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Harry Castillo x f!reader
summary: when your friends bet you and Harry Castillo – the man you definitely don’t have feelings for (allegedly)– that you can’t spend the christmas days together without getting finally together, you’re determined to prove them wrong. He is determined to win too. Even though everyone can see the way you two flirt, hover and stare at each other like it’s a habit neither of you can break.
two idiots who pretend it’s just a bet, friends who are 100% entertained, pining (obviously), denying and ignoring obvious feelings like it’s an Olympic sport, flirt obviously, overthinking and overanalysing every glance and touch
By the time you reach Harry’s building, the city has shifted into evening.
Not night, not yet, but that in between state December does so well, where the sky turns heavy and blue gray and the streetlights come on early, casting long reflections across damp pavement. There’s snow along the sidewalks, pushed into uneven piles by plows, but the roads are clear enough to drive. The cold has teeth, though. It bites at your fingers as you step out of the car and pull your coat tighter around yourself.
Harry’s already there, keys in hand, waiting by the entrance like he didn’t trust the door to stay unlocked without him.
You check your phone. “By four minutes.”
You smile. “Don’t start.”
He grins back, easy, familiar and holds the door open. You pass him, close enough that your sleeve brushes his wrist. It’s nothing. Barely contact. Still, you feel it all the way up your arm.
The elevator ride is quiet, but not awkward. Comfortable. The kind of quiet that comes from knowing someone too well to fill every space with noise. You watch the floor numbers climb while Harry leans against the wall beside you, hands in his pockets.
“So,” he says, casual. “Tree day.”
“Tree day,” you repeat. “Are you emotionally prepared?”
He huffs a laugh. “I think so.”
The moment you step inside, you notice it.
They’re exactly where you imagined them – soft, warm strands tracing the windows, looping gently around the balcony door, casting a golden glow over the room. The city outside looks farther away like this, softened at the edges, less sharp.
Harry notices immediately.
“You put them up,” you say, slowly.
He shrugs, suddenly very interested in taking your coat. “Like I said. Testing.”
“You tested all of them.”
“I wanted to make sure none were broken.”
You take a few steps in, turning slightly, taking it all in. “You didn’t even ask me.”
“I knew where you’d put them.”
You look at him. “Did you?”
He meets your gaze, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Yeah.”
You don’t press. You just nod, letting the moment settle between you like snow.
“They look good,” you say.
His shoulders relax, just a fraction. “Yeah?”
The apartment smells faintly like coffee and pine – the box with the tree leaning against the wall, unopened but promising. Decorations are spread neatly across the coffee table, organized with more care than you expected.
“You laid everything out,” you note.
“I didn’t want to lose anything,” he says. “Or… break something.”
You smile. “You’re very domestic today.”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”
The box is heavier than it looks.
Harry crouches to open it and a few moments later he’s already kneeling on the floor, sleeves pushed up, carefully pulling out the first section of the tree like it’s something fragile.
“Okay,” you say, crouching opposite him. “This shouldn’t be complicated.”
“That’s what you said about the lights,” he replies.
You scoff. “Those were fine.”
You each take a section, slotting them together in the base. The tree wobbles immediately.
“Hold it steady,” you say.
“I am,” he insists, gripping the stand more firmly.
You adjust the branches, working around the uneven angle. The plastic needles rustle softly as you tug and twist, trying to coax them into something symmetrical.
At one point, the top section leans too far to the left.
“Wait,” Harry says quickly. “It’s tipping.”
You step back as he steadies it with both hands, bracing the trunk until it settles. He doesn’t touch you – doesn’t need to –but you’re suddenly aware of how close you’re standing anyway, shoulder nearly brushing his.
“Okay,” you say. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
He hesitates for half a second longer than necessary before letting go.
You straighten the last branch and step back. The tree stands – slightly crooked, but stable.
You squint at it. “It’s leaning.”
“It’s charming,” he says, standing up and dusting his hands on his jeans.
“It’s definitely leaning.”
“So are the best things,” he replies, then clears his throat. “I mean – trees. Obviously.”
You laugh, tension easing. “Sure.”
You nudge the base with your foot. It doesn’t move.
“See?” Harry says. “Solid.”
He smiles –small, satisfied –and moves to grab the ornament box.
The ornament box opens like chaos unleashed.
Glass, wood, fabric – mismatched in a way that feels intentional, even if it isn’t. You sit cross legged on the floor to sort through them while Harry kneels beside you, handing things over one by one.
“This one’s yours,” he says, passing you a simple star.
“You always like the simple ones.”
You glance at him. “Do I?”
He shrugs. “You say they feel quieter.”
You stare at the ornament in your hand, then at him. “I don’t remember saying that.”
“You do that a lot,” he says gently.
“Forget the things you say when they matter.”
Your chest tightens unexpectedly.
You hang the star carefully, stepping back to adjust it until it sits just right.
Harry hands you the allegedly ironic ornament next.
“No,” you say immediately. “That goes in the back.”
“You agreed it was ironic.”
You place it deeper into the branches, hiding it just enough. He watches you do it, amusement softening into something quieter.
The tree fills slowly. Not rushed. Not planned. You hand each other ornaments, occasionally bumping shoulders, occasionally standing too close to adjust the same branch.
At some point, you realize you’re both humming along to the same song.
When the tree is nearly done, you step back together, standing side by side.
It glows softly now, lights weaving between branches, ornaments catching the warmth. It’s imperfect. Slightly crooked. Comfortable.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
The city lights blink beyond the windows. The apartment feels fuller, warmer, more lived in than it did an hour ago.
