"Hello?" Your voice cracks, broken and thick with sleep.

"Morning, Sunshine. Did I wake you?"

You grunt softly as you pull yourself up and flick your bedside lamp on. The soft glow burns your eyes and you wince.

"Harry... it's so early—" you begin to say.

"I know, sorry."

"And it's Saturday," you add.

"Something came up last minute, are you free for a few hours?"

You sigh and rub your eyes. With every second that passes, your body wakes up more and you can feel sleep slipping away.

"Seriously?" But you're already flinging the covers off.

"I'll make it worth your while. I'll send Lou to pick you up," he teases over the phone, voice low and gravelly. He's trying to entice you into putting in more overtime, but it's having an entirely different effect.

It wasn't the first time he asked you to adjust your work schedule and it wouldn't be the last because every single time, you agree. In the six years you've worked as his personal assistant, Harry always made sure to pay you appropriately for any overtime he asked you to do, which was generous, to say the least. You liked to blame the odd hours whenever your family or friends bugged you about your lack of a boyfriend or much of a social life in general, but you knew the real reason: you were hopelessly and painfully in love with your boss.

You realized it about a year into your job. He had asked you to work late one night without realizing it was the Fourth of July until fireworks began to explode in the night sky.

"C'mon," he had said excitedly after he rushed out of his office. You were slumped over your desk right next to his door, staring at your computer with tired eyes as you scrolled, oblivious to the noise outside his windows. You had hurried after him to the stairwell, where he led you up to the roof of his building. You had spent the next hour tucked under his arm, watching fireworks burst all around you, and even though you were in the center of the busiest city in the world, it really did feel like it was just the two of you. It was intimate and cozy and when he smiled at you — like, really smiled — your chest ached and your pulse raced. And when you tilted your head to look up at him, with fireworks reflecting in his gorgeous, deep brown eyes, it hit you.

For a few months you tried to talk yourself out of it, but every day you fell harder and harder. When he called, your heart fluttered. When he took you to lunch, those rare times it was just the two of you, you pretended it was a date.

Your infatuation went far beyond his looks or money. It was the little things that you found yourself thinking and smiling about when you thought no one was looking, like the way he always has to make a comment to you every time he bites into an apple — this is a good one; oh, this is tart; where did you buy this? It tastes mealy. Or how he's shit at playing piano because he had the biggest crush on his tutor growing up and he could never focus. Or the way he prefers to watch movies on Tuesday nights because it reminds him of his childhood when the theater near his best friend's house would run classic movies for half admission. Or how every time he sees a corvette, he tells you growing up it was his dream car, and even though he's never gotten around to buying one now, he still wants to one day so he can drive it with the top down on warm summer nights.

You wrote it off as a harmless crush, but the first time you had to watch Harry flirt with another woman at a charity auction, it made your heart sink. When he told you Lou would drive you home alone while the gorgeous model behind him in a short, tight dress waited with a tipsy smile, you thought you were going to be sick.

"And what if I have plans today?" you fire back as you yank on a pair of black pants, hopping on one foot to the next while you hold your cell phone between your ear and shoulder.

"Do you?" he asks. His voice sounds echoey now and you realize he probably walked into his bathroom.

"Maybe," you mumble under your breath. Then you hear his shower turn on and you freeze as the image of him partially—or even entirely—naked flits across your mind.

"C'mon Sunshine, I need you," he pleads. You practically melt into the floor.

No matter how hard you've tried to deny it, your feelings for him have only grown stronger, which is why the word pathetic is rolling around your head at six in the morning as you make you way up to his penthouse, because it seems like no matter what, if Harry asks you to jump, you'll just ask how high?

The elevator doors open to his sprawling apartment. The lights are mostly dim, as you expected. He's probably still in his bathroom or the kitchen. But when you step out of the elevator, big tote bag slung over one shoulder and phone clutched in your hand, you spot the pair of black high heels kicked off next to his couch and you stop short.

"Come on," you mutter angrily under your breath. You already know what's facing you — some girl way too young to be messing around with a man Harry's age is somewhere in his apartment, overstaying her welcome. You've dealt with it a hundred times before and while five years ago, it hurt to have to come face to face with Harry's latest conquest, by now you've grown numb to it. Once you realized these girls don't mean anything to him, it became a lot easier.

Still, you hated that you had to cross paths with these girls because envy always managed to swirl in your stomach every time.

Right on schedule, a leggy blonde wearing last night's wrinkled dress stumbles down the hallway barefoot. When you lock eyes, she freezes with a look of fear stricken across her face.

"Oh my god, are you his wife?"

You give her your most professional, tight lipped smile and shake your head.

"No," you say, relief flooding her features, "I'm Mr. Castillo's assistant. I'm here to pick him up for work."

She looks around, kohl smudged eyes taking in his impressive kitchen before she finds the time.

"It's Saturday," she says slowly. You shrug and clasp your hands together.

Yeah, no shit, is what you really want to say. But instead—

"I guess you don't get all this without working a few weekends."

She looks at you again, bites her full lower lip, and awkwardly shifts her weight.

"Your shoes are in the sitting room," you add, pointing behind you with another forced smile.

"Right," she replies softly, tiptoeing past you to pick them up. Her blue eyes dart around again while she slides her heels back on. "Can I leave my number? Will you give it to him?"

"Of course."

You pull your leather padfolio out of your tote bag and flip to a clean page before plucking out the pen and looking up at her expectantly. She rattles off her number and you write it down before asking, "And your name?"

"He knows it," she tells you, heading for the elevator. Then she pauses and thinks better of her answer. "It's Kali."

You scribble her name and make a show of clicking your pen before putting everything back in your bag. "I'll be sure he gets it."

Kali nods, taps the button for the elevator, and the doors slide open. She steps inside and looks at you once more.

"He's not gonna call, is he?"

You actually feel pity for a second and regretfully shake your head. "Probably not."

Her face falls and she taps the button for the lobby before giving you one more brave smile and little wave, then she's gone.

"Mr. Castillo? So formal."

You spin around as Harry is strolling down his hallway, clad in only a towel tied loosely around his waist. You swallow and force yourself to look away from his smooth, tan chest dotted with specks of water.

Your faux professionalism instantly slips. "Stop calling me over here to kick these girls out, Harry," you scold before sliding onto a barstool at his kitchen counter.

"I'd be hopeless without you, Sunshine," he coos as he waltzes by with a wink. You ignore the flutter in your chest and instead, set down your tote next to you while he opens his fridge and pulls out a glass pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice.

"Want some?" he asks, holding it up. You shake your head and he turns to grab a glass from his cupboard.

"I didn't ask you to come just for that. I really do have a meeting at eight."

"On a Saturday?" you ask, parroting Kali from ten minutes prior.

He puts the pitcher back into the fridge and nods. "Family meeting. Last minute."

"That doesn't sound good," you mutter. Now that his back is to you, you allow yourself to dreamily admire the strong muscles framing his shoulders all the way down to the dip of his spine.

"It's about Peter's wedding."

Oh. You should have figured. It was coming up soon.

"If you're looking for a date, I have Kali's number." You pull your padfolio back out and rip out the page, sliding it across the smooth wood counter. Harry takes a sip from his glass and stares at the paper before his gaze slips back up to you.

"You don't wanna go with me?"

You roll your eyes as heat slowly burns your cheeks. He does this all the time and it's part of the reason you can't seem to let your fixation go. He flirts with you, knowing it's just a joke, but you can't stop replaying those moments when you're all alone with a goofy smile on your face.

"I promised her I would pass it along," you tell him softly. He nods once, tosses back the rest of the juice, and puts his glass in the sink.

"I'll be ready in twenty."

You sigh and watch him leave, knowing full well that paper will get discarded when his housekeeper comes on Monday. If logic had any say in matters of the heart, you never would have allowed yourself to fall for Harry because despite how you constantly yearn for him, your brain knows better: Harry Castillo will never, ever settle down with one woman.

---

"Harry, I don't know what's worse: my eldest son arriving to his brother's wedding with a hussy, or single."

You smile to yourself and drop your chin to your chest so nobody sees. Harry's mom, Eleanor, is a trip. Smart as whip and just as sharp as day one, despite her age. You figure she had to be, coming from a family of all men.

"I assume a hussy would be worse but I suppose we could find out," Harry smirks from his side of the table. The office is quiet except for the four family members, Peter's fiancée Charlotte, and yourself. Typically Peter's assistant, Clara, would be in attendance, but he actually allows her to have the weekends off, so it's up to you this time to make everyone coffee and tea.

"That is not funny," Eleanor says firmly from the head of the table.

"Your mother is concerned about you," Harry's father says from the next chair. "We don't want to go to our graves worried our son hasn't found his path at fifty years old."

"Jesus," he balks, then looks at Peter. "Help me out, here."

Peter sighs and lets go of Charlotte's hand. "They're being dramatic but they have a point."

Harry's gaze darts between three sets of eyes, searching for some type of sign this was all a big joke.

"Are you being serious? I thought this meeting was about the wedding — why does it feel like an intervention?"

"It's not an intervention. More like a wake-up call," their father says. "We want you to find someone who can make you whole. Who can be by your side when you're weakest. Laugh with you when you're happiest. Care for you when you're sick and make you a better man. Like your mother does for me and how Charlotte does for Peter."

Harry exchanges looks with Peter, who drops his gaze to the table, then Harry sits back in his chair in disbelief.

"I have a path," he begins to say defensively. Eleanor shakes her head.

"Professionally? Yes, you do. Privately? You're a mess."

"That's harsh," Harry mumbles while fidgeting with a pen left on the table.

"What's harsh about your family wanting you to be happy?" Eleanor picks up her teacup and takes a sip.

"I am happy."

Their father scoffs and Harry shoots him a look.

"I am much happier than I would be dating some socialite. I've tried and trust me, the girls you're expecting me to marry are boring and either are functioning alcoholics or suffering from undiagnosed depression."

"We never said date socialites. Just stop dating floozies. Settle down with a nice girl. We don't care who she is or what she does for a living, so long as it's respectable. Maybe contact the matchmaking service Peter used," his father says.

"They're miracle workers," Charlotte gushes. "In fact, I'll introduce you to Lucy at the wedding."

Peter's gaze is still fixed firmly on the cup of coffee in front of him, avoiding Harry entirely.

Harry groans and drags his palms roughly down his face.

"Fine. I will... consider it."

Later, after Harry ushers you into his car where his driver was waiting at the curb, he turns to you in shock.

"That was an ambush."

You shrug. "Yeah. Probably."

Something sits heavy in your gut. It's fine seeing Harry with other women because you know they don't mean anything. It took you a while to accept it, but you finally got there because you convinced yourself he would never settle down. What if he takes his family's advice and actually finds love, gets married, and starts a family? Your heart wouldn't be able to take it. You would have to quit and move out of the city. Maybe get a lobotomy so you can forget he ever existed.

"It's bullshit," he mutters, propping his elbow up onto the armrest. He stares out the window, lost in thought. You glance sideways at him, a question rolling around in your head you don't know if you can handle the answer to. And yet—

"Why don't you want to get married?"

He tilts his head back in your direction. The way his soft brown eyes pierce through you has your mind going blank for a second.

"Do you really want to know why?"

You find yourself nodding and holding your breath. You hate how effortlessly good he looks in just a black sweater and dark grey slacks. He even still smells good from his shower and it's not the first time you find yourself fantasizing about what he looks like, all soapy and wet, and you wonder if he's the type that wouldn't mind if you slipped into the shower with him, or if he preferred to just take care of business, undisturbed.

"I don't think I'm capable of it."

His words feel like a hammer to your head. It knocks you back to reality.

"Capable of... marriage?"

He shakes his head. "Capable of love."

You frown and try to come up with something supportive to say while he stares at you, waiting.

"Harry—"

"You want some coffee?" He leans forward in his seat without waiting for your answer. "Lou? Can we stop at Starbucks?"

"Sure thing, boss."

"Harry, you are capable of love," you say, bringing his focus back onto you. "Look at your family. Your friends. You love them and they love you."

"That's a different type of love and you know it," he chides, clicking his tongue against his teeth like he caught you in a lie.

You swallow the lump in your throat and your gaze flickers nervously to the review mirror before lowering your voice.

"Is it because of..."

You trail off and point wordlessly at his legs, referring to the surgery he had eight years ago to make himself taller. Something he rarely talks about and you suspect he keeps hidden from most of the women he brings home. He follows your finger and his shoulders stiffen briefly before he sniffs and waves you off.

"Without that, no woman would look my way twice, so my chances at finding love without it would be damn near impossible."

"That's not true."

Harry laughs dryly and turns to look out the window again.

"Yeah, right. You're telling me you'd date a guy who was five six?"

"Yes," you say quickly. Too quickly. He swings his head back around to you. "When you love someone, you don't care about things like that," you add.

You didn't know Harry before his surgery, but you knew him before he gained his confidence from it, and you loved him anyway. And somehow you still managed to love him, regardless of all the women he's since fucked to boost his ego.

Harry smiles and pats your knee. "Not every woman is as perfect as you, Sunshine."

"Perfect is a stretch," you say, eyes stuck on his hand, which still casually cups your knee as he stares out the window. The car falls silent, with Harry lost in thought and you trying not to move a muscle for fear he will remember his hand on your knee and remove it.

"Maybe I'm overthinking it."

You frown and murmur, "Huh?"

He turns back to you with a shrug. "Peter says it's not love at first sight, like the movies," he begins, fingers still curled around your knee. It's hard to stay focused on his voice when his touch feels like it's burning an imprint into your skin.

"What's it like, then?"

What you've been looking for has been right in front of your face all along, maybe? you think to yourself.

"He says it's like a business deal," Harry tells you, deflating what little hope you have. "It's like finding someone who has the same understanding as you. Someone who wants the same things. Someone you can tolerate enough to spend every day together."

"That sounds kind of depressing." The words fly out of your mouth before you can stop them. He gives you a little smirk, one that always sends your pulse skipping.

"Why? Are you looking to be swept off your feet?" You roll your eyes at his teasing tone and he gives your knee a little squeeze. Naturally, you give the gesture some meaning. So he didn't forget it was still there.

"Bare minimum? I'm looking for someone to love me. I don't want someone to just tolerate me."

Harry laughs and his hand slips back into his lap. "I'm not explaining it correctly."

"It sounds like you're saying Peter doesn't really love Charlotte," you say with an arched brow. For a second, you think you sound crazy, but then Harry surprises you.

"He cares for her deeply and believes that they share the same values and goals. I don't think it's a bad deal for either of them."

He cares for her, you repeat in your head, noticing how Harry didn't mention the word love, and suddenly those looks the brothers were exchanging in the conference room make sense. You take a deep breath and shift away from him to look out your own window. It isn't a shock to hear his take on love. You've known him a long time and he's never been in a serious relationship. But some foolish part of you still holds out hope that maybe one day, his feelings will change. You just pray you don't get yourself hurt in the process.

"Are you mad at me?" Harry asks after a few minutes of quiet. You scoff and glance at him.

"Why would I be mad at you?"

He has a playful grin on his face when he scoots an inch closer and raises his arm to rest on the top of your seat.

"You're quiet. You don't agree with my thoughts on marriage and it's bothering you." It sounds like he's teasing you again and it gets under your skin.

"You're partially right," you say, unbuckling your seatbelt as Lou pulls up to the curb. "I don't agree with you, but it's not bothering me. What do you want to drink?"

His gaze drifts up and down, studying your face, trying to see through your lie while you wait patiently for an answer.

"That americano I like, please," he finally says, sitting back to watch you slide out of the car. His eyes track you through the tinted windows as he mulls over what you said. Something isn't right, but he can't pinpoint what it is. Yet.

---

Why the fuck did you have to fall madly in love with the most difficult man on earth? If kicking his one night stands out of his apartment weren't enough of a hint that this man was never going to be an option, he practically spelled it out for you in the car: marriage is a transaction, love isn't on the table.

Getting some space inside the Starbucks helps. The rich aroma of espresso beans mixed with the low hum of a blender and soft indie music instantly relaxes you. Or maybe it's just breathing room from your incredibly infuriating yet devastatingly handsome boss.

Glancing around, you realize you arrived at the perfect time. You must have missed the late morning rush because there are only two tables filled and nobody in line. Then again, most people probably have better things to do on a beautiful Saturday in New York City than sit inside a Starbucks.

"I can help you whenever you're ready."

Your gaze locks onto a very cute guy behind the counter — Brian, according to his name tag. He has a dazzling smile that has one of your own pulling at the corners of your mouth.

"Sorry, I'm ready," you say. You reach inside your tote for Harry's credit card, using the moment to mentally commit the way his light brown stubble dusts along the sharp cut of his jaw.

"Oh — I'm reading that, too. How do you like it so far?" he asks, and it's only then you realize as you were digging for Harry's card, you pulled out your copy of Station Eleven. You glance at the book before shyly grinning at him across the counter.

"I haven't started it yet, but I heard it's incredible," you say sheepishly before shoving the book back in your bag. You bought it months ago and you carry it around like one of these days you may actually have the time to crack it open.

"It is. It's got me hooked," Brian says with a laugh. His eyes scan your face, pausing a moment before clearing his throat and looking down at his register.

The silence feels heavy as you scramble for something else to say, but unfortunately you barely even remember the premise of the damn novel, so your mind is blank. That is, until you remember why you're there.

"Oh, uh — can I get a venti americano with an extra shot and two pumps of vanilla?" The tips of his ears look hot as he punches your order into the computer. You smile to yourself as you swipe Harry's card through the reader and the heat begins to rise to your own face — it's not every day you make a cute guy blush.

"What's your name?" he asks, glancing up at you with a boyish grin.

You tell him with a giggle and ask him in return, "Do you live around here?" It's not until you see the marker in his hand that you realize he's asking your name for the order and it's not an attempt to get to know you. The smile slips from your face. Oh, you fucking idiot.

"Lower East Side," he says easily, putting you out of your misery. "How about you? You probably live in one of these fancy high rises, don't you?"

It makes you laugh and leaves you a little flustered. "N-No. Brooklyn. But, like, just over the bridge, so I'm not far. You can hear the expressway from my bedroom."

"Very cool. Yeah, I have a buddy who lives not too far from Pebble Beach." He scribbles Harry's order onto the paper cup and shifts to the espresso machine. You drift to the left like a magnet, following him on the other side of the counter as he works. "I was actually looking to move in with him about two years back but then he had to go and get a girlfriend," he tells you with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. You giggle again and he looks up at you through his lashes while the espresso pours. "You have a pretty laugh."

Your face burns but you can't stop smiling. "T-Thank you. So, uh..." You glance around, noticing an older couple walking in. Luckily they stay back to read the menu, giving you a few more minutes with your handsome barista.

You swallow nervously and turn back to Brian just as he's filling the rest of the cup with steaming hot water. "So, where did you end up finding a place? With your girlfriend or maybe another friend...?"

It's unlike you to be so bold. In fact, you haven't been on a date in ages, but the timing this morning seems to work: after your conversation with Harry, you just feel like flirting a little. See who else is out there.

He grins at your less-than-subtle attempt at asking if he was taken.

"Nope. No girlfriend. Just my little brother."

He passes you the tall cup and you take it with a quiet thanks.

"Hey, if you ever get around to reading that book, come back and let me know what you think." Brian points to your bag and you look down in surprise, like you forgot you were holding it.

"Yeah. Yeah, I will."

"Excuse me?" The older man waves Brian down from the register and Brian gives him a friendly nod.

"Be right with you," he calls, then looks at you once more. His eyes sparkle and you're pretty sure he hasn't stopped smiling since you walked in. "Enjoy the coffee. It was great talking to you."

And just like that, he disappears to help the next customers. Oh, well. It would be stupid to try and date when you know where your heart really lies — right outside in his sleek black car, waiting for you at the curb.

Your feet feel heavy as you leave. You wish you could let this stupid fantasy go, but you just can't. Some days it feels like your soul is tied to Harry's and there's nothing you can do about it.

When you open the car door, he's on the phone. You slide in beside him, passing over his coffee as he mouths the word thanks and gives you a smile that has your chest pulling tight. As cute as Brian was, as nice as Brian was, nothing beats that spark you feel when you're with Harry.

It's infuriating and you love it.

While Harry finishes his conversation, you pull out your copy of Station Eleven and open it to the first page. He's talking about some art gallery opening in Chelsea — it sounds like the artist may be his buddy's daughter. You tune it out and begin to read while Lou merges back into traffic, carrying you both through the congested city. The tourists visiting for the weekend have woken up and it's slow going.

A few minutes later, Harry says his goodbyes and hangs up, and for a moment, the car is silent. Your eyes are still glued to your book, trying to ignore the way his thighs spread open next to you as he sips his coffee.

"You didn't want anything?" he asks after a several minutes of quiet. You shake your head, eyes already losing focus on the words.

"I was kind of hoping we were done for today and I might be able to take a nap," you say, "caffeine wouldn't exactly help."

He pauses next to you. You feel his heavy gaze on the side of your face and the words on the page are now a blur.

"Yeah. We're all set for today. Lou? Let's head towards Brooklyn." Lou nods but you're lost in the way Harry speaks. His voice sounds different. Tight. You soon find out why.

"Who's Brian?"

The book is a lost cause. Your eyes dart up to his dark ones in surprise, lips parted like you were about to ask the question he was already answering — he's holding up his cup, where Brian had scribbled his number on the side with his name and a smiley face. Heat starts to rise to your cheeks.

"O-oh," you stammer before clearing your throat. "He was the barista."

"I gathered," Harry says dryly, then takes a long sip from the cup. You fixate on the way his plush bottom lip curves around the lid, the way the tip of his angular nose bumps against the plastic, and you find your mind drifting, wondering if that's how he looks when he kisses.

"He makes a good coffee. You gonna call him?"

You blink slowly. Why did you feel guilty? And why did he sound a little jealous?

No, he isn't jealous. You're just wishing he is.

"Uh, I don't know. Maybe," you lie as you put the book back in your tote, looking for any excuse to avert your gaze from the way Harry is staring at you. Studying you.

