#materalists

harry castillo x reader series

warnings: age gap, female reader, no y/n.

AO3 link

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In some families, the past doesn’t vanish—it lingers like a cigarette burn on celluloid. You came from one of those. Your grandfather’s name is still on soundstages. Your mother won awards she never picked up. You didn’t just inherit money, but myth.

You grew up in rooms curated by people who no longer existed, in houses unchanged since the sixties. You were taught not to need. Still, you did. Spoiled, maybe—but never cruel.

Harry Castillo’s wealth was different...newer, cleaner, all balance sheets and deal terms. His mother built their firm; his father and brother followed. He lived in a Tribeca penthouse so pristine it looked like a set waiting for actors.

He’d just ended things with Lucy Mason, who worked at Adore Matchmaking. It was mutual, more or less. She told him to call, if he ever got lonely in the way men like him sometimes do.

You didn’t know about any of that. You were busy with your own life. You didn’t know your sister had sent in forms to a matchmaking service with your photo and a profile listing all your icks.

Not until they told you...there was a match.

And his name was Harry.

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chapter one - it's a match!

chapter two - it's a date!

chapter three - it's getting serious!

chapter four - it's official!

coming soon: harry castillo x socialite!reader

summary: After a night out lands you on the front page of every tabloid and social media feed, you're in desperate need of a way to show your parents you can settle down and be trusted again. Harry Castillo is everything and nothing they’d ever want for you. He's rich, well-connected and older, with a last name that’s always shared space with yours on charity lists and seating charts, but never quite comfortably. He’s perfect for you, and little do you know, you might just be perfect for him. With the tabloids and Gossip Girl circling like sharks, you strike a deal over a drink. || fake dating, tabloids, Gossip Girl AU, socialite!reader, richgirl!reader, kinda bratty!reader, NYC, reader is in her mid 20s, old money lifestyle, age gap, rich people problems, more tags to come as I write, potential smut, no spoilers for the movie, reader has a last name for storytelling purposes, no y/n||

masterlist series masterlist prev epilogue

harry castillo x f!reader

summary: You and Harry Castillo were childhood friends – until life got in the way. Years later, he’s a billionaire with a reputation to fix, and you’re the only one he trusts to play the role of his girlfriend. What starts as fake quickly feels too familiar. The glances linger, the lines blur and neither of you are pretending anymore

fake dating, mutual pinning but they pretend they don’t care, childhood friends to kinda strangers to lovers(?), shared history, just “for appearance” my ass, reader is a lawyer, no y/n, mutual pinning when they were younger but they were too oblivious

wc: 5.7k

A/N: sorry for the delay, I was ill-

This story is almost over, by the way. Only one more chapter, yay.

The apartment was too quiet.

Not the gentle, earned quiet people romanticize when they say they like being alone. This was the other kind. The kind that crept up on you and sat on your chest, made the walls feel a little closer than they should’ve been. Outside, the city kept going - sirens somewhere distant, the low exhale of traffic far below - but inside, everything felt paused. Like time had stalled out, waiting for something to finally break the stillness.

You were sitting at the small dining table by the window, laptop open, screen glowing faintly against the glass. A legal brief stared back at you, half read, its margins still blank where your notes were supposed to be. The pen in your hand hadn’t moved in… a while. You honestly couldn’t say how long.

The tea beside you had gone cold.

You only noticed when you lifted the mug out of habit and the chill startled your palm. You set it down again without drinking, jaw tightening in quiet annoyance - at the tea, at yourself, at how completely your focus had deserted you lately.

You hadn’t slept well since the leak.

That was the word everyone used. Leak. As if something small and accidental had happened. As if something vital hadn’t been torn open instead. As if the truth hadn’t spilled out clumsily, publicly, leaving you exposed in ways you never agreed to. As if it hadn’t taken something already complicated and made it feel unbearable.

Fake relationship. Strategic arrangement. PR maneuver.

You’d read the phrases so many times they’d started to blur together, each headline bleeding into the next. Some articles had been smug. Others speculative. A few had even tried for sympathy. None of them mattered as much as what came after.

Harry’s silence.

You hadn’t expected a public statement. You knew better than that. He was careful. Controlled. Always thinking ten steps ahead of the story. Still, a small, foolish part of you had hoped for something. A call. A message. A quiet Are you okay? Something that said, I see you. I didn’t mean for this to hurt you.

