#mafiarry

It’s All In The Eyes

The Birdhouse

The Color Wheel

Unexpected Visitors

"We need social media," she announces during their morning coffee ritual, setting down her laptop. The silence that follows could power a small city. Tony slowly stops chewing his breakfast sandwich. Marco's coffee cup pauses halfway to his mouth. Sal just stares at her like she's spoken in ancient Sumerian.

"Social media," Harry repeats carefully, because sometimes when Y/N gets an idea, it's important to make sure everyone is operating with the same definition of terms.

"Yes. Instagram, specifically. Maybe TikTok eventually, but we'll start with Instagram." She opens her laptop and turns it around to show them a carefully prepared presentation. "Look, I know this might seem unnecessary, but the restaurant industry is incredibly competitive. People discover new places through social media more than any other method." She clicks to the next slide, which shows statistics about restaurant marketing that probably took her hours to research.

"Sixty percent of millennials and Gen Z choose restaurants based on Instagram posts. Food photography is literally driving business decisions. We could have the best pizza in the city, but if people don't know we exist, it doesn't matter."

Marco sets down his coffee cup with the careful precision of someone trying not to break something.

"Absolutely fucking not."

"Marco—" Y/N starts.

"No. No cameras, no social media, no posting pictures of anything. Are you insane?"

Tony nods emphatically. "He's right. We can't have photos of this place all over the internet. That's like...that's like putting up a billboard advertising our location."

"But that's exactly what we want to do," Y/N says, clearly confused by their resistance. "We want people to know where we are."

"Not all kinds of people," Sal mutters.

Harry watches Y/N's face as she tries to process their objections, sees the moment when she starts to suspect there might be layers to this business she doesn't fully understand.

"I don't...what kinds of people would be a problem?" she asks slowly.

The three men exchange looks. They've gotten much better at communicating since Y/N's team-building initiatives, but apparently they haven't figured out how to explain that social media presence and criminal enterprises don't typically mix well.

"Business competitors," Harry says smoothly, which isn't entirely a lie. "People who might want to...study our methods."

Y/N frowns. "But wouldn't the benefits outweigh the risks? I mean, we're talking about potentially doubling our customer base..."

She clicks to another slide showing projected revenue increases, and Harry can see the exact moment when the promise of legitimate profits starts to override his men's paranoia.

"Look," she continues, "I understand your concerns about privacy. What if we compromise? No faces, no names, just food and atmosphere shots. Think of it as artistic food photography rather than detailed documentation."

Tony looks intrigued despite himself. "No faces at all?"

"None. Just beautiful shots of the pizza, the ingredients, maybe some atmospheric shots of the dining room. Very artsy, very mysterious. Actually, that could work in our favor. People love restaurants that feel exclusive and secretive."

She's getting excited now, clicking through examples of restaurant accounts that focus purely on food photography.

"See? This place in Brooklyn never shows faces or even full body shots, just hands kneading dough, pizza coming out of ovens, people sharing meals. It's intimate but anonymous."

Harry finds himself studying the images she's showing them. The photography is undeniably beautiful with rich colors. The perfect lighting and compositions that make simple food look like art.

"You know how to do this?" he asks.

"I took a digital media class last semester," Y/N says with the confidence of someone who got an A in said class. "Plus I've been practicing food photography as a hobby. I know about lighting and composition and editing..."

She trails off, suddenly looking uncertain.

"I mean, if you think it's too risky, we don't have to. I just thought..."

And there it is again. That flicker of doubt that makes Harry want to burn down whoever first taught her to question her own ideas.

"Show me," he says decisively.

"Show you what?"

"Take some test shots. Show us what this would actually look like."

Y/N's face lights up. "Really? You'd be okay with that?"

Harry looks at his men, sees resignation mixed with curiosity on their faces. "As long as no faces appear in any photos, we can try it."

zz

Two days later, Y/N arrives at Sal's Pizza carrying what appears to be every photography accessory known to mankind.

She's got ring lights and reflectors, different lenses and tripods, even what looks like a portable backdrop system stuffed into several bags that probably weigh more than she does.

"Jesus Christ," Marco mutters, watching her struggle through the door. "How much equipment do you need to take pictures of pizza?"

"Professional food photography requires proper lighting," Y/N explains, setting down her bags with obvious relief. "Natural light is best, but we'll need to supplement it for consistency. And the right angles are crucial for making food look appealing rather than just...flat."

She starts unpacking her supplies with the kind of systematic organization that Harry is beginning to recognize as hers.

"I brought several lens options, depending on what kind of aesthetic we want to achieve. Macro lenses for close-up detail shots of toppings, wide-angle for atmospheric dining room shots..."

Harry is only half listening to her photography lesson because he's busy processing the fact that she's trying to carry professional equipment that probably costs more than her tuition.

The camera she pulls out of her bag is nice and is clearly a step up from a phone camera, but it's also clearly a student model. Good for learning, adequate for basic photography, probably not capable of the kind of high-end imaging that would do justice to her vision.

"This should work for what we need," she says, attaching what looked like a complex lens system. "I borrowed some of the lighting equipment from my school's media lab, so we'll need to be careful with it..."

She's trying to project confidence, but Harry can see the slight uncertainty in her movements. She knows enough about photography to recognize quality equipment when she sees it; she also knows that what she has access to isn't quite professional grade.

"Actually," Harry says, checking his watch, "I have some errands to run. Why don't you set up and I'll be back in a couple hours?"

"Oh, okay," Y/N says, looking slightly disappointed. "I was hoping you could give input on the first shots, but we can start with some test runs..."

"I'll be back before you finish setting up," Harry promises, already heading for the door.

What he doesn't tell her is that his "errands" involve a very specific destination.

B&H Photo is the kind of store that makes serious photographers weak in the knees and casual photography enthusiasts question their life choices. It had floor-to-ceiling displays of cameras and lenses that cost a fortune. Also staffed by experts who speak in technical specifications and can identify a camera's make and model from across the room.

Harry walks in with the confidence of someone who has never let a lack of knowledge prevent him from buying exactly what he wants.

"I need the best camera you have," he tells the first salesperson who approaches.

The young man blinks. "For what kind of photography?"

"Food. Professional food photography."

"Okay, and what's your experience level? Are you looking for something user-friendly or—"

"I'm not using it. Someone else is. She knows what she's doing, she just doesn't have access to the right equipment."

Harry's tone makes it clear that budget is not a concern, which immediately shifts the salesperson's demeanor.

"Alright, let me show you some options..."

