#pedro pascal is hot

[angelgirlheart]

I love this, soso sweet <3 i want a warm sweet old bf to wake me up in his arms to these words every morning

[yourmomsawh0r3]

The grand life

Joel Miller x Wife!Reader

Warnings: 18+

Word count: 3,443 words 19,394 characters

Sunday mornings at the Miller house were sacred.

There were no alarms, no obligations just the smell of bacon popping in the skillet, the warm sun slanting through the blinds, and the sound of Joel’s heavy boots trudging into the kitchen like a grumpy bear.

You didn’t even look up from the pancake batter as he came in.

“Coffee’s fresh.”

Joel grunted, pouring himself a cup and leaning against the counter, watching you. “You make breakfast just to fatten me up?”

You turned with the whisk still in hand, raising a brow. “You’re the one who asked me yesterday if I’d make pancakes. You begged, if I recall.”

“Didn’t beg. I said I wouldn’t mind some pancakes.”

You smiled, flipping a piece of bacon. “You said, and I quote, ‘Baby, you know I can’t live without your pancakes, please make them, I’ll die otherwise.’”

Joel grumbled something under his breath and took a long sip of coffee, watching you move around the kitchen in one of his old T-shirts and sleep shorts. His eyes softened.

“Still grumpy?” you teased, brushing past him and patting his stomach playfully.

“Not grumpy. Just hungry,” he mumbled, curling an arm around your waist and pulling you in close.

“You’re always hungry lately.”

“Only for you,” he said, voice low in your ear.

You were about to respond maybe something flirty, maybe something sarcastic but your phone vibrated on the counter.

Sarah: “Important family meeting. 6pm at Mom and Dad’s. No excuses. I’ll bring dessert.”

Joel read over your shoulder. “That sounds suspicious.”

“Very.”

By 6:00, the house was full of noise again your favorite kind of chaos.

Joel Jr. came in first, tall and broad like his dad, kicking off his boots at the door. “You guys dying or something? Sarah was being dramatic in the group chat.”

“Watch it,” you warned, giving him a playful swat with the dishtowel. “We could be dying. You don’t know.”

“Guess I better stay for dinner just in case.”

Monica entered next, already scrolling through her phone. “If this is another intervention because Ellie says I talk too loud on speakerphone, I swear”

“I never said that,” Ellie snapped, walking in behind her. “I said you sound like a drunk squirrel when you laugh.”

“I do not!”

You were about to tell them all to quiet down when Sarah finally walked in, holding a bakery box and looking well, glowing.

“Hey, everyone.” She was smiling nervously.

Joel perked up, sensing something.

You watched as she placed the box on the coffee table and said, “Before we eat, I need to tell you something.”

Everyone went still. Even Ellie stopped chewing her gum.

Sarah opened the box, revealing a neat row of cupcakes half pink, half blue with tiny plastic booties on top.

Joel Jr. blinked. “Wait. Are those baby cupcakes?”

“Yeah,” Monica whispered. “Those are baby cupcakes.”

Sarah looked up at her siblings, then at you and Joel.

“I’m pregnant.”

It was like the air left the room.

Joel sat down hard on the couch, eyes wide. You stood frozen, hand over your mouth.

Then came the chaos.

Monica screamed, Ellie dropped her phone, Joel Jr. muttered something like “I thought this was about Dad’s cholesterol”, and you walked over to Sarah and pulled her into a hug, tears springing to your eyes.

“Oh, honey. Oh my God. Really?”

Sarah nodded, laughing through her own tears. “Yeah. I found out last week. I wanted you all to be the first to know.”

Joel was still silent, holding a tiny cupcake in his calloused hand like it might bite him.

“Joel?” you asked gently, eyes searching his.

He looked up, jaw tight. His voice cracked.

“You’re… you’re havin’ a baby?”

Sarah smiled. “I am, Daddy.”

He stood slowly, crossing the room and wrapping his arms around her. He didn’t say anything else. Just held her, tight and quiet, like the weight of the years was finally settling in.

After the kids had left still shouting across the driveway, Monica already planning the nursery you and Joel stood in the kitchen, the leftovers cooling on the stove, the house quiet again.

You turned to him, resting your arms around his neck. “You okay, old man?”

He looked down at you, his eyes warm, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“I watched her take her first steps in this damn kitchen,” he said softly. “Now she’s havin’ a baby of her own.”

You kissed his chest. “I know.”

Joel leaned in, touching his forehead to yours. “She’s gonna be a hell of a mom. Just like you were. Just like you are.”

Your fingers slid under the hem of his flannel. “You know what I was thinking?”

“What?”

“That we’re alone now. The kids are gone. House is quiet…”

He raised an eyebrow. “You makin’ a move on me, darlin’?”

“Joel, I just watched you cry over baby cupcakes. I’ve never been more in love with you in my life.”

That was all it took.

He hoisted you up onto the kitchen counter, kissing you like it was the first time, his hands rough but reverent as they skimmed up your sides. The cool tile beneath you only made his body feel hotter, his mouth trailing fire down your neck, your breath catching when he murmured against your skin.

“You gave me her, y’know,” he whispered. “And now she’s givin’ us another piece of her.”

Your hands found the edge of his shirt, lifting it as you whispered, “I gave you four pieces, Joel Miller. Don’t forget the twins and Ellie.”

He laughed really laughed and kissed you hard.

The moment your hands slipped under Joel’s flannel, his breath hitched.

The kitchen was warm from the oven, the scent of bacon still lingering in the air, but nothing compared to the heat building between your bodies.

Joel leaned in, his nose brushing your cheek, his voice rough and low.

“You got any idea what you do to me, sweetheart? Hm?” he murmured, his lips grazing your jaw as he slid your oversized T-shirt up, revealing soft skin and a pair of cotton panties that made his groan audible.

“You’ve been walking around in my shirt all damn day, legs bare, ass peeking out just enough to drive me crazy.”

You bit your lip, watching his pupils darken as he settled between your legs on the kitchen counter. His hands gripped your thighs possessively.

“Joel…”

“You think I don’t notice the way you sway your hips when I walk in? That you ain’t doin’ it on purpose?”

“I wasn’t”

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, biting your earlobe. “You wanted me like this. Wanted me desperate.”

Your breath hitched as he ground his hips into you, the hard outline of his arousal unmistakable beneath his jeans. His lips crashed into yours hungry, claiming while his hands pulled your panties aside with practiced ease.

“You know what I was thinkin’ all through dinner?” he rasped between kisses. “While the kids were talkin’ ‘bout baby names and nursery colors? I was thinkin’ about how wet you were gettin’ just from watchin’ me be a good dad.”

You whined, arching into his touch as his fingers found you. He swiped once through your folds, groaning when he felt just how ready you were.

“Goddamn, baby. Already soaked for me.”

“I love you like this,” you gasped. “All rough and sweet.”

He smiled against your neck. “Yeah? Love when I talk to you like this, don’t you? When I remind you you’re mine?”

You nodded desperately as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his thumb worked your clit with slow, deliberate circles.

“You gave me a whole family,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “You gave me a home. You made me a father. And now you’re makin’ me a fuckin’ grandfather.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, making him curse.

“You still tight for me after all these years. Still my favorite thing in this whole damn world.”

“Joel, I..I need you”

“I got you, baby,” he promised, pulling away just long enough to shove his jeans down and line himself up. “I always got you.”

He entered you in one smooth, deep thrust, both of you gasping at the contact. The stretch, the fullness, the way his hips snapped into yours with aching precision it felt like the first time all over again.

“Fuck, you take me so good,” Joel groaned, gripping your hips as he thrust slow and deep. “This pussy’s mine. Always has been. Always will be.”

You moaned loudly, nails digging into his back, your body trembling with each stroke.

“You look so goddamn beautiful like this writhin’ for me, beggin’ for it. My wife. My girl. Mother of my kids. And now…”

He leaned close, kissing you softly this time, voice cracking.