There had been nothing.

You snapped the laptop shut harder than necessary, the sound sharp in the still air. It echoed, then disappeared, leaving the room feeling even emptier. You exhaled slowly, rubbing your thumb along the side of the mug.

You told yourself you were fine.

You’d been doing that a lot lately.

Your phone lays face down on the table. You hadn’t turned it off, just muted most notifications hours ago. Friends had checked in carefully, like they were afraid of saying the wrong thing. Colleagues had offered polite, neutral professionalism that somehow stung worse. You answered when you had to. Deflected when you could.

Why didn’t you choose me when it mattered?

Why did it feel real if it wasn’t?

Why does it hurt like this if I was only playing a role?

The clock on the wall ticked softly. Ten thirty.

There was a knock.

Quiet. Even. Not the sharp, impatient rap of a delivery driver or a neighbor with a complaint. Just three measured knocks.

You froze.

For a second, you told yourself you were imagining it. That your tired, overstretched brain was filling the silence with ghosts.

Then it came again.

Your heart skipped, then started pounding, loud enough you were sure you could hear it.

No one was supposed to be here.

You walked toward the door slowly, each step careful, like moving too fast might shatter whatever this moment was. A ridiculous thought. Fear didn’t care about logic. Neither did hope.

You stopped with your hand resting against the door. For a split second, you considered not answering. Letting the moment pass. Keeping the fragile, painful balance you’d managed to build.

But something quieter inside you –older, steadier – knew you’d regret it if you didn’t open the door now.

You unlocked it.

When you pulled the door open, hallway light spilled into the apartment, pale and cool. And there he was.

Harry stood just outside, hands tucked into the pockets of a dark coat you didn’t recognize. Not one of the tailored, public-facing ones. This looked worn. Lived-in. Like something he reached for when no one was watching.

No tie. His hair slightly out of place, like he’d run a hand through it too many times. Shadows sat under his eyes that you didn’t remember seeing before.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t try to smooth things over. He just looked at you - really looked at you - with an expression you couldn’t immediately label.

Not confidence.

Not control.

Uncertainty.

“I-” He stopped, took a quiet breath. “Hi.”

The word settled between you, heavier than it should’ve been.

“Hi,” you said, surprised by how steady your voice sounded.

Silence stretched, thin and tight. He shifted slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to step forward or back. The hallway light traced the familiar lines of his face, the curve of his mouth.

You noticed he hadn’t crossed the threshold.

He was waiting.

Not exactly for permission. For something else. A sign you weren’t about to shut the door in his face.

“I didn’t know if you’d want to see me,” he said finally, voice low. Careful. “If this isn’t a good time, I can-”

You shook your head before he could finish. “No. It’s… it’s fine.”

You stepped back, opening the door wider.

Only then did he move, crossing into your apartment with deliberate restraint.

You closed the door.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

He stood there, hands still in his pockets, shoulders slightly tense. You found yourself leaning back against the door, grounding yourself without meaning to.

The air felt charged - not with anger, not even longing, but with everything neither of you had said.

“I won’t stay long,” he said quickly. “I just- I wanted to talk. If that’s okay.”

You studied him, searching for the sharp edges you’d braced for. The defensiveness. The polish. Instead, you saw someone stripped of certainty, standing in your living room like he wasn’t sure he deserved to be there.

You just nodded.

Something shifted in his expression. Relief, maybe. Gratitude.

“Thank you.”

You motioned toward the living room. He followed, unhurried, keeping careful distance. He didn’t touch anything without looking first. The realization that he was nervous landed harder than you expected.

You sat on the edge of the couch, hands folded in your lap. He remained standing a moment longer, then chose the armchair across from you instead of sitting beside you. Intentional. Respectful.

“I should’ve come sooner,” he said softly.

You didn’t answer right away, you waited.

“I didn’t know how,” he went on. “That’s not an excuse. It’s just… the truth.”

You met his gaze. This man who had once known you better than almost anyone. Who had laughed with you in quiet corners, stood too close in hallways, almost said something once and then hadn’t.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear from me,” he said, voice roughening just a little. “After everything.”

The understatement nearly made you laugh.

“You didn’t leave me much choice,” you said. Not cruel. Just honest. “You didn’t say anything.”