A long silence stretches after that. It's not the usual quiet that settles. It feels tense, like something between you had pulled tight. It has your mind racing, wondering and hoping you were wrong, that maybe he does feel jealous. Or possessive. Or, hell, feels fucking anything at the idea of you going on a date with someone.

After enough time passed with your head turned towards the window, you decide he must have picked up his phone to busy himself, that he wasn't sitting next to you stewing in his thoughts like you can't seem to stop doing.

Then—

"I didn't realize you were looking to date."

The statement sucks the air from your lungs. You swivel your head to look at him, eyebrows raised, but he's staring down at the cup in his hands, at the numbers scrawled in thick, black ink.

"Yeah. Maybe," you finally breathe. He nods, just once, then it's quiet again. What did that mean?

You can't help yourself. You have to ask.

"Why does it matter?"

He shrugs. The corners of his mouth turn down with the movement before locking eyes with you again.

"It doesn't." Then a beat passes. "You've never talked about dating anyone before."

You shift in your seat and his knee knocks against yours, making your pulse stutter when he doesn't make a move to pull it away. Just like his hand from earlier. Just like all the touches before that tethered you to him.

Maybe it's one sided, maybe it's not, but the moment feels too heavy. So you opt for a joke.

"Well, my job is very demanding, Mr. Castillo. I don't have a lot of free time to date."

You grin at him, hoping to lighten the mood or end the conversation — anything to stop your heart from beating out of your chest like it is right now.

His eyes flicker from your knee to your face, then back again once more. Your breath stalls when he twists to face you, one arm reaching to rest behind your seat. His knee still presses against yours and it feels like he's slowly enveloping you in the backseat of his car. His other hand lifts and you swear it looks like he's about to place it on your thigh, but at the last second it lands innocently across his lap.

"Are you saying it's my fault you don't date?"

You swallow tightly. The air feels thin. The way he's looking at you, his proximity, the low timber of his voice inches away from your ear has a slow tingle moving down your spine. And somehow, you manage to answer.

"You could say that."

You don't smile and neither does he. Does he see right through you? Is it all in your head?

Stop it. He flirts, that's what he does. It doesn't mean anything.

And yet, you feel something, and you're pretty sure he can feel it, too. Something shifts, like a rock was lifted and sunlight streaked across the earth for the first time underneath it. Light is shone onto something you have tried very hard to keep buried and it has your hands trembling under his heavy gaze. He scans your face silently, searching, waiting for you to say more, but you don't.

Mercifully, his phone rings and breaks the spell. His arm behind your head retreats and he looks down at his phone before answering. You turn to stare blankly out the window, at the water as you cruise over the bridge, and you exhale shakily through your nose.

When Lou reaches your apartment, Harry is still on the phone. With Peter, it sounds like. He covers the mouthpiece and tilts the phone away so he can address you.

"Thanks for coming in last minute. Enjoy the rest of your weekend. I promise I won't bother you."

He's back to giving you a teasing smirk and things feel normal again. You grin as you step out of the car, then bend down to look at him.

"I'll believe that when I see it."

He laughs, shakes his head, and leans back in his seat. You shut the door and head up to your apartment, where your roommate is sprawled out on the couch, watching television, still in her pajamas and looking hungover.

"I didn't even know you were gone."

You laugh and kick your shoes off.

"Good to know if I'm ever kidnapped, you'll be the first to my rescue."

You manage to take a short nap, grocery shop, and do some laundry with the rest of your day. And just like usual, your thoughts are mostly consumed with Harry: overanalyzing every word and look until the sun dipped and the moon shines brightly in the sky.

It's around eleven when your phone chirps with a new text. And just like any other time when his name appears on your phone, your heart leaps excitedly in your chest.

Harry: I forgot to take a picture of that guy's number for you and I tossed the cup somewhere on Hudson. Sorry, Sunshine.

You had forgotten all about it. Brian didn't cross your mind since you left Harry's car that morning.

You: it's okay. don't worry about it.

Three little dots appear and disappear repeatedly. You watch and chew anxiously on your nail as you wait almost five minutes for him to say whatever it was he had to say. The amount of time it takes has you thinking he's either sending you a novel or he is very, very distracted.

Or maybe he can't decide on what to say.

Finally, his text comes through and it's simple. Two words.

Harry: good night

You exhale slowly, trying to calm your racing heart, then type out the same reply before plugging in your phone.

It's funny, in the bakery, how you notice some customers more than others. It might be the busiest part of your Saturday afternoon rush, long line of customers, juggling questions from patrons about allergies, orders, requests and that really tasty treat their great aunt baked for them back in 1983 with cinnamon, could you make that please? For tomorrow?

But when the well dressed man stepped inside, you noticed, immediately.

He didn't make a scene, didn't even say anything, and his clothes were understated, muted colours and soft fabrics, but still; you noticed him, and how warm the colour of his eyes was as he smiled at you.

And ordinarily you wouldn't remember his order either, not from a customer who just came in once and bought two of your individual lemon meringue tarts. Just a guy buying a nice dessert for a date.

But when he came back a month later, you noticed him entering again, and you remembered exactly what he'd ordered.

"Hi, what can I get you?" you ask, smiling at him as he comes up to the counter, "The lemon meringue tarts, or something new this time?"

Those warm brown eyes widen in surprise first, and then he smiles back at you, "I'm impressed. Do you remember everyone's orders?"

"No, but I was extra proud of those tarts, and I remember thinking that I hoped you and your date enjoyed them," you reply, "Were they a success?"

He gives a small chuckle, shrugging, "Yeah, the tarts were great, but the date was a bust."

"I'm sorry," you say, wondering what woman would turn down a man with eyes like his. They're the same warm colour of the chocolate you melt into your ganache almost every day, a rich, dark brown that distracts you for a few moments as he smiles, "So, no second date, what can I get you instead?"

He looks almost embarrassed, and shrugs again, looking down at his hands before he glances over at the display case.

"I've actually got a new date tonight. She's making me dinner and told me to bring dessert, so; here I am."

"So you need my dessert to guarantee you a second date?" you joke, and he laughs.

"If you can guarantee that, I'll pay double."

"Might be a tough order to fill, but these passion fruit mousse cups are sure to help," you say, pointing to two delicate cups filled with a pale mousse, decorated with fresh raspberries and a dusting of powdered sugar, "The secret is the sweet caramel in the bottom."

"You have a deal," he nods, pulling out his phone, "I'll take both."

"Excellent choice, and come back and let me know how it went. I'll add it to my marketing if you got a second date."

He smiles again, tapping to pay while you pack up the dessert.

"Have a great date," you say, and he gives you a wave, still smiling as he leaves, the fine lines around his warm eyes crinkling as he does.

"Thanks, and thanks for the help."

He comes back again the very next Saturday, patiently waiting in line towards the end of the day. He's wearing a suit this time, a sharp cut model across his wide shoulders, and the curls around his ears are shorter this time, like he just had them cut. They still look silky soft to the touch, and you have to drag your eyes from them as he steps up to the counter.

"Hi," you greet him with a warm smile as you run your hands over your apron, dusting it off, "Welcome back, did you get a second date?"

He chuckles, and nods, "Yeah, actually. I've got a second date tonight, and this time I'm cooking."

"Was it the passion fruit dessert?" you ask, biting the back a twinge of disappointment, "I told you they were good."

"Might've been the dessert," he smiles, "It was stellar, really world class. I'm sure she was impressed by my impeccable dessert picking skills."

"So now you need to out do it?" you laugh, "How am I supposed to top myself?"

"I've only had two of your desserts, and both have been better than anything I've ever tasted," he says, smiling as you feel your cheeks heat up under his praise, "I'm in your hands, anything you recommend."

"Well, at least now you have a second date, less pressure on me," you joke, "It's all up to you now."

"Don't remind me," he grimaces, but he's smiling too, "First dates seem to be easy, it's all the ones afterwards where things get complicated."

"So we need a sure thing here?" you ask, looking at your selection, "How about we bring in the big guns? My absolute favourite?"

You point to the pudding cups on one of the shelves, "It requires a little bit of assembly from you, but I'm thinking that might impress her even further, what do you think?"

He tilts his head and crouches down to take a closer look, "Chocolate mousse?" he asks and you shake your head proudly.

"No, and that's part of the secret. It's chocolate pudding. So much richer, smoother and more indulgent than mousse. And they come with some candied almonds, preserved cherries and whipped amaretto cream. It's the most decadent dessert, and the perfect balance of textures and flavours."

"Sold," he says with a groan that makes your stomach flip, "It sounds incredible."

"Might even get you to fou-"

You bite your tongue before you finish the sentence, but you hear a chuckle from your handsome customer as you quickly bend down to retrieve the desserts. Covering up for the giant foot in your mouth, you spend extra time with your back to him, packing up the cups, the almonds, cherries and the double cream.

"There," you say, putting the take away bag on the counter without looking at him, hoping he can't feel the heat radiating from your cheeks, and tapping in the total in the machine. A mischievous smile is still making his lips curl up as he taps his phone to pay, you see it as you glance up, and it makes you grab a cloth and furiously begin wiping the counter as he continues to smile.

"Have a good night," he says, "Thanks again for the dessert advice."

"Bye," is the only reply you give, and when the door jingles shut, you bury your face in your hands. Never mind that he's the most handsome customer you've had in a long time, you had to go and put your foot in your mouth and suggest that he should have sex with his date.

Very professional.

Also not very professional to have a crush on your clearly not single customer.

He comes back the very next Saturday, a bit before the afternoon rush, and this time he's in a soft looking navy sweater that stretches across his shoulders even more than the previous week's suit. The sight makes you weak, slightly unsteady even, and you force air in through your nose.

Smiling when he reaches the counter, he taps the wood and grins.

"You're a genius, that was the best dessert I've ever had, and Camilla loved it too."

Camilla

Your least favourite name in the world from this moment on you realise, as an ugly feeling sinks to the pit of your stomach. You almost grimace, but school your face just in time as he gives you the look of a love sick puppy, all warm brown eyes and soft smile.

"She said it was delicious, really tasty."

"I'm so glad," you say, forcing a customer service smile to your face that doesn't reach your eyes, regretting your stupid decision to sell him that dessert. Should've sold him something bland, not that you have anything bland in your bakery.

"So what does Camilla want for dessert tonight?" you ask, the back of your jaw tight as you try to not fill the name with venom, but he frowns, just for a split second.

In all honesty, you don't even know his name, so why should you be jealous of this unknown woman? But the tone of your voice clearly said something else, and you bite back on the resentment that filled you at the thought of him with another woman.

"Well…" he replies, suddenly looking a bit shy, coy even, as he looks over your selection, "I said I'd get those chocolate mousse cups again, and-"

"Pudding," you cut him off, and he looks up at you.

"Pudding?"

"It's chocolate pudding, not mousse. That's part of why they're so good," you say, and it comes out harsher than you intend.

"Ok, chocolate pudding. I'll have two of those. And then four croissants, for tomorrow morning."

You've done it now, you see it. Your tone snapped, even though you tried to force down the green eyed monster.

And he's stiffer when he replies, the smile slipping from his face as he clearly catches on, just a regular customer now, and he doesn't say anything else when you pack up the pudding cups, the almonds, cherries, and cream. And the four croissants.

For tomorrow morning. After he and Camilla….

"46.98. Please," you say, cutting off your train of thought.

He taps to pay.

"Have a nice night."

And leaves.

He doesn't come back after that. Not for a couple of months. You guess he and Camilla are a thing now. The thought crosses your mind as you make another batch of the chocolate pudding. It's become a staple at the bakery, it turns out not only people trying to have successful dates like it. You don't enjoy it as much these days though, the uncomfortable memory of your handsome customer still sits attached to the flavour.

So it's with mixed feelings you look up when the door bell jingles late on a Saturday afternoon and spot him walking into the bakery again. Tampering down the warmth that spreads through your chest at the sight of him, you remind yourself that he's not single, and you have no business pining after a taken customer. Especially not one who clearly has money to spend on some of your most expensive desserts. Good business is good business after all.

But it's hard to not let your eyes linger over him as he waits in line, the way he stands with a simple confidence, a hand on one hip as he looks out through the big shop front window with a blank face. His hair is longer now. Not unkempt, just not recently trimmed like last time, and he's in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. He might even look a little bit tired, but he still smiles when he comes up to the counter, the lines around his eyes are deeper today.

"Hi, welcome back," you greet him, and you can't help the smile that you give him in return. He's still as handsome as before, and when his eyes soften and smile widens, you feel your resolve to be indifferent melt away.

"Hi," he says, "You still remember me?" His greeting is paired with a crooked smile as he makes an apologetic sound, clearing his throat, "It's been a while."

"I thought maybe the dessert was a flop," you reply, "Did I accidentally add salt instead of sugar?"

He chuckles a little at that, but shakes his head, "No, your dessert was perfect as always, I just…"

The pause is long as he shifts on his feet and looks down at the counter for a second, a slight hesitation in him before he continues.

"I just…haven't been buying desserts lately."

You wait for him to continue, as someone behind him clears their throat, impatient.

"Sorry, I'm holding up the line," he says, glancing over his shoulder as he straightens up, "What do you recommend today?"

"What are you in the mood for?" you ask, ignoring the rude customer stomping behind him.

"Something…simple," he replies, "Like something you'd serve your grandmother," the last thing he says with a breath of self-conscious laughter, "I just really loved the Victoria sponge cake she used to make."

You smile at him, "Victoria sponge is a classic for a reason, it's one of my favourites too."

His eyes are making you feel warm as the corners of them crinkle, and he puts his palms on the counter and leans forward, his body relaxing and coming a little bit closer to you.

"I knew you wouldn't judge me," he returns your smile, "I bet you make really good Victoria sponge too, everything of yours that I've tasted has been incredible."

You know you're a great baker, but his compliment still makes your cheeks heat up as you try to stop yourself from grinning too widely.

"Thanks, it's all about the ingredients, and finding a balance. Cakes like the Victoria seem simple, but if you don't get the balance right it will just be bland jam wedged between dry slices of cake."

"I love hearing you talk about your desserts," he replies, ignoring the shuffle of the waiting man behind him, "You're really passionate about it, I like that and-"

"Excuse me, can we skip the flirting, man? I'm on the clock here."

The man waiting seems to have run out of patience, and now he huffs, shuffling as he tries to push up to the counter.

You frown at him, opening your mouth to retort, but the handsome man shakes his head, ignoring the other one with barely a glance over his shoulder.

"Do you have any Victoria sponge?" he asks, and you have to shake your head, apologising.

"No, sorry, I don't have any today. But a coffee cake maybe? I have a really nice apple and cinnamon coffee cake with walnut crumble. It was my granny's favourite."

He nods slowly as he seems to think about the offer, and then pulls out his phone, "Sounds great, I'll have that."

Later, when you're cleaning up the kitchen, the thought of him comes back to you as you go through the tedious job of organizing all the clean dishes. The way he'd said that he hadn't been buying dessert lately; such an odd way of phrasing it. He hadn't been buying desserts from you, but why say he hadn't been buying desserts at all?

'Maybe Camilla is on a diet," you say out loud to the empty kitchen, snorting as you picture the woman who you dislike even though you've never met her. You give her a haughty look, the kind you sometimes get from bridezillas when you deliver their wedding cakes. Pinched, constricted and possibly constipated.

"Did you say something?"

The high schooler who's been cleaning the front of the bakery puts their head around the door frame, and you shake your head.

"Just thinking out loud."

The handsome dessert buying customer comes back a couple of weeks later, and you have to admit to yourself that seeing him makes your heart jump a little. Especially as this time he smiles at you as he steps inside. The shop is having a bit of a lull, and it gives you an unrestricted view of him as he closes the door. The dark brown curls are neater this week, trimmed around his ears and pushed back from his forehead.

"You got a haircut," you say as he comes up to the counter, and he grins, reaching up and carefully patting his hair.

"You sure pay attention to the details," he laughs, "Yeah, just this morning."

"It looks good, the curls suit you."

"Thanks," he smiles back, "I needed a clean up, I've got a date tonight."

Your stomach sinks, and you fight to keep the smile in place on your face, but you're sure he sees it slip for a second.

"Camilla, right?" you ask, just to have something to say as you try to not break the edge of the counter with how hard you're gripping it.

He looks surprised at first, then shakes his head, "No, no, that didn't work out. But I…uuh…got set up on a blind date, need to…get out there again. So I'm cooking for her tonight."

He shrugs, almost an embarrassed look on his face as he says it.

"Good for you," you reply, but you don't mean it, and you can hear the edge in your voice. He doesn't seem to notice it though. He's glancing over the display case, nodding at the chocolate pudding cups.

"Can I have two of the chocolate puddings? They were really great. And four croissants."

"Sure, coming right up," you say, and slide the glass door open. You want to say something, comment on his choice of dessert, but all you can think of is that he's buying four croissants too. Which means he's planning on letting his date spend the night. Croissants are for breakfast after all.

Neither of you fill the silence as you pack up his order and ring it up. It feels uncomfortable, and you want to say something, get back to that easy back and forth from his previous visit. But nothing comes to you, and he taps his phone to pay.

"Thanks, have a good night."

"Yeah, thanks, same to you, have a good date," you say finally, and he nods, just a small smile in return.

The high school kid jumps when you stomp into the kitchen as the front door closes.

"Please, can you handle the till for a while, I need some air."

They nod, and bee line to the front of the bakery as you make your way to the back door, sinking down on the small staircase.

You haven't even asked his name, he's a complete stranger, except that he's not. Or at least he doesn't feel like one. But except for his taste in desserts and expensive looking clothes, you know nothing about him. And yet the very idea of him having a date, a date that's not with you, where he'll serve your dessert, and feed her your croissants the next morning, fills you with nausea and jealousy.

Stomping your feet again, you march back into the kitchen and pull out ingredients for a brioche dough, slamming the ingredients together and forgoing the mixer for your own hands. When the high school kid looks into the kitchen again they've got a worried look on their face.

"You ok? You're kinda…grunting a lot."

Huffing, you slam the dough into the table again.

"Yeah, just seeing if this dough is better worked by hand," you lie and take a break, stepping back to glare at the dough. In reality, you're trying to not see his face as you punch your fists into it. The kid shrugs, and gives you another concerned look before the jingle of the bell pulls them back to the front of the bakery.

Stupid man, stupid desserts.

It takes you another fifteen minutes of kneading to work out whatever he ignites in your system, but eventually you give in and leave the dough to rest overnight. The only conclusion you've come to is that you won't be working front of house next Saturday.

Which is good, because he does come in the next Saturday, and he buys another dessert, and four croissants, from your high schooler while you hide in the back.

And then he comes again next Saturday, for more dessert and croissants. But this time he buys four pain au chocolate too, and through the bakery door you hear a woman tell him it's her favorite and she can't wait to try one 'when we get home'.

You can't help yourself. Slowly backing up, and holding on to the bowl you're mixing spices in, you glance through the door and catch a glimpse of them.

He's standing by the counter, getting ready to pay, as the woman he's with is looking at some of your more elaborate cakes on display. The dark green sweater on him looks both expensive and soft as feathers, but it stretches over his wide shoulders, tight around his biceps. His curls are a little bit longer now, and rumpled by the wind outside. With an absentminded smile at his date, he reaches up and pushes them back, and then he spots you.

Your face must be telling him something, because you lock eyes, and a grimace flashes over his face, or you think it's a grimace, he almost looks embarrassed for a split second, and you can't even move as he keeps looking at you. His eyes are the most beautiful shade of brown you've ever seen, and it's not like you haven't seen them before and noticed them, but now…the way the light catches them as he glances down at his hands, and then up at you again, the tiniest frown creasing his brow.

Why doesn't he look away?

"Excuse me, sir? That'll be $68.98."

"Harry, honey, you need to pay," the woman says, snaking her arm around his, and you jump back out of sight, almost dropping the bowl.

If he replies, you don't hear it over the pounding of your heart as you set the bowl down on the large kitchen counter. Your hands are trembling, and you take a deep breath. Heat is coursing through your limbs, your knees actually feel weak, like you're a damsel in a romance novel, and the image of the way his lips pulled up in a smile, just before she tucked her arm into his, burns your cheeks.

Closing your eyes, you take another deep breath and listen to the door close behind him. And the woman he was with.

Another date.

Someone he's been with long enough to bring here, to pick up things for 'when we get home'.

Whatever you imagined when he looked at you, it was just that; imagination.

Most Saturdays he doesn't come in after that. Just now and then, buying four pain au chocolate, but you make sure you never serve him. In fact, you hardly ever work front of house on Saturdays now. You just hear him come in, his voice so recognisable as he asks for the pastries. The tone of it makes you stop in your tracks every time, listening to hear if he's brought her with him again, or if he buys something different. But for weeks that's all he buys, pain au chocolate.

In your mind you see him and the woman tucked up in bed, feasting on them every Sunday morning, and you consider taking them off the menu. Make him buy her the damn pastries at another bakery.

But you don't. They stay on the menu. And so does Harry.

Weeks pass, and still even a glimpse of him makes you jump back into the kitchen. And you know he sees you, you just can't bring yourself to speak to him. How many words have you said to him in total? Barely a conversation to fill a napkin if you were to scribble it down. And yet, every glimpse of him reminds you of how his eyes soften when he smiles, the curls around his ears, the way every sweater seems to stretch across his shoulders, like he's buying them a size too small just to taunt you.

"Pain au chocolate guy wants to order an engagement cake."

The high school kid has stuck their head around the corner of the door, their eyebrows rising in surprise at the panicked look on your face.

"P-pain au chocolate guy?" you stutter, and they nod.

"Yeah, the rich guy who comes in and buys only pain au chocolate on Saturdays. He said he needs to talk to the baker about an engagement cake."

"Uuuhhh…" you stall, glancing around the kitchen as you beat back the panic in your chest, "Ok, send him in."

Fuck

You shake out your hands and quickly dry them on a towel before smoothing down your hair. The pulse of your heart beat must be showing on your neck, you can feel it beating as you hear Harry's shoes scuff over the floor of the bakery.

"Hi."

His voice is the same warm tone as always, and he's holding out his hand like you've never met, "I realised I never introduced myself properly all the other times I stopped by. I'm Harry Castillo."