“…soon to be Grandma.”

You laughed breathlessly against his lips, clutching him tighter.

“I’ll be a hot grandma.”

He grinned. “You’ll be the hottest fuckin’ grandma Texas has ever seen.”

And he kept moving worshiping you, unraveling you until you came apart around him with a strangled cry, dragging him over the edge with you. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, and he emptied himself inside you with a low, possessive growl.

He held you there for a long while, panting, pressed forehead to forehead.

“Still got it,” you whispered, dazed.

Joel kissed your shoulder. “Damn right we do.”

That night, you didn’t just celebrate Sarah’s announcement. You celebrated every moment that led to it. Every diaper, every sleepless night, every scraped knee and school play and long road trip in a beat-up car full of kids and Goldfish crackers.

You celebrated the life you built.

Together.

And just before drifting off to sleep, Joel rolled over and mumbled, “We need to baby-proof the house again.”

You groaned. “Not again.”

He chuckled. “Worth it.”

9 months later, Joel was walking around the living room holding a fussy baby girl in his arms like she was made of glass.

“Why’s she makin’ that face?” he asked, peering down at her. “Is that her poopin’ face? Jesus, she looks like Ellie when she’s constipated.”

You laughed from the couch, bottle in hand. “You’re so dramatic. She’s just hungry.”

Joel huffed, gently handing over your granddaughter. “She’s so small. Smaller than Sarah was.”

“She’s healthy. She’s perfect.”

He watched you feed her, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb stroking circles through your leggings.

After she finished and was snuggled up on your chest, asleep, Joel whispered, “Never thought I’d see the day. You, rockin’ a baby to sleep again. Me, worried I’d break her just by holdin’ her.”

You looked up at him, heart full.

“I think we did alright, huh?”

He nodded, eyes damp.

“Yeah, darlin’. We sure as hell did.”

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, Joel leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice soft as ever.

“Still want you. Still love you. Always will.”

The living room was a battlefield of soft pastel blankets.

Joel stood dead center, brows furrowed, lips pressed in concentration as he stared down at his wriggling granddaughter on the couch. The baby blinked up at him with innocent confusion, one chubby arm escaping the sad excuse for a swaddle he’d attempted three times.

“Alright, you little Houdini,” Joel muttered, grabbing the blanket again and trying to fold it like that video Sarah made him watch on YouTube.

From the recliner, you were dying of silent laughter, watching your husband argue with a seven-pound infant like she was an Army recruit who wouldn’t take orders.

Joel gently rolled her tiny body to the side. “Stay still now, sunshine. We ain’t got all day.”

The baby cooed, kicked her legs, and proceeded to stick her entire fist in her mouth.

Joel, visibly sweating, made another attempt tucking one corner under her bottom, folding another across her chest but somehow she ended up looking like a lumpy Chipotle burrito with one arm sticking out and one sock missing.

“I swear to God,” Joel whispered like he was defusing a bomb. “If Ellie saw this, she’d never let me live it down.”

“I’m right here, and I’m not letting you live it down,” came Sarah’s voice from the front door.

Joel jumped like he’d been caught with a Playboy.

Sarah strode into the room, holding a Starbucks cup in one hand and a smirk in the other.

“Jesus, Dad,” she laughed. “She’s not a camping tent. You don’t need to roll her up like a sleeping bag.”

“She moved,” Joel defended, stepping aside like he was trying to preserve his dignity. “I almost had it.”

You cleared your throat behind your mug of tea. “You also said that last night with the IKEA shelf.”

Joel turned to you with an offended grunt. “That was different. The instructions were in Swedish.”

Sarah sat beside you, gently picking up her daughter and expertly re-swaddling her in less than twenty seconds.

Joel blinked.

“See?” she said, winking at him. “You just gotta make her feel like a little sushi roll. Tight, but not too tight.”

“She’s my granddaughter,” Joel muttered. “Not a damn California roll.”

Sarah laughed, kissing his cheek. “You’re lucky she already loves you. Even if you do swaddle like Frankenstein.”

Joel rolled his eyes, trying not to smile. “I raised you, didn’t I? You turned out fine.”

“Yeah, despite the burrito trauma,” she teased.

The baby gave a little yawn, content in her now-perfect swaddle. Joel stared down at her, one hand resting protectively on her back.

“…She looks like you when you were a baby,” he said quietly. “Same sleepy little mouth.”

Sarah softened. “She’s got your grumpy brow.”

He chuckled, eyes a little misty now. “Poor kid.”

You stood, wrapping your arms around his waist. “She’s got the best parts of all of us.”

And for once, Joel didn’t argue. He just nodded, kissing the crown of Sarah’s head, then yours.

The front door slammed open with the sound of sneakers and sarcasm.

“Alright, what did Dad break this time?” Ellie’s voice called from the hallway. “Was it the baby? Please tell me it wasn’t the baby.”

“In here!” you called, cradling the now-swaddled baby while Sarah handed Joel a burp cloth like he was a new recruit on the first day of bootcamp.

Monica and Joel Jr. barreled in behind Ellie, the twins already arguing over who got to hold their new niece next.

“Okay, but I brought the diapers and that organic baby butt cream,” Monica said, hands on her hips.

Joel Jr. rolled his eyes. “She poops. She doesn’t need luxury.”

“She’s a lady, you absolute troll”

“Kids,” Joel barked gently. “Calm down. You’re gonna stress her out.”

Ellie flopped onto the couch, cracking open a soda.

“Stress her out?” she snorted. “You almost wrapped her like a Quesarito thirty minutes ago.”

Joel stood tall, adjusting his flannel like he was at the podium for a presidential address.

“Y’all better show some respect,” he said, voice full Texas. “Because Big Poppa is in the building.”

There was a silence.

Then

“I’m sorry.. what?” Ellie sputtered mid-sip, coughing violently.

“Big Poppa?” Joel Jr. gasped. “Like… like the Notorious B.I.G. song?”

Monica doubled over, wheezing. “Oh my god, please stop. I’m begging you.”

Joel smirked smugly, arms crossed over his chest. “What? It’s got a ring to it. Better than ‘Grandpa Joel.’ I ain’t ready to sound like I wear orthopedic shoes and play bridge.”

You choked on your laugh from across the room, rocking the baby gently.

Sarah blinked. “You literally wore compression socks on the plane to Colorado.”

“That was for circulation,” he snapped defensively.

“Sure, Big Poppa,” Ellie teased, kicking her feet onto the coffee table. “Next thing we know, you’ll be dropping a mixtape called Burps & Bottles.”

Joel gave her the flattest look he could manage. “You done?”

“Not even close,” Ellie grinned. “I’m putting you in my phone as Big Poppa starting now.”

Joel Jr. was already typing furiously. “Group chat rename incoming.”

Monica added, “Oooooh! Can I be Lil G-Ma? Mom, say yes.”

You just groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. “I regret all of you.”

Joel walked over to you and leaned down to kiss your temple, grinning as he whispered, “Still got it.”

You murmured back, “God help me, you really do.”

And as the living room filled with laughter, bickering, and the soft, sleepy sounds of your first grandchild sighing in her swaddle, Joel Big Poppa himself wrapped his arms around you from behind and whispered in your ear:

“House might be full again, baby. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The front door shut with a soft click, with a heavy sigh and a soft kiss behind your ear.

“Well, sweetheart,” he murmured, “we survived.”

You turned in his arms, your hands sliding up the worn cotton of his flannel. “Barely. You almost got jumped for that ‘Big Poppa’ nonsense.”

Joel smirked, chin dipped down so your noses brushed. “You liked it.”

“I tolerated it.”

“You bit your lip.”

“I was trying not to laugh.”

Joel leaned in, his voice husky, low. “Could’ve sworn you were lookin’ at me like you used to… back when the house got real quiet at night. After the girls went to sleep.”

You raised a brow. “Is that right?”