He winced immediately. No mask. “I know.”

Silence settled again. Heavier, but less sharp. The kind that came from years of shared history compressed into one room.

“I’m not here to explain myself,” he said after a moment. “Or justify anything. I just… I didn’t want this to be the last thing between us.”

Something tightened in your chest.

You looked down at your hands, then back at him. “And what do you want it to be?”

He hesitated. Just long enough for you to notice.

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But I knew I couldn’t walk away without saying- ” He stopped, shook his head. “Without showing up.”

You let out a slow breath, some of the tension easing from your shoulders. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a performance.

It was presence.

“All right,” you said quietly. “Then… you’re here.”

His eyes stayed on yours. Steady. Open.

“Yes,” he said. “I am.”

The quiet lingers. He’s leaned forward in the armchair now, elbows loose on his knees, hands folded together. Not restless. Not wound tight. Just present.

When he finally looks at you, there’s nothing practiced in his expression. No careful calm. No chessboard behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

No rush. No polish. Just the sentence, set down gently.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t nod. You don’t wave it away or prompt him to keep going. You let the silence stay.

“I’m sorry I let you get hurt,” he goes on. His voice is steady, but the armor’s gone. “I saw it happening. I knew how it would play out if the truth slipped out sideways. And I still didn’t step in fast enough.”

Your throat tightens. You keep your face still.

“I should’ve chosen you earlier,” he says. “Not in public. Not as a strategy. Just… chosen you.”

He doesn’t underline it. Doesn’t push. The words land soft and heavy all at once.

He exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself, not bracing for a blow.

“I’m not saying this because I expect forgiveness,” he adds. “I don’t. And I’m not saying it to make myself feel better.” A pause. His jaw tightens.

For a second, all you hear is the city outside - cars somewhere below, a siren fading, life moving on without a clue that something fragile is happening in your living room.

“You disappeared,” you say.

Your voice is even. That surprises you.

“You let the story run without you,” you continue. “You let other people decide what I was to you. What this was. And I had to read it all.”

He nods once. Doesn’t interrupt.

“I know,” he says quietly.

“That hurt,” you say. No edge. Just truth. “Not because people talked. But because you didn’t.”

Another nod. His fingers tighten together for a second, then ease.

“You’re right,” he says. “I didn’t show up when it mattered.”

You watch him closely, half expecting the familiar pivot. The explanation. The reframing.

It never comes.

“You were so good at playing the role,” you say. “Always knowing what to say when there were cameras, or reporters, or a room full of eyes.” You pause. “And then…You went quiet.”

He looks down at the floor, then back at you.

“I was scared,” he says. Not defensively. Not as an excuse. Just the truth, bare. “And instead of sitting with that fear, I defaulted to what I know. Control. Distance. Silence.”

He leaves it there.

You let that settle.

“That silence,” you say carefully, “felt like you picked the story over me.”

He doesn’t argue.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s exactly what it was.”

The honesty is blunt enough to ache.

Your chest feels sore - not sharp, more like an old bruise pressed too hard. You shift on the couch, grounding yourself in the texture beneath your palms.

“I didn’t need you to fix it,” you say. “I didn’t need a statement. I just needed to know you saw me.”

Something in his expression changes - not relief. Recognition.

“I see you,” he says softly. Then, almost immediately, “And I know saying it now doesn’t undo anything.”

You nod. “It doesn’t.”

The pause that follows feels different. Less volatile. More real.

“When we were pretending,” you say slowly, choosing each word, “there were moments when it stopped feeling like pretending. And I didn’t realize how much that mattered until I thought it had all been… disposable.”

He leans back a little, not retreating, just making room.

“It wasn’t disposable,” he says at once. Then stops himself, breath catching. “But I understand why it felt that way.”

You really look at him then. At the man who used to steer every conversation somewhere safer. At how still he is now. How unguarded.

“This is different,” you say.

“Yes,” he agrees. “It is.”

“Why?” The question slips out before you can catch it.

He takes his time.

“Because I’m exhausted by being the version of myself who always shows up too late,” he says finally. “And because when I think about the moments that actually mattered, then and now, they all have one thing in common.”

You wait.

“You,” he says.

No pause for effect. No expectation. He just lets the word sit between you.

