, water sputtering before it steadies. You step in before it’s even fully warm, the cold biting at your skin, making you suck in a sharp breath.

You just stand there. Let it hit you. Let it soak into your hair, your skin, everything.

You reach down, scrub hard. Harder than you need to. Like you’re trying to erase something. The feeling of him. The warmth. The evidence.

His cum still inside you, still on you, still something you chose to keep just hours ago... now it feels different. Now it feels like something you need off.

You wash it away. All of it. Every trace.

Your hands move fast, rough, like you’re angry at your own body for holding onto it, for wanting to keep it. Soap lathers, rinses, disappears down the drain, and you keep going until your skin feels raw, until there’s nothing left but heat and water and your own breathing echoing off the tile.

By the time you step out, your hair is dripping, your skin flushed. You don’t look in the mirror. You don’t want to.

You wrap yourself in a towel for all of ten seconds before dropping it and moving again.

The bed. The sheets. They smell like him.

You rip them off in one motion, yanking the blankets with them, pillows tossed aside like they offended you. Fabric piles up on the floor, tangled and heavy and still holding onto something you don’t want anymore.

Trash bags.

You grab them from under the sink, shove everything inside without folding, without caring. The sound of plastic crinkling fills the room, loud and harsh.

You tie the bag off tight. Too tight. Like that’ll do anything. You stand there for a second, breathing hard, staring at it. Then you grab another. More sheets. More blankets. Everything. Gone.

By the time you’re done, your room looks bare. Different. Like something was stripped out of it.

You then pull on clothes, shorts, another tank top. You shove a handful of coins into your pocket, not even counting them. And then you leave again. 

You don’t stop moving until your legs force you to.

The laundromat sits on the edge of town like everything else—sun bleached, low, humming with machines that sound older than the building itself. The sign out front flickers even in daylight, letters half dead, like no one’s bothered to care in years. You push the door open with your shoulder, trash bags digging into your fingers, the plastic biting into your skin as the weight shifts.

Inside, the air hits you all at once.

It smells like detergent and metal and something faintly sour underneath, like too many people trying to wash things that don’t really come clean. The machines rattle and churn along one wall, a steady, grinding rhythm that almost drowns out your thoughts if you let it.

You don’t.

You drag your bags across the tile, not caring about the noise, not caring about anything except getting the sheets out of your hands. You shove everything into the first open washer you find—blankets, pillowcases, tangled fabric that still feels like him if you let yourself think about it long enough.

You don’t.

You dump soap in without measuring. Slam the lid shut harder than necessary. The machine kicks to life with a violent jerk, water slamming into fabric like it’s trying to beat something out of it.

Good.

You turn away before you can second guess it.

There’s a plastic chair near the wall, cracked along the edge. You drop into it, legs spread slightly, elbows braced on your knees as you lean forward, breathing hard like you ran the whole way here instead of just walking too fast.

Your skin is still sensitive from the shower. Your hair is half dried in uneven strands, clinging to your neck. Sweat gathers anyway—Eddington doesn’t care what you’ve already been through today. It just keeps taking.

You stare at the floor. At the scuffed tile, the faded footprints, the quiet evidence of people coming in here to clean things they couldn’t fix any other way.

Your phone vibrates. You don’t even look at it at first. You already know.

It keeps going. Buzzing against your waistband, persistent, familiar. That rhythm you’ve learned without trying. Him.

You close your eyes for a second.

Then you reach down, pull it out, and look. Ted. Of course.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. You can picture him without even trying—jaw tight, pacing somewhere, probably already halfway through whatever meeting he rushed to, checking his phone between conversations, expecting you to answer like you always do.

Because you always do. Because you never don’t.

The phone buzzes again in your hand.

And you just…

Let it.

You hit silence. Not decline. 

The vibration stops. The screen goes dark. Your reflection stares back at you faintly—tired, blank, something harder sitting behind your eyes that wasn’t there this morning.

You shove the phone back into your waistband like it’s nothing. Like he’s nothing. It doesn’t feel like nothing.

It feels like holding your breath underwater and pretending you don’t need air.

The machines keep running. Time stretches. You don’t notice how long you’ve been sitting there until a sound cuts through the noise... sharp, deliberate. Someone clearing their throat. Loud.

You blink, head snapping up, irritation already climbing your spine before you even look.

There’s a guy across from you. You hadn’t registered him when you walked in—just movement, presence, something you didn’t care enough to focus on. But now he’s there, leaning back against one of the machines, arms crossed loosely, watching you like he’s been trying to get your attention for a while.

He’s not ugly. That’s the first thing you think.

Clean enough. Early thirties maybe. Broad shoulders, sun-tanned skin, hair that looks like he actually tries with it. The kind of guy who blends in here—construction, oil, something steady and physical. The kind of guy who probably has a truck that smells like dust and fast food.

Not your type. Not him. Not even close.

You stare at him for a second longer than necessary, unimpressed.

“What?” you ask, flat.

He doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs one shoulder, like he expected that.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “Just figured you’d notice eventually.”

You huff quietly, leaning back in your chair now, arms folding across your chest.

“Congratulations,” you mutter. “You got my attention.”

Something about that makes him smile. Not cocky exactly... more like he’s amused you didn’t immediately shut him down.

“Rough morning?” he asks, nodding toward the washer.

You follow his gaze without thinking. The machine’s still going, water slamming, fabric twisting violently.

“Something like that,” you say.

He nods like that makes sense.

“I get it,” he says. “This place tends to catch people on bad days.”

You let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh if you were in a different mood.

“Yeah?” you say. “What’s yours?”

He gestures vaguely around the room.

“Same as everyone else,” he says. “Work dried up. Too much time. Not enough money. Figured I’d at least keep my clothes clean while everything else falls apart.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Construction?” you guess.

He nods.

“Yeah. You?”

You pause. There’s a version of this answer you’ve given a hundred times. A softer one. A vague one. You don’t use it.

“Club,” you say. “Or I was.”

His expression shifts—not judgmental, not surprised. Just…processing.

“Yeah,” he says after a second. “That makes sense.”

You narrow your eyes slightly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He holds his hands up a little.

“Nothing bad,” he says quickly. “Just—you’ve got that look.”

“That look?” you repeat.

“Like you don’t belong sitting still,” he says. “Like you’re used to moving. Talking. People paying attention.”

You stare at him. He’s not wrong. You don’t like that.