#pacify her

pacify her

✦ chapter One ✦

“It's Always Been You”

Pairing: Harry Castillo x Reader

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: Emotional angst, jealousy, mutual pining, office romance, slow-burn explosion, rain-soaked love confession, years of miscommunication, one (1) broken man at your doorstep, and a kiss that rewrites everything

Summary: She's known Harry Castillo for thirteen years — long before he became her boss, before he got entangled with the wrong woman. Now, watching him fall for Lucy, who's clearly still hung up on her ex, is like slow torture. She's tired of staying silent, tired of pretending she doesn't see it. Because she does. She sees everything — including the way Harry used to look at her, and how he doesn't anymore. But maybe, just maybe, it was never too late to say something.

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"Tired, blue boy walks my way... holding a girl's hand."

The champagne in your glass has long gone flat, but you haven't moved to refill it.

Not when Harry's standing ten feet away, laughing at something Lucy said. Not when her manicured hand is laced through his arm like she belongs there. Not when he glances out over the skyline like the conversation is already miles behind him.

Lucy's laugh is sharp and hollow, like a crystal glass cracked down the stem. She leans in too close, always leaning. Like if she just presses far enough into him, he'll forget how many times she's looked back at her ex.

You hate how she touches him. You hate how he lets her.

The rooftop party swells around you — soft jazz from a live trio, expensive suits, too-white smiles. A fundraiser, officially. A flex, realistically. Another one of those curated events Harry throws for high-profile clients and politicians to sip rare whiskey under string lights and pretend everyone's hands are clean.

He's good at pretending.

You've known him long enough to see the performance — how he angles his body just slightly away from Lucy, how his jaw flexes every time she mentions John Finch like she's not aware she's doing it. Or maybe she is. Maybe that's the game.

Harry Castillo plays chess. Lucy plays house.

And you? You're watching from the corner, glass warm in your grip, heart split like a wishbone.

She's wearing that red dress. The one she bought after she caught Harry watching you in the elevator two weeks ago. The one you overheard her brag about — "It's the color that makes him look twice."

But you know better.

Harry doesn't look twice at red. He's always been drawn to shadows. To restraint. To people who don't beg for the light.

You shift your gaze back to him.

God, he's beautiful in the way storms are — slow-moving, inevitable. He's dressed in midnight blue tonight, tailored down to the cufflinks you once helped him pick out on a lunch break. The sleeves strain slightly when he folds his arms. His salt-and-pepper hair is swept back, effortless and deliberate, the kind of man who wears power like a second skin.

You remember the first time you saw him at twenty — arrogant, magnetic, a little bored. He didn't see you then. Not really. Not like now.

Now he holds your career in his hands and doesn't even know he has your heart.

He's not smiling at Lucy. Not really. You notice that too.

Because you always notice.

She tugs on his arm, laughing again. Her voice is syrupy. A practiced tilt of the head. You've seen her do it a dozen times — when she wants attention, when she's losing control.

You wonder if Harry knows she's slipping.

You wonder if he cares.

"He's rich, obviously," Lucy had once said in your shared group chat, wine-drunk and careless. "But god, he's so closed off. I don't even know if he likes me like that."

That's the problem with girls like Lucy.

They want what shines — but they don't know what it costs.

And Harry? Harry Castillo may be bought with money... but he can only be kept with understanding.

You sip your drink, eyes on him.

And you wonder how long you can keep swallowing this ache

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"Someone told me stay away from things that aren't yours..."

It was one of those unbearably stuffy garden parties your parents insisted on throwing — a tribute to your father's birthday masked as a networking gala. The kind of night where the rosé never stopped flowing and every hedge had ears. Men in suits stood around in small packs like circling wolves, and women clinked glasses while pretending not to judge one another's shoes.

You hated it.

You spent most of the evening tucked into the corner of the patio with your back against the ivy-covered wall, swirling your wine and dodging handshakes that came with too much eye contact and far too much ambition. Every conversation felt like a deal in disguise. Every smile was a signature waiting to be cashed.

And then he walked in.

Not loud. Not flashy. Just... there.

Harry Castillo.