“I don’t know what you want from me now,” he continues. “Or if you want anything at all. I’m not here to ask you to forgive me. Or stay. Or try again.” His voice lowers. “I just needed you to know I’m taking responsibility for what I didn’t do.”

Something in your chest loosens. Not much. But enough to notice.

“You know I’m still angry,” you say.

“Yes,” he says. No hesitation.

“And I don’t know what happens next.”

“I don’t either.”

You hold his gaze. “That scares me.”

“It should,” he says gently. “It scares me too.”

The honesty hits harder than any promise could have.

He shifts again, forearms resting on his thighs, posture open. “If you want me to leave after this, I will. If you want silence, I’ll respect it. If you want time - real time - I won’t rush you.”

You search his face for impatience. For the urge to steer.

It’s not there.

“This,” you say slowly, “this is who I needed when everything started falling apart.”

His throat moves as he swallows. “I know.”

There’s regret in it. No self pity.

“I can’t change when I became this person,” he says. “But I can show up as him now.”

You lean back, tired in a way that feels earned - the kind of exhaustion that follows honesty, when you realize you’ve stopped bracing for a hit that never comes.

You don’t forgive him.

Not yet.

But you don’t close the door either.

“Stay,” you say after a moment. “Just… stay. For a bit.”

His eyes lift, surprise flickering there, quick and unfiltered.

“Okay,” he says. “I can do that.”

Outside, the city has softened into background noise. Traffic somewhere far below. A siren, distant enough to feel muted by altitude and glass. Inside, the lights are low - not staged, not intentional. Just left that way because neither of you moved. The room feels right like this. Half-lit. Unfinished.

Harry lets out a slow breath, eyes fixed ahead instead of on you.

“I need to tell you something,” he says.

There’s no strain in it. No theatrics. Just purpose.

You don’t answer. You shift, barely, turning toward him enough to signal you’re here. Listening. He catches it. He always catches those things.

“It stopped being fake,” he says quietly, like he’s naming a fact.

Your breathing falters.

He keeps looking forward, hands resting loosely on his thighs. Open. Unprotected.

“when I notice it first, I didn’t know what it was,” he goes on. There’s a small, almost embarrassed huff - closer to disbelief than a laugh. “And that scared the hell out of me.”

You angle your head, studying the edge of his face. The tension in his jaw. The way his mouth tightens between sentences, as if every word is being weighed - not to persuade you, but to get it exactly right.

“I told myself it was familiarity,” he says. “History. Muscle memory. I said it was just easier with you because we already knew how to share space.”

He glances at you, quick, then looks away again.

“That was the first lie.”

Something tightens in your chest - not sharp, just achingly familiar. Recognition more than surprise.

“I didn’t name it. Because if I named it,” he says, “I’d have to admit it was real. And if it was real, then I could lose it.”

The words land and stay there.

“I was scared of ruining it,” he goes on. “Scared that acknowledging what it had become would put pressure on it. On you. That you’d step back.”

Your gaze drops to your hands, folded loosely in your lap.

“So instead,” he says, softer now, “I chose not to say anything. I told myself I was protecting something.”

A single shake of his head. “Really, I was just dodging the risk.”

The honesty burns a little on the way down.

“You weren’t indifferent,” you say. It comes out more like a realization than an accusation.

“No,” he answers immediately. “I wasn’t.”

This time, he turns fully toward you.

“I never replaced what you were to me, when we were younger” he says.

Plain words. No padding.

“I just avoided calling it what it was,” he adds. “Because that meant admitting I’d been carrying it with me for years.”

Your breath catches.

“You mean-” you start, then stop.

He gives a small nod, letting you leave it unfinished.

“I never stopped looking for you,” he says.

Not poetic. Not dramatic. Just true.

He looks down, then back up.

“I told myself it was nostalgia,” he says. “Or stubbornness. Or me refusing to let go of something I’d outgrown.”

Another shake of his head. “It wasn’t.”

The room feels suspended.

“You disappeared,” you say quietly. “After everything ended back then. No explanation. No goodbye.”

His expression tightens - not defensively. With the weight of something long overdue.

“I know,” he says. “That’s on me.”

He draws in a deeper breath.

“I was younger,” he says, “and I didn’t know how to stay when things felt unfinished. I thought leaving clean was better than sticking around and making a mess.”

A faint, humorless curve of his mouth. “Turns out silence makes its own mess.”