"H-Hi Harry," you stutter out, "Engagement cake?"

You dive right in, small talk is the last thing you want with this man, especially not if he's going to gush about his…fuck…

Fiance.

Harry nods, and pulls out his phone, "Yeah, I've got some notes, but it's a surprise for Amanda so I couldn't ask her what she'd prefer."

There's another name you'll detest; Amanda.

"Yeah, ok," you reply, grabbing your notepad, "Tell me what you've got."

"So, I know she likes chocolate, and pain au chocolate. And…" he pauses and grimaces, "And that's it."

"I can work with just chocolate," you reply, keeping your eyes on the notepad, "Any colour preference? Decorations like flowers or patterns?"

"Ah…I'm…I'm not sure actually…" he hesitates, ending with a huffed sound that could be an embarrassed chuckle, and you glance up at him.

"I should know right?" he says, and his face is apologetic, like he's apologising to you for not knowing his soon-to-be-fiances cake preference.

"Why don't I just work with what you like? Like a version of a Victoria sponge cake maybe? I can do that with chocolate filling."

"You remembered that?" Harry smiles, his face softening, and you can't help but smile back.

"Yeah, I mean…of course? You said you liked something simple, like your grandmother's."

"I know, I just can't believe you'd remember that, with all the customers you have."

The way he's looking at you, that way his eyes are all warm and gentle, it makes your insides squirm, and you quickly look back down at the notepad.

"So, I can have the Victoria sponge as a base, and build a few layers on that, and maybe a chocolate ganache to cover it with? And I can keep the decorations clean and simple, to tie in with the classic style of the cake."

Harry doesn't reply for a few moments, and you look up at him again. He's frowning, rubbing a hand over his chin as he seems to think.

"If it was for me, I'd say yes. But Amanda, she's…she likes it a bit more decorated I think."

You nod, scrapping your notes about keeping it simple, and wait for him to continue.

"She…she's shown me the kind of engagement rings she likes, and they're all…very elaborate," Harry shrugs again, "Not really my style, but if it's what she wants."

"Why don't you bring her and you can decide on a cake that you both like," you suggest, biting back on the jealousy.

"She told me she wants the engagement to be a surprise,"

"But she knows you're proposing?" 

It comes out with a surprised tone, and Harry makes a non-commital shrug. 

"Yeah, we've discussed marriage, how we're going to set it up, merging our assets, the pre-nup obviously. But she told me to plan a surprise engagement party for her, and invite her friends."

"Sounds like a business deal," you reply before you can stop yourself, and you bite your tongue as you see the look on Harry's face. "I'm sorry, that was out of line, I didn't mean it like that, I just-"

"It's not a business deal," he cuts you off, "She's a good match for me. We're a good match."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…let me just look at the notes and I'll come up with some ideas for a more elaborate design, but keep your Victoria sponge as the base, with chocolate of course."

You're backtracking quickly, trying to smooth over your blunder as Harry frowns, looking past you, and then down at his hands.

He nods, looking up at you, and it stops your rambling.

"I'll leave my business card, e-mail me your thoughts and I'll get back to you," he says, and now it really does feel like a business deal.

You nod, not trusting your voice, and he leaves without another word.

The afternoon shifts into evening, but you can't stop berating yourself. Sketching ideas for the cake gets you nowhere, your usually so creative brain can't seem to merge the classic Victoria sponge with a more elaborate design. It all turns out gaudy and tasteless, and you can't see Harry in the cake at all. Scraping yet another failed design, you sigh and sink down on the low stepping stool, kicking your feet to make it go rolling across the kitchen floor. It comes to a slow stop against the heavy shelf of appliances, making it rattle slightly. Pushing yourself up with another deep sigh, you open the big walk in fridge and let your eyes drift across the space.

Your eyes land on a jar of raspberry jam from last summer. You'd gone with a friend to a farm that let you pick raspberries, and you'd returned sweaty, scratched and tired, but with two buckets of the sweet berries. The jar on the shelf is the last of it.

Maybe if you make a Victoria sponge to start with, just the classic, traditional one, some idea would come to you for Harry's engagement cake. But it's not like he's going to order the cake from you anyway. Not after you went and called his marriage a business deal. You'll never see him in this bakery again.

You begin picking up the ingredients anyway, if nothing else, you can sell it in slices tomorrow. And you suddenly feel like eating Victoria sponge cake, and not because it's Harry's favourite.

As usual the act of baking calms you, focusing you on the measurements and the manual steps, beating the eggs and sugar, folding in the dry, it all comes together as you try not to think of Harry. With steady hands you pour the batter into the cake tin and put it in the oven.

The door closes with a soft click as you set the timer.

A sharp knock on the bakery door makes you jump, the glass in the window pane rattling with the force of the rapping knuckles, and you drop the bowl you've been holding.

"What the fuck…" you hiss, looking at the dent in the metal as another knock rattles the door.

Putting the bowl on the counter you stride over through the door of the kitchen and into the long since closed bakery shop. It's raining outside, and the fat drops streak across the window, blurring the outlines of the man standing outside, and it stops you in your tracks.

Harry pauses his knocking, his hand hanging in the air in front of him, as he meets your eyes. The rain has plastered his hair to his skull, soaked through his sweater, and as you watch, he lowers his hand and wipes it across his face.

For a beat you wonder if you should tell him to go away, but before you've made your mind up, your feet move to the door, and your hands unlock it.

"Harry, what-"

"You had no right," he says, his voice tight as he looks at you through the falling rain, "I was happy. And you…" he stops, biting down on the sharp words, "You… It wasn't a business deal, we were a good match."

What he's saying sinks in as you feel the rain drops begin to collect on your own skin as the wind picks up.

"You…you broke up with Amanda?" you ask, and Harry winces, or shivers, and you grab his arm, pulling him through the door, and out of the rain.

"You're soaked," you say unnecessarily, looking around for a clean kitchen towel, but Harry doesn't seem to hear you. Suddenly he's crowding you, his hand firm on your cheek, his mouth a hair's breadth from yours, warm breath teasing your lips.

Time seems to freeze as your heart stops beating. He smells of rain, wet sidewalks and damp leaves, softened by the heat of his body.

He drops his hand and steps back, and for a split second you think he's going to rush out through the door again, back into the rain.

Instead he charges into the bakery, spinning on the spot as he shoves his hands through his wet hair and glares at you.

"Why did you have to be so…." he spits, "why did you say…all that, all that…that…"

He trails off, and he seems to shrink as your eyes meet across the kitchen floor. Air escapes him, a slow exhale as you wait for him to finish his outburst.

But nothing more comes, instead he slumps, burying his face in his hands with a deep sigh.

"I'm sorry."

The words are just a low mumble behind his palms.

"I'm sorry too," you say, slowly coming over to him, and holding out a clean towel, your hand trembling slightly, "I was out of line, I shouldn't have said anything."

Harry shakes his head, and takes the towel, "No, it's not on you, you just said what I already knew."

With another sigh that seems to come from his toes he straightens up, looking at the towel in his hand.

"I already knew, even before she started talking about engagement. You…you just put your finger on a sore spot."

Shrugging, he makes an effort at wiping his face, and then drops the towel on the edge of the sink.

"Thanks, I'll leave now. I'm sorry for barging in, and for…" he trails off again, and you don't miss the glance at your lips. They still carry the imprint of his breath, and you can feel his fingers on your chin.

"Stay," you blurt out, taking a step forward. "Stay, don't…go."

Harry's eyes are impossible to read as you look at each other across the kitchen, but you hope he can see how much you want him to stay.

"Please," you whisper, "I always…want you to stay when you come here."

This time he's less sudden, crossing the short space between you with a few long steps as you wait for him by the work bench. His hand is warm on your cheek, cupping your face gently as you tilt your head up to his, your lips parting. The shirt across his shoulders is damp under your hands, but already warming up from the heat that he seems to radiate as he crowds you again. When his nose brushes against yours, you exhale, his lips teasing yours before he lets himself properly kiss your open mouth. There's no rush, just a slow taste. Your mouth closes around his plump bottom lip, tasting the rain as his hands slowly move up your back, and he steps closer, making space for himself against your body.

You can't help the moan that escapes you, his body is warm and firm, even under his rain damp shirt, and the sound makes him groan in reply, a low rumble deep in his chest. He pries his lip from your mouth, and touches it with the tip of his tongue, gently tasting, making you open up for him. With a whine you slide your fingers into the curls at his neck, tugging him closer, and the effect is instant. Harry's large hands slide down your back, onto your thighs, and he lifts you up onto the bench, suddenly pressing up against your core as he yanks you closer to him. As if he's trying to eliminate every smidge of space between your bodies as he licks into your mouth, stealing your breath.

The metal bench is cool underneath you as he pushes you further back, your legs closing around his waist, and he nudges your head to the side, licking a wet trail beneath your ear. You can feel the beating of your heart in your finger tips as they wrap around his curls, Harry's scorching breath against your neck, teeth grazing across the thin skin.

"Harry," you moan into the empty kitchen, gasping for air when he moves his hands, his thumbs drawing sharp lines over your pebbled nipple, making your breath hitch.

"You taste so good," he mumbles, moving up to your lips again, "salt and sweet, chocolate and cream. Do you always taste this good?"

"You'll have to find out," you mumble against his mouth, and you can feel him smile into your lips.

"Happily," he replies, "Are you free tonight?"

The question makes you giggle, and Harry pulls back to look down at you, raising his eye brows.

"Look at where you've got me, Harry," you say, "And tell me you think I'm not free tonight?"

His face splits into a wide grin, and he drops his head down again, pressing a soft kiss on your lips, much more chaste this time.

"I got carried away," he smiles in reply, "You taste so good, and you smell more delicious than any of your desserts."

"You taste like rain," you tell him, and he laughs, shaking his head to make rain drops scatter across your face.

"I'm not sorry I barged in," he says when you've brushed back the curls from his forehead again, "I'm just sorry I didn't realise I should've been dating you all this time. Can I make you dinner tonight?"

"I'm not sure, what's for dessert?" you ask him, and the grin on your face makes him press his lips to your neck, smiling as you squeal under him when he nips at the delicious skin.

"You," he replies, "Only you."

I had to include Mary Berry's receipe because who else, right? And I hope you enjoyed this re-visit to the bakery, and wish Harry all the best for his future dating life. I'm sure baker girl will make him very happy...

Tagging some of you who I know read A Baker's Dozen back when I first posted it. You all gave it so much love and I hope you want to dip back into this cosy universe!

@grogusmum

@harriedandharassed

@wannab-urs

@papipascaaaal

@perotovar

@thebeldroramscal

@readingiskeepingmegoing

@din-cognito

@angiewatson

@mysterious-musings-chaos-corner

@jessthebaker

@oberynslady

@laughing-in-th3-purple-rain

@fuckyeahdindjarin

@insomniamamma

@just-ashlee

@savedyounine

JOEL

Joel, get up.

The last thing Joel remembered was the whistle of something slicing through the air and the crack that followed it, and then, just final blank. He feels like his bone meeting metal and the sound of something ending.

He's die.

He remembered Ellie’s voice tearing itself open above him.

get up, joel---

Get up.

Joel, get the fuck up.

fucking get up.

He remembered wanting to answer her. Trying to get up just for her, and only her. Wanting to say her name back. Get his head up from the damn floor. Wanting to promise something he wasn’t sure he could keep, 'cause he already broke all his promise for her. But, there’s nothing, just a dense, not quite it was a silence for suffocating pressure that erased the edges of himself until there was no border left between thought and dark.

When he came back, it was violent.

It’s like air punched into his lungs and his chest convulsed and make his body jerked against something soft, and feels wrong under him. Too soft. There should have been cold concrete and smell of dust. Blood thick in the back of his throat.

Instead there was light above him. Something too white and flat to his eyes, almost hurt his eyes. also, He caught a faint smell of chemicals, something sharp and sterile, that pulled at an old memory of hospitals from back in the day.

He blinked, and the world did not shift into nightmare. It stayed clean and then he felt it.

Something that warmth. Warm from other person that live, not like fever or pain. But a hand? Like the hand hold his. Feel like live and soft? Wrapped around his own like it had been there for a long time.

His fingers twitched and brushed skin that did not belong to him. He move his finger again, it’s his index. He felt the curve of a cheek resting near his knuckles. A faint, even breath against his wrist.

He lay still, listening to the mechanical beeping near his ear and the hammering of his own heart, trying to reconcile the impossible fact of being alive.

He should not be alive.

He remembered the certainty of it. The way the world had tilted. The way he had accepted the end without ceremony. He had outlived enough people to know when his number had been called.

This did not feel like heaven.

Heaven, he thought, would be softer than this. It would not carry the faint, sterile sting of antiseptic in the air, sharp enough to settle at the back of his throat. It would not be this quiet in a way that felt watched rather than peaceful. And it would not, under any circumstance, feel gentle toward a man like him. He had never known what heaven was supposed to look like, never even tried to imagine it.

So the thought of this being heaven felt strange, almost absurd, like his mind had reached too far for something it didn’t understand. no, if this were heaven, it had made a mistake, but it wasn’t hell either.

Hell would have greeted him properly, maybe. It would have been loud, unbearable, honest in its cruelty. Fire, or something close to it. Pain that didn’t leave room for doubt. In hell, at least, he would understand where he was. There would be no confusion, no slow unraveling of thought.

And he would have accepted it, because that, at least, would make sense to him. He wasn’t a good man, after all.

He had done too much for anything else to fit. Too many faces that never left him, no matter how hard he tried not to remember. Too many moments where the line between survival and something darker blurred until it didn’t matter anymore which side he stood on.

So this? this quiet, more silence with something live behind the door, this almost-kindness, felt wrong in a way he couldn’t name it.

Like standing somewhere he hadn’t earned.

He tried to move but pain hit him fast, sharp enough to knock the air out of his chest before he could brace for it. It tore up his side and settled there, heavy and throbbing, like something inside him had been pulled apart and stitched back wrong. A rough sound slipped out of him, low and broken, before he could swallow it down.

The air smelled clean more like chemicals and something bitter sitting at the back of his throat. His mouth felt dry, tongue thick, like he hadn’t used it in days or months. There was a weight on his chest, or maybe just the feeling of it, pressure that made each breath slow and careful.

Something moved near his hand. Warm.

The weight shifted. A chair scraped lightly against the floor, the sound sharp in the quiet.

Joel’s vision dragged downward, slow and unsteady, like it didn’t want to cooperate. The light hurt his eyes, somehow. Everything looked washed out, edges blurred, shapes not quite holding still. He forced his eyes to focus anyway.

There was someone there.

A figure at his side, close enough that he could see the outline before the details came in. Hair. Shoulders. A face that felt familiar before he could place it.

Ellie?

His throat worked, tried to say her name, tried to push it past the dryness, past the weight sitting in his chest. But nothing came out, just air.

A low hiss escaped him before he could stop it as he tried to lift his arm, wanting nothing more than to brush the hair from your face. The pain flared hot through his chest, pulling a rough groan from deep in his throat. He hadn’t meant to wake you. In that half-second, a quiet sorrow settled over him, heavy and tender; he was sorry to pull you from whatever fragile rest you had found, sorry that even now, broken and useless, he still managed to disturb the one person who had stayed.

You stirred at the sound.

Your body tensed, shoulders lifting as if surfacing from deep water, and your eyes snapped open with the wide, startled clarity of someone who had trained herself to wake at the smallest sign of him. For a breathless moment you simply looked at him, hair tousled and falling loose around your face, the faint crease from the mattress still pressed into your cheek like a secret the night had left behind. The dim light caught in your eyes, turning them soft and luminous, and something in Joel’s chest tightened at the sight of you, impossibly alive in a world that had forgotten how to be gentle.

The slight flush still lingering on your skin. The way your lips parted, trembling just enough to betray the storm behind them. Everything about you felt etched with care, with sleepless hours and he drank it in without a word, letting the feeling settle somewhere deep where words could not reach.

"Joel?” you breathed. oh god, escaped from your lips.

The sound of his name in your voice slid through him like honey, low and trembling, almost fracturing on the second syllable. “J-Joel…”

It tasted fragile on the air between you, sweet and aching. He stared, the fog in his mind thinning slowly, and realized with a deep, visceral pull that you were not Ellie.

He didn’t know who you were.

You moved toward him without hesitation. Your hand rose, and when it found his face, the touch was so unbearably soft it made his chest tighten. Your palm carried the faint roughness of calluses, yet the skin was velvet-warm, alive with the pulse of your blood. Your thumb traced his cheekbone slowly, deliberately, sending small sparks of sensation racing across his jaw and down his neck. He could smell you clearly now, something faintly sweet, like crushed herbs or the inside of your wrist after a long summer night. You leaned in closer. Your breath brushed his lips first, warm and humid, carrying the ghost of water and exhaustion. Then your mouth pressed to his forehead, soft and lingering, the heat of it blooming across his skin like sunlight soaking into dry earth. He felt the gentle pressure of your lips, the faint tremble in them, the way your hair fell forward and tickled his temple.

His eyes closed on instinct. His body remembered everything his mind had not yet reclaimed, the quiet thunder of your heartbeat so close to his. A slow shiver moved through him, deep and involuntary, like the first touch of skin after years of winter.

Joel’s mouth opened, the words already forming somewhere deep in his chest. Who the hell are you? Where’s Ellie? What is this place? but nothing came. His throat was a dry riverbed, cracked and empty, the kind of desert silence that had swallowed whole towns back when the world still made sense.

He pushed again, harder, air scraping uselessly against raw tissue, and his brow pulled tight in that uneasy frown she knew too well, the one that carved lines between his eyes like he was bracing for a fight he couldn’t even start.

he saw that you noticed right away.

“Hey,” you said softly, thumb still moving in slow, steady circles over his knuckles like muscle memory. “It’s okay. The doctor just took the tube out. They said your voice is coming back, it just needs a little time. Just take it easy, okay?”

Tube.

The word hit him sideways. A tube? In his throat? The confusion sharpened, pressing in behind his ribs until it felt like something alive trying to get out. None of this lined up, He stared at you, eyes narrowed, trying to force the questions through the dryness anyway, but his lips only twitched uselessly.

you didn’t wait for him to try again. you reached for the plastic cup on the side table, the condensation cool against your fingers, and slid your other arm behind his shoulders with the careful ease of someone who had done this exact thing more times than she could count. She lifted him just enough, no rush, no fuss, and brought the straw to his lips.

“Here,” she murmured, voice low and close. “Drink some.”

The water touched his tongue, and slid down his throat like forgiveness he hadn’t asked for. He took small sips, eyes never leaving your face, the desert in his mouth easing just a fraction while everything else inside him stayed cracked wide open. you watched him the whole time, patient and steady and a little scared, like you were afraid the next thing he tried to say might break whatever was left of them both.

“where's Ellie?” he rasped. The word scraped out, dry and uncertain, barely more than breath.

Your expression faltered, just a small, exquisite fracture across your face. “She’s fine,” you whispered, the words warm against his skin, heavy with relief and unspoken nights.

The answer didn’t sit right. He doesn't know why? Just the word fine didn’t belong anywhere near the world he remembered.

He frowned, pain tightening behind his eyes, and the idea unsettled him more than the pain.

He closed his eyes for a second, overwhelmed by the quiet intensity of your presence. The warmth of your skin. The steady brush of your thumb over his knuckles. The way your body leaned toward his without calculation.

He hadn’t been touched like that in a long time. Not with softness that wasn’t earned through blood or apology. Not with care that didn’t feel conditional.

your forehead dipped gently against his temple, careful of whatever bandage lay hidden there.

“You scared me,” you whispered. There was no anger in it, just exhaustion. your fingers tightened more securely around his, like you were anchoring him to something solid. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake,” you said, he can hear the way your voice barely holding together. “You can’t do this to me. I… I can’t do it without you.”

He felt like a man standing in a house that used to belong to him, but the furniture had been rearranged and he no longer knew where the doors were. and not knowing what to do.

He opened his eyes this time, when he feel you pull away from him. you were watching him with your doe- alike eyes like he might disappear if you blinked.

Joel studied you. The soft press of your hands lingered on his shoulders as you eased back, just far enough to study him. Your gaze moved over his face with careful, practiced intensity, as though you were reading symptoms written in the lines of his brow and the tension around his mouth.

“Is anything hurt?” you asked, your voice low and steady. “Any pain I can’t see?”

He guessed you were a doctor, but the thought didn’t quite fit. A nurse, maybe? No, that didn’t sit right either. You wore a simple white fitted tee and jeans, nothing clinical about you. Still, there was something in the way you looked at him that made him wonder exactly who you were. He couldn’t put a name or title to it, only that you felt like someone who knew how to look for what wasn’t being said.

"Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah… there’s pain.” His voice carried the heaviness of someone unused to admitting weakness aloud. Like the confession itself sat wrong in his mouth. He didn’t even know why he was telling you this. Maybe because your hands had stayed still the whole time. Maybe because you looked at him like he was something breakable and not just a man stitched together by old violence and stubbornness.

Or maybe because, somehow, it felt right. Joel swallowed hard, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder, toward nothing at all. “Side,” he added after a moment, the word catching slightly in his throat. His hand drifted unconsciously toward his ribs before stopping midway, fingers curling into his palm instead. “Right side… feels like it’s been torn open.”

The room settled around the silence between you. The low hum of the light overhead. The faint smell of antiseptic and rain clinging to his jacket. His breathing had gone uneven now, careful, measured, like every inhale needed permission first. “Head too,” he murmured quieter this time, jaw tightening. “Keeps poundin’.”

And when he finally looked at you, it wasn’t with embarrassment. Not exactly. It was something softer than that. Something almost boyish beneath all the exhaustion. Like he hated that you were seeing him like this.

“okay, okay. You’ll be okay,” you said. “And I’ll tell the doctor after this.” you sound somehow a little too excited for what Joel is about to see.

Joel stared at you for a second too long, and in that second he became suddenly aware of everything at once: the faint crease between your brows whenever you worried, the careful way your fingers hovered near him without forcing contact, the scent of soap and cold air lingering in your sweater. Small things. Forgettable things, maybe. Yet they reached him with startling precision, lodging somewhere beneath the ache in his ribs.