The first thing you noticed was the way the room shifted when he arrived — how conversations lulled for a beat, like everyone needed a second to recalibrate. He wore a navy suit tailored to ruin a man for all others, shoes that gleamed like glass, and a wristwatch that probably cost more than your university tuition. His salt-and-pepper hair was neat, but not stiff. His jawline looked carved from stone, his expression unreadable. Detached. Dangerous in a way that wasn't sharp, but still.

He didn't need to command attention.

He just had it.

You recognized him instantly — even before your mother whispered something about "Castillo" under her breath, smoothing her dress. You'd heard the name in snippets your whole life. He was your father's golden client, the Columbia graduate turned finance powerhouse, the man who'd supposedly closed his first eight-figure deal before thirty. A man who didn't just play the game — he built the fucking casino.

And now he was in your parents' backyard, brushing past a row of potted orchids like he didn't belong to the same planet as the rest of them.

He caught you staring.

You hadn't meant to, but you'd been mid-eye-roll at something a senator's son had said when Harry stepped into view. His eyes — dark, amused, all-knowing — locked with yours for half a second. That was all.

And then — the smallest tilt of his head.

Not quite a nod. More like acknowledgment.

Like he saw your boredom. Understood it.

Approved.

"Not your scene either?" he asked, pausing near the stone railing with a drink in hand.

His voice had a rasp back then — not from age or wear, but depth. Warm. Unexpected. It snuck under your ribs before you had time to steel yourself.

You blinked, unsure whether he was really talking to you.

Then you shrugged, casually. "I like the wine."

His mouth twitched — the ghost of a smile. The kind you wouldn't forget.

He didn't flirt. Didn't push. Just glanced out over the garden like he was already a million miles away, then excused himself with that quiet grace that made you wonder if he was real at all. He spoke with your father, shook your hand once more before leaving, and was gone within an hour.

No theatrics. No lingering stares. Nothing you could spin into fantasy.

And yet...

He saw you.

Not as your father's daughter. Not as another set of painted nails and polite smiles.

Just you.

And somehow — even now — that was enough to change everything.

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You didn't speak again for seven years.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even a blip in each other's lives.

The world kept turning. You built a career. Survived a heartbreak so brutal it reshaped the way you walked into rooms. He — well, he built an empire.

But the past has a strange way of circling back.

And when you walked into Castillo Holdings at twenty-seven — heels sharp, blazer pressed, confidence held together with spit and stubbornness — the air in your lungs felt like it hadn't returned since that night in your father's garden.

You were still healing.

Fresh out of a relationship that drained you bone-dry, made you smaller in ways you hadn't realized until you were free. You'd spent months rebuilding. Filing away the bitterness. Piecing your name back together letter by letter. This interview? It was a declaration — a stake in the ground that said: I'm still here. And I'm not done yet.

The receptionist greeted you with a polished smile and a quiet, practiced voice. She'd probably seen hundreds like you — hopeful applicants, hands trembling just beneath the surface. But you didn't tremble.

Because you remembered who you were.

You weren't just any resume in heels.

You were the girl Harry Castillo had once noticed. The one who made him pause.

And when the door opened — when he walked into the room — it hit you like a punch to the ribs.

Time had not been unkind to Harry Castillo.

He was older, yes. But in the way wine gets better, darker, more potent. His suit was charcoal this time, no tie, just a crisp open collar and that same subtle presence — the kind that made a room kneel without asking. His hair had gone almost completely salt-and-pepper, a little longer, swept back like he'd run his fingers through it on the way in. And his jaw — still sharp. Still unreadable.

But his eyes lit with something when they landed on you.

Recognition. Interest. Amusement.

"I remember you," he said, his voice like velvet and gravel.

He extended a hand. You took it, firm and steady, no hesitation.

"You're the one who liked the wine."

And Maker, he smiled.

Not the practiced one. Not the polite one.

A real one.

You didn't blush. You wouldn't give him that.

You smiled back instead — head high, voice cool.

"Still do."

He looked at you for a moment longer than necessary. And something passed between you — not flirtation. Not history. Just... awareness. Like you both felt the weight of time bending back into place.

He hired you two days later.

No fanfare. No favoritism.

Just an offer letter signed in the same hand that shook yours.