“Mmhmm.” He backed you slowly toward the kitchen island, his hands already roaming, finding every familiar dip and curve. “Back when you’d pull me by my belt loops and whisper that I was handsome when I was grumpy.”

“I still do.”

“Yeah,” he rasped, pinning you gently against the counter. “But now you’re a grandma when you do it. Real filthy of you.”

You gasped, pretending to swat him. “Joel Miller!”

“Don’t act shocked, darlin’. You know I like it when you get a little bad.”

His lips met your neck, slow and warm, trailing down just behind your ear where he knew it drove you wild. You tilted your head back with a soft gasp as his fingers teased beneath your blouse.

“You cooked me breakfast this mornin’,” Joel murmured. “Fed our whole family. Rocked our granddaughter to sleep. And now…” He pressed against you, unmistakably hard. “Now I wanna ruin you a little.”

Your breath caught.

He lifted you with ease onto the counter, stepping between your thighs, crowding you in. “Let me have this,” he said. “Let me remind you you’re still mine. Every perfect inch of you.”

You curled your fingers in his hair. “Door’s locked?”

Joel grinned. “Sweetheart, I deadbolted it the second they backed outta the driveway.”

He was unhurried with you tugging your shirt over your head, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin like you were something precious. He whispered filthy things against your collarbone how good you smelled, how soft you felt, how no one had ever made him lose his mind the way you still could with just one look.

You wrapped your legs around his waist as his hand slid down your thigh, callused thumb teasing where you ached for him most.

“You’re soaked already?” he murmured, voice gone low and gritty. “Fuck, baby. That for me?”

Your nails dug into his back, breathless.

“Been wantin’ to touch you like this all day,” Joel growled. “All through dinner, all through dessert… watchin’ you with her. You’re so damn beautiful. Gonna have to take my time with you.”

And he did. Right there on the cool granite of the kitchen counter, with your hands clutching his shoulders and his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He worshipped you like the woman who gave him everything a home, a family, a forever.

When it was over, he held you close, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.

“Still think I’m grumpy?” he murmured, teasing.

You smiled, lazily running your fingers through his silvered curls. “Mmhmm. But you’re my grump.”

He chuckled, lifting you off the counter and carrying you toward the bedroom like it was second nature.

“C’mon, Big Poppa’s got one more round in him.”

“Joel!”

[eliispunkk]

MDNI ‼️

Guys…might be weird but i literally saw a 🌽 gif that looks too much like pedro😵

https://xporn-gifs.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/09/Passionate-sexual-gif-52.gif

[softiepedrito]

superstar 💫

[bweeeb]

NOTHING BETTER THAN REVENGE

Summary: The reader wants to show Pedro that he is the only one begging to cum.

warnings: same as the others, Fucking LIKE RABBITS. Get out of here if you don't like smut.

requests are open, I write anything!!!

Pedro had been cocky again.

All day.

Making those smug little comments.

Walking around shirtless like he didn’t know exactly what that did to you.

Touching you all the time. And worse? Acting like he was the one in charge.

So now?

Now you were going to show him what real control looked like.

He was lying on the bed — wrists tied loosely to the headboard with silk. Not tight enough to hurt.

Just tight enough to remind him: you own him tonight.And the worst part?

You hadn’t even touched his cock yet.

Just your fingers grazing his thighs.

Your mouth at his ear.

Your hips grinding just out of reach.

He was already hard. Red. Leaking.

You looked down at him with a wicked grin, one brow raised.

— Hmm… you’re not listening very well, papí. —

He groaned, shifting beneath you, hips twitching up for any friction.

You rolled your eyes like he was pathetic.

— What did I say about being good?—

— Fuck, baby, I’m trying, please—

— I just wanna touch you—

You let out a sharp, cruel laugh and slapped his thigh — not hard, but firm enough to make him gasp.

Then you leaned in, your lips brushing his ear, voice like satin-wrapped steel:

— Seems like you’re not old enough to missbehave…—

Your hand cupped his cock briefly.Just enough to make him buck.— …your dick keeps getting up like it has no manners. —

He whined. Actually whined.

Tried to reach for your hips, but the second he tugged on the restraints, you pulled back and sat up straight, crossing your arms.

— Ah-ah-ah.—

Your voice went ice cold.

— You don’t get to touch me.—

Pedro growled under his breath, eyes dark and furious — but the way his cock twitched said something else entirely.

— This is what you get for thinking you could fuck me three times and walk around like I wouldn’t take that personally. Silly —

You reached between your legs and slowly lowered yourself onto him — just the tip — then stopped.

His body arched.

He was throbbing. Desperate. Cursing in Spanish.

You moaned softly, pretending to enjoy it all for yourself.

— Mmm… I missed this.—

— You fucked me the day before yesterday old man. —

— I never get tired of you —

— Too bad, because you’re not allowed to come.—

Pedro’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.

— Baby, no no no no, please, let me come, I swear I’ll behave, I’ll be so fucking good, just let me—

— Shhh.—

You started riding him slow, hips moving in long, torturous rolls, hands in your own hair, not even looking at him.

Like he was just… a toy.

A cock.

A punishment.

He was panting now.

Trembling.

His arms strained against the restraints, but he didn’t dare disobey again.You came first — of course.

Loud.

Proud.

Fucking magnificent.

You dragged it out. Rubbed your clit right there on him, moaning shamelessly.

Soaking him.

And then? You stopped. Just like that.

Pulled off him.

Untied his wrists.

Grabbed your robe.

And walked out.

— Where are you going?! —

he shouted behind you, voice ragged.You looked over your shoulder and smirked:

— If your dick can’t behave, papí… it doesn’t get to finish.

Later That Night…You came back hours later — quiet, casual, wearing nothing but a silk slip.

Pedro was still lying there, hard, wrecked, frustrated.

He tried using his own hand, but nothing compared after you had already squeezed him with your sweet, hot pussy.

You climbed into bed, pulled back the covers, and laid next to him like nothing happened.

Then you rolled over, pressed your lips to his ear, and whispered:

— Now you can come.—

He nearly cried. He grabbed your waist and shoved his hard, weeping cock into your hole, he fucked you hard from the side like a needy rabbit, right next to your ear he moaned loudly,

— I'm going to shove fucking babies in you, darling—

grunting you moaned, grabbed the hair on the back of his neck and felt him lick the skin of your neck. — Cum inside of me, Pedro. Fuck. I'm obsessed with your dick —

— Oh baby, that's it. Fuck. Take all my cum. —

He groaned as he buried himself deep into your womb and made you shake with another orgasm.

— I love you.—

He murmured and kissed you softly before you both passed out.

[foxlorests]

𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER FIVE: HOMEMADE SERENADE

♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger!Original Female Character

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 9k

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, Oral Sex (both), Age Difference, dirty talk, FLUFF, Slow Burn, Yearning, Mutual Pining, Soulmates, Romcom Vibes, Domestic Harry Castillo, Billionaire Harry, Harry learning how to fall in love the human way, Nervous harry castillo, Emotional vulnerability

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: She stayed at his penthouse for the rest of the holidays.

AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist

He woke up with a kiss on the cheek and the smell of coffee—espresso. The kind he liked.  Though, somehow it smelled stronger. And for a moment, still half between dreams and the soft weight of morning, he thought he’d imagined it. That maybe his mind was playing tricks again. But when he blinked his eyes open and saw her—hair pulled back, mug in one hand and the soft light of the room catching the corner of her smile—it felt too vivid to be a dream.

She was already dressed—barefoot and in one of his old shirts that looked much better on her than it ever had on him. She caught him reaching for her, and laughed under her breath. She turned her head slightly, avoiding the kiss at first.

“Morning breath,” she said, placing a mug on the bedside table with a ceremonial clink. She kissed him anyway. Lightly, then not-so-lightly. She already tasted like coffee. Then pulled away just before it could mean too much too early.