“This was a good idea,” you say quietly.
He glances at you. “The tree?”
You circle the tree slowly, making small adjustments that don’t strictly need to be made. An ornament nudged half an inch to the left. A ribbon smoothed where it already lies flat. Anything to avoid standing still.
Harry notices, of course.
“You’re done,” he says gently.
He smiles. “It’s perfect.”
You glance at him. “It’s crooked.”
“So are we,” he says again, quieter this time.
You pretend not to hear it.
The last thing you add is the wooden skyline ornament. You hesitate before placing it, then hook it carefully near the center, where the lights catch the edges just right.
Harry watches you do it, hands resting on his hips.
“That one matters,” he says.
When you step back beside him, the tree glows between you — warm, imperfect, unmistakably real.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
You step back to look at the tree properly.
Not just a glance –a real look. The kind you take when you want to remember something exactly as it is. The lights glow softly now, warm and steady, reflecting off the ornaments in a way that makes the whole room feel smaller, cozier.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “Now it’s done.”
Harry comes to stand beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his arm through your sweater.
“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”
You tilt your head, adjusting your view– and that’s when you see it.
A small sprig of green, tucked just above the corner of the bookshelf near the tree. Subtle. Intentional enough to be suspicious. Hanging low enough to be unavoidable once noticed.
He follows your finger – and freezes.
For a long moment, neither of you does anything. You just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the mistletoe like it might disappear in a few minutes.
“I didn’t put that there,” he says.
You glance at him. “You definitely put that there.”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe I didn’t remove it.”
You huff out a laugh despite yourself. “That’s not better.”
You shift your weight – and without meaning to, step directly beneath it.
Harry notices immediately.
“Well,” he says carefully.
“Well,” you reply, just as careful.
You’re close now. Not touching –not yet –but close enough that you can feel his presence like pressure, steady and grounding. The lights from the tree flicker softly in his eyes. He looks… focused. Like he’s thinking very hard about not thinking at all.
“This doesn’t count,” you say, too quickly.
You both remain exactly where you are.
You break first, stepping back with a small shake of your head. “I’m getting hot chocolate.”
You turn –and your foot catches on the edge of the rug near the tree.
It’s sudden. Stupid. The kind of thing that happens when you’re distracted.
Your balance goes immediately.
Harry reacts without hesitation.
His hands come out fast, catching you by the arms and pulling you back before you can fall. The motion brings you into him instead – your shoulder against his chest, his hands firm but careful, like he’s afraid of holding you too tightly.
For a second, you’re aware of everything at once: the warmth of him, the way his grip steadies you completely, the faint scent of coffee and winter in his sweater. Your hand curls into the fabric at his side without asking permission.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.
“I– yeah,” you manage. “I know.”
His hands loosen slightly but don’t let go. You tilt your head just enough to look up at him, and the distance between your faces feels… deliberate. Charged. Dangerous.
You’re still under the mistletoe.
His thumb shifts, barely, against your sleeve– not a caress, not quite an accident either.
If either of you leaned in–
“I’m fine,” you say, breathless. “Sorry.”
He drops his hands immediately, like he’s been burned. “No. Don’t–you’re fine. I just–”
You nod, because anything else would be too much.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Thanks.”
The mistletoe remains where it is.
You both pretend the tree needs more attention. That mugs need to be fetched. That space is required between you now.
But something has shifted.
And as you move into the kitchen, heart still racing, you know one thing with absolute certainty:
If the bet was meant to prove you could do this without getting closer, it’s already failing.
The kitchen feels warmer the second you step into it, like it’s been waiting.
Harry doesn’t reach for the kettle. He goes straight to the fridge.
Milk comes out first–whole, cold, heavy in the carton. He sets it on the counter, then reaches into the cabinet for the small saucepan you’ve seen him use before. Not often. Just enough to remember.
You lean against the island, watching.
“Don’t say it,” he says, already pouring milk into the pan.
“I wasn’t going to,” you lie.
He hums, amused, and sets the burner low. Measured. Careful. The kind of care that feels intentional when you’re paying attention. He opens the drawer, pulls out the tin of cocoa powder, the good one–the kind that smells like chocolate instead of sugar. A spoon clinks softly against the metal as he measures it out.
“How many?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.
He does. Two level spoons. Not heaping. Not shy. He stirs slowly, wrist relaxed, watching the cocoa darken the milk in lazy spirals. The sound is quiet. Domestic. Intimate in a way that sneaks up on you.
The sugar comes next. A pinch of salt. You notice that too.
“You always do that,” you say.
“Makes it better,” he replies, like it’s obvious.
Steam starts to rise–not boiling, not rushed. He watches it closely, stirring, never letting it scorch. The smell changes as it warms, deeper now, richer. Real.
You don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until you’re standing beside him, shoulder almost brushing his arm. Not touching. Close enough to feel the heat from the stove. From him.
He pours the hot chocolate into the mugs– the familiar ones. The chipped rim. The handle that fits your hand just right. Marshmallows go in last, counted without ceremony, floating and melting at the edges.
He slides your mug toward you.
You wrap both hands around it immediately. The warmth sinks in, slow and grounding.
He watches your face, just for a second. “Yeah?”
A small smile. Proud, but restrained. “Yeah.”
You sit at the island. He leans against the counter across from you. The tree glows behind you, reflected faintly in the window. The city hums on, distant and irrelevant.
“Do you want to stay over?”
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