You nod. That lands.

“When you came back,” you say, “it felt like meeting a version of you who knew how to talk to rooms, but not to me.”

He takes it without flinching.

“That’s fair.”

You sit with everything he’s given you. Let the realization arrive at its own pace.

“So when you pulled away,” you say carefully, “it wasn’t because you didn’t care.”

“No,” he says. “It was because I cared and didn’t trust myself not to wreck it.”

It doesn’t erase the hurt. But it rearranges it. Changes its outline.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” you say.

“I know,” he answers. “I’m not asking you to say it does.”

You look at him again. Really look. The man in front of you, hands still open, posture unguarded.

“This is the first time you’ve ever said any of this,” you say.

He nods. “Yes.”

“Why now?”

He hesitates - not from avoidance, but because the answer matters.

“Because I’m tired of letting fear make my choices,” he says. “And because I don’t want to lose you again by staying quiet.”

There it is.

Not a declaration. Not a request.

Just the truth.

You lean back, letting out a slow breath. “You know this doesn’t fix everything.”

“I do.”

He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t close the distance.

“I just needed you to know,” he says. “What this was. What it’s been. For me.”

You sit there together after that. Not awkward. Not empty.

Full.

And somewhere in that stillness, something clicks - not loudly, not all at once.

His silence back then wasn’t absence.

It was fear.

That doesn’t undo the damage. But it gives the wound an explanation it never had before.

You turn slightly toward him.

“Thank you,” you say. “For telling me.”

He meets your eyes, steady. “Thank you for hearing me.”

Neither of you moves closer.

Neither of you pulls away.

Harry doesn’t move.

He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t search your face for a reaction he can grab onto. His hands stay exactly where they are, resting loose, like even the smallest shift might feel like pressure. You notice that. You always notice that.

“I didn’t tell you any of this so you’d forgive me,” he says after a beat. His voice stays level. Unforced. “I needed you to know,” he adds. “That’s it.”

The words land without a hook. No quiet demand hidden underneath. No expectation waiting to be met.

You breathe in slowly and let them settle.

For a long moment, you don’t say anything.

You let yourself feel all of it - not just the ache that’s still there, but the relief underneath. The strange steadiness that comes from finally having the full picture, even if it’s messy.

“You know,” you say at last, your voice calm but grounded, “for a long time I thought the worst part was that you left.”

He tilts his head, listening.

“But it wasn’t,” you continue. “It was not knowing why. I filled in the gaps myself. And I got very good at convincing myself the reason was that I didn’t matter enough.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t interrupt.

“So hearing this,” you say, a small gesture between you, “it doesn’t erase that. It doesn’t undo the years I spent wondering if I’d imagined what we had.”

“I don’t want to punish you,” you say. “I don’t want to keep score. But I also can’t pretend this didn’t hurt.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Good.”

You shift, grounding yourself. Your knees angle toward him now –not closing the space, but no longer turned away from it.

“What I need,” you say carefully, “is no roles. No optics. No ‘we’ll figure it out later.’”

He nods once. “That’s fair.”

“I need honesty,” you continue. “Even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially then.”

Another nod. Slower.

“And I need to know that if you get scared again,” you say gently, but without wavering, “you won’t disappear. You won’t shut me out and decide for both of us.”

That one lands. You see it in his eyes - the recognition, the acceptance of something he already knows.

“I can’t promise I won’t be afraid,” he says. “But I can promise I won’t leave you alone with it.”

You sit with that. The difference between perfection and effort. Between a promise meant to sound good and one meant to be kept.

“That matters,” you say.

“I don’t know what this turns into,” you say honestly. “And I’m not ready to define it.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he says.

You look at him again, checking for disappointment. There isn’t any. Just patience. A willingness to let this be unfinished.

“I want to choose this,” you say slowly, “not because it’s familiar. Not because it feels unresolved. But because it feels right now.”

He swallows. “And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll walk away knowing I wasn’t guessing,” you say. “That I didn’t stay hoping you’d change. I stayed because you showed me who you are.”

That truth settles between you. Solid. Unavoidable.

He exhales quietly. “I can live with that.”

You let a small, almost wry smile appear.

“You’re not great at letting go of the narrative,” you tell him.

One corner of his mouth lifts. “No.”