He watched her walk out. She moved like she belonged there. Like this had been their routine for months, not hours. It wasn’t just the kiss or the shirt or the smell of toast drifting from the kitchen. It was the ease. The unbearable ease. And he wanted her in that humiliating, bone-deep kind of way you’re not supposed to want anyone once you’re past forty.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she called out from the kitchen, her voice half-muffled under the low hum of a toaster. “I went out and bought groceries. I know you’re a man, Harry, but having actual food in your fridge is a basic necessity for an adult. It’s honestly embarrassing. You had, what—expired orange juice, expired bread…”

“Catherine,” he said, voice still groggy.

“Yes?”

He was already in the kitchen, barefoot with a bed head, when he pulled her in and kissed her again. Properly this time. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask questions first. She kissed him back, smiling against his mouth. His hand cupped her jaw, opening her mouth. 

“Stop, I have morning breath,” she whispered.

“I do too,” he said.

He was hard.  He was almost certain she could feel it—because she moaned, soft and low, the kind of sound that made his chest cave in. It was music. Her kind of music. And god help him, he wanted to drown in it.

He kissed her harder, backing her against the counter like instinct took over. Like last night’s restraint had finally cracked open. She didn’t stop him. She kissed him back with equal want, her fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer like they were both starved.

Harry wasn’t new to this. He’d been with many women—he’s old, for Christ’s sake. He knew how to make it feel good, how to be quiet, composed, in control. This was different. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t planning. He wasn’t even thinking.

When he groaned, it startled him. That was new. He’s usually deadly silent. The sound was real—too real. Raw and unfamiliar in his own throat. Desperate, like a man who’d gone years without being touched right, and now finally had someone who knew exactly what to do with him.

He pressed closer, his body against hers, kissing her like it meant something.

Then he started grinding into her. It felt so heavenly that Harry, with all the agnostic principles he stood by, almost went to his knees and thanked god. The catholic kind his mom liked.

She was soft everywhere. His hand went to her honey blonde hair, deepening the kiss. He was overcome with lust. He groaned again. Then again.

But then—

A sharp scent of burnt toast filled the air.

Catherine pulled away first. “Oh god.”

He blinked, dazed, breath ragged.

“That’s your fault,” she said, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. “Trying to seduce me while I’m cooking. Can’t you see I’m trying to impress you with avocado toast and eggs?”

Breathless and desperate for her to give up on the cooking, he said, “I’m allergic to eggs.”

“No, you’re not. You know how I know?” She pointed to the trash. “Because I just threw out your very old eggs fifteen minutes ago.”

He chuckled. Still breathless.

When they sat down for breakfast, she was looking at him with wide-eyes, trying to take in his reaction to her cooking. He purposely exaggerated his reaction, which made her happy. In truth, he enjoyed it. He wouldn’t have to exaggerate any reactions at all if it weren’t for the hard on that took up all of his attention.

It was like being possessed.

Watching her eating her own avocado toast, licking her fingers slowly. Then his eyes trailed down to her chest. Breathing slowly, relaxed.

So he finished his toast quickly and went to the bathroom.

Harry planned a cold shower, but ended up taking care of himself.

Tugging his cock like he was young, like the kissing and the grinding was the first sexual experience he ever had. It was pathetic, but Harry was desperate. He didn’t want to push her, especially because he was older.

He started thinking about her body pressed against his, how her lips touched his, her tongue danced with his. The way she was squirming while he held her. He gripped his length tightly, imagining her voice, moaning, etched in his memory. 

He came undone without a sound. Okay, maybe he did swear a little.

After taking a cold shower��more necessity than choice—Harry walked back into the living room and paused. The place was… clean. Not just tidied. Cleaned. Every surface wiped down. Every misplaced object quietly realigned. The espresso machine was gleaming. Even the scatter of books on the coffee table had been stacked in a way that looked deliberate.

He found her in the kitchen, humming under her breath as she scrubbed a glass.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said. “I have a cleaner.”

Catherine shrugged without looking at him. “I like it. It distracted me.”

He watched her for a moment. The way her hands moved. The way she always seemed to choose action over stillness, as if sitting too long bothered her. Maybe that’s why she was easily tired, he thought.

He glanced at her phone she’d left on the counter, vibrating. “Your friend’s blowing up your phone.”

She didn’t answer for a while, and Harry didn’t really want to pry. But he could see her slowly thinking about telling him.

“I don’t really want to go back,” she said, drying the glass. “They’d know. One of my neighbors would’ve told them. No sense of discretion.”

“You wanna stay here for a few days?” He asked, silently hoping she immediately agreed.

She blinked at him, the slightest smile tugging at her mouth. “You have a spare room?”

Harry gave her a look.

“You’re kidding, right?” he said.

“I need clothes, though.”

“I can call Emma. Have her get you a dress or ten.”

Catherine laughed, soft and bright. “No, I mean my clothes. I need to get my things. Then I’ll come back.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Okay. I’ll take you.”

She leaned against the counter, studying him like she wasn’t sure how serious he was. “What if you get sick of me and you’re too polite to say so?”

“Impossible.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Promise you’d tell me if you want me to go? I won’t be offended.”

Harry looked at her for a long second, then walked over and brushed a damp curl from her cheek. “I promise,” he said. “But I’m telling you, Catherine, I won’t.”

⊹

He came to her apartment again. The second time always felt more revealing than the first. This time, he saw things he’d missed. The curtain that didn’t quite reach the floor. A chipped tile by the sink. The soft but unmistakable scent of rosin and jasmine, something that seemed embedded in the walls.

The first thing he noticed was the empty vase on her dinner table.

He didn’t say anything, but the thought lingered. He’d been wondering—maybe even quietly hoping—that the flowers he gave her were still alive. Maybe she'd forgotten to water them, too busy spending nights at his place. Maybe she didn’t even like flowers. He had almost asked, gently, something like “Did they die already?” when his eyes wandered to the journal splayed open on the table. Petals that looked familiar.

Pressed and delicate, fragile things tucked into the folds of a page filled with erratic, half-legible scribbles. She must’ve noticed the moment he did, because she stepped over quickly and shut the journal in one motion, muttering something about the mess and how she spent days writing on her dinner table alone. He didn’t tease her. He just smiled—soft and private, the kind of smile he only seemed to use around her.

There were other things he hadn’t noticed the first time. Like the framed photo turned face-down beside her record player. Or the way there was a sheet of unfinished music stuffed under the microwave. More than that, there were instruments everywhere—not conspicuously placed, but hidden in plain sight. A violin half-tucked behind the couch, a flute case beneath a side table. A bowl on the bookshelf filled with bits of rosin, strings, pegs, and other small things only a musician would know how to use.

“Aren’t you gonna bring your cello?” he asked, walking around the room like it was a gallery. “Or a violin?”

From inside the bedroom, her voice echoed out. “I can? It won’t be too noisy?”

“Sure you can,” he said. And then after a breath, he added, “Only if it makes you happy.”

There was silence on the other end. When he turned, she was leaning against the doorframe, holding a dress on a hanger, watching him like he’d said something that rearranged the way she saw him.

“Alright,” she said, a small smile blooming. “I’ll play whatever you want.”

He turned toward her, tilting his head. “People pay a lot of money to hear you play. I think you have more authority on that front.”

She laughed.

They packed together without fuss. He asked if she wanted to bring her funny kettle. She told him to remind her to grab her inhaler. He folded sweaters into her suitcase like he’d done it a dozen times before. When she forgot her toothbrush, he reminded her. She rolled her eyes.

It felt stupidly natural. Like they did this all the time. Like they were packing for a trip. Or like they already shared a home.

⊹

He couldn’t remember how long she stayed.

A week? Two? The days folded into each other like soft linen, impossible to separate. She’d only planned to crash for a few days, but the end of the holidays— at least according to his calendar and schedules— crept closer and she hadn’t brought it up again. And Harry… Well, Harry did nothing to remind her she had another place to be. 

If he prayed, he would’ve prayed she’d forgotten that she had an apartment in the first place.