“You said…” His thumb brushed unconsciously against the edge of the blanket draped over him, fingers tense, uncertain. “You’ve been waiting. For me?”

And God, the way he said it, almost hesitant, made the question feel larger than it was. As if he already feared the answer before hearing it. As if some part of him couldn’t quite believe anybody would wait for him at all.

She nodded once, and the small gesture seemed to carry more weight than it should have. Two months, she said, and the number landed in him like a quiet shock, something too large to hold all at once. He looked at her as if the space between them had changed shape, as if her patience had been sitting there in the room all along, waiting with her. Her hand stayed around his, steady and unshowy, but it made him feel suddenly aware of his own pulse, the fragility of being touched with such care. He had the strange sense that he was being looked after in a way he did not know how to ask for, and maybe had never once expected. It unsettled him, and softened him at the same time. He wanted to understand why she had waited, why she had stayed, but all he could do was stand there inside the quiet of it, feeling the tenderness of her concern like something almost unbearable.

He was trying to summon something, a memory of her voice, her face, the way her thumb traced his skin like she had mapped it a thousand times.

“Where… what hospital is this?” he asked.

“You’re at St. David’s Medical Center,” you said

The thought flickered, distant and half-formed. His eyes shifted past you, taking in the room again. the steady light, and quiet, the way everything felt… intact.

“what? no, no, no…” he started, then stopped. its just came out as a disbelife and whisper to himself.

His hand shifted against the sheets, slow, like even that took effort. He looked back at you, really looked this time, like maybe the answer was in your face instead of the room.

“…How?” he asked finally, quieter now. “Is it still in Jackson?”

joel could see it in the way your breath caught, like something fragile inside you had been nudged out of place. your eyes searched his face, not for an answer—but for how much he meant by that.

“No,” you said after a beat, her voice gentler now. “It’s not in Jackson.”

Joel frowned.

The word no didn’t settle right. It only made things worse. His gaze drifted again, slower this time, like he was trying to force the room to make sense if he looked at it long enough.

"Then where the hell am i—” he muttered, the curse fraying at the edges before it could even finish, stolen by the sudden weight of exhaustion that pressed down on him like wet concrete.

He swallowed, the motion pulling a faint wince across his face as fresh pain bloomed raw along his throat. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each inhale a careful negotiation, like his body was still learning the rules of this impossible place.

“you're in Austin, Texas, joel....” you added.

That made him freeze.

This was not the quiet, measured stillness Joel had learned to carry — the kind a man develops after twenty years of surviving, when every decision could mean life or death. No, this was something altogether different. Sharper. Colder. It seized him completely, freezing the blood in his veins as though winter had come from inside his own body.

Austin. Texas.

The words echoed strangely in his mind, hollow and unnatural, like hearing someone speak your childhood language in a dream. Austin no longer existed. Not like this. Not clean and bright and humming with life, with machines that worked and lights that stayed on and warm hands holding his as if love were still a simple thing.

"...are you okay?"

In the world he remembered, Austin had burned. It had died screaming along with everything else — swallowed by infection and fire and the long, merciless collapse of civilization. It had taken his daughter with it. Sarah. To hear that name spoken so easily now, in this bright, impossible room, felt like a kind of blasphemy. As if someone had quietly dug up her grave and expected him to be grateful that the earth had given her back.

His eyes lifted back to yours, sharper now despite the haze still clouding the edges of his vision, the confusion hardening into something edged and dangerous.

“…What do you mean?” he said under his breath, the question low and rough, barely more than gravel dragged across concrete. Then the suspicion broke loose, raw and unfiltered, the old instincts clawing their way up before he could stop them. “Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice cracked on the words, still hoarse from the tube they’d pulled, but the accusation burned through anyway. “Are you a one of FEDRA? Is the girl that shot me one of your people... or your leader?”

The questions hung between you, heavy and trembling, carrying every nightmare he’d lived through: the blue uniforms, the quarantine zones, the cold efficiency of people who called slaughter order. His fingers tightened in your grasp without meaning to, not pulling away but holding on like the contact itself might keep the floor from dropping out beneath him.

“Joel…” Your voice came out small at first, cracked and uncertain. “What… what are you talking about?”

He didn’t answer right away. The anger was already sharpening, turning his jaw to stone. He could feel it in the way his fingers flexed inside yours, but pressing harder, almost accusing.

"just tell me?" his voice getting angrier somehow

Because if this was some new game, if you were part of it, if the clean white room, the way you looked at him like he was yours were all just another way to break him—then he’d rather the club had finished its swing.

Your breath hitched, the sound soft and unsteady. You leaned in closer without thinking, “I’m not with anyone like that. I'm willow, and I’m yours. I’ve been yours for years.” Your voice cracked, confusion and hurt braiding together until it was impossible to tell which was winning. " y-you even give me this ring, remember?" the ring on your finger catching the light like a taunt.

willow

It started low, a slow burn behind his ribs, the kind that had kept him alive for twenty years. He watched the way your shoulders tensed, the way your free hand hovered halfway to his cheek before dropping, trembling. That look, wide-eyed and lost, like he’d just spoken in a language you didn’t understand, only fed the fire. Because if this was real, if you really didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, then either the world had gone completely insane… or you were lying to him. And the thought that you, of all people, this woman who kissed his forehead like it was a promise, might be lying made something ugly twist tight in his gut.

“Joel, babe. There’s no... there’s no one who shot you. It was a car accident. On the highway. You swerved to avoid a truck and… and you don’t remember any of that?” you went on, words tumbling faster now, laced with a panic that only made his chest burn hotter. Your free hand rose again, hovering near his face like you wanted to touch him and didn’t dare.

A car accident. The words sounded so clean, so ordinary, they made his stomach turn.

He let out a short, bitter breath that scraped raw against his ruined throat. “A car accident,” he echoed, voice low and edged with disbelief. The anger was fully awake now, crawling higher, licking at the base of his throat. “You expect me to believe that? After everything? After the way the world ended? You’re telling me I’ve been lying here two months and the whole damn thing was just some fucking fender-bender in Austin, Texas?”

“what?… please, tell me what’s going on in your head. I don’t understand any of this. We... we can get through this. Us. you, me, the girls—” The plea only stoked the anger higher.

He could see it in your eyes—the genuine bewilderment, the way you looked at him like he was the one breaking something precious—and it made him want to shove the words back at you, make you feel the same fracture splitting open inside him.

“Yeah, well I don’t understand a goddamn thing either,” he rasped, the roughness in his voice turning sharp, ugly. His fingers tightened around yours, not gentle anymore, the grip almost bruising. “One minute I’m on the floor in Jackson with Ellie screaming my name, the next I wake up in some fairy-tale hospital with a woman I’ve never seen before telling me we’ve got daughters and a life in a city that shouldn’t even be standing. So forgive me if I’m having a hard time buying the ‘car accident’ story while you sit there looking at me like I’ve lost my mind and throwing around some bullshit about us—”

You flinched this time, but you didn’t pull away. And that, more than anything, unsettled him.

Are you out of your goddamn mind, kid? he thought. If this body weren’t already half-dead on me, I could put you down easy. But you stayed there anyway, close enough for him to feel the warmth coming off your skin, close enough that your hand still rested against him like you had forgotten it was there. Joel watched the confusion in your eyes shift slowly into hurt, quiet and unguarded, and the sight of it only made something uglier coil tighter inside his chest.

Because part of him had already begun to believe you.

“Joel,” you whispered again, voice trembling now, “I’m not lying to you. I swear I’m not. I don’t know what have you been through to this, or Jackson, or any of it. I just know I’ve been sitting here every day waiting for you to wake up and come back to me. To us.”

The room felt smaller suddenly, the beeping monitors too loud, the space between your faces charged with everything neither of you could quite name. His anger simmered there, hot and restless, while your confusion pressed back like a mirror, reflecting every fracture until it felt like the beginning of an argument neither of you had the strength for—but both of you were already stepping into.

The word us hit him like a gut punch.

His face twisted into something ugly, something mean and disbelieving, the kind of look he used to give raiders right before he pulled the trigger. Who the fuck is us? The thought roared through him, hot and vicious. There is no us between you and me. There never was. He didn’t know you. He didn’t want to know you. This soft, pleading stranger with her ring and her tears and her gentle hands had no right to that word.

“No,” he said suddenly, his voice rough and low. “No. No, that’s not what happened.”

you turned to look at him. Joel’s breathing had grown sharper, the anxiety clawing its way back up his throat. He pushed himself up slightly against the pillows, ignoring the burn in his side.

“Someone… a girl,” he continued, the words tumbling out faster, more urgent. “She shot me in the knee. Point blank. Then she beat the shit out of me. She had this goddamn club and she—” His voice cracked, but he forced the rest out. “She swung it at my head. That’s what happened. I’m not crazy. I didn’t get hurt in some fucking car accident. I know what I felt. I know what I saw.”

The room went completely still.

“Joel… hey, what are you talking about? There was no girl. It was a car crash on I-35. You swerved, hit the guardrail hard. They had to cut you out of the truck.”

Joel shook his head, jaw tight, eyes wild with frustration. “No. You’re wrong. All of it is wrong.” His gaze flicked toward you by the window, then back to you. “I was in Jackson. Ellie was there. She was screaming at me to get up. This wasn’t some accident on a highway that doesn’t even exist anymore. This was real. The blood, the pain, the way my leg gave out .... that was real.”

His chest was heaving now, the panic rising again, hot and suffocating. He looked between the two of you like you were both part of some elaborate lie meant to break him.

“I’m telling you,” he rasped, voice cracking with exhaustion and anger, “a girl beat me half to death with a golf club. She wanted me to suffer. That’s the last thing I remember. Not some fucking truck. Not Austin. Not any of this.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating. you glanced at him helplessly, clearly at a loss.

Joel’s hands were shaking where they gripped the sheets. He didn’t know who to trust anymore. Everything he said sounded insane even to his own ears, but it was the only truth he had left.

You cut him off mid-sentence, voice desperate, trying to reach the man you thought you still knew. “Joel, please—just breathe. tommy, ellie, and sarah are all waiting for you to wake up, okay. all of them is fine, there's no such a things like that, ”

"Sarah." the name landed like a blade between his ribs. "she so worried about ya,"

His eyes snapped to yours, the kind of look that had once made grown men step back. Anger surged through him in a white-hot flood, pure and blinding, drowning everything else. How dare you say her name? How dare you speak it so casually, like it was just another word, like you had any right to it? It felt like mockery. Like you were twisting the knife in the oldest wound he had, the one that had never healed, the one that still bled every time he closed his eyes. Sarah—his Sarah, his little girl, gone in a spray of bullets and screams—was not yours to claim. Not like this.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he snarled, voice low and trembling with fury, the words scraping out like broken glass. “You don’t get to say her name. You don’t get to stand there and mock me with it. My daughter is dead. She’s been dead for twenty goddamn years. And you’re using her name like—like it’s some fucking game to you?”

You blinked, confusion crashing over your face like cold water, eyes wide and glistening. “Who?" you asks. "Ellie? Sarah?” The names tumbled out of you in helpless bewilderment, soft and uncertain, as if testing them might make any of this real. his eyes snapped at you. “Joel, I—I don’t understand. Sarah’s our-" joel see when you corrected yourself. "....your daughter. she is at school right now with Ellie and Tommy waiting for the doctor to say you're awake. She’s been so scared—”

His eyes snapped again at the second mention of Sarah, harder this time, the rage and raw grief colliding until his vision blurred at the edges. The anger was everywhere now, choking him, making his chest heave with the effort not to shout.

Part of him wanted to tear his hand from yours, wanted to shove you back hard enough to wipe that look from your face, to split the hurt between you so he wouldn’t have to carry it alone. The instinct came fast, ugly, familiar. Like anger was easier to survive than fear ever was.

But the other part of him: the worn-down, splintering part that had been holding itself together by habit alone, couldn’t stop looking at you.

At the tears beginning to gather in your eyes, shining stubbornly even as you tried to blink them away. At the way your voice cracked around his name, soft and trembling, as though it meant something sacred to you. As though he meant something.

It was unbearable.

Not because you were weak. Not because you pitied him.

But because you looked at him like you still believed there was something left in him worth reaching for.

And God, that was crueler than anything. Crueler than the pain in his body.

The room seemed to draw inward around the two of you, walls bending closer with every sharp pulse of the monitors. The sound filled the silence too loudly, too steadily, until even the air between your faces felt alive with it, thin and electric and breaking apart by inches.

Joel kept staring at you with that same ugly look—suspicion tangled with anger, exhaustion sitting underneath it all like something ancient and incurable. His hands trembled inside yours despite himself, not with weakness alone but with the effort of holding everything in. And your expression only undid him further: the confusion there, the hurt slowly opening across your face like light through cracked glass.

You looked at him as though you could not understand how someone already half-destroyed could still keep choosing to wound himself further.

The feeling hit him again before he could outrun it.

Anxiety came down hard and sudden, vicious as a storm breaking through rotten wood. His chest seized violently, breath catching halfway in as though invisible hands had wrapped around his ribs and begun tightening, until even the smallest inhale hurt. A sharp pain bloomed beneath his sternum, hot and blinding, spreading with every frantic beat of his heart.

"you okay?"

For one terrible second, he thought his body might simply split apart from it.

Old grief rose first. Then fear. Then something worse than both.

Because beneath the panic, beneath the confusion and fury and pain, there was the unbearable feeling that he was losing something again before he had even remembered what it was.

And you were still there, holding his shaking hands like they belonged to someone worth saving. but then, “I don’t know who the fuck you are, okay?” The words tore out of him, raw and cruel, each one aimed to wound. “I don’t know you. I don’t remember your face, your voice, that goddamn ring on your finger—none of it. You keep talking about us and daughters and some perfect little life like I’m supposed to just nod and play along. But I don’t feel any of that. You’re a stranger to me. You’re a fucking stranger holding my hand like you own it, saying my dead daughter’s name like it’s nothing, and I can’t—”

He stopped, breath ragged, the anxiety clawing higher, tighter, making his voice shake with something ugly.

“I wake up and everything’s gone. Jackson. Ellie. Tommy. My Sarah. And instead I get you. Some woman I’ve never seen before telling me I’ve got a whole family I don’t remember. How the hell do you think that feels? Like I’m losing my goddamn mind. Or maybe I already lost it and this is the joke.”

The words landed like stones. He saw them hit you — watched the way your shoulders curved inward, the way your lips pressed together to trap whatever sound wanted to escape. He saw the fresh hurt bloom in your eyes, bright and devastating, and still he couldn’t stop the poison spilling out.

“You want me to believe you’re mine? That I chose this? That I gave you that ring and built some goddamn white-picket life in a city that shouldn’t exist anymore?” His laugh was bitter, broken. “I don’t even know if I could love someone like that anymore. Not after everything. Certainly not someone I can’t remember.”

But even as the venom left him, even as the anger tried to keep its grip, something inside his chest fractured wider.

He looked at your eyes: They were the saddest eyes he had ever seen in his life. for one brief second, felt something close to shame crawl beneath his skin.

Not just guilt but the terrible understanding that he was hurting someone who did not deserve to be hurt.

A tear slipped from your eye before you could stop it. Joel watched it trace a slow path down your cheek, catching the pale hospital light as it fell. And then came the flush blooming beneath your skin, delicate and sudden, spreading across your face like your body itself was embarrassed by the honesty of your grief.

You looked away for half a second, as if ashamed to be seen hurting in front of him.

That nearly undid him. Because beneath the exhaustion and the confusion and the anger twisting inside his chest, you suddenly looked unbearably young to him. Young in the way bruised things are open and exposed. Still foolish enough to care. And God, he did not know what to do with that.

Something tightened low in his stomach, sharp and uncomfortable, almost like grief but not quite. The sight of your tears made him feel clumsy inside his own skin, like his hands had become dangerous things without him noticing. Like every hard word he threw at you landed somewhere tender he hadn’t meant to touch. For the first time since waking up, Joel looked at you not like a threat, not like a stranger hovering too close to his bed—

but like someone he might already have ruined.

Joel watched as you lifted your hand and wiped the tear away roughly, almost angrily, like you were punishing yourself for letting it fall in front of him. The motion was jerky, ungraceful, nothing like the gentle way you had touched him earlier. It hurt more than he expected it to.

Then something buzzed in your pocket.

You pulled out a slim, sleek rectangle, a phone? but not like any phone or even radio they usually use, he remembered from before the outbreak. those thick and got keyboard on it. but now It look too thin as the screen glowing bright and alive with color. Just a perfectly functioning piece of the old world, as if the last twenty years had never happened. Joel stared at it, a fresh wave of unease crawling over his skin. Phones didn’t work anymore. Not like that. Seeing it in your hand felt wrong. Unnatural. Like proof that none of this was real.

you glanced at the screen, hesitated, then answered.

“Hey… no need, can you just come here, please” you said, your voice quieter now, trying to steady itself.

You turned slightly away from him, but not enough to hide anything. Joel could still see the shine of tears in your eyes, the way your free hand gripped the edge of the bed until your knuckles paled. “No, he’s awake. He just woke up a little while ago.” someone on other side say something, and you says. "yeah, he talking, i mean we are,"

He watched you the whole time.

His eyes didn’t leave your face, not even for a second. There was a tight, animal caution in his chest, the old instinct still working even though his body felt half-broken. Part of him kept waiting for the shift — for your hand to move suddenly, for something sharp to appear, for the gentleness to crack open and reveal what was really underneath. He wouldn’t have been surprised if you pulled a gun. In his experience, that was how these things usually ended.

While you were still on the phone, he turned his head slowly to the side, jaw clenched against the pain that flared down his neck. Through the gap in the thin curtain, the window showed him the city. They were high up. Very high. Buildings stood straight and whole, lights moving along the streets below, everything clean and ordinary in a way that made his stomach feel hollow. It didn’t look like a world that had ended. It looked like one that had simply kept going without him.

“Okay,” you said into the phone, voice quiet and tired. “Can you tell the doctor on the way here? Yeah… okay.”

You hung up and slipped the phone back into your pocket. For a moment you stood completely still, looking down at the floor like you needed the extra second to collect yourself. Then you lifted your head and met his eyes again.

Joel didn’t say anything. He just watched you. The flush was still on your cheeks, faint now, and your eyes were red at the edges. You had wiped the tear away so roughly it was like you were annoyed at yourself for crying. He noticed the small things how your fingers kept gripping the edge of the bed rail, even after everything he had said, the way your shoulders carried a weight that wasn’t just physical.

“Tommy’s downstairs,” you said quietly, without looking at him. “He’s going to come up in a minute.”

The squeaking sound of the chair cut through the silence like a small wound.

You dragged it back toward the wall with a slow, tired scrape, the rubber legs protesting against the linoleum. Joel tensed instantly, every muscle in his battered body pulling tight. His pulse spiked. For one sharp, instinctive second he was certain you were going to lift it — swing it hard across the room and bring it down on his head, finishing what the world had started. He braced for it, breath shallow, eyes never leaving you.

But you didn’t.

You simply collapsed into the chair, throwing your body down as if all the strength had suddenly left your legs. The movement was heavy, defeated. You curled forward, back rounding like a question mark, elbows digging into your knees, and buried your face in your palms. The posture was so raw, so private, that Joel felt he shouldn’t be watching. For a moment he was sure you were going to cry, really cry! the kind of crying that tore itself out of the chest and refused to be quiet.

He waited for the sound of it.

Instead, you stiffened, as though reminding yourself you were still in the room with him. You straightened your back just enough to look composed, though your shoulders stayed heavy and your head remained low. Your gaze fixed on the floor between your feet. Then, almost absentmindedly, your fingers began to move — tracing the band of the ring on your left hand, turning it slowly, nervously, around and around your finger like it was the only real thing left in the world.

Joel watched the small motion with a strange ache blooming behind his ribs. The way the light caught on the simple silver band as you twisted it. The way your thumb kept brushing over it, again and again, as if checking it was still there. As if checking he was still there.

There was something unbearably intimate about it. Something that made the air feel thick and warm between you, even with all the distance and silence and cruel words he had thrown at you earlier. He could see the exhaustion in every line of your body, the quiet war you were fighting just to keep yourself from falling apart in front of him.

And still, those eyes, when they eventually lifted again, held that same devastating softness.

He didn’t know what to do with any of it. The fear, the suspicion, the strange pull in his chest. So he simply kept watching you, silent and unsettled, as the fluorescent light hummed above you both and the city glowed indifferently beyond the window.

The silence stretched between you for a long moment, heavy and alive.

Then you lifted your head slightly, eyes still fixed somewhere near the floor, and asked in a voice so soft it barely disturbed the air:

“You don’t really remember me at all, do you?”

The question came out small and fragile, almost apologetic for existing. With it, a sad smile touched your lips — weak, trembling at the edges, the kind of smile that wasn’t really a smile at all. It was more like surrender. A small, tired curve that knew it wouldn’t reach your eyes and didn’t even try. It made something inside Joel tighten painfully.

He stared at you, chest still aching from the earlier surge of anxiety, his body heavy against the hospital bed. The question hung there, simple and devastating. He could see the way your fingers kept turning the ring around and around, slower now, as though the motion could steady you.

For a second he didn’t answer. He just looked at that weak, sorrowful smile and felt the strange weight of it settle deep in his stomach. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. You were looking at him like he had once meant everything, while all he could offer back was confusion and suspicion and the cold certainty that he had never seen your face before today.

“No,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, scraped raw from disuse. “I don’t.”

Your sad little smile faltered but didn’t disappear completely. It only became sadder, thinner, as if you had already known the answer but still needed to hear it out loud. Your eyes shimmered again, that unbearable softness returning full force, and Joel felt the now-familiar twist in his chest — guilt and something else he didn’t want to name it.

You nodded once, barely perceptible, still playing with the ring like it was a lifeline.

“okay... ” you whispered, almost to yourself. “at least you didn't forgot your family.”

You simply sat there in the chair, back slightly curved, wearing that small, broken smile like armor, while the city lights glowed quietly beyond the window and the distance between you felt wider than ever.

Joel kept watching you, unable to look away, the image of that weak smile burning itself into him long after you lowered your gaze again.