And just like that, you became part of his world.

Even if — back then — he still wasn't part of yours.

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The years since then have passed in carefully drawn lines and controlled glances.

A breath too long by the coffee machine. The brush of his hand when he reaches past you for a file. The way your name sounds when he says it — deliberate, low, like he's trying not to feel it.

Harry Castillo is your boss.

Your mentor.

Your undoing.

And you have never — not once — crossed the line.

You're too smart for that. Too proud. Too aware of everything you'd lose the moment you reached for something not meant to be yours.

But God, it's hard.

Hard not to flinch when his shoulder grazes yours in the hallway. Hard not to stare when he leans over your desk, sleeves rolled, eyes focused, the scent of his cologne cutting through your logic. He brings you espresso when you're still at your desk past midnight, always without asking, always exactly how you like it. A quiet offering. Like he sees you — really sees you — even when he pretends he doesn't.

He marks up your proposals with red ink. Not unkind, not gentle either — but purposeful. Precise. Every note, every correction, makes you sharper. Smarter. Hungrier. His approval is a rarity, a currency you hoard like breath, and when he gives it — when his voice goes quiet and he says, "Good work" — it fills your chest with a flame so bright you have to look away.

He's the kind of man who doesn't praise unless it matters.

And that makes it matter more.

You've seen him at his worst.

He'd never admit that — never let himself slip on purpose — but you've been there. Stayed behind after hours under the guise of sorting through reports, only to catch the look in his eyes when he thinks no one's watching. Standing at the window, hands in his pockets, staring out at a city that never sleeps and still somehow makes him feel lonely. His jaw tense. His shoulders tired. The weight of a thousand decisions sitting just behind his spine.

You've seen him rub the back of his neck like it aches from carrying too much. You've heard him sigh, low and bitter, when a deal falls through or a meeting turns sour. And once — just once — you heard him talk about love.

It wasn't to you. Not directly.

The office had gone quiet. You'd been curled on the couch in the corner, long after midnight, half-asleep under the pretense of finishing budget sheets. He thought you were out. You weren't.

You listened as he sat at his desk, head in his hands, voice barely above a whisper.

"Permanence is a lie," he said.

It stuck with you. Lodged itself in your ribs like a splinter.

Because Harry doesn't believe in happy endings.

He doesn't trust them.

He's seen too much, lost too many things to risk believing they'll ever stay. You can see it in the way he holds people at arm's length. In the way he keeps his life locked behind passwords and stone.

But you?

You never needed a fairytale.

You never asked for forever.

You just wanted to matter.

Just once. Quietly. Undeniably.

To be the one he turned to.

The one he let in.

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Then Lucy walked in.

Fresh from a breakup and glowing like heartbreak never touched her. All long lashes and liquid charm, bright as a minted coin polished by sorrow and champagne. She wore confidence like silk — draped, effortless, dangerous. You'd known her for years in that way women know each other in overlapping circles: brunches, birthdays, gallery events where everyone pretended not to care what shoes you wore. She was pretty, poised, the kind of girl who'd compliment your lipstick before using the same shade to kiss your date.

And now she was here.

In your office.

Wearing your boss's attention like a second skin.

You watched it unfold like a slow-motion collision. Quiet. Inevitable. The kind of thing you see coming from a mile away but can't dodge — only brace for.

Lucy wasn't subtle. She didn't need to be.

She had timing, tragedy, and a plunging neckline.

And Harry — your Harry — smiled at her more in one month than he had at you in six years.

It gutted you in the smallest ways.

The extra espresso he forgot to bring.

The way he lingered in her doorway after meetings.

The laugh you didn't know he had.

You told yourself it didn't matter.

You told yourself you were better than this — better than petty jealousy, better than whispering hope into the dark corners of your heart where it didn't belong.

But it still chipped away at you. Quietly. Relentlessly.

And so you kept working.

You buried yourself in deadlines and strategy reports. You stayed late when no one asked. You smiled through every polite conversation, every "So what's going on with Harry and Lucy?" from nosy coworkers who didn't know they were twisting a knife.

You heard things, too.

Things that changed everything.