Living with Catherine wasn’t a transition. It was a slide. A soft shift into something that already felt worn in, like she’d been there all along and he’d just never noticed.

She bought him coffee when he was in the middle of a spreadsheet. She filled the fridge without asking. Every time he reached for something he needed to ask people to refill soon, like soap or toothpaste or paper towels, there it was—like magic. Except it wasn’t magic. Catherine had secretly talked to his cleaners, or sometimes even bought stuff herself. The scent of her shampoo lingered in the bathroom, the throw pillows on the couch had been subtly rearranged, and his place—his sterile, high-ceilinged, echo-prone apartment—smelled like something warm now. Like vanilla and ginger and something faintly citrus. He didn’t know what candle she was using, only that he hoped she never stopped.

He learned small things about her. Private things. She didn’t volunteer them all at once—they came out like stories you tell a stranger when you’re stuck together, drifting between meals and music and half-watched TV reruns.

She’d been in beauty pageants when she was younger. Won them, too. Her mother had dreams—big ones. Miss United States. Miss Universe. All that. Catherine had hated it. She said it like a joke, but Harry could hear the splinter underneath. She told him most of the girls are mean to her, apparently because the competitions were always cut throat. The only thing she got from those years was the cello. Her mother thought music looked good on stage. Talent rounds and all that. It was supposed to be a polished accessory to her smile. But somewhere in the middle of it, Catherine fell in love—with the music, not the pageants. Everything else melted away. She started sneaking practice hours. She didn’t smile as much in photos after that. The fight with her mother came later—loud and final—but by then, she’d already won enough talent competitions to get noticed. The rest was history.

Harry told her things too. He wasn’t always good at it, but she had this way of making it feel like you weren’t being interviewed. Just… seen.

He told her more things about his job— which sounded sleek and untouchable to most people, but to him, it was structure. Logic. Numbers that behaved, mostly. He said he’d always been good at details. At finding the flaw in the system. At fixing it quietly, with no one noticing. The path had been obvious: business school, internships, connections, then firms, and finally, his own. He was good at it. Better than most. But passion? No. Not the way she talked about composing. Not the way she lost herself in music.

She disagreed. 

“I think it is your passion,” Catherine said, her cheek pressed to his chest. “The way you talk about it when you’re not trying to sound bored. The way you always know what’s happening in a room, who’s who, what they want. The way you remember things, patterns, numbers, people—it’s like you’re always composing something too, just in a different language.”

Harry scoffed, not unkindly. “That’s generous.”

She didn’t move. “Just because it doesn’t feel like art, or self-expression, or make you cry into a violin, doesn’t mean it isn’t passion. You work your ass off.”

He chuckled, shaking his head like it was absurd—and yet his chest felt warm. Seen. “God, you make it sound poetic.”

“That’s because it is,” she said, tilting her head to look up at him. “You light up when you explain how things work. When a company clicks into place. When a deal finally lands.”

“How’d you know that?”

“I may have eavesdropped sometimes.”

He smiled. Because she was right.

He didn’t get swept up in beauty the way she did. He didn’t weep over a cello line or walk out of a film quoting its final scene. But he did love clarity. He loved finding a tangle of chaos and making it run. He loved knowing his instincts were sharp. He liked solving things no one else could see. He liked being trusted to fix what was broken—and he was good at it.

At the slower moments—those late afternoons when the city quieted a little and time folded in on itself—Catherine played him songs.

Always originals. Always with a gentle, almost shy kind of deference. “Do you mind if I play something?” she’d ask, even after days of sharing the same space, the same air. As if her music could ever be an intrusion. 

Eventually he told her, with the faintest irritation, to stop asking. So she stopped asking. She just played.

Sometimes she waited until he was knee-deep in spreadsheets and documents, doing the kind of work that required too much of his mind— work he needed done before the holidays came to an end. She’d tune up quietly, the room filling with soft tension, and begin playing. And inevitably, the moment her bow touched the string, Harry stopped.

He set the documents aside and just watched her—how her honey-blonde hair caught the dim light from the window, how her fingers moved with the kind of elegance that was clearly earned, not innate. She always played with her eyes closed, head tilted slightly down like she was listening to something private. It made him feel like an intruder and a chosen witness at the same time.

He said he wouldn’t request anything. That her playlist was hers alone. But eventually, he did.

The song she played that very first night, in Jim’s bookstore, when he had just stepped out of a storm and into something inexplicably important. She didn’t ask him how he remembered. She just played it for him, and he sat on the floor like a man in church.

Music became part of his days the way coffee had always been. Normal. Expected. Necessary.

Sometimes, during particularly good pieces—ones he never knew the name of but eventually remembered—he’d catch her swaying to her own playing, just slightly. 

She bought a few records too, sometimes playing it during quiet nights when the snow hits the window in a romantic way. She listened intently, swaying again, lost in the rhythm. He’d get up from wherever he was and offer her his hand, and they slowly danced. No choreography, just movement. He hadn’t slow danced since… Well, since Lucy.

She had asked him about Lucy once. Or, more accurately, who his last girlfriend was.

He didn’t flinch. Just said, “Someday I’ll tell you the full story. When it stops feeling embarrassing.”

Catherine had nodded, as if she understood what kind of ache that was. She didn’t press.

They watched movies, too. Late nights with dimmed lights and his arm stretched over the back of the couch. One film he didn’t know the title of—about a songwriter and a singer who couldn’t make it work—left her crying quietly. He turned to her, confused and a little concerned, and asked why.

She wiped her eyes and said, “Some other time. When that’s not embarrassing.”

Other films, the less brilliant ones, ended better—for him at least. With her curled into him. With kisses. With fingers tangled and laughter under her breath and the kind of warmth that made his penthouse feel like a place you could actually live in.

They make out a lot, much to his liking. Grinded into each other, trailing kisses and pressing their bodies together, deeper into his couch. Harry wanted more. Of course he does. But he didn’t want to force her, to insist on something she wasn’t ready for.

He knew she wanted it too, though. Could feel her excitement, her wetness sometimes soaking his fingers when they went at it too hard. Had felt her hands guiding his hands, putting it on her breast. He had obliged happily, eagerly. Had squeezed her breast, went inside under her shirt and played with her hard nipples. It was warm and perfect against his palm which always made him groan.

He became extremely vocal since Catherine. Moaning, groaning, whimpering. He had never been like that with any other woman before. He was usually so guarded. There was something about Catherine that made him forget. He tried to be quiet, but one touch of her breasts, he was gone. Too intoxicated in the feel of her, he forgot any plans on staying quiet. It made her grind harder on his lap, against his bulge.  

Sometimes they grinded so hard that they came, clothes still on. They had laughed afterwards, but it left him wanting more. It always left him wanting more.

She slept in his bed. Harry, who usually has restless nights, sleepless nights, now falls asleep easily. Maybe it was because of her breathing, how it acted as a white noise. Or maybe it was because of her warmth, against him so close that he could feel nothing but comfortability. He would trace his fingers through the shape of her, the curves and skin. She was such a beautiful woman.

One day, when his hands became a little active before bed, he heard her moaning. His hand then trailed down to find her damp against her panties. She grinded back against him.

“Catherine,” he said to her ear, softly from behind her. “So beautiful, so warm. So tight.”

“Harry,” she had said breathlessly. 

He groaned. “You want my fingers, sweetheart?”

“Yes, please,” she moaned.

Then he slid her panties off and dipped his fingers inside her. His mouth on her ears, his chest against her back, groaning as if the act of pleasing her was pleasing him too, arousing him too. Which it was.

Harry's fingers delved into Catherine's slick heat, stroking and exploring her most intimate places. He could feel her body responding eagerly to his touch, her walls clenching and fluttering around his digits as he pumped them in and out of her.

Catherine could only whimper in response, her body arching into his touch, seeking more. Harry's other hand slid around to cup her breast, kneading the soft mound and rolling her stiffened nipple between his fingers. He could feel her heart racing beneath his palm, matching the frantic pounding of his own.