“But this,” you add, gesturing faintly, “this was you stepping back.”

“Yes,” he says. No hesitation.

You lean back a little, feeling the tension soften - not gone, just dulled at the edges by understanding.

“So,” you say, “this is what I’m choosing.”

He watches you, present but not reaching.

“I’m choosing you can stay,” you continue, “but slowly. On my terms as much as yours. With room to step back if I need to.”

“You’ll have that,” he says immediately.

“And I’m choosing to trust that if I tell you something hurts”

“That’s all I can offer right now.”

He doesn’t pause. “That’s more than enough.”

It doesn’t sound triumphant. It sounds grateful.

You sit there together, still not touching, but no longer divided by uncertainty. The space between you feels different now - not a barrier, not a temptation.

Just space.

After a moment, he moves to the couch and you shift closer - not much. Just enough that your shoulders nearly meet.

You don’t look at him when you speak.

“This doesn’t feel like starting over,” you say quietly.

“No,” he agrees. “It feels like continuing. Honestly, this time.”

You let that settle.

This isn’t rescue.

This isn’t forgiveness dressed up as romance.

This choice is yours.

You’re close enough now to feel his breath.

Not warm. Not consuming. Just present - steady, human. The kind of closeness that doesn’t demand anything, that quiets everything else simply by existing.

Neither of you moves.

Harry’s eyes stay on yours. Not searching. Not asking. Just there. His face is open in a way you don’t see often - unguarded without being raw. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t close the space.

He waits.

And you realize, with a small jolt of clarity, that he’s been doing that all night. Waiting. Not for forgiveness. Not for reassurance. But for you - to choose what happens next. To decide whether this closeness remains what it is, or becomes something more.

Your breath catches. Not from nerves, but recognition.

This is different.

There’s no urgency pulling at you, no old ache dragging itself back to the surface. Just an even awareness of him. Of yourself. Of the narrow space between your mouths that feels less like a gap and more like a question quietly being asked.

And then, without drama or fanfare, you know:

You want this.

Not because it fixes anything. Not because it proves something. But because it feels like the natural continuation of the moment you’re already standing in.

So you move.

Barely. Just a slight shift forward, the smallest tilt of your head. His breath stutters - just enough for you to feel it brush your lips.

Still, he doesn’t move.

Not until you do.

You close the distance yourself.

The kiss is so gentle it feels more like an exhale than contact. Your lips meet his slowly, carefully, like you’re testing the truth of something rather than trying to claim it.

There’s no rush.

No hunger.

No need to go further.

It’s a kiss that listens.

His lips are warm, steady. He doesn’t deepen it, doesn’t take more than you offer. He simply meets you exactly where you are, matching your pace with a care that feels intentional, almost reverent.

And you feel something loosen inside you - not all at once, not dramatically. Just a quiet release. Like setting down a weight you didn’t realize you’d been carrying for years.

This isn’t about catching up.

It’s about arriving.

You breathe him in - the faint scent of clean fabric, something familiar and warm beneath it. His hand lifts slowly, pauses, then settles at your waist. Light. Unclaiming. There to ground, not to guide.

You stay there a moment longer than necessary, but not longer than feels right.

When you pull back, it’s unhurried.

Your foreheads rest together, skin warm where you touch. His breath steadies, finding yours, the rhythm syncing without effort.

Neither of you speaks right away.

There’s nothing pressing to say.

He lets out a quiet breath - something between a laugh and a sigh. No triumph in it. No relief loud enough to name. Just acknowledgment.

“Hi,” he says softly.

The simplicity of it almost makes you smile.

You do. Just a little.

“Hi.”

The word feels lighter now. Like it’s been waiting to be said this way.

You stay there, foreheads together, eyes closed - not because it’s overwhelming, but because it feels right. Like opening them too soon might disturb something newly formed and delicate.

This kiss didn’t seal anything.

It didn’t promise forever. It didn’t erase the past or soften what hurt.

It didn’t need to.

It simply said: we’re here.

And for the first time in a long while, that feels like enough.

The city at night doesn’t sparkle so much as it breathes.

From this height, the lights blur into something softer - constellations instead of pinpricks, smeared gently by glass and the faint fog where warm air meets cold. Far below, cars slide through the streets like slow heartbeats, red and white threading paths you can’t quite hear anymore. Life goes on. Unbothered. Consistent.