An hour later, Harry is the proud owner of a camera system that the salesperson described with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts.

Canon EOS R5. Professional-grade full-frame mirrorless camera. 45-megapixel resolution. 8K video capability. The kind of camera that magazine photographers use for covers and advertising campaigns. Plus a collection of lenses that cover every possible food photography scenario: macro lenses for extreme close-ups, fast aperture lenses for beautiful background blur, wide-angle lenses for environmental shots. Also lighting equipment that makes Y/N's borrowed setup look like dollar store flashlights. Professional strobes, softboxes, reflectors, diffusers. Everything needed to make pizza look like it belongs in a museum.

The total comes to just over fifteen thousand dollars.

Harry hands over his black card without blinking.

"Will you be needing any tutorials on operation?" the salesperson asks as he processes the payment. "This is pretty advanced equipment..."

"She'll figure it out," Harry says with absolute confidence. Because he's seen Y/N tackle complex problems with methodology and determination. If anyone can master professional photography equipment through sheer force of will and YouTube tutorials, it's her.

When he returns to Sal's Pizza, bags of expensive equipment in hand, he finds Y/N exactly where he expected her. In the kitchen, directing Tony and Marco in the creation of what appears to be the most photogenic pizza in the history of Italian cuisine.

"No, the basil needs to be more artfully scattered," she's saying, adjusting individual leaves with tweezers. "Food photography is about making everything look natural but perfect. Like this basil just happened to fall in the most aesthetically pleasing pattern possible."

Tony holds up a piece of mozzarella. "How's this?"

"Perfect! The slight browning on the edges shows texture without looking overdone."

She's got her student camera set up on a tripod, surrounded by the borrowed lighting equipment, taking test shots and checking them on the camera's small screen.

"The lighting is still not quite right," she mutters, adjusting one of the ring lights. "I need more diffusion to avoid harsh shadows, but the borrowed equipment doesn't really..."

She notices Harry standing in the doorway and brightens.

"Oh good, you're back! Come see what we've created. Tony is apparently naturally gifted at food styling."

Tony, who has probably never heard the term "food styling" before in his life, looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

"What do you think?" Y/N asks, gesturing to her setup.

The kitchen was barely recognizable; she had turned it into a makeshift professional photography studio. Harry took in the meticulously arranged pizza, the intricate lighting system, and the complete transformation of the room.

"I think," he says, setting down his bags, "that you're going to need better equipment."

Y/N glances at the bags, clearly curious but trying to be polite.

"What kind of equipment?"

Instead of answering, Harry starts unpacking.

The first thing he pulls out is the camera body, still in its protective packaging.

Y/N's eyes widen. "Harry, what did you do?"

"I bought a camera."

"That's not just a camera, that's..." She moves closer, reading the specifications on the box. "That's a Canon R5. Do you have any idea how much this costs?"

"I assume it costs whatever the best camera costs."

"Harry." Her voice has taken on the tone of someone trying very hard to remain calm. "This camera retails for over three thousand dollars. Just the body."

Harry continues unpacking, revealing lens after lens, each in its own protective case.

"And these lenses..." Y/N picks up one of the boxes, her hands slightly shaking. "This is a 100mm macro lens. This probably costs more than my car."

"Your car," Harry points out, "is worth approximately seven hundred dollars and makes concerning noises when you turn left."

"That's not the point!"

But she's staring at the equipment with the expression of someone who's just been handed the tools to create exactly what they've been dreaming of.

"Harry, I can't...this is too much. Professional photography equipment like this, I don't even know if I'm good enough to—"

"You are," Harry interrupts firmly. "And now you'll have the tools to prove it."

Tony and Marco have stopped what they're doing to stare at the growing pile of expensive equipment.

"Boss," Tony says carefully, "did you just drop a ten grand on camera gear?"

"Is that what it cost?" Harry asks mildly, like he hadn't been paying attention to the enormous credit card charge.

Y/N makes a sound that might be a whimper.

"You spent ten thousand dollars on photography equipment for a pizza restaurant's Instagram account?"

"I spent fifteen thousand dollars on giving you the tools to do what you do best," Harry corrects.

He starts unpacking the professional strobes that make her borrowed ring lights look like toys.

"Besides," he adds, "if we're going to do this social media thing, we might as well do it right."

Y/N stares at him for a long moment, something complicated flickering across her face.

"You could have bought a car with this money. A nice car."

"I don't need a car. I need you to have what you need to make this place successful."

The words hang in the air between them, loaded with implications that Harry isn't quite ready to examine.

"Plus," he adds more lightly, "if you're going to make our pizza look like art, you should have the right tools for the job."

Y/N looks down at the equipment, then back at him, then down at the equipment again.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll use it. Say you'll create something amazing."

She nods slowly, still looking slightly overwhelmed.

"I...yeah. Yes. I can definitely do that."

And as she carefully lifts the camera body from its packaging with the reverence of someone handling a sacred artifact, Harry realizes that watching her face light up with creative possibility is worth far more than fifteen thousand dollars.

It might, in fact, be priceless.

"Alright then," he says, stepping back to give her room to work. "Show us what professional food photography looks like."

But as Y/N begins setting up the new equipment with growing excitement, Harry catches Tony watching him with a knowing expression.

"What?" Harry asks.

"Nothing, boss," Tony says with a grin. "Just...fifteen grand for Instagram photos. That's all."

Harry gives him a look that promises future violence if he continues that line of thought. But as Y/N starts explaining the technical advantages of full-frame sensors and professional lighting, her voice bright with enthusiasm and her face glowing with creative energy, Harry finds he doesn't really care what his men think. Some investments, he's learning, pay dividends that can't be measured in dollars.

Even if they do cost exactly fifteen thousand of them.

Three weeks later, Sal's Pizza is experiencing something none of them expected: actual legitimate success.

The Instagram account Y/N created, @SalsPizzaSecrets, has gained three hundred followers in seven days. Her photographs make their pizza look like something that should be hanging in the Louvre, all golden cheese pulls and perfectly charred crusts against moody lighting that suggests ancient Italian traditions and carefully guarded family recipes.

More importantly, people are showing up. Not just the usual neighborhood regulars who've been coming for years out of convenience and low prices, but actual customers. Young couples who heard about the place from a food blogger. College students who saw the Instagram posts and decided to investigate. Even a few food enthusiasts with expensive cameras who clearly came specifically to take their own photos.