It was a rooftop brunch — warm afternoon sun, champagne on every table, the kind of gathering where people forget who's listening because everyone looks the same. Lucy sat near the edge, glass in one hand, fork in the other, spinning a strawberry like it was some kind of prize.

"She's drunk," someone whispered.

"She's always drunk," someone else replied.

Lucy giggled. Her voice carried — all sweet poison and smugness.

"He's nice," she said. "A little boring. But rich. And safe. I think he's into me."

There was a laugh. A shove. Someone teasing, "Do you like him?"

You weren't part of the conversation.

But you were close enough to hear what came next.

Lucy rolled her eyes. Her voice dipped — not cruel, not even thoughtful, just bored.

"He's not John."

You froze.

A strawberry hit her plate with a soft wet sound.

The moment went on without you.

But inside, something snapped. Quiet and cruel.

Because in that moment — standing invisible with your mimosa and your tight smile — you realized something undeniable.

She didn't want him.

Not really.

She wanted to win.

She wanted to be wanted. She wanted a shield made of money and charm and Harry's careful hands. She wanted to erase the taste of John Finch and replace it with a safer man.

She didn't love him.

She didn't see him — not the way you did.

And yet...

He was going to give her everything.

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"Pacify her, she's getting on my nerves..."

Lucy laughs too loudly at something Harry says in the breakroom.

You hear it through two walls and the ache in your chest.

Muffled at first — that high, glittering kind of laughter that people use when they want to be heard. It carries, even through the glass, even through the carefully shut door you didn't bother to close all the way this morning. Maybe part of you knew it was coming.

It's not the laugh that hurts, though.

It's the silence that follows. That pause where you know — you know — he's smiling.

You don't look. You don't need to.

You've been doing this long enough to picture the scene without glancing up.

Lucy. Perched on the corner of his desk like it was built for her. One leg crossed over the other, back arched just enough to draw attention. Her fingers brushing the rim of her coffee cup like she's bored — like she owns the room, and him, and the moment.

And Harry — probably leaning just slightly against the counter, that practiced calm on his face, the one he wears when he's amused but not engaged. He's not flirting. He never flirts.

But he doesn't stop her either.

He never stops her.

The sound fades.

Still, you don't move.

You sit up straighter in your chair and force your eyes to stay on the spreadsheet in front of you. Your hands hover over the keyboard, clenched too tightly to type. Your coffee's gone cold. There's a soft click as your jaw tightens.

But you don't break.

You never do.

Because this is what you've learned to survive — the quiet, suffocating ache of being near him but never his. The invisible wall you built brick by brick, day after day, year after year.

Professional. Poised. Untouchable.

And yet every time Lucy's in the room, it feels like you're the one bleeding.

Because she doesn't know him.

Not really.

She knows the surface — the image. The suits, the corner office, the reputation. She sees the man who signs the checks and tips the maître d' and doesn't ask for anything he hasn't earned.

But you?

You've seen him at 11:47 p.m., still at his desk, tie loose, hair mussed, the edge in his voice gone soft when he talks about his mother. You've seen the crease between his brows when he stares too long at an email and doesn't hit send. You've watched his fingers hover over the edge of a glass of scotch like it holds more than alcohol — like it holds memory.

You know the way his voice dips when he's exhausted. The way he leans back and exhales through his nose when he's trying not to say something he'll regret. You know the rare, quiet gratitude in the way he says your name when no one else is listening.

You know the man beneath the gold.

Lucy doesn't.

She's playing a game — and playing it well. Chasing comfort, chasing conquest. She's wrapping herself in his orbit like he's a status symbol she can wear on her wrist, never stopping long enough to wonder what kind of weight he carries under all that polish.

And Harry?

Harry doesn't even realize he's the prize.

He's too used to being the one in control. Too used to being wanted for all the wrong reasons.

So when she looks at him like he's a checkmark, he lets her.

Because maybe, somewhere deep down, he thinks that's all he deserves.

But you know better.

And it's killing you to watch him settle for someone who only wants his crown — not the man it sits on.

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You avoid the lounges now. The elevators. Any room Lucy might be in.

It's a quiet kind of self-preservation — the kind that doesn't draw attention but leaves you hollow at the edges. You take alternate stairwells, pretend you're too busy for happy hours, and time your coffee runs around hers like a dance you never agreed to learn.