You sit near the window, not flush against it, just close enough to feel the cool seep through the glass. Harry is beside you on the floor, back against the couch, one knee bent, the other stretched out. There’s a measured space between you - your shoulders nearly touching, but not quite. Close by choice, not hesitation.

Neither of you speaks.

It isn’t awkward. It isn’t weighted.

It’s the kind of quiet that only shows up after something long-delayed has finally happened. Like the room itself has let go of a breath it didn’t realize it was holding.

You tune into the background instead. The city’s low hum. The muted whirr of the building settling around you. Somewhere distant, a siren - far enough away to sound less like danger and more like a reminder.

Your reflections overlap in the window. Two figures side by side, edges softened by night. You look different like this. Less composed. Less braced. More honest.

You don’t turn toward him, but you’re aware of him anyway - in a way that feels almost physical. The steady rhythm of his breathing. The warmth he gives off without trying. The absence of that old need to prepare yourself for his presence.

Earlier - hours ago now, though time has gone vague - you thought there would be a moment where everything snapped into place. A realization. A declaration. Something that told you exactly what came next.

It never showed up.

Instead, there’s this.

Stillness. Truth. Room to exist.

And somehow, it feels sturdier than certainty ever did.

Your hands rest loosely in your lap.

You don’t feel repaired.

You don’t feel whole.

There’s still an ache underneath everything - a dull reminder of the scrutiny, the sharp shock of a betrayal you didn’t see coming, the way the truth going public felt less like freedom and more like being exposed under harsh light.

Tomorrow - or maybe later tonight - there will still be messages. Headlines. Conversations you’re not ready to have. Decisions waiting whether you want them to or not.

Nothing about the fallout has vanished just because the pretending stopped.

But something else has.

There’s no performance left in the room.

Harry shifts beside you, adjusting himself carefully, mindful of your space. The movement draws your attention and for the first time since you sat down, you turn your head.

He’s looking out at the city. His profile is softened by the glow from the window. There are shadows beneath his eyes you don’t remember noticing before - not because they’re new, but because he used to hide them better.

He looks quieter.

Not relieved. Not victorious.

Just here.

As if, for once, he’s letting himself exist in a moment without calculating what it costs.

You realize how rare that is for him.

You lean your head back against the couch cushion. The fabric is cool against your neck. Solid. Real.

“I don’t know what I want next,” you say.

It isn’t an apology. It isn’t a confession. Just where you are.

He turns toward you slowly, deliberately. Studies your face - not to extract an answer, but to make sure you feel seen.

“That’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to.”

You glance at him. “You’re not worried?”

A small smile curves his mouth. Not amused. Just gentle.

“I’ve spent most of my life worrying,” he says. “It hasn’t made me very good at this.”

“This?” you repeat.

“Letting things stay unfinished.”

Something loosens in your chest.

You look back at the glass. At the city. At the reflection of the two of you sitting side by side, not facing each other head on.

It feels right.

You don’t need to be tangled together yet. Don’t need to close every inch of space. Sharing it is enough.

Time stretches. You lose track of how long you sit there. Minutes blur into something softer.

At some point, Harry shifts again, less careful this time. His shoulder brushes yours, accidental and quiet.

Neither of you pulls away.

The contact settles where it is. Ordinary. Unremarkable. It doesn’t spark or escalate.

It just stays.

You let your shoulder lean into his, barely. Not a request. Just an acknowledgment.

His breathing shifts, then evens out again.

Outside, the city keeps breathing.

Inside, you let yourself rest.

It occurs to you that peace doesn’t arrive with certainty. It doesn’t come with answers or guarantees. It doesn’t undo what hurt or promise what comes next.

It just exists - fragile, real - in the space between two people who finally stopped lying to themselves.

Eventually, he speaks again, voice low.

“Whatever you decide,” he says, “I won’t disappear this time.”

You don’t turn to look at him.

You don’t need to.

“I know,” you say.

And you do.

There’s no dramatic weight to it. No vow echoing in the air.

The night deepens. Lights outside dim and brighten in rhythms you don’t follow. Somewhere below, a late train rattles past, its sound hollow and distant.

You sit together, connected only by that quiet line where your shoulders meet, not filling the silence with plans or promises.

There will be conversations later. Hard ones. Boundaries to define. Lives to untangle. Reputations to endure.