Harry stands behind the counter, watching his criminal empire temporarily transform into a functioning restaurant, and finds himself oddly fascinated by the choreography of legitimate business. Tony is at the register, handling orders with the kind of intense focus he usually reserves for counting drug money. His customer service skills are...developing.

"What do you want?" he asks a young woman who's been studying the menu for thirty seconds.

"Um, what would you recommend?" she asks politely.

Tony stares at her like she's asked him to explain quantum physics. "Pizza?"

The woman blinks. "Yes, but what kind of pizza?"

"The kind we make."

Harry steps in before Tony can completely destroy their customer relations.

"He means all of our pizzas are made fresh with premium ingredients," Harry says smoothly, giving Tony a look that suggests they'll be having another conversation about communication skills. "The margherita showcases our San Marzano tomatoes and fresh mozzarella, or if you prefer something more robust, our mushroom and truffle oil pizza has been very popular."

The woman smiles. "Oh, that sounds perfect. I'll take the margherita."

As Tony rings up the order with the careful precision of someone who's more comfortable with illegal transactions than credit card machines, Harry makes a mental note to add "customer service training" to Y/N's ever-growing list of business improvement initiatives.

In the kitchen, Marco is working alongside Y/N. Despite his usual gruffness, he's actually proven to have a knack for food preparation. Turns out the same attention to detail that makes him good at intimidation also makes him good at sauce distribution and cheese placement.

"More basil on table six," Y/N calls out, sliding another pizza into the oven with practiced ease. "And can you start the dough for the next batch? We're going through it faster than I expected."

Marco nods, moving to the prep station where he begins the process of kneading dough with the kind of methodical violence that works surprisingly well for bread-making.

"Boss," he calls out without looking up from his work, "we're gonna need more flour soon. Going through about double what we usually use."

Harry makes another mental note. Supply chain management was apparently going to become a much more complex issue when you're actually serving the volume of food your kitchen is capable of producing.

Sal is handling table service, and despite his age, he's moving between customers like someone who's been in the service industry for decades. Which, Harry realizes, he has been…just not the food service industry.

"Table four wants to know about wine pairings," Sal reports, appearing at Harry's side with the slight bewilderment of someone navigating unfamiliar territory.

"Wine pairings," Harry repeats.

"Yeah. Apparently people expect restaurants to have opinions about what wine goes with pizza."

Harry looks around the dining room, taking in the mismatched chairs and plastic tablecloths that he's never really noticed before, then at the customers who seem to be enjoying themselves despite the less-than-upscale ambiance.

"Tell them the house red is excellent," he says finally.

"We don't have a house red."

"Then tell them we focus on letting the food speak for itself."

Sal nods like this makes perfect sense and heads back to table four.

Through it all, Y/N moves through the kitchen like a conductor leading an orchestra. She's everywhere at once. Shes checking oven temperatures, adjusting seasoning, and plating finished pizzas with an artistic eye that makes even their basic margherita look Instagram-worthy. Her energy is infectious. She calls out orders with enthusiasm and celebrates each perfectly browned crust like a personal victory. She somehow also manages to maintain quality control while keeping pace with a volume of orders they've never handled before.

Harry finds himself genuinely impressed. He's seen her handle academic pressure and social situations with competence, but watching her manage a busy kitchen is seeing an entirely different side of her capabilities.

"Order up!" she calls out, sliding two more pizzas onto the pass. "Table seven and table three. Sal, the couple at seven asked about the tomatoes. Tell them they're San Marzanos imported from Italy, grown in volcanic soil."

She's got flour in her hair and a smudge of sauce on her cheek, and she's never looked more in her element. Then their landline rings, which Harry realizes has been ringing more often this week than it has in the past six months combined.

"Sal's Pizza," Tony answers, then covers the receiver. "Pickup order. Large margherita and two mushroom specials. Twenty minutes."

Y/N nods without missing a beat. "Tell them thirty minutes. Better to under-promise and over-deliver."

Tony passes along the message while Harry makes another mental note about Y/N's instinctive understanding of customer expectation management.

By six, they've served more customers in one day than they typically see in a week. The kitchen has produced more food than Harry has ever seen come out of it. And somehow, despite the chaos of learning new systems and handling unexpected volume, everything has run relatively smoothly.

Y/N finally takes a break when the dinner rush starts to slow down, leaning against the kitchen counter with the satisfied exhaustion of someone who's just successfully managed a small miracle.

"Check Instagram," she says to Harry, pulling out her phone. "I posted the new photos this morning and..."

She scrolls through notifications, her eyes widening.

"Oh my god. Oh my GOD. Harry, look at this!"

She thrusts her phone at him, practically vibrating with excitement.

On the screen is their first official review. Five stars on Google, posted two hours ago by someone named Jennifer M.

"'Hidden gem in the neighborhood,'" Harry reads aloud. "'Stumbled across this place through Instagram and was blown away. The pizza is incredible. Clearly made with premium ingredients and real care. The atmosphere is casual but the food rivals much more expensive places. The margherita was perfection, and the staff clearly takes pride in what they're doing. Will definitely be back!'"

Y/N lets out a noise that can only be described as a squeal of pure joy.

"Five stars! Our first real review and it's five stars! Do you know how hard it is to get five-star reviews? Most people only review when they're complaining, but she loved it so much she took time to write something positive!"

Her excitement is so genuine, so completely unguarded, that Harry finds himself smiling despite his usual careful control.

"She mentioned the Instagram," Y/N continues, scrolling through more notifications. "And look. We gained fifty new followers just today. People are sharing our posts, tagging their friends..."

She's talking rapidly, her words tumbling over each other as she shows him engagement statistics and comments from potential customers expressing interest in visiting.

"This is working, Harry. This is actually working! We're building a real customer base, people are talking about us online, and..."

In her excitement, she forgets about personal space, professional boundaries, and the fact that they're standing in the middle of a kitchen where his men can see everything. She throws her arms around him in an impulsive hug, her phone still clutched in one hand, her face bright with triumph.

"Thank you," she says, her words slightly muffled against his chest. "Thank you for believing in this, for letting me try, for buying the camera equipment, for everything. This wouldn't have happened without you."

For a moment, Harry is frozen. Not because the gesture is unwelcome, quite the opposite. The warmth of her arms around him, the genuine gratitude in her voice, the way she smells like flour and tomatoes and something indefinably her is overwhelming in the best possible way. But he's also acutely aware that Tony, Marco, and Sal are all watching this interaction with varying degrees of interest and amusement.

Y/N seems to realize what she's done at approximately the same moment Harry's hands move to rest lightly on her back.