His eyes were fixed on you as you shook your head, then you let out a small, broken sound, almost like a chuckle in disbelief at what had happened.

“I don’t know what’s worse, Joel. That you don’t remember me… or that some part of me still believes if I just wait long enough, you’ll come back to me anyway. Even though I can see in your eyes that you already left.”

Joel felt the words sink into him like hooks.

Something heavy and painful lodged itself in his throat. He stared at you, at that small, devastated smile still clinging to your lips, at the way your shoulders curved like the weight of loving him was slowly crushing you. The anxiety in his chest tightened again, but this time it was mixed with a guilt so sharp it almost made him flinch.

Jesus Christ, he thought. How do you say something like that to a man who doesn’t even know your name? How do you sit there and bleed like this for someone who looks at you like a threat?

He hated it. He hated how your sadness made him feel small. He hated that some broken part of him wanted to reach out and touch your hand anyway. Most of all, he hated that he had nothing real to give you.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he rasped finally, his voice low and rough, almost angry at how unsteady it sounded. “I can’t lie to you. I look at you and… I feel nothing. Not the way you want me to. There’s just this blank space where you say my life used to be.”

He swallowed hard, eyes dropping to your hands, to that ring you kept touching like a wound.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, the words feeling foreign and insufficient on his tongue. “I’m sorry you’re hurting like this. But I didn’t ask for any of it. I didn’t ask for you to wait two months by my bed. I didn’t ask for daughters I don’t remember. I woke up and everything I know is gone… and you’re looking at me like I’m supposed to fix that. Like I’m supposed to love you when I don’t even know who the hell you are.”

He met your eyes again, his own gaze tired and conflicted.

“I’m not him,” he said quietly, almost gently this time. “Whoever the man was who looked at you like you were his whole world… I ain’t him. Not anymore. Maybe I never will be again.”

Joel looked away toward the window, jaw tight, the city lights blurring slightly in his vision. Inside his chest, the guilt twisted deeper. Because even as he said the words, even as he tried to push you away, a small, terrified part of him wondered if he was making the biggest mistake of his life by letting someone who loved him this much slip through his fingers.

You looked at him for a long moment with those blank eyes, eyes so full of sadness they seemed emptied of everything else. There was no anger left in them, no fight. Just a vast, quiet exhaustion that made the room feel colder.

Then a sudden scoff from you that broke the silence, almost a sneer, like you were disgusted with yourself for still caring.

“i hope you do a little better and put a effort when you see the girls,” you said, your voice low and flat. “They’re your daughters. You’re their only hope right now.”

He stared at you as you said them. There was no longer any plea in them, only a weary resignation that somehow hurt more than any accusation. Joel watched as you pushed yourself up from the chair. Your movements were slow, heavy, like your body had grown too heavy to carry. You walked over to the large window he had been glancing at earlier and pulled the thin curtain open with one sharp tug. afternoon light flooded the room, softer and warmer than the harsh fluorescent glow. The city stretched out beneath you... alive, glowing, impossibly intact.

Joel stared past you at the view, his chest tightening again at the sight of a world that refused to match his memories. You stood there with your back to him, arms wrapped around yourself, silhouetted against the glass. The light caught in your hair and made the ring on your finger glint faintly. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t say anything else. You just stood there, looking out at the city like it might give you answers he couldn’t.

Joel felt something shift uncomfortably inside him. Those blank, sorrow-filled eyes stayed burned into his mind even now that you weren’t facing him. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. The silence between you felt thicker than before — full of everything you hadn’t said, and everything he didn’t know how to feel.

He stayed quiet, watching the gentle rise and fall of your shoulders, wondering how much longer you could keep holding yourself together when he kept breaking you apart.

The door burst open.

Both of you turned at the sound, your body pivoting fully from the window in one fluid, instinctive motion, no longer offering him your back. The golden sunlight that had been outlining your silhouette now spilled across your front, catching in your eyes and illuminating the quiet exhaustion etched into your features. Joel felt the shift like a current passing through the room. Your gaze landed on him first before moving to Tommy.

Tommy came in fast, boots loud against the floor, breathing hard like he had run the whole way from wherever bad news lived in this too-bright city. The rush of air that followed him carried the scent of outside—dust, engine oil, and the faint metallic tang of evening settling over concrete. His hair was disheveled, jacket half-buttoned, eyes wide with that familiar mix of panic and fierce love Joel almost recognized.

“Joel—Jesus Christ, willow said you were awake,” Tommy’s voice cracked as he crossed the room in long strides, stopping short when he saw you standing by the window, rigid and silent. "Jesus, you scared the hell out of us." His gaze flicked between the two of you, reading the thick air, the way your arms hugged your ribs like armor. Something in Tommy’s face softened with understanding, then tightened again with worry.

Tommy obviously knew you. There had been no hesitation in his brother when he looked at you, none of that suspicion Joel had first clung to because suspicion was easier than the alternative. Easier than believing you were exactly what you said you were.

Because if Tommy knew you, really knew you, then you hadn’t lied to him.

Which meant the look on your face earlier had been real too. The silence after his cruel words. The way your mouth parted slightly, as if you had almost said something back before deciding against it. He remembered it now with painful clarity. That quiet kind of hurt people try to hide because they don’t think they’re allowed to feel it in the first place.

And God, he had done that to you.

he’d rather die than speak to you now, knowing he was the one who hurt you.

...

YOU (WILLOW)

You sat in the parking lot with the food balanced on your lap, the paper bag already going translucent with grease. The Coke beside you had started sweating down the cup, dampening the fabric of your coat where it rested against your thigh. You could hear children somewhere outside laughing too loudly, backpacks slamming against lockers, car doors opening and closing in quick succession. Life continuing with this terrible ease.

when the doctor spoke, somehow made it worse.

Like if he had sounded alarmed, or uncertain, or visibly disturbed by any of this, maybe you could have matched his emotion properly. But he spoke in that careful, measured tone doctors used when they had already accepted the situation long before you had.

You sat across from him in the consultation room with your hands clasped so tightly together your knuckles hurt. There was a coffee stain on the sleeve of your sweater from two days ago. Or maybe three. You couldn’t really remember anymore. Time had begun collapsing strangely since the accident. Nights folding into mornings without edges between them.

“He remembers his brother,” you said. “his daughters.”

The doctor nodded once. “Yes.”

You stared at him. The fluorescent light above buzzed softly. Somewhere outside the room a phone rang twice and stopped. “But not me.”

Another pause.

You hated the pauses most. The pauses were where reality entered the room.

“Memory retrieval after brain trauma can be selective,” he explained. “Sometimes emotionally significant memories remain accessible. Sometimes certain relationships become… disconnected temporarily.”

Disconnected. The word made something sharp twist low in your stomach.

“He knew me before,” you said.

“Yes.”

“He loved me.” you murmur.

The doctor lowered his eyes briefly then. Not avoiding the question exactly. Just moving carefully around it, like somebody stepping over broken glass.

“I understand that.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your voice sounded strange suddenly. “Because if he remembers Ellie, and Tommy, and Sarah, then why not me?”

The question stayed there between you.

Why not me.

You realized then that you had been thinking it over and over since Joel opened his eyes.

Not: Will he recover?

Not: Will things go back to normal?

Just: Why not me.

The doctor folded his hands together on the desk. “The brain doesn’t organize memory according to fairness,” he said gently.

You almost laughed at that, not because it was funny, because the sentence felt obscene somehow. Fairness. As though this had anything to do with fairness anymore.

“He looked at me,” you said after a moment. “Like I frightened him.”

The doctor didn’t answer immediately. You kept speaking anyway because stopping felt impossible now.

“He kept asking for Ellie. He remembered Sarah immediately. Tommy too. He remembered things that apparently don’t even exist anymore inside his head. But when he looked at me,” your throat tightened suddenly. “Nothing. There was just nothing.”

Your voice cracked slightly on the last word and you looked down immediately, embarrassed by it. The doctor waited. You hated that too. The patience. The gentleness. As though your grief had become medically predictable.

“But he did know me,” you insisted again, quieter this time. “You understand that, right? We've been together like... almost five years. seeing him every single day, and we-we going to married, and-and i don't know have another kid. He used to…” You stopped.

'Used to' is the saddest phrases you could ever say. The phrase hollowed something inside your chest.

The doctor leaned back slightly in his chair.“Miss Grant,” he said carefully, “people often assume memory is purely factual. But autobiographical attachment is extremely complicated. Sometimes after trauma the brain preserves certain identities while suppressing others associated with emotional intensity, stress, or disorientation.”

You blinked at him. Suppressing others. The words sounded almost violent.

“So I’m stressful?” you asked.

“No, that’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

He hesitated.

And again you thought: there it is. That terrible little hesitation before somebody says something that changes your life permanently.

“What I mean,” he said slowly, “is that memory loss is not always random. Sometimes the mind protects itself in ways we don’t fully understand.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then shook your head immediately. “No.”

He stayed silent.

“No,” you repeated. “Because that makes it sound intentional.”

“I’m not suggesting he chose this.”

“But why me?” you asked again, suddenly unable to stop. “Why am I the missing part? Why does he remember everyone except me?”

Your voice had gone thin now. Almost shaking.

You pressed your palms hard against your eyes for a second, breathing carefully.

“He remembered his daughters,” you whispered. “Do you understand how strange that is? He remembers being a father. Just not being my.....”

The doctor’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.

And somehow that softness finally broke something in you.

“He used to know me better than anyone,” you said quietly. “He used to look at me and…” You swallowed hard. “God. He used to look at me like I was home to him.”

The room stayed silent after that.

Then finally, very softly, the doctor said:

“I know this is painful.”

And the strange thing was, hearing him say painful almost made you angry. Because painful sounded far too small a word for what this actually was.

Painful was a migraine. A broken wrist. Bad news over the phone.

Because if Joel truly felt nothing, this would actually be simpler. Cleaner. You could grieve properly then. People survived rejection every day. Survived divorce. Survived widowhood.

But this was something stranger.

He looked at you like there was something inside him trying unsuccessfully to reach toward you through locked glass.

And maybe that was the cruelest possibility of all. To still exist somewhere inside another person without them being able to find you.

...

You took another bite of the burger because your body needed something, even if your mind rejected the idea of eating entirely. The meat tasted too salty now. Or maybe that was just the tears reaching the corners of your mouth. You wiped your face with the heel of your hand and stared through the windshield at nothing in particular.

It’s strange, you thought. How quickly a person can become lonely inside their own life.

Not even this morning, Joel had still known your name. Maybe not speaking it, because he was unconscious and machines had been breathing for him and the doctors kept using words like pressure and swelling and wait. But somewhere underneath all that, he had still belonged to you in the ordinary way husbands belong to their wives. His toothbrush still sat beside yours at home. His coffee mug still waited in the sink. The flannel he wore most often was still hanging over the chair in your bedroom because you hadn’t washed it yet. It smelled too much like him.

And now suddenly you were somebody standing at the edge of his bed introducing yourself like a stranger.

The thought made your stomach turn violently. You laughed a little under your breath then, though there was nothing funny in it. What are you supposed to do with a relationship after only one person remembers it?

You kept thinking maybe there was a correct way to behave. Some proper version of yourself that would make this easier for him. Less frightening. Maybe if you had not cried. Maybe if you had touched him less. Maybe if you had not looked so devastated every time he stared at you blankly.

But then another thought came immediately after. No, because even if you had done everything perfectly, he still would not remember you.

That was the unbearable thing. You rested your forehead briefly against the steering wheel. You still had to pick up the girls.

Your eyes burned from crying.

You took another bite of the burger and forced yourself to eat half because otherwise Tommy would notice later. Tommy noticed things. Not in the way Joel did, quietly and immediately, but eventually. Like a storm warning arriving a little after the rain had already started.

The burger had gone lukewarm.

You chewed anyway.

People always say grief steals your appetite. This had never been true for you. Grief did not make you less hungry. It simply made eating feel absurd. The body continuing with its ordinary needs while the heart behaved like something mortally wounded.

You chewed slowly.

A girl crossed the parking lot holding hands with her father. She was laughing at something he said, head tilted back completely without caution, the way children laugh when they trust somebody absolutely.

You had loved Joel for years before you realized the frightening part of it wasn’t losing him.

It was building an entire life around somebody until your memories no longer made sense without them inside it.

You thought about the hospital room again. Joel looking at you with suspicion first. Then anger. Then something worse afterward. Guilt.

That part stayed with you.

Because underneath all his fear, he had looked ashamed after making you cry. As though some instinct inside him still recoiled from hurting you even when his mind no longer understood why.

The thought settled into your chest strangely warm and painful at once. Maybe memory lived somewhere deeper than the brain. Somewhere inside the body itself. Or maybe you were becoming pathetic now. The kind of woman who searched for signs of love in tiny meaningless gestures because the larger thing had already disappeared.

You swallowed hard.

You rested your forehead briefly against the steering wheel. Your chest tightened until breathing hurt.

if you hold back on the emotions, if you don't allow yourself to go all the way through them, you can never get to being detached. You stay afraid of them.

You wondered if that was true.

Because lately you felt like all you had done was feel.

Fear.

Hope.

Relief.

Then grief.

Then hope again.

Then grief again.

An endless cycle.

The doctor had told you memory loss was complicated. That emotional pathways could survive even when memories disappeared. That Joel might still feel connected to you in ways he couldn't explain.

Might. Such a terrible word and hope lives inside words like might. So does suffering, You took another bite, chewed slowly.

The truth was, you had spent two months preparing yourself for almost every outcome imaginable.

For a second you honestly considered driving somewhere else entirely. Just continuing down the highway without stopping. Leaving the city. Leaving the hospital. Leaving the terrible ache of being looked at by your husband like you were some woman who wandered accidentally into his room.

But the thought vanished almost immediately because there was nowhere you could go where your life would not follow you.

You closed your eyes briefly. For one absurd moment, you think it might be easier to choke on the burger and die right here in the school parking lot. Not because you want to die—you don't. That's the strange thing. You want tomorrow. You want coffee in the morning. You want Sarah yelling from upstairs that she can't find her shoes even though they're exactly where she left them. You want Ellie stealing fries and denying it with complete sincerity. You want Joel. More specifically, you want the version of Joel who knows you. But grief has a way of making death seem less frightening than absence. Because death, at least, is honest. Death closes the door and leaves you outside it. This is different. This is being invited inside and discovering nobody recognizes your face.

You imagine the burger catching in your throat, imagine the panic of it, the desperate search for air, and think how ridiculous it would be for your life to end over fast food and heartbreak. Then again, heartbreak itself feels ridiculous. You spend years building a life with someone. You memorize the way they take their coffee, the shape of their silences, the exact look they get when they're trying not to laugh. They become woven into your days so completely that you stop noticing where they end and you begin. And then one morning they wake up and look at you like a stranger.

You swallow hard and feel the food move painfully down your throat. No, you don't want to die. What you want is far more impossible than that. You want to walk back into that hospital room and have Joel look at you the way he did yesterday. You want him to remember why he loved you. You want, just for five minutes, to stop feeling like you're mourning someone who is still alive.

Then you heard knock on the car window and Ellie’s voice outside the car.

“Willy?”

You looked up too fast, wiping your face immediately with both hands, still chewing the last bite of burger like an idiot. Ellie stood a few feet away outside the passenger window, backpack hanging off one shoulder, staring at you with that sharp, observant expression that always made you feel transparently human.

For one horrible second neither of you said anything. Then Ellie frowned slightly.

“…you okay?”

am i okay?

It has only been two, three hours since Harry's cock was buried deep inside you, his voice low and sinful as he whispered the filthiest things into your ear. He made you cum for a third time right there that night, much harder than the previous two (or ever)— and god, it was so intense that you passed out in his arms immediately after.

Now, you lie in an empty bed that’s too big for one person, craving Harry again as if you weren’t satisfied the last time. The truth is, he’s ruined you. He has from the very first moment you started sleeping together. Three months ago, to be precise, when this arrangement—pure hot sex, no strings attached— was agreed upon. You never expected it to leave you this wrecked and wanting more and more.

Harry is charming, handsome. Irresistible, addicting. Like he’s the only thing in the world that could pull you apart and piece you back together under the same touch.

And he’s in the other room. Standing alone, naked under a spray of water. Just several strides away.

Without a second thought, you throw back the covers and roll out of bed. Your bare skin prickles from the chill in the air; your body throbs from the earlier activities, and you almost couldn’t walk a straight path. But you don’t seem to care. Your feet carry you towards the bathroom door left ajar, not wasting any more time.

The warm, humid fog greets you at first. The water pattering softly against the pale white tile masks the noise of your movements as you approach the misted-glass shower stall.

Harry doesn’t notice you immediately, allowing you a few seconds to admire the sight of his broad back and shoulders. The way beads of water glisten and slide across taut muscles that ripple under his skin as he lathers soap unhurriedly all over his body.

Not only does he fuck like a god, but he looks like one, too.

He hums an unfamiliar tune to himself, quiet but rich; smooth and warm like whiskey. It echoes off the walls, the rumbling sound close to a touch you somehow feel even if it didn't land.

Your breath catches somewhere between your lungs and your lips. It's sweet, slow torture— you standing there and not saying a word, not reaching out. You can't tear your eyes away, not that you wanted to. Fuck, no. You're going to savor every second of this, commit each detail of Harry to memory, and tuck it away with all the other dirty ones.

And when you've finally had enough— when the blooming heat in your belly has melted down your restraint— you slip into the shower stall behind Harry, pressing your body gently into his solid back. He doesn't tense up at your unexpected presence. If anything, he relaxes more with you there. Steam envelops you as your hands glide over his slick chest, feeling the thrumming beneath your palm when he chuckles.

"Didn't mean to wake you, baby. You should've stayed in bed, I wasn't going to take too long," Harry says, his hand catching one of yours to bring up to his lips.

In return, you softly kiss the hollow between his shoulder blades. "And lose out on an opportunity to watch you in the shower? No, thank you. Besides, m'not really tired anymore."

"Sure about that?" He wonders, and you can practically hear the smirk in his tone. "Thought I wore you out pretty good earlier."

"Mhmm, you did," you murmur against Harry's back, your hands beginning to drift down his chest, fingers slowly caressing his soft belly, and the thatch of hair there. You almost miss the subtle stutter of his breath, drowned out by the steady cascade above your heads. "But I missed you and this..."

Harry lets out a soft groan when your hand lightly brushes against his cock, which has been stirring with interest from the moment your touch landed upon him. You grin at that, unseen by him, of course. You relish knowing how fast he gets worked up by you, from not doing too much at that either.

"Needy, needy girl," he cooes, thinking he’s in complete control here, just like always. Harry tries to turn around and face you, but you gently push forward, pinning him to the wall.

You keep your body flush against Harry’s to give him no room to move. He doesn’t fight it, though, which is more surprising to you than not. Perhaps he doesn’t make an attempt because your fingers are now wrapped around the girth of his cock, choosing to surrender to baser urges rather than delay relief.

But then again, you know Harry. You know he likes it when you show him what you want. When that bold confidence of yours doesn't shy away from him, acting as though you're worth more than his wealth and yours combined. It's what drew him to you when you first met at some glitzy gala in Manhattan neither of you wanted to attend in the first place. Maybe you taking the lead for a change is turning him on more than he anticipated.

“Fu-uck, baby. That’s it,” Harry grunts, rough and ragged. He leans forward, bracing an arm against the shower tile as you continue pumping his length with long, steady strokes from behind. His hand finds your other resting low at his hip, and he laces his fingers with yours, his grip tightening, grounding— you’re not entirely sure if he was holding back or barely holding on.

Slick from the coated mix of water, soap, and his own arousal, your hand moves up and down Harry’s shaft, hot and heavy, effortlessly. You see the way his head dips down to watch you work him over with such practiced and devastating ease. Every drag of your closed palm, every twist and tug and squeeze, unravels him in a way that he can’t and won’t stop.

Harry’s close. You’re well acquainted with his body at this point to be sure of that. You can feel it with each broken breath pushing past his lips, in the slight shiver beneath his skin, the tight rise and fall of his chest. How his hips jerk into your fist with small, shallow, desperate thrusts, a string of curses and praises muttered low along with your name.

There's something thrilling about having Harry like this, teetering over the edge. You could draw it out, tease him helplessly. Leave him aching, begging, and trembling like he often does to you.

But you didn't come here for that. As much as it lit a hot, dangerous fire within you, you wanted Harry to fuck you. You wanted the throbbing cock in your hand back inside you, to quell the ache that no fingers, mouth, or toys could ever do.

Your rhythm falters, then eventually stills. Harry is quick to react, a sound caught in his throat— half-protest, half plea. He inhales sharply, body tensing when he’s pulled back from the very brink. His head lifts from the tile where he’d rested it, and he glances over his shoulder to meet your hazy eyes.

The heat in his gaze is dark, searing, and hungry, as if he doesn’t at all appreciate the fact that you’ve stopped so abruptly.

“Not gonna finish what you started, baby?” Harry pants, his hand reaching down to drape over your fingers that remain loosely curled around the base of him. He twitches against the softness of your palm. “Didn’t think you could be cruel.”

“Cruel? Never. Well, at least not now anyway,” you reply, placing a kiss on the center of his spine. “I was hoping that you would finish inside me instead.”

“That can be arranged.”

You wring Harry’s cock with one last slow pull, just enough to make him shudder, before letting him slip from your grasp. It’s only then that you take a step back, allowing him space to turn to you.

And when he does, you feel the power shift back to Harry. Something low in your belly coils so tight that it almost hurts. Your eyes drag over him without an ounce of shame— flushed, gorgeous, and hard.

Fuck, Harry is so hard, his tip swollen and a shade or two darker. Just one look at him and your pussy clenches around nothing, begging to be filled. He notices this, notices how your thighs press firmly together from the mere anticipation, your eyes locked in a silent, electric exchange.

Then all at once, Harry’s mouth crashes onto yours, fierce, bruising, and urgent. The force of which nearly causes you to stumble if it hadn’t been for his steady grip settling on your waist. His other hand slides behind your head, angling you perfectly for him to deepen the kiss, his tongue insistent and greedy as it dives past your lips in a hungry sweep.