It's easier this way.

Easier to stay late. Easier to keep your head down, buried in reports and deadlines and anything that lets you tune out the hum of flirtation echoing down the halls. You grind your teeth through meetings where she suddenly joins "just to observe," sipping lattes she didn't pay for and twirling her hair around a finger like the boardroom is a catwalk and not a workplace. Like she's earned her place at the table by proximity alone.

You want to scream.

You don't.

Instead, you adapt. You wear heels a little higher. Lipstick a little darker. Your spine becomes steel, your voice clipped and clear. You wield competence like a sword, because if this is a battlefield, you refuse to die quietly. She may have his attention, but you have the work — the grit and numbers and strategy he built his firm on.

Still, it gnaws at you.

The way he looks at her. The softness that creeps into his voice when he speaks her name. You've never seen him smile like that in a meeting — not once in six years of side-by-side work, midnight emails, and silent coffees left on his desk.

And the worst part?

He's starting to notice you noticing.

Noticing the silences. The way you no longer linger when he pauses in the hallway. The way your glances no longer search for his. The way you brush past Lucy like she's a ghost, and disappear into spreadsheets and tight-lipped nods before he can speak.

It builds.

And one night, it breaks.

The office is quiet. Everyone's gone. Just the city below, stretching out like a glowing bruise, and the low hum of the copy machine spitting out papers you don't even need. You're not reading them. Not really. You're just standing still in motion, hoping the ache doesn't show on your face.

He speaks from behind you.

"You've been quiet lately."

Your shoulders stiffen. Just a flicker — but he sees it. Of course he sees it.

"Didn't realize I needed to narrate my workflow," you reply coolly, not turning.

There's a pause. Then a breath.

Not quite a sigh. Not quite anything.

"That's not what I meant."

You turn slowly.

Hands full of paper. Jaw tight. Heart thudding behind the bones of your ribs where he can't see it — where you hope he can't hear it.

"What did you mean then?" you ask, voice level.

He doesn't answer right away.

Harry is always slow to speak. Careful. Controlled. Every word curated like a fine scotch — measured, expensive, and only poured when necessary. But now, his eyes don't shift away like they usually do. They stay on yours. Steady. Something flickering just beneath the surface.

"You haven't looked at me the same."

It knocks the breath out of you.

You recover quickly — too quickly. "Maybe you haven't deserved it."

His jaw tics. That familiar pulse just above the collar of his shirt.

It makes you want to cry and kiss him in the same breath.

"I see what she's doing," you add. You don't say Lucy's name. You don't have to. "You might be used to women like that. But I didn't think you were blind."

His eyes narrow. Hurt flashes behind them — quick and unspoken. "You don't know what's going on."

"No." You step forward. "I just know you."

Another step. Closer.

"I've known you for thirteen years, Harry. Don't stand there and tell me I'm wrong."

He doesn't flinch.

But he doesn't speak either.

Just watches you, unmoving, like you're something fragile and dangerous all at once.

And maybe you are.

Because everything you've swallowed for six years is right there — straining at the edges, breaking through in the press of silence between you. You're seconds away from spilling it all. From saying too much. From crossing a line that can never be uncrossed.

His voice is quiet when it comes. "It's complicated."

You laugh. Soft and bitter and shaking. "No. It's really not."

It should be harder than this, walking away.

But it's not.

You turn before you can say something unforgivable. Before you confess the kind of truth that wrecks whatever remains between you. You walk past him, pulse pounding in your ears, each step echoing like a slammed door in a house that used to feel like home.

He doesn't stop you.

But you feel it — the way his hand almost lifts behind you. The way his breath hitches like he wants to speak but doesn't know how.

You don't look back.

And he lets you go.

Again.

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The next day, Lucy brings in cupcakes.

Pink boxes. Gold ribbon. The kind of effort that says "look at me" without ever needing the words.

"Homemade," she says brightly, smiling like the frosting isn't melting under the office lights. "Harry's favorite."

You take one.

You smile.

And the moment she turns around, you walk calmly to the bin and toss it in — paper liner and all.

You don't make a scene.