She steps back quickly, her cheeks flushing pink.

"Sorry. I just...I got excited about the review and..."

"Don't apologize," Harry says quietly. "You should be excited. This is your success."

"Our success," she corrects, still slightly breathless from excitement and embarrassment. "This is a team effort." Behind her, Harry catches Tony grinning and Marco shaking his head with what might be fond exasperation.

"Speaking of team efforts," Harry says, deciding to ignore his men's reactions, "we should probably discuss expanding our system. If this level of business continues, we're going to need better organization."

Y/N nods eagerly, back in business mode but still glowing with satisfaction.

"Yes! I've been thinking about that. We should create standardized procedures for busy periods, maybe implement a ticket system for orders, and definitely need to talk about inventory management..."

As she launches into plans for scaling their operations, Harry finds himself genuinely impressed by her ability to think strategically about growth while maintaining the quality that earned them that five-star review.

"Also," she adds, "we should probably work on Tony's customer service approach before we get too many more customers."

"Hey!" Tony protests from behind the register. "My customer service is fine!"

"You asked that last customer if she was 'gonna order something or what,'" Marco points out.

"She was taking forever!"

Y/N laughs, the sound bright and infectious. "We'll work on it," she assures Tony. "Customer service training can be part of our next team-building initiative."

Harry watches her face as she talks about training programs and efficiency improvements, sees the way her eyes light up when she discusses growth potential and customer satisfaction metrics. She's found something she's genuinely good at, something that combines her academic knowledge with practical application in a way that makes her absolutely radiant.

And she hugged him.

In front of his men, without thinking about it, because she was happy and grateful and wanted to share that moment with him. As business planning discussions continue around him, Harry files that moment away as something precious. Because legitimate success aside, watching Y/N discover her own capabilities might be the most valuable thing that's come out of this entire experiment.

Over the past month, something unexpected has happened. Something Harry never could have predicted when he first agreed to let a bubbly college student volunteer at his money laundering operation.

His men have adopted Y/N. Not in any official capacity, and certainly not in any way they would openly acknowledge if asked directly. But the signs are undeniable.

Tony has started keeping her favorite brand of sparkling water stocked in the back fridge, claiming it's "just easier to have options for customers" despite the fact that she's the only person who drinks it. He's also developed a habit of walking her to her car after evening shifts, making elaborate excuses about needing to check the parking lot lighting or inspect the dumpster placement.

Marco, who spent the first week scowling at every suggestion she made, now actively seeks her opinion on recipe modifications. Just yesterday, Harry overheard him asking if she thought the garlic bread needed more herbs, his tone suggesting he genuinely valued her input. He's also taken to saving her the end pieces of fresh bread because he noticed she mentioned once that she liked the extra crust.

And Sal, gruff, perpetually suspicious Sal, has started calling her "kid" with the kind of gruff affection usually reserved for family members. He's begun showing up early on days she works to make sure the kitchen is properly organized before she arrives, claiming he's "just making sure things run efficiently."

Harry watches these interactions with a satisfaction he can't quite name. His hardened criminals who've spent years in an industry where trust is currency and weakness is fatal have somehow developed genuine protective instincts toward a twenty-one-year-old college student who thinks they run a struggling pizza restaurant.

"Boss, I'm telling you, that guy at table five was looking at her weird," Tony reports one afternoon, his tone suggesting this is a matter requiring immediate tactical response.

"He was reading the menu, Tony."

"Nah, it was different. Like...lingering, you know?"

Marco nods in agreement. "I saw it too. Definitely creep vibes."

Harry looks over at table five, where a middle-aged businessman is peacefully eating a slice of margherita while scrolling through his phone.

"He's a regular customer who tips well and minds his own business."

"Yeah, well, I'm watching him," Tony mutters darkly.

It's absurd but it's also oddly touching.

These men have killed people, moved product worth millions, operated in shadows where morality is negotiable and violence is routine, and they've collectively decided that Y/N is under their protection.

"She's a good person, boss," Sal says one evening, unprompted, while they're reviewing the week's receipts. "Smart kid. Gonna do real well in life." Coming from Sal, this is practically a declaration of paternal affection.

Harry finds himself proud, and not just of Y/N's success with the restaurant, but of his men's capacity to care about something beyond their usual concerns. She's somehow made them better versions of themselves without even trying.

Tonight, it's just Harry and Y/N closing up.

The last customer left twenty minutes ago, and the dining room has that particular quiet that comes after a busy evening. Chairs are upturned on tables, the floors are swept, and the kitchen is cleaned and organized for tomorrow's opening.

"I'm exhausted," Y/N announces, emerging from the kitchen after finishing the last of the dish duty. "But the good kind of exhausted, you know? The kind where you're tired because you actually accomplished something."

She's pulled her hair up into a bun, and there's a new flour smudge on her cheek that she hasn't noticed yet. Her shirt has sauce stains and her jeans are dusted with cornmeal from the pizza prep stations. She looks completely at home.

"There's one margherita left from tonight," Harry says, gesturing toward the kitchen. "Seems a waste to throw it out."

Y/N's face brightens. "Are you suggesting we eat our own product? That seems very on-brand for quality control purposes."

"Exactly. Purely professional assessment."

She laughs, heading back to retrieve the pizza while Harry pulls down two plates and grabs the bottle of wine he keeps in the back office. They settle into one of the corner booths, the one with the best view of the street outside where late-night traffic moves in sporadic patterns. Harry pours wine into mismatched glasses while Y/N divides the pizza between their plates.

The lighting is dim. It's just the glow from the kitchen and the streetlights outside filtering through the front windows. It creates an atmosphere that feels separate from the usual restaurant bustle. Intimate in a way that has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with the quiet satisfaction of shared work.

"God, this is good," Y/N says after her first bite, closing her eyes in appreciation. "Marco's sauce recipe is incredible. Have you tried to get him to write it down? We should document all our recipes properly."

"Marco doesn't believe in written recipes. Says real cooking is about feel and instinct."

"That's very romantic but terrible for business consistency."

Harry smiles. "I'll work on him."

They eat in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind of quiet that doesn't need filling. Outside, a taxi passes by, its headlights briefly illuminating the dining room before fading back to shadow.

"Can I tell you something?" Y/N asks, setting down her wine glass and looking at him with unusual seriousness.

"Of course."

She takes a breath, like she's gathering courage for a confession. Harry can see her play with the hem of her t-shirt, dusting off some of the flour.