“You’re so tight, sweetheart. Squeezing around my finger so well.”

“Your fingers are big,” she whispered. Her body clenched and quivered around the welcome intrusion, her silken walls gripping his digits like a velvet vice.

“Yeah? I think you need more. Stretch you out, hm?” Harry added a finger. He was getting harder, trying to find friction from her back. “You’re doing so good. So pretty. Had me so hard, sweetheart. Made me crazy. Want you all the time. All the time.”

He could feel his cock throbbing with the need to replace his fingers, to bury itself deep inside her welcoming tightness. Harry grounded his hips harder against Catherine's ass, seeking some measure of relief from the ache of his desire.

Her moans were getting louder. Harry could feel Catherine's body tensing and trembling, her slick walls starting to flutter wildly around his plunging fingers. Her breathy plea, the desperate way she arched her hips to take his fingers deeper, told him she was on the very brink.  His fingers moved faster.

Catherine let out a sharp cry, her body stiffening and then convulsing as her orgasm crashed over her. Her pussy clenched and rippled around Harry's fingers, gushing and dripping with her release.

He held her close as the aftershocks faded, pressing a string of kisses along her neck and shoulder, murmuring words of praise and adoration into her skin.

He turned her head to the side, kissing her and groaning again. She felt his bulge, still prominent against her. Her eyes looked at him, darker than usual. Then she moved down.

Down, down, until her face is exactly where he needed it to be.

Slowly he took his length out. It was hard, big on her hands, but that didn’t stop her. She was slow with her torture.

Harry felt Catherine's soft, dexterous hand wrap around the thick base of his cock, gripping him with a confident, almost possessive squeeze. Her fingers closed around his girth, leaving her thumb and forefinger gently kissing as they encircled his shaft. The contrast of her delicate hand against his throbbing, veined flesh was erotic and strangely intimate.

Her fingers began to move, stroking him with a skill and finesse that contradicted her youth. She worked his length with a twisting, pumping motion, her grip tightening and loosening in a rhythm that made Harry's breath catch and his hips twitch forward involuntarily.

“Fuck,” He breathed as he gave up his attempt to stay quiet. “Just like that. Such a good girl.”

Her hand moved lower, cupping and squeezing his heavy balls, rolling them gently in her palm. Harry shuddered, his stomach muscles clenching as a thrill of sensation shot up his spine.

When her soft, pillowy lips brushed against the sensitive head of his dick, Harry let out a guttural groan. The barest whisper of a touch, but it was enough to make him shudder with need. Catherine's little pink tongue darted out, lapping at the weeping slit, and Harry's fingers tangled almost painfully in her hair as he fought the urge to grab her head and thrust forward, burying himself in the wet heat of her mouth.

Harry had never felt more pleasure in the forty-something years he’s been alive. He can’t help but stroke her, pet her, other times guiding her. Her lips went to the top, giving it a kiss. 

Then she opened her mouth, and Harry was sure he entered heaven.

Catherine just smiled, a wicked little curve of her lips against his flesh, before she opened her mouth wider and took him inside. She was slow, maddeningly so, letting her lips stretch obscenely around his girth as she sank down inch by inch. Harry could feel every centimeter of her soft mouth engulfing his aching cock, the wet, silken heat engulfing him like a fever dream.

His hands tightened in her hair as she finally, finally took him to the back of her throat. He could feel her nose pressing against his pelvis, could feel the flutter of her throat as she swallowed around him. Harry threw his head back, a hoarse moan tearing from his chest as the pleasure bordered on pain. A sound he never heard himself make before.

“Catherine,” he said breathlessly. “You’re going to kill me.”

She slowly put his cock deeper, deeper inside her throat.

“Your throat feels so good, Catherine. You’re doing so well. Please, sweetheart. Yes, right there.” He guided her head now, trying to make it easier for her. “You’re killing me, Catherine. So tight. Such a tight throat. You want my cum, sweetheart?”

She hummed, going faster, her hands working him too. He was in utter bliss.

The obscene slurping sounds of her sucking filled the room, mingling with Harry's guttural moans and harsh panting. Catherine could only moan in response, the vibrations of her throat sending shockwaves of ecstasy shooting up Harry's shaft. She could feel him throbbing and pulsing, his cock swelling even harder as she worked him closer to the edge.

Harry's balls tightened, his orgasm building to a crescendo as Catherine's hands pumped his slick, aching flesh faster and faster. Her lips stretched taut around his girth, and she took him to the hilt, burying her nose in his wiry pubic hair as she swallowed around him.

"Catherine, sweetheart, I'm gonna... Fuck!" Harry roared, his head thrown back in utter bliss as his orgasm ripped through him. His cock jerked and throbbed as he shot thick, hot ropes of cum directly down Catherine's eager throat. He held her head tightly in place, his fingers tangled almost painfully in her hair, as he rode out the waves of his intense climax.

"Take it all, sweetheart," he gasped out, "Take every last drop. Good girl." His hips shuddered and bucked, grinding his spurting cock against the back of her throat as he emptied his heavy balls into her mouth.

Catherine swallowed every last drop of Harry's hot, thick seed, her throat working diligently to gulp down each throbbing spurt. She could feel it coating her throat, filling her belly with his essence. As Harry's climax began to subside, she slowly pulled back, her lips sliding deliciously along his sensitive shaft until they slipped free with a soft pop. 

That night, Harry thanked his luck that Catherine was a musician, so skilled with moving her hands. Even though he wanted to fuck her so bad to the point of madness, he would wait. And knowing just how good other acts could be, he was sure he could wait forever.

They both overslept that day. Not in the lazy, indulgent way, but in the we forgot the world existed kind of way. Wrapped around each other like gravity had shifted. There was something about living your life contently—genuinely, softly—that made you forget about clocks and alarms and expectations. The city had been moving without them. And neither of them cared.

⊹

Harry forgot he was supposed to start working.

He stirred first. Not from sunlight or discomfort, but from the sound of his front door unlocking. A soft click, followed by quiet footsteps.

It took a second to register. He blinked awake slowly, his arm heavy with Catherine’s weight, her body curled into his chest like she belonged there, like she’d always belonged there. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to disturb whatever magic had settled in his penthouse overnight. But then there was a knock—tentative but firm—against the bedroom door.

“Sir?” Emma’s voice. Sharp. Professional. “You have two meetings today.”

Right. Reality. So, unfortunately, his holiday did have an end after all.

He groaned. Carefully slid away from Catherine, who stirred only slightly, murmuring something incoherent against the pillow. He pulled on the nearest pair of pants, ran a hand through his hair, and opened the door.

Emma was already making herself useful, as always. She had her coat folded over her arm, was mid-motion in turning on the espresso machine. She glanced at him, blinking once.

“When did you get your life together?” asked Emma.

“What?” Harry rubbed his face. His brain was still somewhere under the blankets.

She gestured vaguely around the space. “Your penthouse. Spotless in the morning, before the cleaner’s scheduled. Groceries—real groceries. The espresso machine’s clean. Polished. You even have fruit in the bowl. Like actual fruit, not the decorative kind that comes in gift baskets.”

“Wasn’t me,” he muttered.

Emma raised a brow. “Finally used the service I told you about, huh? I said it was useful. People shopping for you—it’s not that weird. Plus you already have a cleaner, so I don’t think it’s such a  big deal if you…”

She stopped.

He followed her gaze, already knowing what she saw.

Catherine, half-awake, standing quietly at the edge of the hallway, her hair a soft mess, one sock missing. Blinking like she didn’t realize there was company. Her presence seeped into the room like warmth.

Emma, who was rarely speechless, rarely surprised, stood perfectly still.

Harry had never seen her like that. Not even when the market crashed.

Catherine gave a small wave. “Hi. Sorry. Morning.”

Emma’s mouth opened, then closed. Her eyes darted to Harry, who shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was nothing at all.