You don't roll your eyes or mutter some cutting remark under your breath. You don't even glance toward Harry's office. Because if you did, you might see the flicker of guilt in his expression. The slight tightening of his jaw. The way his hand lingers a second too long on the doorknob before retreating.

They're not his favorite.

You know that.

You remember the real ones — the lemon pistachio muffins from the bodega downstairs, the ones he only ever bought after all-nighters and deal closings. The ones he used to leave on your desk with a scribbled note: "Don't skip breakfast."

Those were his favorites.

He told you once, between files and filtered light, that his mother used to make them when he couldn't sleep. That the smell reminded him of home. He'd said it quietly, like he didn't mean to share it. Like he'd forgotten he had.

You never forgot.

But Lucy... Lucy doesn't know any of that.

And Harry?

Harry let her believe it anyway.

Let her serve up some Pinterest-version performance of affection while you sat there, biting back every memory he used to hand you like a secret.

You head back to your desk, fingers trembling slightly as they hover over your keyboard. The sugar still lingers on your tongue — artificial and sticky and false.

Just like her.

Just like this whole damn act.

And Harry?

He says nothing.

Not when you pass him in the hallway. Not when your eyes catch for half a second longer than they should. Not when you sit across from him in the boardroom later that afternoon, posture perfect, lips pressed shut like your truth might shatter the glass if you dared speak it.

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"Pacify her... she's getting on my nerves..."

You never meant to overhear it.

You'd stayed late again — not because of deadlines, not because anyone expected it — but because there was something comforting in the quiet hum of the office at night. Something about the stillness made you feel closer to him, like maybe he'd linger too, like maybe he'd find a reason to come by your desk and ask a question he already knew the answer to.

Like maybe he'd notice you again.

You told yourself you were there for the quarterly report. For the numbers. For your career.

But that was a lie you'd worn down to the bone.

You were walking back from the printer, papers warm in your hands, when you heard it — her voice.

Light. Laughing. Careless.

"—don't get weird about it, Harry," she says, and even from halfway down the hall, you know the tone. That soft, dismissive lilt she uses when she's getting exactly what she wants and is already bored of it.

Your feet still.

The door to his office is mostly closed. But not shut. Not quite.

You tell yourself to keep walking. To respect his privacy. To be better than this. But your body doesn't move. Your fingers curl tighter around the pages in your hands. And your heart — that stupid, loyal thing — starts to sink before she even says the words.

"I just think you're getting a little too serious."

The silence that follows is sharp and damning. You imagine him sitting behind his desk, blinking once. Twice. Processing. Holding it in, the way he always does.

"Too serious?" His voice is quieter now, tighter. "We've been—what exactly have we been doing, Lucy?"

It's the first time you've heard doubt in him. Real doubt. Like he finally asked himself the question you've been screaming in your head for months.

There's a pause, and then her laugh — high and musical and horribly hollow.

"I mean, you're sweet and all. You've been great. And I love the car. And the suite. And that restaurant in Midtown you took me to—"

You flinch.

Not because of what she's saying, but because of how she's saying it.

She's listing him. Itemizing affection like a spreadsheet of perks. Like the man who stays late, who brings you coffee without asking, who holds the world at a distance because he's terrified of what closeness might cost — is just a line on her balance sheet.

And then, casually, like a bow on top of the betrayal:

"But I'm not over John. You knew that."

It lands like a slap. You physically lean back, breath shallow, heart thrumming too loud in your ears.

Then comes his reply. Not angry. Not hurt.

Just... hollow.

"No," Harry says, voice stripped of its usual polish. "I didn't."

There's something about those four words that guts you more than anything else. Because you know that tone. You've heard it in boardrooms, after a deal fell through. You've heard it in midnight phone calls, when he realized someone had lied. You've heard it when he blamed himself for trusting the wrong person.

You've just never heard it in something that sounded like heartbreak.

Lucy's voice pitches brighter again, almost irritated now. "Look, you're a big boy, Harry. You're fine. You'll bounce back."

Then she laughs.

And that's what finally cracks you.

Because it's not the laugh of a woman who regrets.

It's the laugh of someone who never saw him as anything but a means to an end.