But not tonight.

Tonight is for stillness.

For staying with the aftermath instead of outrunning it.

For letting something real exist without shaping it for anyone else.

You close your eyes for a moment and let the day settle into you.

When you open them again, the city is still there. Harry is still beside you.

And for the first time in a long while, you don’t feel like you’re performing your life for an audience that doesn’t care what it costs.

This time, it wasn’t for show.

This time, it was real.

“But one thing. Can I kiss you again?”

“Gladly”, he answers and you pull him in another soft kiss.

And I was and will be team Harry. No matter how much anyone tells me, I have lived long enough in capitalism to know that love dies a pathetic death in poverty.

And Harry is not perfect at all, I do not have a rosy tint shades on. As it was evident from his first scene, how Harry spoke with the guests showed that this guy is smooth in life without being affected. He knew he was at the top of the food chain.

But Lucy actually never gave him or herself a chance to be emotionally closer either. Her walls were always up because she undervalued herself so much. That wall she built around herself based on the economic difference between her and Harry was full of low self-esteem. She never allowed herself to even plant seeds of love! She truly treated the relationship like a fantasy.

And it became a little too convenient plot point to show Harry was afraid to love because he was insecure and trapped in the whole being an ideal cishet man. When the one who is pitted against Harry is so bland in his own basic cishet man mould.

But Lucy, my Girl, why is your self-esteem so low?

Where are your friends?

What are your hobbies?

I get it you were working your arse off at your job, but are you telling me a girl like her has no friend in the city? Maybe not the city, but not even she would call and speak about her romance? Most women, cough, cough, unlike the other half of the species, have friends.

Who was she talking to when her job or life, or boyfriends gave her stress, and no ex-boyfriend was lurking around?

Where was the support system?

For someone who likes money and comfort, what did she splurge on?

I am sorry that part of the writing was the most unrealistic and poorly put.

Everything materialistic about Lucy boiled down to her job as a matchmaker, making it happen for others; the clients, who I would say were much more materialistic and superficial than she ever is! She only showed that one little awestruck by the wealth aspect and in love with money was when she went to Harry's apartment. But who wouldn't? That's NY!

Most importantly, all three of them are materialistic: John fighting over a charger and telling he still lives with roommates doesn't make him less materialistic than Lucy fighting over a 25-dollar parking fee, or Harry mentioning a 12-million-dollar penthouse to woo Lucy more.

And the trailer told us it is about modern dating, so I was expecting the ending to fit many modern women's fatigue with the struggle-love narrative. This fatigue with struggle-love has been the key factor that fuels the mindset behind the sprinkle-sprinkle, soft-life, to full-fledged extreme decisions like pulling out of the dating pool altogether, or to do a 180• to jump into the extreme end of gender role performance and land into the tradwife pipeline.

We have had this narrative told us that love simply is for centuries. But modern dating and romance are hard because money plays a big role. Especially when you are an international viewer from Asia, where arranged marriages are norms and love seems like a luxury, these kinds of messaging work. But I still feel baffled by the same old massaging of love is all you need repackaged in such a lovely, serious film, without dissecting the nuances or addressing the anguish of why modern women are chasing these checklists in the first place.

And that one scene with the car park argument was enough for us to know they are not a good match. All the past scenes or references of John and Lucy we got were them cribbing about money.

Where was the bread crumbing to show us that John is treating Lucy as a human who didn't need him to be rich in her life to be happy and be loved? Because he was trapped in the 'provider-man' mentality, and it was not explored.

Five years is an investment, and it failed the first time. What makes anyone think it will work this time just based on few hopeful words without any proof?

Especially after that weird toasting-rant Lucy and John did about marriage failing and people divorcing while they witnessed the wedding in the barn they snuck into, that ending of them rekindling is phoney. The story's messaging and what it wanted to showcase were shaky!

If “hope” is the message, it is poorly executed, because the victim of hope for romance is Sophia L! Whose arc was resolved without introspection. She is a superficial person who got hurt chasing the superficial aspirations of romance. And then she again came back for matchmaking services just because Lucy came to help her in time of distress?

And in the age of K-drama, C-drama, and other International Romance drama industry where women have been given the fantasy that “a rich guy can love you despite your humble background,” we are getting a constant message from Lucy that she is not an equal to Harry!