"This place, what we've been doing here, it means more to me than you probably realize."

Harry waits, giving her space to continue.

"My dream was always culinary school," she says quietly, her fingers tracing patterns on the condensation of her wine glass. "Not marketing, not business administration. I wanted to go to the Culinary Institute of America, or maybe the French Culinary Institute in Manhattan. I wanted to study under real chefs, learn proper technique, understand food at that deeper level."

There's longing in her voice, the kind that comes from wanting something so badly you can taste it.

"I had it all planned out. I was going to apply during my senior year of high school, spend a gap year working to save money, then enroll and spend the next few years learning everything I could about cooking."

She takes a sip of wine, and Harry notices her hand is slightly unsteady.

"But then I actually looked at the costs. Tuition, housing, supplies, it was over forty thousand a year. And that's before living expenses, books, all the extra costs that add up. I'd need over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a full program, and that's assuming everything went perfectly."

Harry's jaw tightens, but he keeps his expression neutral, letting her talk.

"My parents are wonderful, but they're not wealthy. They were already stretching themselves to help with regular college. There was no way I could ask them to take on that kind of debt for something that might not even lead to a stable career."

Y/N's eyes are starting to glisten, though she's clearly trying to maintain composure. "So I chose marketing and media instead. It's still connected to food, you know? I can work in food marketing and restaurant branding or even culinary media. It's practical and it's affordable and it's a field where I can actually get a job that pays back student loans."

A single tear escapes, trailing down her cheek. She wipes it away quickly, laughing a little.

"Sorry, I don't know why I'm getting emotional about this. It's a good plan. It's the smart choice."

"Don't apologize," Harry says firmly. "Keep going."

His tone is gentle but commanding. It’s the same voice he uses when he needs information from someone and wants them to know they're safe to speak freely.

Y/N takes another shaky breath. "Working here, getting to actually make pizza every day, learning from Marco about sauce and dough and technique…it's the closest I've gotten to that dream. And I know it's just pizza, and it's just a small neighborhood place, but it feels like I'm finally doing what I was supposed to be doing."

She looks up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears and something that might be hope. "When I'm in that kitchen, creating something people enjoy, seeing their faces when they take the first bite of something I made…that's when I feel like myself. Like this is what I was meant for."

Another tear falls, and this time she doesn't wipe it away.

"And I'm grateful for this opportunity, for you letting me be part of this, but it also makes me so angry at myself for not being brave enough to pursue what I really wanted. For choosing the safe path instead of the one that actually makes me happy."

Harry listens to every word with absolute focus, his attention completely fixed on her face, her voice, the way her hands move when she talks about her dreams. He's memorizing this moment. Cataloging every detail of what she wants, what's stopping her, and what she needs to become who she's meant to be.

And he's already calculating.

The Culinary Institute of America has an enrollment process. They accept students year-round for their various programs. A generous anonymous donation could ensure placement. Tuition could be covered through a scholarship that happens to become available at exactly the right time. He has resources. Connections. Money that's been sitting in various accounts doing nothing more productive than accruing interest.

The challenge isn't the money. No, it's figuring out how to give it to her without making her suspicious, without making her feel like charity, without revealing exactly how much capital he has access to and raising questions about why a pizza restaurant owner can casually drop two hundred thousand dollars on someone's education.

"You weren't choosing the safe path," Harry says carefully. "You were making the best decision you could with the information and resources you had. That's not cowardice. That's intelligence."

Y/N shakes her head. "It feels like giving up."

"It's not giving up. It's strategy." He leans forward slightly, his voice taking on the tone he uses when he needs someone to really hear him. "You chose a path that keeps you connected to what you love while building skills that are actually valuable. Marketing, branding, media, you know how many chefs are brilliant in the kitchen but fail because they don't understand business?"

He gestures around the restaurant. "Look at what you've done here in a month. You took a place that was barely functioning and turned it into something people actively seek out. You understand food AND business. That combination is rare."

"But it's not the same as actually being a chef—"

"Not yet," Harry interrupts. "But that doesn't mean never."

Y/N looks at him with surprised hope.

"You're twenty-one years old," he continues. "You have time. And you're building a foundation that will actually serve you better than jumping straight into culinary school with no business knowledge would have."

He takes a sip of wine, his mind already working through possibilities. "Finish your degree. Build your skills. And then, when you're ready, pursue the culinary training with the business knowledge to back it up. You'll be more valuable than someone who only knows one side of the industry."

Y/N is quiet for a moment, processing his words. "You really think I could still do it? Eventually?"

"I think you can do anything you decide to do," Harry says with absolute certainty. "The question isn't capability. It's timing and resources."

Resources he's already planning to provide, though she doesn't need to know that yet.

"Thank you," she says softly. "For listening. And for not making me feel stupid about crying over something that probably seems trivial—"

"It's not trivial." Harry's voice is firm. "Your dreams aren't trivial. Anyone who made you feel like they were is wrong."

The intensity in his tone surprises even him, but he means every word. He wants to find every person, every system, every circumstance that convinced her to diminish her own aspirations and make them understand exactly how wrong they were. He wants to dismantle the financial barriers that stand between her and what she wants. He wants to hand her the world and watch her transform it into something beautiful. But he settles for refilling her wine glass and cutting her another slice of pizza.

"Eat," he says. "And tell me more about what you'd want to study. If money and logistics weren't factors."

Y/N's face lights up despite her tears.

"Really? You want to hear about my theoretical culinary education?"

"I want to hear everything."

And he does. He listens as she describes pastry techniques she wants to master, regional Italian cuisines she wants to study, the molecular gastronomy courses that fascinate her. He watches her hands move as she explains the difference between French and Italian culinary traditions, sees the passion in her eyes when she talks about farm-to-table philosophy and sustainable cooking practices.

The restaurant fades around them and it's now just two people in a booth, sharing wine and pizza and dreams in the quiet hours after midnight.

Harry absorbs every detail, every wish, every aspiration she voices. Because he's going to make this happen for her. Somehow, without scaring her off or raising suspicions about his actual resources, he's going to find a way to put her exactly where she needs to be. It's just a matter of strategy. And if there's one thing Harry excels at, it's strategic planning.

"You know what I love most about cooking?" Y/N asks, her earlier tears forgotten as she gets lost in enthusiasm. "It's the only art form where your creation is meant to be destroyed. You spend all this time and effort making something beautiful, and then people consume it. It exists for this brief, perfect moment, and then it's gone. But it leaves an impact.  A, uh, a memory, a feeling"

She takes another bite of pizza, smiling. "That's what I want to create. Not just food, but moments. Experiences that people remember."