He doesn’t slow down, not even as he backs you against the cool tile of the wall. The shower stream hits only Harry now, his body shielding you from it, the heat of him replacing the warmth of the water on you.

Harry’s lips break away from yours, dragging them across your cheek, along the line of your jaw. He continues down onto your neck, his mouth moving with a purpose; teeth grazing lightly, nipping and sucking against your tender flesh until it undoubtedly leaves a bloom of color— you feel it, even if you can’t see it.

“So fucking beautiful… and all mine,” Harry rasps, the words meant for you, but just as much for himself.

You see his throat work as he swallows, his large hand skimming up the curve of your waist, thumb brushing gently under the swell of your breast. His heavy-lidded eyes take in every inch of you before him, as if this is the first time he’s ever seen you bare, wet, and wanting— like he’s looking at something so sinfully holy.

“Yours,” you whisper, and hearing it hits Harry like a live wire.

Because suddenly he’s surging forward, his mouth claiming yours again with kisses that are all messy and consuming, that leave you with no room to breathe.

Your head starts to spin, and your knees buckle from the intensity. But Harry's there, trapping you between his chest and the shower wall, keeping you upright, fully flushed against him.

Harry only breaks away from your lips when you arch your back slightly, rolling your hips against his. He lets out a groan, rough and guttural, his breath hot and uneven as it fans over your face. You rock against him once more, and he hisses at the sensation— at the sweet friction he gets from each grind against your pelvis. His warm, glistening precum smears across wherever it can reach.

“Feel that, baby?” Harry husks as your eyes drop to where the rigid line of his cock ruts between the two of you. “That’s all you. You did that. Made me so hard…fuck I can’t even think anymore. I need you— gotta have you."

A hand then comes into view, trailing from your waist to your hip, and then dipping lower and lower until he’s palming your sex, groaning low when he finds the slick mess pooling down there.

“God, you’re soaking wet. Haven't even touched you properly yet. All this from jacking me off, hmm?”

You answer with a breathless whimper when Harry leisurely drags two digits through your slit, gathering your arousal onto his fingers. Your gaze follows as he lifts his hand to his mouth, sliding those fingers covered in a thin sheen of desire between his lips, sucking and savoring the essence that is purely you.

He hums in satisfaction. "You taste so sweet, darling. Wish my legs weren't shot, ‘cause I'd go down on you right here, right now."

A renewed rush of heat spreads under your skin as you’re reminded of how unbelievably good Harry is at eating pussy. It’s earth-shattering each and every time. He listens to your body, knows exactly what to do and when to give it to make you come undone easily. You love it mainly because he’s not just going through the motions like your exes used to. No, not him. Harry will happily bury his face between your legs as if he’s a starved man.

Any and all thoughts in your head dissolve the instant the pad of Harry’s thumb brushes over your clit, sending a jolt straight to you. He holds your gaze, watching the pleasure ripple through your expression. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip to chase the lingering taste of you as he continues the tender assault on your sensitive bundle of nerves that soon has you writhing beneath his touch.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly he’s gotten you to this point. How he’s not even inside of you yet, and if you let him, you could cum just like this. But you’re so wound up, so desperate to be filled more than anything that you don’t want that. You don’t want to prolong this. You couldn’t wait any longer.

“Want—want more, Harry, shit… fuck me. Please, fuck me,” you plead to him, and he stops, his fingers immediately pulling away, and damn it, is this how it felt for him when you took your hand off his cock just like that?

Harry flashes you a knowing smirk, but he doesn’t leave you hanging for long, though. He kisses you once more, this time unhurried. Softer. Much, much softer now, like he's kissing you simply because he wants to feel your lips on him again, to get his fill of it before his hands rest on your hips, gently coaxing you to turn and face the tiled walls behind you.

“Bend over a little for me, sweetheart. Hands on the wall— good, just like that. That’s my girl.” Harry guides you into a comfortable enough position, his voice thick as he speaks, nearly strained as though it bears the weight of his own arousal. He smooths his hand down the length of your spine, coasting along the curve of your ass where he squeezes the soft skin of it.

You hold your breath believing it might keep you from falling apart due to impatience, waiting for the heavy press of him against your entrance, the raw slide of hard flesh that makes you squirm at the intrusion. And it does. You feel the familiar flare of pressure as something sinks into you— a finger.

Then, another.

Harry couldn’t help himself. How could he when your dripping pussy is staring straight at him? Two of his fingers don’t fill you the same way his cock would, but at least your wishes have been granted somewhat.

Selfishly, you want more. Not this. More.

But when those two, thick digits delve in as far as they would go, it shuts you up long enough to get lost in the sensation. Harry doesn’t rush, and you’re too distracted by his skilled fingers working inside of you to protest. He crooks them just right, just enough that he’s pushing up against that spongy spot of yours that has you keening.

“Wanna make you come on my hand, my darling. Love the way you squeeze my fingers when you do.”

You shake your head deliriously. “On your cock, baby. I need your cock, been needing it so bad ever since I woke up.”

“You sure? We got all the time in the world for that—”

“Fuck me with your cock, Castillo,” you cut Harry off with a near growl, drawing an amused chuckle out of him. “Fuck me right now, or I swear I’ll just find somebody else—”

Your unserious threat is swallowed by the whine escaping you when Harry withdraws his fingers. Before you could recover from the loss, he’s gliding his length between your wet folds, the very tip of his cock nudging your swollen clit. The sudden contact makes you gasp and sway, your footing slips for a second, but his hands on your waist keep you firmly in place.

“Harry, please. Enough—no more teasing.”

“Shhh, it’s alright,” Harry croons, his hips shifting back the slightest, and you know what’s coming next. You’re sure of it this time. “Gonna take care of you now. Need you just as bad. Relax for me, baby.”

You suck in sharp breath, fingers flexing against the wall as the thick head of Harry's length breaches your cunt at last. He eases himself inside of you, inch by inch, so agonizingly slow that it drives you mad. He doesn't do this out of cruelty, but rather with a tenderness, making sure that he doesn't hurt you even if it feels like he's splitting you in half.

“F-Fuck honey, this pussy’s so tight for me,” Harry mutters through gritted teeth when he finally bottoms out, his fingers digging into your hip, allowing a few moments for you to adjust.

The stretch of him, the fullness Harry brings— fuck, it’s everything you’ve been aching for and more. You can’t explain how it’s possible, but somehow he feels even better right now. Maybe it’s from the build-up, the angle he’s got you in, or the way the warm air clings to your damp skin, amplifying every touch, every spark he sets alight within you.

Whatever it is, it has the nerves in your body pulsing to life, like a hot electric current running through your veins.

Harry holds onto your shoulder with one hand, the other splayed across your waist, and he starts to move inside of you. His thrusts are slow at first, deep and deliberate, reaching a depth that has your walls helplessly fluttering around him.

And he feels it, too. You know he does, because his pace picks up, knocking the air out of your lungs. His grip clamps down on you, not so much to maintain your balance this time, but to pull you back onto his cock as he pushes in, as if he couldn't get close enough.

"Fuck—don't stop. Just like that. Please, don't you dare fucking stop," you cry out, voice frayed at the edges. Your mind scatters with each snap of Harry's hips, which seemingly have grown much harder at your words, hitting the sweet spot that he had teased earlier over and over again.

“Never, baby,” he chokes out. “Never gonna stop. Feels too fucking good.”

The noises trapped within the walls are filthy and obscene. There's the wet, rhythmic squelch of Harry's cock driving into; the frantic slap of the front of his thighs against the back of yours. The lewd symphony of your strung-out whines and his deep, throaty groans.

If Harry had neighbors, they would have certainly loathed him. And you. Mostly you, with your loud, unabashed moans from being fucked into oblivion in every room, on every surface of his home.

“M’close, Harry,” you tell him as the burning warmth in your core begins to crescendo towards your peak.

Harry lets out a hiss when your cunt tightens its walls around him, like it's warning him of your fast-approaching climax in case he hadn't heard you the first time. "Keep squeezing me like that darling, and you're gonna make me cum too."

Your legs shake as Harry pounds into you with reckless abandon, his control slipping away as he chases his own release. But he won’t allow himself to fall before you do. He makes sure of that once his fingers land on your delicate clit, rubbing in tight circles, trying to time with his increasingly sloppy thrusts.

Glancing over your shoulder, you arch your spine as much as you can until his chest brushes against your back. Harry nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, his scruff on his lower jaw scraping roughly against your skin.

“Need you to cum for me—fuck, baby cum now,” he urges, his tone wrecked, his restraint obvious. He’s right there with you on the edge, not letting go. Not yet. He couldn’t, wouldn’t.

But you do. You cum for Harry, the tension in your body snapping and unraveling all at once. You couldn't speak, not that any coherent thoughts were forming in your head. Not when the waves of pleasure come crashing down on you one after another, after another.

You barely hear the strangled groan behind you, nor register the way Harry’s hips stutter against you. Your pussy gushes around his shaft, clenching down on him hard, and that’s all it took. He buries himself to the hilt with a broken sigh of your name, his throbbing cock spilling deep inside of you, filling you up to the very brim.

Stillness passes over you and Harry. The shower is still running overhead, now the only sound in the room along with your tangled, labored breaths. He doesn’t pull out right away, and you’re glad he didn’t.

You allow this connection to remain for a minute or two more, before his softening length slips out without truly meaning to. A warm trickle of his seed slides down the inside of your leg, mixing with the rivulets of water on your skin, and you both share a hum at the sight.

Carefully, you shift your weight and turn, feeling the fresh new ache between your thighs. Harry’s heady eyes are already on you when you face him. His arms move instantly, pulling you flush against him, chest to chest, two hearts slowing down together to a calmer beat.

He kisses you tenderly, sweetly. The heat between you has now softened, like the burn of a fire that has settled into embers. It's moments like this where you look at Harry differently, as if he's not just a man you befriended after crossing paths one night, who, after finishing a bottle of Château Margaux, later became someone you seek out for relief.

Here, he’s… more. You don’t know how much more or why that is, and honestly, you’re terrified that this is currently crossing your mind.

“You okay there?” Harry asks quietly.

Pushing the confusing thought away, you're quick to nod and smile, brushing his wet hair back when it clings to his forehead. "Never better. Although, may I suggest investing in a shower bench? Could be helpful whenever we decide to fool around here."

He laughs lightheartedly. “Don’t worry, it’s already on my to-do list.”

“Good. It baffles me that your bathroom doesn’t already come with it, considering this penthouse cost you $12 million.”

“Why? Does your modest $5 million condo have one?”

“Duh, of course. It’s one of my non-negotiables. Makes shaving a lot easier, among other things.”

Harry shakes his head, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Guess that means we’re showering next at your place then.”

“I wouldn’t say no to that,” you reply with a soft chuckle. “You can see the benefits for yourself. Especially with your uh…”

You trail off, motioning to the healed scars running down the length of each of Harry's legs. He'd hidden them from you at first, choosing to have sex under the sheets, never letting you close enough to notice. But you did by accident some time ago, though you never asked where they were from. He's hesitant to share, still is, but you don't force him. You figure he’ll tell you once he’s ready, if and whenever that may be.

A gentle smile tugs at the corner of Harry’s mouth. “I’ll call up a contractor tomorrow. But for now, why don’t I wash you up before we head to bed?”

“You calling me dirty, Castillo?” You tease as he directs you closer under the spray of water. Undeniably, though, there’s something about the affection in his tone and his offer that has your heart stumbling.

“You are,” Harry smirks, taking his shampoo bottle from the nook and squeezing a generous amount of it into his hand. “You crashed my shower because you woke up horny. Almost got me off with just one hand, then you were begging to get fucked by my cock.”

You moan softly from both his retelling of events and the feeling of his hands in your hair, fingers lathering the shampoo into your scalp. Your eyes flutter shut as he massages your head, swaying just slightly from the motion of his hands.

The scent of cedar wood floods your senses—god, you’re not sure how you’ll make it through the entire day tomorrow smelling like Harry, feeling like you’re still wrapped in him completely.

“You always do this?” You question low, eyes peeking open after thoroughly rinsing the suds out of your hair. “Wreck a girl’s pussy then bathe her gently after?”

Harry reaches for the body wash. “Only you.”

You had half-expected him to give you a witty remark, but what came out of him instead carried a certain tenderness that’s becoming more and more familiar. It leads you to speculate whether he notices that, too.

A new kind of shiver sweeps down your spine as Harry glides his now soapy hands over you. He starts at your shoulders, moving down to your arms, then across your chest. There’s so much care when he circles your breasts, touching them not out of lust, but with something very sincere. Intimate. He later bends down a bit to reach the inside of your thighs, brushing clean the remnants of your mixed release there.

By the time Harry rinses you one last time, your chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with sex, but everything to do with him.

“This feels… oddly domestic.” The words tumble out unintentionally as Harry switches the shower off. You wait too long to take it back, and you can’t explain what you mean by that either.

You might have offended Harry when he doesn't respond right away, just pushes the shower door, and grabs a towel hanging nearby. He spends the stretch of silence drying you off before he bundles the cotton fabric around your body, tucking it at your chest.

Afterwards, he steps out of the stall, reaching for a second towel to quickly pat himself dry. He wraps it low around his hips and shifts back to you, extending a hand out, palm up. His fingers close gently around yours, guiding you forward— out of the warmth and into the cool air that raises goosebumps on your skin.

Then came his voice, much softer than you’re used to. The sound of it twists in your gut. “You didn’t like it?”

“No, I mean— yes. Yeah, I liked it. It was really… nice,” you ramble, struggling to find the right words to say here. But your answer was the truth. “Sorry, just not used to it, that's all.”

“Me neither,” Harry whispers. There’s a flicker of understanding in his warm gaze, and it swirls with something that you couldn’t quite pin a name to, or perhaps you’re simply not ready to. “It felt… nice. Doing that—for you.”

You fall into silence once more, though this time it rests lighter on your shoulders. A smile blossoms across your lips when you notice Harry still staring at you, looking as if you’re not a luxury, but a rarity—the one thing in this world his money can’t buy.

The lines between the two of you are blurred now. At least to you, they were. You wonder at what point it all changed. Or maybe it had been a slow, gradual shift, and it's only begun to catch up to you.

Either way, you and Harry were never meant to be this close. Purely sex, that was the deal. But now…

Now, he’s kissing you again, each brush of his lips demanding nothing more than you can give. You can taste the faintest trace of you on his tongue when he weaves it into your mouth, coaxing a pleased sigh from you that he drinks in without pause.

Then, Harry pulls away for a breath, his forehead resting against yours. You couldn’t remember what you’d been thinking or why it even mattered. Your mind, so noisy several moments ago, has gone blissfully blank.

You know without a doubt that it’s all because of him.

“Is this too much?” Harry asks, the weight of the question hanging in the air.

"No," comes your answer. You say the following words almost as if they hold something fragile. "It's perfectly enough for me."

Soft and slow, you press your lips to Harry’s again—and it would make you the richest woman on earth if you could just stay this way for as long as he’ll keep you close.

—

„You’re adopting a child?” Cassandra gasps delighted after you just told her about it.

You came back from Bahamas few days ago. Now, you meet with your friend for a coffee at her place. You missed her so much and the excitement about the adoption is just spilling out of you.

„Yes! Well, first we’ll become foster parents probably. They won’t give us a child just like that.”

„Jesus, that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you.” She leans in to wrap her arms around you. You laugh absolutely overwhelmed. Since your talk with Harry about adoption you almost can’t stop smiling. You don’t remember when was the last time you were so happy. It’s like the hope moved back to live in your heart.

You relish in the hug, feeling the honesty flowing from your friend. She was with you through all the ups and downs. She helped Harry and his mom when you were depressed after your miscarriages. She sat with you in silence, because that was the only thing you were able to do then.

So now that Cassie sees you so happy, talking about adoption? She’s excited for you.

„You’re gonna be an amazing mom, you know that?” She leans back, looking at you with affection.

„I hope so… I don’t want to be like my mother.”

„Hey.” She grasps your shoulders. „You are nothing like her. Nothing.”

„I know, but… I’m just scared.”

„It’s normal, but try not to spiral, okay? I bet Harry won’t let you anyway.” Cassie smirks. „Besides, does your mom know about the adoption?”

„Oh, of course not.” You huff. „I don’t talk to her since…” you take a moment to remember. „The last time she called me was on Christmas, asking why didn’t I come to her Christmas Eve party. She was so pissed when I told her she didn’t even invite me. That was the night I decided I’m fed up with it… Spent Christmas Eve just with Harry and his family. They love me more than my own anyway.”

You recall how sad you got after that phone call. Your husband held you as you rambled about anything wrong your mother did through all your life. And he just sat silent as you let it out. You were so upset you wanted to skip the party at his parents’. But he convinced you to go… And the moment you entered the Castillo house, you never felt more at home.

„I’m sorry, sweets. Your mother is a bitch.”

„Yeah, but, I don’t mind anymore. I finally learnt to live without her approval. I just want to focus on my own family.”

„I still can’t believe you and Harry are doing this.” Cassandra grins. „Me too! Last night Harry did research and read me all about adoption process.” You chuckle.

You don’t miss the way your friend looks at you. The way the corner of her lips lifts when she sees your loving expression as you talk about your husband. She remembers your crisis, she was there to kick his ass and tell him he screwed up. But now?

Seeing you two together, going strong after everything you went through is beautiful.

And she has no doubt you and Harry will make wonderful parents.

In the evening, you come back home to find your husband already here.

You can tell by the noises from the kitchen.

He’s cooking.

It’s not like he’s a bad cook. Absolutely not. Everything he does is delicious. It’s just the way he cooks… The kitchen afterward looks like a battlefield.

Just like now.

„Hey, baby.” You say with raised eyebrow as you walk in to the kitchen. It’s a total mess. Pots and dishes everywhere. Spoons on the marble counter, spotting it with some sauce he’s cooking. The vegetables halfway through cutting.

„Hi, darling. Expected you a little later.” He smiles at you nervously over his shoulder.

You chuckle and approach him, wrapping your arms around him from behind as he stirs something in the pot at the stove. You take in his scent, cologne mixed with a hint of sweat and cooking. But you don’t mind, you just want to hug your husband.

„That’s so nice.” He breathes, relaxing a bit under your touch. He seems a bit on edge here… „Do you need help?” You smirk and he instantly turns to look at you. So much relieved. „Would you?”

That draws another chuckle out of you. „Of course. You don’t have to do it alone, I’m here.”

You quickly wash your hands and step up to help him cook. Harry always has the best intentions, but you both know he’s dealing better with high-risk investments than with a burning Béchamel sauce.

But you’re still quite surprised. Usually he handles everything well. You don’t remember the last time you saw him this stressed. You sense maybe it has something to do with work. He just came back to the office after your holiday. Comebacks like this might be stressful. Especially when it’s Castillo Holdings worth almost two hundred million dollars.

„You okay?” You look at him from the side as you start cutting a pepper.

„Ugh, yeah… Rather not talk about it right now.” He says, drying his hands with a cloth.

„Oh, okay. Let’s just finish it then. It’ll go faster together.”

And it’s true. Soon you have stuffed peppers in the oven and can clean up after cooking without nerves. You rinse the dishes and Harry loads them into the dishwasher. He wipes the counters as you set the table ready. It’s a nice teamwork you worked out through many years together. And tonight? Harry recognizes how thankful he is for it.

„Okay, so now.” You grab his hands as everything is clean and ready, waiting for the peppers to be baked. „Tell me, what is going on. You seem pretty tense.” As you say it, you run your hands up his arms, feeling how his muscles lack their usual looseness.

Harry exhales heavily.

„Just… Pete fucked up a deal while we were gone. A big one. Mother’s pissed. I’m even more. Today the owner of the firm we wanted to buy came to my office, literally threatening me with a lawsuit.”

„Oh, shit.”

„Yeah, I just… I’ve dealt with similar things many times, but… This one just got to me, you know?” He rests his hands on your hips, pulling you few inches closer. „We just were on this amazing holiday and now I got immediately thrown into a shitstorm like this. We’re planning a family and actually the last thing I want to worry about now is this damn company.”

That’s the moment it gets to you. It’s not the work. It’s the priorities.

„I just realized that… Why does it matter? The never-ending chase after money and investments… I’m getting tired. I catch myself rolling my eyes at the interns who panic over some discrepancies in the numbers like the world could end because of them. All I really want is to be with you. At home and getting ready for our kid.”

Your gaze softens. You didn’t expect a confession like this. But you understand him well.

„I get it, baby.” You whisper, leaning in to hug him. He doesn’t oppose, just pulls you in with a sigh of relief. „I think, I’m just getting too old for this. I crave something… peaceful.” He mumbles against your temple.

„You’re not old. You’re still gonna be a first-time dad.” You smile, trying to cheer up the atmosphere. Your husband chuckles and looks down at your pretty grin. Damn, he’ll for sure never get tired of this.

„Yeah, guess you’re right.”

The oven beeps, letting you know the stuffed peppers are ready. Harry takes them out, telling you to just sit down and relax. You watch him serving the dinner with this quiet efficiency. Even if he’s tired, he’s doing his best for you.

You eat together over the candlelight and a red wine. You tell him about your meetup with Cassie and how she’s excited for you. Meanwhile, he reaches his hand over the table, gently enveloping yours. Your wedding bands catch the soft candlelight. You love this view. Your husband, right here with you.

„When we finish… I invite you to have a bath with your beloved wife.” You smirk from above your glass.

„Oh, yeah?” Harry raises an eyebrow.

„Yes. Clean up and I’ll prepare everything.”

You just want to do something nice for him. He’s always there for you, so it feels only fair to help ease his stress.

Without much talking, you finish eating and leave a kiss on his head as you head to the master bathroom. „Be there in ten minutes.”

As you’re alone in the bathroom you instantly start preparing a relaxing bath. Fill the tub with hot water. Add lots of Harry’s favourite sea salt, a bit of ylang-ylang oil that creates a very nice, exotic scent around. Finishing it up with your vanilla body wash. You also light up some more candles around. You created a very intimate, calming atmosphere. Just like you planned.

Then you quickly get rid of your clothes and wrap yourself in a silk robe, waiting for him.