“Miss Catherine Ainsworth—oh, god, I’m so sorry. I should have kept my voice down,” Emma said, stumbling over her words in a way that didn’t suit her usual composure.

“It’s fine. I think we overslept.” Catherine said, smiling as she took the seat across from Harry. Her seat. Funny, that. The usual empty seat, assigned to no one, was now hers. “Please. Just Catherine. Emma, right? You wanna sit down, Emma? Have you had breakfast?”

“Oh, no, no, please,” Emma replied quickly, standing a little too straight. She seemed excited to be on a first name basis with her. “We have bagels right here. You can have mine. Or his too, if you want.”

Harry chuckled, flipping open the newspaper Emma had brought like always, with her usual everything bagel and a splash of cream cheese. Predictable. Steady. But now there was Catherine, standing there barefoot in his kitchen, and suddenly even the newspaper felt new.

“Just bagels?” Catherine teased, looking at the table. “I thought Harry was kidding. You really don’t eat much, huh? I’ll make you both a quick omelette. I bought lots of eggs,” she added, already standing up.

“No, please, you don’t have to. I’m his assistant,” Emma said, hands raised, awkward in the way people get when hierarchy meets unexpected kindness.

“You’re his assistant, but you’re also my guest,” Catherine replied over her shoulder, already halfway to the fridge.

That was the end of that. Emma sat, hands folded tightly, glancing between Harry and the woman now humming to herself while peeling apples. She watched Catherine like she was some mythological creature brought to life. Like she couldn’t believe the Catherine Ainsworth was standing barefoot in Tribeca, slicing fruit and singing under her breath. Like she couldn’t believe Catherine Ainsworth was staying here, with him. And not just staying—but happy.

Harry asked about the meetings. Logistics. Timing. Rescheduling. Numbers, names, emails. The usual. But Emma kept glancing toward the kitchen, like she couldn’t help herself.

Not that he blamed her. He also liked looking at Catherine.

“So,” Emma said, lowering her voice slightly, though there was no real need. “Are you and her a couple?”

Harry leaned back in his chair, still watching Catherine in the kitchen as she fussed over something as simple as toast and apples like it was a sacred ritual. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “Hopefully she thinks so.”

There was a knowing smile on Emma’s face—one that had been years in the making. Because Emma had seen it all. The calls from his mother, ringing like church bells every Monday: You’re not getting any younger, Harry. You don’t even have a dog. The way he used to groan, say he’d look for someone at his brother’s wedding. He did meet Lucy there, and he had hoped that was that.

Emma had watched that play out too. The slow build of something hopeful. Then the unraveling. Quiet at first. Then humiliating in that dignified, devastating way Harry did everything. He’d even once muttered that if his mother brought it up again, he’d just hire an actress and get the farce over with.

So now, seeing him like this—warm, a little dazed, blinking like he couldn’t believe this was his life—Emma just shook her head, grinning.

“I can’t believe you managed to convince the Catherine Ainsworth to date you, boss,” she said. 

Harry laughed under his breath. “I’m already planning your raise.”

“Damn right you are,” she said, biting into her bagel, still watching Catherine move around his kitchen like she’d always been there.

Catherine served them omelets, toast, and neatly sliced apples arranged on a plate like it was a brunch spot in the Village. It was warm and unpretentious, with just a touch of care that made it taste better than any overpriced breakfast Harry had been served at a boardroom table.

As they ate, Catherine turned to Emma, genuinely curious. “So what did you do during the holidays? Harry says his work schedule is different, more days off in January than December. I’m assuming you have elaborate plans unlike us.”

Emma smiled, relaxing into her chair like they were old friends. “Oh, just a lot of family time. My husband worked most of it—he’s a chef, so the holidays are kind of chaos for him. I mostly held down the fort.”

Catherine lit up at the word chef. “Where does he work?”

Emma named the place—a well-known restaurant uptown that Harry had heard of a dozen times but never had the patience to wait a week for a table. Catherine’s brows rose, impressed.

“That’s an incredible place,” she said. “You must eat well.”

Emma laughed. “Only when he’s not working himself to death. We’ve got our anniversary coming up and I wanted to treat him, but honestly, I’m not sure how.”

Catherine blinked, thoughtful. Then without hesitation, “Would you let me play something for you? For him? A little private concert? Just cello, nothing dramatic. Or a piano if you like. Whichever you prefer. A couple of pieces over dinner?”

Emma looked stunned. She blinked several times like she hadn’t heard right.

“Oh no—no, that’s too much. That would be—honestly, that would be too kind.”

“It’s not too much,” Catherine said simply. “It’s a gift. I never played music for the money. Not really. I play for moments like that. For people like you, someone who likes my music. Who knows, maybe I’ll get inspired and compose a new song.”

They went back and forth—Emma trying to be polite, Catherine stubbornly gracious. Harry watched it unfold like a tennis match, quietly amused.

Then he cleared his throat. “Compromise. Let Catherine play. But Emma—you give us a dinner date. At your husband’s place.”

Emma jumped on that suggestion. “Would you want that?”

“I’ve been meaning to get a reservation a couple of times, too much of a hassle. The waiting,” Harry said dryly, sipping his coffee. “I had to pretend I liked truffle foam at six other places instead.”

Emma turned to Catherine. “Then at least let me pay you back by giving you the date. You and Harry. I’ll talk to my husband. He’ll make something special. You’ll love it. The restaurant’s very sought after, impossible to get into. Multiple course meals. And Harry here—he’s dying to take you on a date.”

Catherine laughed, genuinely delighted. “Are you trying to convince me or him?”

Emma grinned. “Both.”

Catherine raised her hands in mock surrender. “I can’t say no to a date with Harry. But I’m still not letting you pay me.”

The plates were cleared, the coffee cups emptied. And as the morning stretched into something quieter, something softer, Harry found himself once again watching Catherine from across the table. She was talking about music again, a glimmer in her eyes, her fork moving absentmindedly through the leftover apples.

But he knew inevitably, this part of the story had to end. He had to go to work. He got ready slowly, as if dreading leaving home, which was saying a lot because he loved his work. He was great at it. But, still, it paled in comparison to whatever happened over the holidays.

Harry was getting ready when she came up behind him.

He caught her reflection in the mirror first—barefoot, hair still slightly damp from the shower, wearing one of his shirts like she hadn’t noticed it didn’t belong to her. She reached around and took the tie from his hands, silently undoing the knot he’d already started.

“You need a better knot for this suit,” she murmured. “I can do a windsor knot.”

He didn’t argue. She stepped closer, fingers deft and practiced, brows furrowed slightly as she worked. He looked down at her, catching the way her lower lip tucked in concentration. There was something oddly intimate about the way she did it—this simple act of helping him look like himself again.

“I probably should get back to my own place,” she said casually, like she hadn’t just made his stomach tighten as she slid the knot into the perfect place and adjusted it like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“Why?” he asked, too quickly.

“I can’t stay here forever, Harry.”

“Sure you can.”

She smiled softly but didn’t look up. “My friends aren’t blowing up my phone anymore, which is usually the sign that they’ve forgiven me for missing whatever plans I ditched. And I need to check on my studio. Make sure the place is still standing. That people haven’t forgotten it exists. Also, my fear of missing out is back.”

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving today.”

“I didn’t say I was. I said I probably should.”

Harry watched her fingers straighten the fabric down his chest, then linger a little longer than necessary. “Stay another day. We haven’t had a real date yet.”

She tilted her head like she was considering it, then shrugged. “No, I really have to stop by the studio. Then come home. My manager hasn’t seen me in weeks. I’m starting to feel like a ghost.”

“Let me come with you.”

She nodded. “Sure. But I’ll probably be there a while. Are you busy today?”

“I’ll be home around three,” he said, checking the time. “Meeting I can’t move.”

“Okay, plenty of time to pack and move out,” she said lightly.

He turned to face her fully, the tie now perfect between them. “You’re not moving out.”

She raised a brow. “No?”