Looking at her with flour dusted in her hair and eyes sparkling with hopes she keeps quietly guarded, Harry realizes that she is already building exactly the life she dreams of. Just maybe not in the way she realizes yet.

"You will," he says quietly. "I have no doubt about that." 

As they sit in that corner booth, the city moving slowly outside and the restaurant wrapped in late-night quiet, Harry makes a silent promise. Whatever it takes, whatever resources he needs to deploy, whatever strings he needs to pull, he's going to make sure Y/N gets her culinary education. She just doesn't need to know it's coming from him.

A/n: I get joy writing these two 🥹 Please let me know your thoughts :)

“Um...No, no I can’t say that I do, boss.” George responds while tugging lightly at his collar with two fingers. Harry hums in response, taking a sip from his old-fashioned and swirling the liquid around in his glass. He has one ankle resting on the opposite knee, leaning back casually in the leather booth with his free arm resting on the wooden back. 

“Well,” He exhales as starts to speak. “In your skull, there’s something called a brain. This organ is very useful when it comes to daily tasks, such as thinking.” Harry slowly leans forward, resting his elbows on the table as his gaze narrows on George, who looks like he’s about to shit himself. 

“Do you have a brain, George?” He asks, his voice alarmingly calm for such a conversation. “I...Yes-” George starts to speak, just before being cut off yet again. “Wrong.”

“Because, if you had a brain, I don’t think you would be sitting across from me right now at 11 o’clock at night telling me about an assignment you were supposed to complete four. Hours. Ago.” Harry’s voice lowers even more, speaking almost through gritted teeth at the end.

George stutters a bit, although not really saying a whole lot of anything. “You have 12 hours,” Harry says bluntly, sitting back once again in his seat. “If it’s not done by then, I’m blowing your brain out across this table myself,”

“If you even have one.” He adds under his breath as an afterthought, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “Get out. Go.” 

George all but sprints out of the booth, pushing past the curtain that separates it from the rest of the club. Harry sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as his shoulders untense. 

At 22 years old, just a year after taking over the organization when his father was shot and killed by a rival, he’s feeling the stress of it all. Even though he was raised in this lifestyle by his father with the intention of inheriting it all eventually, he severely underestimated the pressure. 

When he manages to get some free time, he spends it at Crimson Key, a club that he runs within the city. The main floor is filled with customers, dancers, bartenders, and dozens of security guards. The basement, available to and known only by certain people, is where any spare crates go. An assortment of guns, drugs, and so on. While Harry does have a few warehouses under heavy surveillance, it’s never a bad idea to have something extra as a backup plan.

While Harry is looking out over the main floor of the club from his area on the VIP floor, assessing the night's crowd, his gaze zeroes in on a specific someone at the bar. 

You.

You’re not like anyone he’s seen here before. Actually, you’re not like anyone he’s seen ever in his life before. 

It’s something about your vibe. The way you present yourself. He watches intently while you greet the bartender, your polite smile nearly making everyone around you fade out of Harry’s vision. No one else even matters.

Harry decides that he has to talk to you.

After discarding a cigarette that hadn’t even had the chance to be lit yet and making his own path through the people, it isn’t very long before he’s coming up beside you just as the bartender is handing you your drink and you’re reaching for your purse. “It’s on me, Charlie.” He interjects. Charlie glances between you two, but nods with a small smile and steps over to another customer. 

Harry turns his gaze to you, offering a half smile as he leans his elbow on the bar counter. “Haven’t seen you around here before, darling.”

You blink at the stranger who’s just paid for your drink, caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the tall man beside you. He’s dressed in a black suit, the fabric tailored perfectly, his curls slightly messy as if he’s been frequently running a hand through them out of frustration. The top button of his white dress shirt is undone, slightly exposing the edge of his chest tattoos. 

“Oh,” you say, startled but polite. “You really didn’t have to do that, but thank you.”

He tilts his head at you, studying your face like you’re a puzzle that doesn’t quite make sense. “Didn’t have to. Wanted to.”

You laugh softly, unsure if it’s nerves or surprise, and offer him a warm smile. “Well…that’s very sweet of you.”

He lifts an eyebrow. Sweet. That’s not usually a word people associate with him. Your voice is light, and your expression so open…like you don’t quite register the way the room shifts around him when he’s present. Like you don’t know who he is.

This fact intrigues him.

“You’re new here.” he repeats, more observation than question.

You nod. “Yeah. My friends dragged me here. They think I work too much and need to get out more.”

“Do you?” Harry hums.

You glance around at the club. The pulsing colorful lights, the crowd, the music. “Maybe. I work a lot. It’s nice to have a change of pace, though. This place is…kind of cool.”

His lips twitch, almost into a smile. “Is it?”

“Mhm.” You take another sip of your drink, then gesture slightly toward the ceiling. “The lights, the music…it’s all a little dramatic, but in a fun way. Makes you feel like you’re in a movie.” You giggle softly at your own remark.

Harry studies you for a long moment. There’s not a single trace of calculation in your expression. No hidden agenda. No sharp edges. Just soft sincerity and a glass in your hand with some fruity drink that probably doesn’t even remotely taste like alcohol. 

“You always so cheerful?” he asks, watching you closely.

You smile, a little sheepish. “I guess so. It makes life nicer, don’t you think?”

He hums, lifting one shoulder. Instead of responding, he flips his gaze down to your drink, then back up to your eyes. “What are you having?”

“Vodka Sunrise,” you respond brightly. “I know, I know, not very cool. But it’s pretty and sweet, and it’s pretty. You can’t be sad drinking something so colorful.”

Harry laughs. Actually laughs. It’s short and quiet, but real. It surprises even him.

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice a little softer now.

You tell him, and he repeats it back, slow and deliberate.

“I’m Harry,” he says next.

You nod, offering your hand instinctively, like manners come so naturally to you. “It’s really nice to meet you, Harry.”

He takes it, and your handshake is so gentle it almost makes his chest ache a little. He considers turning on some extra charm and kissing the top of your hand, but he decides to keep it slow. 

In the back of his mind, he recognizes how odd it is to want to be a little slow with a woman. It’s not like he’s a Saint. But for some reason, it’s different with you.

“You mentioned you work a lot,” Harry mentions. “What do you do?”

“I’m a baker!” Your eyes literally sparkle as you reply to him, like the mere mention of your career is the best thing in the whole universe. “I just opened my own space, actually.”