The specious bathroom fills with soothing steam. The bathtub in the middle is already full with water and foam. The city’s lights shimmer outside the big window, but your penthouse is tucked away so high… You feel like no one can catch you here. Then… you hear footsteps.

The door open slowly. Harry enters and like magic, his shoulders instantly sag. „Well, well, well… isn’t it a sight for sore eyes?” He bites his lip seeing you in that robe, surrounded by soft scents and steam. An absolute perfection.

You walk up and peck his lips delicately. „Mind if we get rid of this?” You tug at his t-shirt.

Your husband doesn’t protest, just takes it off over his head in a smooth motion.

„And this…?” You hook a finger through the belt loop of his jeans.

„Yes, ma’am.”

He quickly unbuckles his belt and shrugs the pants off. Just a single raise of your eyebrows tells him to also get rid of the socks and boxers.

Once completely bare, you can head to the tub.

„Hop in.” He says, but you keep standing on the side. „No, you first. This time I get behind.” You smile sweetly.

„What? Why?”

„It’s you who need to relax, get in.”

After another second of doubt Harry gives in. He sinks into the warm water and sighs in relief. He really needed that. „Woah, maybe you want me to go?” You giggle.

„Shut up and get in here.” He grumbles with obvious amusement.

With a roll of your eyes, you settle in behind him, pulling his larger frame against your chest. Your limbs wrap around him from behind as he finally lets himself relax. The feeling of his weight on you like that is one of your favourite things. You pepper the side of his neck with kisses and another soft exhale leaves his mouth.

„Damn… Feels really good.”

„I know. This is just for you. You’re relaxing Mr. Castillo.” You whisper.

Harry loves the way you wrapped yourself around him. Loves how your hands gently smear his skin with the vanilla foam. His muscles go slack beneath your touch and he can’t help the pleasurable, low hums that sound from him. He feels absolutely taken care of and you’re happy you could give that to him.

„My hardworking husband.” You press your lips to his earlobe. „I love you so much.”

„I love you, too, darling.” He breathes.

Then your hands get underwater to massage the knots, you’re sure he has in his lower back. As soon as you touch there he growls half in pain, half in relief. You huff under your breath and keep going until he slowly relaxes there as well.

„Jesus Christ, you have angel’s hands.” He says. Then your lips find his neck again, kiss on the back and then higher, up to the side, until you nip at his earlobe. Harry tilts his head back with a curse slipping out. „Fuck.”

„Good?” You whisper, continuing.

„Baby… It’s incredible. But if you don’t stop, we might have a problem. Well… we already have.” He breathes.

You know exactly what he means. You sneak your hand around to his front. You slide it down his sculpted chest and through the softness of his stomach… And lower… Until you find him already rock hard . Your husband hisses when you grip him, squeezing just enough.

„I don’t think it is a problem.” He can feel your smirk against his skin.

„Fucking menace.”

You stroke him few times causing some filthy groans escaping his mouth. You have a good look at his profile. At the way his eyes remain closed, lost in pleasure. At how his face softened because of you and what you’re doing.

„Baby, please, let’s switch… Wanna see you... And have you sit on it.” He pants.

„Nuh-uh. Tonight it’s just you and your pleasure. I’m fine like this.”

Your kisses continue on his exposed neck as your hand keeps stroking him agonizingly slow. You want to draw this out, make him tremble in your arms. Harry bucks his hips up into your touch and you’re very satisfied with the way he seems desperate for more.

Usually he’s the one guiding, always focusing on your pleasure. It’s good to see the roles reverse sometimes. Keep the balance and give him the same attention he gives you.

It doesn’t take long until he comes beneath your touch. Completely spent, completely satisfied. Now, all his muscles are relaxed and the tension from the day forgotten because of the bath you prepared for him.

Harry, though, being a pleaser he is, doesn’t like the idea of you not getting anything. That’s why after leaving the bathroom, all soft from the hot water, you’re thrown onto the bed. Your legs opened widely for your husband to dive in between them and show you how thankful he is for a wife like that.

***************************

Few days later, Harry and you contact the foster care agency. You learn about the requirements and the system. All this makes both of you nervous, but also so hopeful.

It finally feels right.

You do realize that applying to become adoptive parents doesn’t mean you’d get a match instantly. The system focuses on helping the families first. After experiencing loss like you did, it’s making you a bit anxious. Because what if they match you with a child and then take it away, back to its real parents? Scenarios like that happen.

But you try to remain hopeful, sincerely believing this time the fate is on your side.

So, you submit the application.

„Where is our marriage certificate?” Harry calls from his study. When you enter you see him crouching, searching through all the documents in one of the desk cabinets.

„Ugh… Somewhere?” You say, also not sure where it might be. Your husband glares at you. „We need to find it for our application.”

„I know, I know. Let me.” You say, approaching him. Yes, there is a lot of different papers here, but not the one you need. You sigh as your fingers rummage through them.

„We need it.” Harry says again, clearly nervous. Clearly caring about the adoption and its smooth process.

You’re not sure how long you two spend buried in the documents, but finally...

„There!” You shout excitedly as you hold the marriage certificate in your hands. You proudly show him the document. It became a little competition here, who finds it first. And you won.

„Baby, you are a genius.” Harry sighs in relief and pulls you in with a smile, not caring about all the other papers scattered around the floor. „Does it earn a kiss?” You grin. „Sure it does, future mama.”

He presses his lips to yours, pouring all his relieve and anticipation in that kiss. You’re both smiling like idiots, because now that you found the last document needed for the application… Nothing will stop you.

The weeks pass and anticipation flows through you. Every sound of phone ringing you hope it’s from foster care. You try not to get ahead of yourselves, but it’s hard when you can already picture a family life you might soon have.

„Would you like a boy, or a girl?” You ask Harry one day over a lunch. He took you out during the working day to Claire’s. Your favourite bagel spot.

„Honestly? It’s not so relevant to me… I’ll be happy just having the opportunity to be a dad.” He answers with a shy sincerity. Your eyes soften.

„Of course, me too. The gender doesn’t really matter. I’m just so excited… I keep wondering who we’ll get matched with.”

„I get it. I keep waiting for this damn call from the agency. It’s frustrating it takes so long.” He sigs, having a bite of the bagel. „When they call we can start the training sessions.”

„Can’t wait.” You grin.

After lunch, Harry offers a walk through the nearby park. He’s not so eager to go back to work just yet. Holding hands, you make your way through gravel path, relishing in the nature in the middle of the bustling city.

You love quiet moments like this. Harry next to you, sun shining above… Nothing bothers you. You feel a weird peace filling your body. Healed and ready for another step.

Your husband notices your contentment and can’t help the smile that slowly blooms on his face. He’s right where he wants to be. At your side, watching how again you’re full of that inner light.

God, how he missed this.

„Maybe I’ll just stay home after dropping you off.” he says and you chuckle.

„Harry, baby, you have to show up at work sometimes.”

Lately, he really tries his best to stay home. It’s like that since your talk in the kitchen few weeks ago. You’re aware work is hard on him and he feels pressured to be there. You noticed his priorities change.

It’s in the way he moves slower.

Or in the way he holds you a bit tighter in the night.

„Never expected it’ll get to a point you will be telling me to leave for work.” He chuckles and you also see the irony. „Well-” You start, but are cut off by his ringtone. Both of you stop in the middle of the path. Birds chirping match the rapid rhythm of your heartbeat. Is it…?

Harry takes it out of his pocked and spares you a single glance before picking up.

„Mr. Castillo? Your application has been accepted.”

***************************

You and Harry started your training sessions for adoptive parents. There’s a group of couples like you and with a qualified social worker, you learn about children and how to act in different situations. Adopted kids often experienced trauma, or are moved from house to house, which can cause attachment issues. These sessions are supposed to help you understand them better.

Both you and your husband take this very seriously and engage in the classes eagerly. It’s obvious that it’s important for you to know how to react around your future kid. It’s really humbling, lessons like that. And they only make your desire to give someone a loving home stronger.

At the same time, when you attend the classes, your caseworker also conducts a home study.

She checks all your documents, income and your background.

Then…

She visits your penthouse.

Harry absentmindedly strokes your arm as you both observe your caseworker. She just entered your home and now walks around just looking.

„We have everything provided.” Your husband starts. „Smoke detectors, medications are kept away from child’s reach…”

„I would like to see those.” She says.

„Sure.” You smile and lead her along with your husband.

The visit is stressful. You have no idea how you’re holding up so well. You keep glancing at Harry, checking if he’s as nervous as you. He is.

This is a big deal. When you pass this and the next few visits, and interviews… You will be officially allowed to adopt a child.

After the caseworker saw the safety-concerning stuff she focuses on another step of the visit.

„And where is the place to sleep for a child?”

„Oh, we have a room prepared.” Harry says and leads her down the hallway, holding your hand. She watches everything cautiously. You all stop before the door, which is right next to your master bedroom one.

„We sleep right here.” You point at it. „And the child could sleep here.”

Turning the knob, you open the door to a very bright, cozy room. It’s big, walls white and there’s a king-sized bed by the wall.

„It is a guest bedroom, but we will change it. Arrange it according to the child’s needs.” Your husband says. The caseworker smiles, walking around. She stops by the floor-to-ceiling window that shows the whole Manhattan.

„Well, isn’t it a nice view.” She says.

„It is.” You breathe relieved, because the visit seems to go well so far. You catch the same look in Harry’s eyes and he grasps your hand again, pressing a tender kiss to the back of it. Your caseworker notices that.

„You’re married for… five years now?”

„Yes. Six in September.” You lift the corner of your lips.

„Can I know why did you decide to adopt?”

„Oh, we…”

Harry notices you stiffen. Despite everything, this topic is still difficult for you. So he steps up. Squeezes your hand in reassurance. „We wanted to be parents for a long time. The fertility treatment didn’t work, so… the only reasonable option for us was to adopt. We want to give someone a loving home.”

The visit continues. Caseworker asks you more questions about your lifestyle, or how do you picture raising your child. There are many of them, but you feel perfectly prepared. Nothing scares you, not even the questions like ’How do you handle disagreements?’ or ’How would you react for a child’s tantrum?’. You answer all of them.

She sees you are good people. The love bonding you and Harry is palpable and strong and you seem capable. It’s always a positive sign. Actually, you make ideal adoptive parents.

The way she says goodbye tells you your first home visit went well.

As the elevator door shut behind her you both can finally exhale.

Harry looks at you, making sure you’re okay before he pulls you into his arms with a smile.

„I think it wasn’t that bad.” You say hopefully.

„It wasn’t. I think she loved us.”

„God, I was so nervous… And when she asked about our therapy, I thought it’ll be over…” Despite your best efforts, your brain starts to overthink every single interaction with the caseworker.

„Baby, I never heard that marriage counseling disqualified anyone from adoption process. And she saw we are more than fine now. Don’t dig into it too much, okay?” His lips brush the tip of your nose affectionately. „Yeah… you’re right. We have to remain positive.” you take a deeper breath in.

This adoption might be your only way to have a child. Your biggest dream. The atmosphere in your house is nervous, but not the way it was when you were trying the infertility treatment. Then… you were drifting apart. Hurting alone.

Now? It’s an anticipation. Anxiety — yes. But the kind that says it might turn out okay this time. The one that feels safer and steady. You have documents to fill in, sessions to attempt. It feels controlled.

And that’s exactly what you needed.

A sense of control.

„I love you, so much.” He whispers, his eyes locked on you with the same, deep feeling.

„I love you, too.”

„We’re getting closer to our baby.” There’s this hopeful glint in his gaze. „I’m so happy we’re doing this.”

„I can’t wait. I already picture it running around here.” You rest your head against his chest, pressing your cheek to his heart. You observe the specious living room. Too big for the two of you.

You imagine toys scattered around on the carpet, apple juice stain on your vintage armchair, cartoons playin on a TV all day… You imagine you’ll show your child all your favourite movies, like Up, or Mary Poppins… You imagine building forts on thunderstorms, or reading bedtime stories.

For a second, when you’re just standing and looking in silence, your husband thinks about the same things.

Harry pictures how he’d chase your child around, playing tag. Or how he’d hold it to sleep… He imagines listening to it rambling about what happened at school, or it giving him drawings of your little family.

Perfection.

And you’re sure, soon you’ll finally make your wish come true.

***************************

It happens one lazy, Wednesday morning.

You’re sprawled out on the bed. Face buried in the pillow as your husband gently strokes your bare thigh. He bites his lip, because you wear one of those short nightdresses he adores so much. The edge rides up just enough.

He should get ready for work, but… he can’t get himself out of bed.

Not when you’re lying here all delicious and soft.

It would be a crime to leave.

„Harry.” You mumble sleepy. „Coffee.”

He chuckles at your grumpy state. Yeah… you didn’t get much sleep last night. And he bets you feel sore. But the way you moaned his name was worth it. He could die hearing only your voice.

„On it, baby.” He presses a loving, lingering kiss to your head.

He’s about to stand up when his phone rings. At first, your mind is too overtaken with slumber, but then Harry pats your thigh. You lift your head just to see his widened eyes. He hasn’t picked up yet, waiting for you to see.

„Is that…?” You ask and when he nods, your reaction is immediate. Sitting up rapidly you move to sit as close to him as possible. „Oh my God. Pick up.” You say.

„Hello?” Harry says, pressing his phone to his ear.

„Mr. Castillo? This is your caseworker. I’m calling to tell you we may have a match for you.”

The moment you overhear it, your heart stops.

A match.

„You mean… a child?” He chokes out, staring at you, sharing the same excitement and hope as you. You grasp his hand, squeezing tightly, searching for solace of his touch. His warm skin grounds you in the way it always does.

„Yes.” She laughs softly. „I will send you her profile, but I can tell, her name is Grace, she’s two years old. Adorable girl. She’s with a foster family now and waits for a permanent home. Kids her age are our priority.”

„Grace…” you whisper to yourself, tasting the name on your tongue. The way it sounds soft, but at the same time has this powerful unit in it. Grace.

„That’s… Of course, we are interested to find out more.” Your husband says, now it’s him who squeezes your hand.

It’s been few months since your application got accepted and you finished your training.

You can officially try to become someone’s parents. Grace’s parents.

„Fantasitc. You have more information on your email. I’ll see you soon, too. So we can talk about her more and maybe plan the first meeting.”

„Yes, that’d be great. Thank you. That’s really amazing news.” Harry says, now fully grinning, looking at you.

„Have a good day, Mr. Castillo.”

„You too. Goodbye.”

The moment he hangs up you glue yourself to his side to have a good view for the profile of the little girl. Harry grabs his tablet from the nightstand and opens the email.

Name: Grace.

Age: 2 years old.

Current location: Foster Home.

Legal Status: Eligible for adoption.

The next thing you see are photos.

Your breath catches.

She’s the most perfect girl you ever saw.

The first thing you notice is the smile. Wide in a way only a child can have. Then her big green eyes. Sparkling with curiosity. Her delicate, blond hair windblown on the picture. She’s on some playground, grasping tightly a giraffe plushie.

„Harry…” you breathe amazed.

„She’s…” He stutters.

Why you suddenly felt it? Both of you. Just one look at her and you knew you want to be hers. She could turn around your whole world.

She could become your whole world.

„Absolutely perfect.”

***************************

Next days are focused solely on getting to know everything you can about Grace. The meeting with your caseworker goes great and she scheduled you to meet her.

Your possible adoptive daughter.

You and Harry learnt that despite her young age, Grace already went through so much. Her biological father is dead. Her mother is a drug addict, who just gave up her parental rights. Grace was neglected, her needs weren’t met in her first home. Her mother didn’t take care of her, choosing drugs over the only daughter.

Foster care took Grace and since then she’s waiting for a real, loving home.

Oh, and how desperate you are to become it.

Today is the day when you first meet her.

Harry sits on edge in his office, glancing at the clock every five minutes. He hates that he has to be here now, instead of at home, soothing your nerves and his own, too.

He waits for his brother. He called Peter to come see him, because he made another damn mistake.

Harry’s pissed. He doesn’t want work to destroy one of the most important days in his life. But his baby brother doesn’t make it easier for him.

As Harry sighs in frustration the door open, and his brother walks in. All smiles, not even a drop of concern, or a sense of guilt.

„Hey, brother. This is the big day, yeah? You’re meeting the child.” He says, closing the door and sitting in front of him at the desk. Harry tries really hard not to roll his eyes. But his jaw is clenched, first sign he is not in the mood.

„Yes, leaving after three.” He mutters. „But that’s not why you’re here. We ain’t gonna talk about family and how happy you are for me.”

„Woah… someone didn’t sleep well.” Peter says, but his smile fades the moment Harry slams his hand flat agains the desk.

„Man-”

„I didn’t sleep, because I had to fix your mess. Once again.”

„Oh. Listen, before you-”

„No, you listen.” Harry’s voice is cold, with that sharp edge he rarely shows these days. But when it’s about business and his freedom? He’s gonna use it, even if it’s his own brother. „You closed the deal with Tanaka without having anyone double check the accounting! We overpaid seventy fucking million, Peter. All because you were too focused on the profit that now you may not see at all.”

Pete looks at his brother with frustration. He’s aware he messed up, but he hates when Harry is like this.

„How was I supposed to know the bastard hid the real revenue? You made deals with him many times!”

„Yes and I always checked him, because I don’t trust the guy. Rightfully so as it seems.”

„You can’t be mad at me for this. If you don’t trust him so much, you wouldn’t have me handle this deal.”

Peter stands up and starts circling around the specious office. Harry watches him, his anger only increasing at the way his brother seems to blame him.

„I trust you, you dickhead!” Harry stands up as well, the tension growing with every second. „I trusted you to handle this deal well. You wanted to be treated more seriously in the company and you fucked up!”

„Jesus Christ, it happens! You fucked up many times, too, brother. You don’t remember that anymore, huh? Of course, you don’t. Great, all-knowing Harry Castillo! You always treated me like I’m worse, so I don’t understand why you put me in charge of a whole deal! I never did things like that and suddenly I have to, and when I fail you’re mad?!”

„I put you in charge, because I want you to take over, for God’s sake!”

That makes the room pause. Brothers look at each other. Peter’s confused. Harry… Harry is just tired. Tired of this argument, of this job. Of being in charge of everything. He finally said something that weighted on his heart for long.

„I gave you more work lately, because I wanted to prepare you. You’re a bright kid, I always knew that. I wanted to check if it wouldn’t overwhelm you.”

„What?! You want me to take over?” He huffs.

„Yes. I’m not sure if just partly, or if I would sell you some of my shares… I don’t know, but-”

„Are you crazy? What, you got bored of being the CEO? It’s some kind of a joke on me?!” Peter is not buying it.

Harry is the oldest. Harry always has been the smartest, sharpest mind from both of them. Their parents weren’t favoring him, but it could always be felt. This slight imbalance. Younger Harry was so eager to work in his mother’s company. His biggest dream was to become a CEO, in charge of everyone.

So… What the fuck happened?

„It’s not a joke, just listen to what I’m saying. Don’t act like a brat about this-”

Harry’s sharp words are interrupted, by the door opening. Both him and his brother glance your direction.

You came to his office, because soon you have a visit at a foster care center with Grace. You certainly didn’t expect to hear from the hallway him and Pete yell at each other.

„Guys, what’s going on? The whole floor could hear you.”

Harry was already frustrated enough, he didn’t need you to witness his outburst.

„It’s nothing. Go wait outside.” He responds, harsher than he meant to. „Harry, whatever it is I could…” you try.

„Stay out of this. Go outside.”

Suddenly all your good mood dropped, shattered with his cold demeanor. It’s been long since he was like this. You actually forgot he is capable of such behaviour. And you’re mad he chose this exact day to be an asshole.

Without another word, you turn on your heel, leaving the brothers alone in their fight. You’re clearly unwanted there.

It takes few seconds of silence for your husband to realize he fucked up now, too.

He looks at Pete, who now seems resigned. Pissed, but also hurt. Fuck.

„We will go back to this conversation later.” Harry just says and grabs his jacket from his chair to rush after you.

You’re already on your way to the elevator. If he’s acting like a jerk, you’ll get to the centre by yourself.

„Darling! Baby, wait!”

Harry doesn’t mind the people sharing looks as he almost runs to get to you in time. When he’s close enough he grasps your elbow, gently tugging you into a stop.

„I’m sorry.”

„Yeah, you should be.” You say hurt. The elevator door slide open. Harry follows you inside, glad for some privacy in the metal tube.

„I was mad at Peter. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you… I’m so sorry.”

You look at him, your arms now crossed over your chest. The regret in his eyes is obvious. But it doesn’t make your feelings disappear.

„What was this even about? You never fight with Pete.” You ask and he sigs, resting against elevator’s wall. „I… He fucked up the deal. We lost money… I got mad, because… Well, I put him in charge of this, because I wanted to check if he could… take my place.”

That does it.

The crease between your brows softens as you suddenly remember that one evening when Harry told you he’s tired. You thought it was maybe some moment of weakness. You never expected him to actually take some steps towards it.

„I didn’t tell anyone. Not him, not you… And especially not my mother. I just wanted to be sure first. And now… it all went to shit.”

„Harry…” you reach your hand to rest it on his arm.

„You know, he thought I was joking? He said that I always thought of him as worse than me…” Your husband looks down. Anger replaced with remorse. „Is that true? Did I treat him like that?”

„No. You didn’t, baby. He’s the part of the company since I know you. And you always asked about his opinions about stuff… I get why he feels like this, though. It’s a younger sibling thing.” You crack a faint smile and that is when Harry looks at you.

You’re the younger sibling. You can see Peter’s perspective.

„Just give him time. You dropped a bomb today.” You add.

„I didn’t mean to. I wanted to do everything right… And instead I ended up fighting with him and hurting you.”

The elevator door open at the underground garage floor. You step out of it and head to Harry’s car. He tentatively grasps your hand.

You’re not sure if this touch is welcomed yet. He was mean. He almost ruined the day that is so important for both of you. You stop in the middle of the garage. There are many cars here, but no alive soul except you two.