You take a step back, almost stumbling into the wall, vision blurring at the edges. Not from tears. Not yet. But from fury. From grief. From the sick, festering ache of vindication that feels nothing like victory.

You knew this would happen.

You'd known it from the first time she walked into his office with her lipstick too red and her gaze too calculating.

You saw the way she looked at him like he was a bank vault, and she had the code. And you saw the way he smiled back, like he didn't care — or worse, like he hoped it might be real.

And still, he chose her.

He chose her over your silence. Over your glances. Over your loyalty. Over every quiet moment you gave him without expectation.

He chose the girl who played him like a playlist on repeat.

And it's not just the betrayal that bruises.

It's the fact that now he knows what you always did — and it might be too late.

You turn from the door, fingers still clenched, jaw tight enough to ache.

You don't cry.

You don't speak.

You just walk back down the hallway, each step heavier than the last, your chest splintering with everything you've never said.

And maybe, just maybe, he'll finally hear it.

Even if you never say a word.

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You pack your things with the same mechanical precision you use to organize client portfolios — methodical, practiced, cold. One file after the other. Laptop cord wrapped tight. Coffee mug rinsed and dried like it never held your 7 p.m. bitterness.

You don't cry.

You don't speak to anyone.

You type out a short, sterile email to HR about needing a few days off — no explanation, no room for questions. Just the facts. Just enough.

And then you leave.

You don't take the elevator. You don't want to risk sharing that small space with any late stragglers — or worse, her. You take the stairs instead. Five flights down in heels that echo like gunshots against concrete, every step a silent scream you don't let loose.

Your head stays high.

But your chest?

It's burning. Tight. Like someone wrapped their hand around your ribs and started to squeeze.

And your heart —

It's not broken.

Not yet.

But you can feel the fracture forming.

Hairline. Quiet. Treacherous.

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

The first day, you stay in bed.

Not out of weakness — at least, that's what you tell yourself. But because it's the only place where the silence feels like a choice. You ignore your emails. Your texts. The unopened group chat message from a friend that probably says "Did you hear about Lucy and Harry?" as if the office isn't already a rumor mill set on fire.

You eat dry cereal straight from the box. The good kind — the kind you bought last month when you were feeling a little brave, a little bold. You eat it like a dare. Like if you can stomach sweetness, maybe the bitterness will fade.

It doesn't.

By day two, you try distraction.

Movies. Dumb ones. Action flicks with explosions and zero plot. Sitcom reruns from your high school years. You rotate through them like they're medicine. But nothing dulls the sharp edge of memory — the way Harry looked at Lucy, the softness in his voice, the quiet devastation when she discarded him like yesterday's headlines.

You pretend it doesn't matter.

You pretend you're over it.

You say it out loud at one point, just to test the lie.

"I don't care," you whisper to the empty room.

It echoes back too quickly.

By day three, you're sick of the silence.

You get up late, brush your teeth like it's a battle, and avoid the café down the street because you know — know — Lucy orders her oat milk lattes there, and you don't trust yourself not to say something if you see her. Not when your hands still ache from clenching your fists behind your back every time she giggled at your desk like she built it.

The afternoon sun cuts across your living room. Golden. Unforgiving. You sit on the couch with a blanket thrown over your legs like armor and stare at the television without hearing a word of the show playing.

And then your phone buzzes.

You don't need to look to know.

The sound is sharp. Specific. The text tone you gave him years ago when it felt harmless — when you were just the assistant who once made him laugh about your father's wine collection and not the woman who watched him fall for someone else.

Harry Castillo.

The name lights up your screen like it owns the place.

You stare at it for nearly a full minute. Long enough to feel the sting in your chest. Long enough for your brain to conjure every possibility — Is he okay? Does he know you heard? Did Lucy finally show him the rot beneath the gloss?

But none of that matters.

Not right now.

Because you're not ready. Not to hear him. Not to forgive him. And certainly not to fall back into whatever you've been pretending wasn't real for the past six years.

So you do the only thing you can.

You flip the phone over.

Face-down.

Out of sight.

Out of reach.

And the room goes quiet again. But this time, it's not comfort.

It's tension.

It's waiting.

It's the pause before the earthquake.