Harry blinks, momentarily thrown. “A baker?” Adorable. 

You nod enthusiastically. “Yep. I specialize in cake decorating, but I do a bit of everything. Cupcakes, breads, cookies. I love making things that bring people joy.”

Harry gives you an up-and-down glance, trying to picture you in an apron, hands dusted with flour and eyes focused while carefully icing a birthday cake for a 4-year-old. It’s foreign to him. He’s used to blood and lies and power games and manipulation. Not…pastries and joy.

“And you just…opened it? Like, on your own?” he asks, a little quieter now. The way he says it, it sounds more like respect than disbelief.

“Yeah,” you say with a nod. “It’s been a lot of work, but it’s mine. I named it Petal & Pastry.”

Something about the way you say that, proudly and softly, punches through a layer of armor he didn’t realize was still intact. Petal & Pastry. 

“Petal & Pastry,” he echoes. “That’s…cute.”

You scrunch your nose at him, playful. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He smirks faintly, eyes dropping to your lips for just the briefest of seconds before meeting your gaze again. “No. Just unexpected.”

There’s a pause between you, but not an uncomfortable one. The music swells behind you, bass low and hypnotic, and the lighting overhead shifts from purple to a moody red. Harry looks more dangerous under this light, all sharp jawlines and mystery.

You don’t seem to notice.

“Would you like to dance?” Harry asks suddenly. This question momentarily surprises himself. He doesn’t ask women to dance. He usually just gets their name then takes them elsewhere for a quick distraction. Hell, sometimes he doesn’t even do names. 

You look up at him, your face once again lighting up. He finds himself proud that it’s him making you sparkle like that. “Yeah, sure.”

His hand finds the small of your back, warm through the fabric of your dress as he leads you toward the dance floor. The surrounding people yet again automatically part like the red sea for him, which you briefly notice, but don’t let yourself think too much on for now.

The music deepens as you step into the rhythm, and the moment he turns to face you again, the rest of the room feels far away.

He slides one hand to your waist, and you place your own on his shoulder, letting him guide you. His movements are smooth, confident without being overbearing. You can feel the strength in him, the control, but he holds you like something delicate. 

You smile, watching him. “So what do you do, Harry?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick away for a second, just a second, but you catch it. He clears his throat before he responds.

“I run the place,” he says smoothly, with a small shrug of one shoulder.

You nod. “The club?”

“Mhm.”

“Is that all?”

There’s the pause again. A bit longer this time. His jaw shifts slightly, like he’s mentally weighing something.

“For now,” he replies.

You tilt your head, amused. “That’s a very vague answer.”

“And a very intentional one,” he responds without missing a beat. “You don’t strike me as someone who’d like the truth, anyway.”

You blink, taken aback.

Not offended, just intrigued. “May I ask why?”

He leans in just slightly, his voice lowering as he nears your ear. “Because I think you live in a very different world than mine, (Y/N).”

There’s a weight to those words. A warning, possibly? But the way he says it…it doesn’t feel threatening. No, it almost feels protective.

“Maybe,” you reply softly. “But I don’t mind visiting.”

That makes him smile. Not smirk. Not grin. Smile. A real one. One that you can see in his eyes, not just on his lips.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You’re something else. Not because you’re clueless. More so pure and untouched, in a way that’s not stupid or naive. It’s rare. It’s dangerous. 

You have a soft smile resting on your face as you stare up at him. “Well…if you ever need a sweet treat, I know a place.”

That earns another real smile.

“You offering me sweets, darling?”

You hum, a faint blush forming that you secretly hope is hidden by the lighting. “I might be.”

Harry straightens a little, a new thought forming. “You got a card?”

“Hm?”

“A card. For your bakery.”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, I think I do.” You fumble around in your small purse, pulling out a pale pink card with dainty floral detailing and handing it to him with pride.

Harry takes it between two fingers and glances at it.

Petal & Pastry Bakery Pastries made with heart. (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N) Owner & Head Baker

He tucks it into the breast pocket of his suit without a word. You don’t know it yet, but that pocket is usually reserved for much colder things.

“I’ll stop by,” he says casually, but there’s weight in the promise.

You smile up at him. “You better.”

Just then, a familiar face appears behind you. One of his men, hovering near the edge of the bar with urgency in his eyes. Harry glances over your shoulder briefly, then back to your face.

“I have to take care of something,” he says smoothly, although there’s a glimmer of regret in his eyes.

You nod, stepping back slightly and letting your hand fall from his shoulder. “Of course. It was nice talking to you, Harry.”

He gives you a long look, then dips his head just a little closer.

“Don’t forget to save me something sweet, yeah?”

With that, he turns and disappears into the crowd, becoming a shadow swallowed by red light and bass.

You watch him go, intrigued and fighting the butterflies in your stomach.

While Harry’s second-in-command is filling him in as they walk towards the door leading to the basement, he’s already thinking about your laugh like it’s a song stuck in his head.

-

“God. Can you just fucking stop!” I shouted at you. 

I shouldn’t have. But I did. You infuriate me in the most unusual ways that don’t make sense to me. They never did.

We’re not friends. Not lovers. We’re nothing. We never were anything. You used me for sex. I used you for business. Strictly a partnership.

You worked for me as my weapons dealer. Supplying me with the best arsenal any mafia boss could dream of. You had connections to more people than I did, and it was unbelievable that you managed to come off as a normal person. You were anything but that. You’ve done things that could make you sound evil.

One night, we decided we needed more. More than just the lingering tension between us during meetings. We needed each other. Pure desire. Nothing else.

You even left my penthouse the morning after.

And then it happened again. And again. And it still continues. Hell, it happened last night.

We never spoke of it. Well—you didn’t. You never do. I try, but you don’t want to hear a word about it. That’s what infuriates me.

And I don’t know why I care so much. Which scares me more than I’d like to admit.

Tonight, we’re at a gala. I’m in a black suit, as always. A small “H.S.” stitched into the left pocket in red. A plain black button-up shirt underneath. Black leather shoes. Hair styled perfectly.

Maybe my favorite look. For a guy who doesn’t give a shit what he wears to these fancy things, I guess this one is good enough for me.

But you? You showed up looking like sin wrapped in perfection.

A black gown clinging to your curves, flaunting them like my hands hadn’t traced over them just two nights ago.

Thin straps exposed the collarbone I once kissed my way across.

Black heels with red bottoms. Jewelry of ruby stones wrapped with silver. The dress itself was sheer and laced, reminiscent of that lingerie set you used to wear beneath skirts and button-ups at the warehouse.