„I just wanted to help. You said once that I’m the part of this company, this family, too. And up there I didn’t feel like it.” You let out what’s been on your mind since then. And Harry? He curses himself in his mind.

„I know. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t right. I didn’t want you to see me like this, I guess… And I was already so pissed with Peter… I promise it won’t happen again.” He kisses your knuckles, almost worshipfully.

„We’re going to see Grace today and you acted like this…”

„I know… I messed up. But I’m okay now. No more shouting, or being mean. I’m sorry, darling… Today is important to me, too. I should have kept myself in line.”

You sigh. These days you can’t stay mad at him for too long. His soft, puppy-like eyes make it impossible. You step closer, invading his space, just to wrap your arms around his neck. He exhales relieved and keeps you right against his chest.

„I’m sorry, love.”

The sincerity flows out of his words. You feel it in the gentle way he holds you, or in the faint tremor in his voice. You rarely ague since you ended your marriage counseling long time ago. So every time that it happens? It’s like a bullet for either of you.

„It’s okay… We’re okay.” You whisper.

„Thank you.” He kisses the side of your head. „Let’s go meet our girl, alright?”

***************************

You step into the foster care center. The anxiety flows in your veins, but you’re beaming with excitement.

Will she like you?

Will she even notice you? You heard sometimes kids ignore new people.

Will she play with you? Smile at you?

Will she despise you?

All those questions swirl in your mind and Harry stares ahead like he shares exactly the same thoughts. You forgave him his outburst. Because you believe seeing Grace is more important than some fight.

You’re in this together.

„Mr. and Mrs. Castillo.” Your caseworker greets you. „It’s good to see you.”

„Good afternoon.” You smile, gripping Harry’s hand tighter.

„Grace and her foster mom are in our playroom. Shall we?”

„Yes.”

You follow her up the stairs and into a colorful corridor. She stops by one of the windows that has a view into other room.

Your husband and you look this direction and your hearts nearly stop.

She’s there.

There’s a woman sitting on a couch, watching… her.

Little Grace sits on a carpet and plays with wooden blocks. She’s smiling to herself, wearing pigtails and cute overalls. All cuteness and perfection. You can’t comprehend how someone could not want her. Leave her for a cruel fate to decide if she gets to have a loving family, or not. It’s just not right.

At the sight of her, all the anger Harry felt in the office today melts. Now, just deep adoration lives in his chest, easing his tired soul.

„As you can see, Grace is manually skilled for her age.” The caseworker says.

„Harry…” you breathe amazed, unable to draw your gaze away. He pulls you into his side, arm wrapped around your shoulders. „Can we meet her already?” He asks, you can hear the emotions he can barely keep inside.

That’s the moment when Grace’s foster mom gets up and leaves the room to greet you. She seems nice. Open and warm. That’s a good sign. You wouldn’t like to find out Grace isn’t taken care of properly in the foster house too.

„Hello, I’m Tanya.” She shakes your hand first, then Harry’s.

„Nice to meet you.”

„So, you already can see Grace.” She smiles. „We call her Gracie, though. And I suggest you call her that, because she is more familiar with it.”

„Gracie. Got it.” You really can’t stop your excitement.

„She may seem like she doesn’t have any bigger issues, but first few months of her life she spent in very bad conditions. It took its toll on her. She’s very shy, so don’t take this personally when she ignores you, or cries…”

„We actually aren’t sure how she’ll react, you’re the first couple we’re introducing her to.” Your caretaker adds.

It’s a moment of reflection for you and Harry. Yes, meeting your possible adoptive child is exciting. But you need to remember she is just a tiny human who went through so much. It is serious.

„We’re gonna do everything to make her feel comfortable.” Harry says and you nod.

Without dragging things out, you’re invited into the playroom. Little girl looks up from her blocks.

„Gracie, honey. You have guests.” Her foster mom says gently and sits on a couch with the caseworker. They’re watching the interaction.

Both you and your husband smile warmly, trying to seem as approachable as possible. You lower yourselves onto the carpet.

„Hi, Gracie.” You say and give her your name. The little girl is looking at you, but doesn’t make any move that would suggest she is open to a contact.

„I’m Harry. We… have something for you.” Your husband makes an effort. You grab a small duck plushie from your purse. It’s yellow and smiling at her. Reaching your hand out with it, you wonder if she’ll respond.

„Here. It’s for you.” You say.

Gracie’s gaze is focused on the animal. For a second you notice her hesitating. She stands up and for a second it looks like she will approach you. But your hope is thrown away the moment she just toddles towards Tanya. Little girl hugs her legs, burying her face against the material of her skirt.

Your heart shatters at the sight. You knew it won’t be easy, but still… You really hoped she’ll like you since the first second you walked in.

Harry feels the lump in his throat forming. He keeps repeating in his head that it’s not over. That one reaction doesn’t ruin your chances with Grace. But it still hurts.

„Gracie… you don’t want the duckie?” Tanya tries. „Look, it’s smiling.”

The girl glances your direction again. You decide to set the plushie on the floor before you, giving her a choice. Harry rests his hand on your knee. Both of you try to be patient and not lose hope.

„Duckie.” Gracie mumbles. It’s the first time you hear her sweet voice. You share a look with your husband.

„Yes, honey. You can have it.” Tanya adds gently setting Gracie on her feet again, encouraging her.

Grace stands there looking at the plushie and then at you. She observes Harry and his stubble with curiosity. She observes your shining jewelry.

She takes small, hesitant steps closer. Every step she glances back at her foster mom to check if she’s still there. She is. Tanya only smiles warmly to keep her positive. Harry pushes the duck forward to Gracie.

The girl grasps it with her tiny hands and watches it closely from every side. It’s nice and soft. Perfect for a two-years-old.

„Duckie.” She repeats.

„Yes, sweetheart. You like it?” You try again, your voice as gentle as possible.

Gracie looks at Tanya again and then back at you. „I like.”

That gets smiles from both you and Harry.

Gracie toddles away, back to her wooden blocks. She sits and then sets the plushie right next to herself. It’s like it is accompanying her now. Adorable. You don’t want to overwhelm her, so you just remain where you are.

It’s really a meaningful moment in your life. Being here and meeting Grace. Neither you, nor Harry want to mess it up.

For a moment she just ignores you, sitting and building a tower from blocks. You start to feel unsure. She took the duck, but what if that’s over?

Harry keeps his eyes on the little girl, a smile keeps ghosting on his lips, because he just can’t stop it. Then her block tower falls over. At first, she just stares at it, but then you can hear a soft sob leave her mouth.

Harry acts like it’s natural, because he already hates the sound of her sorrow. Carefully he scoots closer to her on the carpet.

„Hey, Gracie… Ugh… It’s alright, we can build another one.” He says, glancing at the caseworker and Tanya. They just watch silently, letting him try. „Look.” He puts some blocks together. „Towers fall all the time.” He pushes a small one he just built. It falls and he gasps playfully. That makes Gracie’s attention shift to him. Harry repeats his action and he can’t believe when it draws a laugh out of the little girl.

A laugh.

He made her laugh.

You’re watching it from behind, because suddenly you feel hesitant. You wanted this meeting so much, but… God, you hate the anxiety that’s eating at you.

What if she doesn’t like you? Does she feel a weird vibe from you? Or maybe Harry is just better at being a parent?

„You wanna build together?” Your husband asks Gracie. „Yes. Tower.” She says.

But he senses your withdrawal and he’s not having it. He turns slightly, reaching his hand to you. „Come on, darling. We have a tower to build.”

You swallow, gaining some courage to join them. Grasping Harry’s hand you scoot closer as well. Gracie is right next to you, her little fingers wrapped around the wooden block.

„Can I?” You grasp another block and put it on the tower that’s forming. Gracie is watching carefully, but then her eyes focus on your engagement ring. Big, shiny ring.

You didn’t even mean to wear it today, thinking maybe it’s too much. But now, seeing her admiring the stone? You’re so glad you wore it.

She lets go of the block and reaches for the ring. You feel the relief flooding your body.

„Oh, you like it? It shimmers.”

„Shimmer.” Gracie smiles and it’s the first time she touches you. She does it to watch the ring, but it’s still such an extraordinary feeling. Her skin is so soft. She rests her hand on yours, brings her face closer to the diamond. Harry chuckles, sitting at your side.

„I get it, I like jewelry, too. Harry gave it to me.” You say.

„Can you say ‚Harry’?” Your husband smiles. The girl looks at him.

„Harry.” It sounds so sweet from her mouth. Her spelling of ‚r’ isn’t great yet, but it’s cute. You love the way she is slowly warming up to you.

„We build.” She adds pointing at the tower, losing interest in your ring.

„Yes, sweetheart, let’s build.”

You spend some time just putting the blocks together, not saying much, just letting Gracie set the pace. It’s amazing how she already has both of you wrapped around her little finger.

You see her shyness and the way she still glances towards Tanya. Your heart is bleeding, thinking how much she’s been hurt. You already know, you’d do anything to make her happy for the rest of your life.

The first meetings are always the hardest, but yours went pretty well. Gracie liked you even if she didn’t interact too much. You decide not to overthink it, just let it be. She’s little, she needs time to adjust. And you’ll do just that.

You leave the building with Harry holding your hand. You’re both silent, thinking about everything that happened in the playroom. How Grace run off to Tanya at first. How she tentatively reached for the duck you gave her. How she giggled when you and Harry read her a short story in funny voices.

You think about her golden pigtails, about her cute, but a bit sad gaze. Kids should not have this kind of gaze at this age. It’s reserved for adults. And the fact she still laughs despite everything? That little girl is so strong.

„She’s special.” Your husband finally breaks the silence. You stop to look at him and he notices tears in your eyes. „Oh, baby…”

„I really want to be her mom.” Your voice cracks.

Harry reaches to your face, brushes the tears away with his thumbs. He sniffles, trying heard not to cry as well. It’s incredible how she overtook your hearts in less than an hour.

„We’ll do everything in our power to become her parents. I swear to you.” He kisses your lips then. Slowly and full of that hopefulness that he carries since you left the center.

You went through all that pain in your life, but now it all makes a bit more sense.

You just waited for her.

For a little, blond girl who loves stories and giraffes.

For Gracie.

And nothing will stop you from being hers.

***************************

next chapter

A/N: As always, thank you for reading. I’m not sure if I’m satisfied with this chapter, but I hope it was okay. Let me know if you liked it in the comments and how you liked our Gracie! Cheers🩷

“C’mon, I can feel you holding back.” 

Your hips keep their steady rhythm, grinding against his face, his tongue relentless against your clit while his nose presses deep inside you. The curve of it sends shockwaves through your body, your eyes rolling back as you ride his mouth.

He's right—you are holding back. Not because you want to, but because you're afraid of what will happen if you let go completely.

“Feels s-so good just like this,” you whimper, nails digging into the firm muscle of his thighs. His cock, flushed and leaking, rests on his stomach, aching for attention. But he told you not to worry about him—that his pleasure comes from making you fall apart on his tongue, from turning your brain into nothing but static and heat.

And while you are tempted to lower your face, wrap your lips around his swollen, red tip and suck the soul right out of his cock, you really cannot function straight with how expertly he is working your cunt.

“I want more.” He growls, the bite of his grip into your supple skin making you hiss in pain then moan in bliss when he picks up the intensity and pace of his mouth, forcing you to move the way he wants you to.

You let it happen.

The sounds spilling from your lips fill the dimly lit room, the glow from the bedside lamp casting everything in a warm, filthy haze. You keep going, ecstasy cresting higher and higher, until sobs rip from your throat and your body convulses, shaking in his grasp. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t slow down—just keeps that perfect pace until tears slip from your eyes and drip onto his thighs. He’s wrung you out completely.

“Mmmm, you taste so good, baby.”

His voice is thick with satisfaction, but you barely register it. All you can focus on is the slow drag of his calloused hands over your skin as he shifts you off his face, rolling you onto your back. You stare dazedly at the ceiling fan, watching its lazy rotations while you try to remember how to breathe.

He grunts, sitting up, licking his lips and wiping his nose of your essence before he crawls over you, bracing himself on his strong forearms. Even through the haze, you take a moment to admire his handsome features—the sharp curve of his jaw, his facial hair, those beautiful brown eyes that had stolen your breath the moment they locked onto yours.

“You are the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life.”

He chuckles, leaning down to kiss you passionately, slipping his tongue in your mouth and you moan at the taste of your pussy on his lips, mingling with his spit.

“And you’re so fucking pretty.”

Your cheeks heat, skin still buzzing, a smile tugging at your lips as you try to hide your gleeful expression from this man you only met this afternoon at a mutual friend’s party. 

You turn your head, gaze sweeping over his exposed arms. The dim light casts deep shadows, accentuating every carved muscle, the sinewy stretch of tendons beneath his tanned skin. His biceps flex subtly as he holds himself above you, powerful yet controlled, his weight perfectly balanced as he lowers himself to your neck. His lips press hot and teasing against your throat, the rough graze of his stubble sending a shiver down your spine.

His body fits effortlessly between your thighs, and when the thick underside of his cock glides against your used, aching pussy, a fresh wave of lust crashes over you. 

Your hands move before your mind catches up, fingers sliding over his arms, claiming each one. You trace the dips and ridges, marveling at the warmth of his skin, the scattering of freckles dotting his forearms, the small scars and imperfections that tell stories you want to hear later—much later while wrapped in his embrace. Right now, all you care about is how impossibly good he feels beneath your fingertips, how every flex and twitch makes your cunt clench around nothing.

You’re so lost in your worship of him that you barely register the words murmured against your neck, his breath hot and teasing while you grind against each other.

“What’s got you so distracted?” He rasps a bit tauntingly, licking the shell of your ear before nipping at your lobe, pulling back and following your gaze.

“These arms…” you moan, arching into him, your breasts pressing against the hard planes of his chest as you tilt closer to the one nearest you. Your lips part, kissing the inside of his wrist, mouth open and wanting.

“Yeah?” His tone is dripping with cocky satisfaction. You ignore it, too lost in the pulse beating beneath your tongue, the intoxicating mix of salt and skin as you bite down just enough to make him grunt.

“Fucking hell, just look at you,” he tuts, his eyes dark with hunger. His hips roll, grinding his cock against your slick folds, but you’re too enraptured with his arms to care. Your other hand strokes the length of his opposite bicep, fingers squeezing, feeling the tension coiled within. You moan softly, delirious, rubbing your cheek against him like you could somehow get closer.

“All fucked out and slobbering all over my wrist.”

His words make your stomach tighten, exhilaration coiling deep, and you don’t even try to stop yourself when you turn your attention to his other arm, kissing, sucking, worshiping. He watches, letting you indulge, letting you lose yourself in the way his body makes you fall apart without him even trying. He’s amused by it, his expression equal parts fondness and possessive satisfaction.

You’re riding the high of being under one of the sexiest men to ever grace this fucking planet.

When you finally pull back, a thin string of spit trailing between your lips and his skin, you look up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, a slow, sultry smile curving your mouth. It sparks something in him—an idea.

“I know what I want you to do next.”

Your brow lifts slightly in curiosity. He leans in, brushing a kiss over the tip of your nose, soft, deceptively sweet, before pulling away entirely. The loss of his warmth makes you pout.

Then he settles back against the pillows, getting comfortable—purposefully flexing his arms, making every muscle ripple beneath his skin. Your breath catches, heart pounding, thighs clenching involuntarily. He sees it. Smirks.

“C’mere.” He beckons.

Like a cartoon character floating toward a pie on a windowsill, you crawl toward him, heart-eyed and desperate, ready to sink down on his cock and ride him until either of you can breathe. But he stops you.

“Not there, baby. Up here.” He flicks his chin towards his left bicep and you look at him quizzically despite the intrigue that beats at your pussy. 

“What—”

“Now.”

A command, rough and final.

You moan, nodding, unbothered by how desperate you must look as you reposition yourself, thighs bracketing his thick arm. He helps you adjust until everything aligns just right, until your drenched pussy hovers over the sculpted muscle, the heat of his skin radiating and caressing your swollen clit.

“Get yourself off on it.”

His free hand drifts down, wrapping around his cock, fingers tightening around the thick shaft. His fat thumb circles the swollen head, smearing precum in slow, teasing strokes. 

This is the hottest thing you've ever experienced. There's no way this is real.

But you don’t waste time questioning it—not when you’re in the middle of the filthiest, most intoxicating hook-up of your life.

Bracing yourself with one hand on his broad shoulder, the other groping your breast, you lower yourself onto his bicep. The first grind against the smooth heat of his skin is heavenly.

“Oh my fucking god—”

Your moan is wrecked, unabashedly obscene, your nails digging into his shoulder as your slick coats his arm, making it easier to rock against him. Each movement sends a fresh pulse of pleasure shooting through your body, your swollen clit dragging over the hard, flexing muscle.

He groans, low and appreciative, before letting go of his cock and bringing his palm up to your lips, lust darkened eyes boring into yours. A silent request.

You lazily smile, licking your lips before gathering saliva in your mouth. Then, deliberately, you spit into his open palm, watching as his expression flares with hunger. You wink, but before you can fully revel in your power over him, his bicep twitches—his arm bending at the elbow as his fingers tighten around your ass.

“Oh!” A sharp yelp escapes you, thighs squeezing involuntarily at the sudden jolt of sensation.

He smirks at your reaction, smug and thoroughly entertained, his wet hand returning to his cock. And then he starts stroking himself.

The lewd sounds of slicked skin meeting skin fill the room, each pump of his fist producing an obscene slap against his pelvis. You watch, transfixed, as his other arm flexes, veins and tendons bulging with every controlled stroke.

His bicep expands and contracts beneath you, a living, breathing thing you can't stop grinding against. His balls jiggle slightly from the sheer intensity of his motions, his whole body a display of primal, uninhibited rhapsody.

You pinch your nipple, humping his leg and wailing out like a pussy in heat, the visual of him fucking his fist enough to send you over but you want to continue to enjoy this because fuck—is it so hot.

And then there’s the feel of his other hand gripping your ass, the flesh spilling through the divots of his knuckles. His breath is ragged, brows furrowed, a thin bead of sweat trailing down his temple. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, and those pretty brown eyes are locked on you, watching the way you’re going feral on him.

“I’m, oh fuck me,” you break out into a litany of curses before you’re able to fucking think. “I’m so close— ohmygodI’mgonnacome.” Your words run together, spine pulling taught as your orgasm possesses your body.

He laughs, deep and throaty, the sound tapering into a drawn-out groan as his own release lingers on the precipice. His jaw clenches, his body coiling tight.

“Go on,” he growls. “Make a fucking mess.”

And that’s all it takes for you to free fall.

Your thighs clamp around his arm and the motherfucker flexes his bicep again, dragging out your pleasure until you’re nearly delirious. Your hips jerk, fingers yanking at your nipple, riding the euphoric wave until every ounce of bliss is wrung from your body. Your nails rake down his shoulder and across his collarbone, leaving angry red streaks against his brown skin.

“Fuck—” His own release follows, a strangled groan ripping from his throat as hot ropes of cum spill onto his stomach, coating his happy trail, dripping into the dark curls at the base of his cock. His strokes turn brutal, merciless, chasing the last shudders of his orgasm as his grip tightens on your ass, fingers digging deep enough to leave sore spots in the shape of his fingers.

The roaring in your ears dulls, the aftershocks making your limbs tremble. It takes you a moment to realize your eyes had shut completely, the intensity too much to bear. When you finally blink them open, the world is a blur, dark spots dancing in your vision as you struggle to catch your breath.

And when your gaze finally finds his, he’s already watching you—sated, wrecked, and smug as hell.

“Holy shit.”

“That just about sums it up.” His voice is deeper now, having been dragged through the same pleasure-drenched haze as you. You tilt your head, looking down at him, his handsome face making your heart flutter.

“How’re you feeling, baby?”

“Real good.” You giggle, voice airy, light—completely fucked out. You don’t even try to hide it.

He smirks, ego soaring, as it should be. He watches as you shift, your spent body moving off his bicep, your clit still pulsing, raw from how desperately you’d used him. You’re ready to collapse, to melt into the sheets and revel in the afterglow, but then—

Whistle.

A sharp, commanding sound, followed by a tilt of his head toward his arm. Like you’re a pet he’s calling back to heel.

“Can’t just leave it like that.” His tone is lazy, laced with amusement. He wipes the remnants of his release from his hand onto the comforter, utterly unbothered, then reaches for you. His fingers cup the back of your neck, firm yet gentle as he tugs you down, guiding you nose-first into the mess you’d left behind.

“Clean it up.”

And just as you’ve done all night, you obey.

Your tongue flicks out, kitten-licking at his skin, tasting the remnants of your pleasure. The sharp, musky tang floods your senses, making you moan softly as you lap it up, savoring the proof of your own ruin.

“Good girl.” His voice is pure indulgence, his thumb stroking slow, lazy circles against the back of your neck as you work.

Once he’s satisfied, his grip shifts, applying just enough pressure to guide you lower, down his torso, toward the mess he left on himself.

You don’t hesitate.

Your tongue flattens against his stomach, dragging through his release, collecting every drop. You hum at the taste—salt, sweat, and something distinctly him. The coarse hair of his happy trail tickles your lips as you clean him up, the rise and fall of his stomach twitching beneath your touch.

Then, just as you reach his softening cock, you pause—just for a second—before pressing a slow, filthy kiss to the head. A final, lingering seal to your work.

He inhales sharply.

Satisfied, you begin your way back up, lips trailing over his body, over the ridges of muscle, the dip of his collarbone, up the strong column of his throat, until you finally reach his mouth.

The kiss is slow, unhurried, all tongue and warmth, swapping spit and cum like it’s second nature. Swollen lips on swollen lips, bodies still buzzing in the aftershock.

When you finally pull apart, eyes locked, your mouth curls into a flirty smirk.

“What was your name again?”

⊱ ⠀ ⠀ 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧.

part one: monte-carlo, monaco

part two: lagos, portugal

part three: ibiza, spain

part four: sicily, italy

part five: mykonos, greece

part six: epilogue

⊱ ⠀ ⠀ 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗔𝗡𝗘𝗢𝗨𝗦.

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#summer affair

main graphic credit @/devociones

divider credit @/bronzewasp