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"Someone told me stay away from things that aren't yours... but was he yours, if he wanted me so bad?"

It's raining.

Of course it is. The sky bleeds just like your chest — slow, relentless, bitter.

You haven't gone into work. Not today. Not yesterday. You'd planned to disappear quietly, fade out like background noise. A clean break. Untraceable.

But the ache?

It clings.

It lingers like perfume on a borrowed coat.

You're curled on the couch, lights low, drowning in a sweatshirt three sizes too big — one you don't remember stealing, but know exactly who it smells like.

And then —

Three sharp knocks.

You freeze.

No one ever knocks.

Another pause. Then another knock — firmer this time.

Your legs move before your brain does, bare feet padding across the hardwood, breath caught in your ribs like a held confession.

You open the door.

And he's there.

Harry.

Soaked to the bone, no jacket, tie undone, hair flattened to his forehead from the storm. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes wild — not the polished, perfect man who commands boardrooms and headlines.

This isn't Castillo, CEO.

This is Harry, wrecked.

And he's staring at you like you're the only thing that has ever made sense.

You blink. "Harry—?"

"I told myself not to come here," he says, cutting in. His voice is raw, frayed. "I tried not to. I thought if I gave it space — gave you space — it would make it easier."

Your chest tightens. "Easier for what?"

"To pretend I didn't choose the wrong person," he says. "To pretend I haven't always known it was you."

Your breath catches.

He steps forward. Water drips from the hem of his shirt. He doesn't seem to notice.

"I was so damn blind," he whispers. "You were right there, and I... I let her talk about me like I was a fucking accessory. While you were in the next room. Hearing every word."

Your hands tremble, but you stay frozen.

"I deserved that," he says. "I deserve worse. But I can't stop thinking about the way you looked at me when we first met. Like you saw through it all — the money, the suits, the bullshit."

Your voice cracks. "I did."

He exhales, like your words knock the air out of him.

"I kept pretending we were just friends. That the age gap was too much. That you deserved someone uncomplicated. I thought..." He rakes a hand through his drenched hair, a frustrated, broken gesture. "I thought if I buried it deep enough, it'd go away."

You say nothing.

"I never forgot," he adds.

The silence between you thickens.

And then, quieter, "The worst part? I knew Lucy didn't love me. I think... maybe I needed to be punished. For every part of me I never let you see."

Tears sting your eyes. "You let her in and shut me out."

"I know."

"Do you have any idea what it felt like?" you whisper. "Watching you fall for someone who didn't even see you?"

His voice cracks. "I do now."

He steps closer.

You don't stop him.

"You've always been the constant," he says. "The one I trusted. The one I turned to without even realizing it. You anchored me when I didn't even know I was adrift."

You meet his eyes.

And then he says it — the words that have lived in the marrow of your bones for thirteen years:

"It's always been you."

And that's what breaks it.

The space.

The silence.

The years of aching glances and swallowed truths.

You move first — crashing into him, arms thrown around his neck. His lips find your hair. Your body shakes in his arms. It's not a kiss. Not yet.

It's something deeper. Holier.

You bury your face into the hollow of his neck. "You took your time."

"I was scared," he admits.

"Of what?"

He pulls back just enough to see you, rain still clinging to his lashes.

"Of not being enough for you."

You laugh — soft, broken, beautiful. "You've been too much since the day I met you."

He brushes his thumb over your cheek, and you realize his hand is shaking.

"Say it again," he whispers.

You don't need to ask what he means.

You say it, raw, unfiltered, soaked in truth:

"It's always been you."

And then — finally — he kisses you.

It's not gentle.

It's not clean.

It's years of longing, guilt, want, and love, colliding like a tidal wave.

When you pull apart, both of you are breathless.

His forehead rests against yours. "What do we do now?"

You smile through the tears. "Start over."

He closes his eyes. "With you, I'd start a thousand times."

Bibi's clothes at Pacify Her

Blue ☁️

Pacify Her - Melanie Martinez

BLUE - Troye Sivan

Colors - Halsey

Blue Jeans - Lana Del Rey

Melanie Martinez is an American singer. She is known for her creative style and different songs. Her music mixes cute and dark themes, and talks about life and emotions ✿