Your hair was styled in curls, bouncing with every step toward me and my men.

“Glad you could show up,” I muttered when you got close enough.

“Didn’t have a choice now, did I?” you countered, amused. A smirk tugged at those plump, red-stained lips.

An hour later, you wandered off. To talk to men. All men. It made my body burn with rage. Your flirty smile, your hand brushing a man’s arm. Too fucking much.

Which brings us to now. I dragged you down a hallway after watching you leave the bathroom.

I’m angry.

Why?

Because I can’t control how I feel about you. It makes me sick knowing you’d even think of finding another man after me. Or letting someone else touch you when your skin had burned beneath mine in ways no one else should see.

So here we were, in an empty hallway. Talking sort of?

“Did you just come here to argue?” you huffed, oblivious to how hard I was trying not to just walk away at this point.

“I came here to ask what game you’re playing,” I bit, my tone sharp. The same one that silenced anyone in every meeting I ever walked into.

“Game? What are you talking about, Styles? I’m here because you asked me to be here.” You looked confused, rolling your eyes as you folded your arms. Your head tilted upward, those eyes piercing straight through me—making my chest tighten.

“You act like we haven’t done anything together. Like I haven’t had you beneath me almost every night. My bed still smells like you. Your things are still scattered in my penthouse from when you rush out. When are you going to stop ignoring me?”

My brows furrowed into that dangerous look everyone associated with my name. But this time, there was a trace of vulnerability hidden beneath it. Something you etched into me and left there. It was deep, unshakable, and still all unknown.

“You walk past me when we’re working, saying nothing but a hello. You don’t stay the night after, always so quick to leave. Is being even slightly like-able something you don’t see in me?” I asked. The first time I’ve ever been genuinely honest to myself about how I feel is at this moment.

“That’s me being professional.” You huffed back, avoiding your eyes. The fact that you’re not even joking. You’re serious.

“Right. You know all professionalism left, whatever this is, the second you were in my fucking bed. Or when you were bent over my desk, should I also mention the storage room?” I stepped closer as your back finally hit the wall. You were trapped, pinned by me against the wall.

“Harry. We’re here for business, not to have a therapy session about each other's feelings about each other.” You bit back with that temper I knew you had. But right now I don’t care.

“If anyone here needs therapy, it’s you. You don’t know how to talk about anything that’s not related to work.” I sighed, knowing I’m not making any progress with you.

So in that moment I stepped back from you.

“You know what.” I chuckled, but nothing was funny. It was all frustration. My hand rubbed my jaw as I looked at you. The faint stubble scratches my skin slightly.

“Whatever this was. It’s over. I don’t want to do anything more if you can’t even have a simple conversation with me.” I spoke quietly before walking back to my men, who were standing by our table sipping on some dark liquor.

I grabbed one of their glasses, snatching it from their hands as I downed the whole thing in one go. I placed the glass down with more force than necessary, almost shattering it.

They all glanced at me, but they knew better than to ask.

A few minutes later you walked over with your own glass filled with alcohol. Probably scotch. It was your favorite.

My men glanced between both of us feeling the tension, they never asked questions. But everyone knew.

Once the night was coming to an end, I stepped out to an alleyway and called my driver so I could get the fuck out of here as soon as possible.

That’s when I heard footsteps. Not boots, heels. I already knew who it was. I could smell her.

“Thought said I didn’t want to talk to you for the rest of the night.” I muttered as I put out a cigarette.

“And you didn’t let me finish talking.” You spoke clearly as you stepped closer.

My eyes flickered towards you as a grin formed on my lips.

“Can’t stay away can you, sweetheart?” I cocked my head to the side, smug as ever.

“I’m here to talk. That’s what you wanted isn’t it? To chat like we’re best friends.” Your voice was unkind and unashamed.

“I wouldn’t say best friends. But sure. Talk.” I folded my arms and leaned against the wall behind me as I waited for you to speak.

“You’re not the only one who feels some sort of way in this situation. Let’s just say, I do think about the late nights we spend together.”

You cleared your throat, showing how uncomfortable talking so casually makes you. You hate opening up.

“That's all?” I hummed which earned me a glare.

You took a second more and stepped closer into my own space. “And. I want to be more.. open with you. If this is going to be something.”

Something.

“You’re saying.. So you want more?” My eyes searched for yours. I can read people easily. But with you I never could get a clear answer.

You opened your mouth to speak. “Well- I.” You took a deep breath trying to force those words out. “Yes. Whatever more is in our dictionary. I wouldn’t be opposed to more.”

More.

I feel like I’m trying to read a German textbook.

And I don't fucking know German.

“Okay. Right so. What the fuck is something, and what is more to you?” I am genuinely confused.

“A date? I don’t know, Harry.” A smile formed on my lips at your own frustration.

You wanted to go on a date with me..

I haven’t been on a date since I was in high school.

“You’re saying you want to go on a date with me? Are you sure?” I knew I was now basically testing your patience. But seeing you so flustered and annoyed gets me going.

“You know what, never mind. Just forget I said anything-“

Before you could turn away my hand found your wrist pulling you towards my chest.

“No. I’m not forgetting anything. We’re going on a date. I’ll make a reservation. And we’re going to sit and talk to each other like normal adults. Yeah?” My breath fanned your face as I stared down at you. Even with heels you were still shorter than me.

“Fine.” You spoke quietly as your head tilted upward to face me directly.

“Perfect. Tomorrow night.” It wasn’t a question, it was already planned. I released your wrist from my hold and leaned into your ear, making sure you felt my breath on your skin.

“Goodnight.” I said finally as I stepped back and walked to the blacked out car that just pulled up. Leaving you in the alley alone and with so much on your mind. But the gentleman in me couldn’t dare to leave you there.

“Let’s go.” I ordered. And yet you walked right on over and got in beside me.

“Just for the record. I want more too.” I said it was just between us. My hand lifted from my lap onto your thigh.

The next morning hit me as I stirred awake. Sunlight casts a golden yellow around the large bedroom. The birds outside were singing, almost like I was still dreaming. Like I was in a damn rom-com movie.

I tried to lift my arm. But it was stuck under something warm.

I turned my head slightly, and there you were on the pillow next to me.

Dark hair sprawled around your head messily.

My arm is trapped under you.

The memories of last night came back to me at that moment.

In that moment I couldn’t help the smile that etched onto my lips.

For the first time. You stayed the night.

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