“Here’s what you’re gonna do,” he said, his tone mock-businesslike. “You’re going to pack only the necessities. Leave a couple of clothes here. Maybe a book or two. Buy a spare toothbrush. Just enough so the next time you stay, it’s easier.”

“Next time, huh?”

He met her eyes. “Yes. Next time.”

Catherine didn’t say anything for a moment. Just smiled to herself, brushed invisible lint from his lapel, and whispered, “Alright then. Just the essentials.”

And for the first time in years, Harry went to work feeling like he was walking out the door of a home.

  ⊹

Harry knew a few things about Catherine’s studio. Not many—just enough to feel like he wasn’t walking into the unknown. She’d told him it wasn’t advertised. That it was meant to be more of a haven than a business. That she didn’t do any marketing about it. That it was “underground,” though he wasn’t sure if that was literal or just metaphorical. She said it was where artists went when they needed somewhere to just be. He understood that. He’d started to realize that’s what she was to him, too. Somewhere to just be.

He didn’t know why, but he was excited to go. He rarely got excited to go anywhere anymore. The dinners, the events, the endless networking—it was all a blur of names and wine and politely charged conversation. But this felt different. No agenda. No one to impress. Maybe it was the space itself, but more likely, it was just her. Still, there was a twinge of something quieter underneath it all—something like sadness. She was going back to her life. And he would return to his—meetings, numbers, emails, silence.

He hoped she wouldn’t forget to call this time. It was easier when she was just in the next room.

His driver took them north, to a part of the city Harry rarely visited unless someone made a dinner reservation there. When they stopped, the building looked like nothing. Just an old door next to a plant shop. But inside— when they entered the main room—he was surprised.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. Something chaotic? Dusty? Overfilled with passion and no order? But this was different.

The room was warm and uncluttered. The walls were a soft charcoal with brass accents and a scattering of black-and-white portraits—musicians in the middle of their craft. A long sofa faced a modest desk covered in sheet music and stacked notebooks. There were books, plants, soft lighting that didn’t feel like a studio but more like a home with good taste. It was modern, but not sterile. Clean lines softened by velvet textures and faded rugs. On one shelf sat a small plaque with Catherine’s name etched in gold—some music award he didn’t recognize but knew must’ve been hard-earned. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and rosin.

A woman with a sharp pixie cut emerged from another room. Catherine hugged her with familiarity.

“This is Talia,” she said, turning to Harry. “My manager. Sort of.”

“Depends on the day,” Talia grinned, shaking Harry’s hand. 

“Harry,” he offered.

Talia, her manager, gave a brief nod and turned her focus back to Catherine. They were already talking logistics—schedules, bookings, maybe something about soundproofing repairs—he wasn’t really listening. Instead, Harry wandered the front room, eyes scanning the space.

There were framed photos—Catherine with her cello, mid-performance; Catherine accepting an award in a black dress he remembered seeing once on the cover of a classical magazine; Catherine in rehearsal, barefoot and radiant with concentration. She had a different face in each frame. Sometimes serious. Sometimes beaming. He felt oddly proud, like he’d known all of them.

Catherine interrupted his thoughts. “Is there a jam session today?”

“Oh, yeah. Kienan’s in the lounge. They’ve been at it for hours.”

Catherine’s eyes lit up. “You wanna come?” she asked Harry, already turning toward the hallway. As if she wanted him to look into her life, to have a glimpse of what she is. Like a kid showing her stuff around.

He trailed behind.

The lounge wasn’t far—it was just a turn down a narrower corridor and through a sliding door that looked like it belonged in an art gallery.

In the lounge, about fifteen people, maybe more, were scattered around the room. Some on bean bags, some standing, some perched on stools. Everyone held something—a tambourine, a triangle, a drum, a violin, a flute. There was even a girl with a melodica and someone tapping a cajón like a heartbeat. The sound was... alternative indie, kind of. He didn’t really know what to call it. But it was layered, rich, disorganized in a way that felt purposeful. Like everyone was waiting to be surprised.

A man—Kienan, Harry guessed—was in the center with a guitar, half-singing, half-grinning. When he saw Catherine, he didn’t stop playing. He just walked straight up to her, singing the whole way, and nudged her gently into the middle of the circle. Someone handed her a violin. She didn’t hesitate. She just tucked it under her chin and, without so much as tuning, began to play.

Harry stepped back, out of the circle, and watched. It was messy, unstructured, and loud. He saw how happy she was— and how happy all of them are to be there, to see her there. And for the first time that day, he stopped worrying about whether she’d remember to call. Because now, watching her—absolutely alive—he knew one thing for sure: He’d call first.

When the song ended, the room burst into loose, joyful clapping—no formal applause, just the kind of loud affection shared among friends and people who felt something together. Catherine did a small curtsy, exaggerated and playful, and Harry felt a smile tugging at his mouth. It was stupid how adorable he found it. Like she belonged to a different time. Or maybe he did.

He was still standing near the wall, slightly off to the side, when a woman approached him.

“Harry Castillo?”

He blinked. Squinted. The lighting was dim in this room—low, warm bulbs wrapped around exposed pipes—and the music had left his ears a little foggy.

“Yes?” he said, more like a question.

The woman stepped into a better view. She looked vaguely familiar, and she must’ve seen the way he hesitated, trying to place her.

“I’m Audrey. I work for Adore,” she said. Harry still looked confused, trying to place her. “I work with Rose and Lucy. We were introduced once. The whole office knew about you. The unicorn. We hadn’t had those in a while.”

Right. He never really liked the way Lucy and her work friends called him unicorn. He was a grown man, for god’s sakes. But that did click something loose in his memory. He remembered her from Lucy’s parties, maybe—one of the background people, the curated social set Lucy always brought together. Sharp dressers. Good wine talkers. He remembered a face, maybe a laugh. But he didn’t remember being properly introduced back then. Or maybe he hadn’t really cared about who Lucy was working with.

“Small world, huh?” she said lightly.

He nodded. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I donate to the studio,” Audrey replied, waving a hand like it was nothing. “My little sister’s a music nerd. Big on string instruments. She loves this place.”

He hummed politely, but didn’t dig further. He didn’t really want to play catch-up with a footnote from his past. But she leaned in slightly, smile widening.

“And you’re here with the Queen herself?” she asked, nodding toward Catherine.

“Yes,” Harry said, glancing at her from across the room. 

“So that’s why you left us. We were so sad to see you go. Rose particularly. She was supposed to get a big commission. But I get it now. A unicorn with another unicorn. I’ve been trying to get Catherine to join for a long time. She ticked a lot of our client’s boxes. But I get it, she’s too young to ask for a matchmaker,” Audrey smiled. “Am I correct in assuming? You’re her…”

“I’m her antique,” he said.

Catherine laughed behind him—he hadn’t realized she was approaching.

“So a golden ticket winner,” Audrey said.

Before Harry could reply, another woman entered the room. A musician by the looks of it. She made a beeline for Catherine, wrapping her in a tight hug.

Catherine laughed, though her tone wobbled a little.

“Catherine. We didn’t think you’d come today.” The woman stepped back. “I gotta tell Brandon. He was looking for you. I think you’d want to know this—”

“No,” Catherine said quickly, voice sharper than before. “I don’t. Please don’t tell me.”

The room held its breath for a beat.

Harry stepped forward. It wasn’t entirely conscious. Maybe it was instinct, or pride, or the fact that Catherine had just visibly flinched at the mention of someone else’s name.

“Hi,” he said, calm but firm. “I’m Harry. The boyfriend.”

He regretted the phrasing immediately. It felt juvenile coming out of his mouth. Like he was sixteen, not pushing fifty. Like he needed to prove something. The woman looked at him up and down, assessing him. Her eyes lingered on his watch, then his hair. He tried to remember if any of his gray hair showed yet. Hopefully it hadn’t and he looked perfectly normal and… age appropriate.

“Boyfriend?” the woman repeated, brows raised.

“Yes,” he said again, this time with more certainty.

Catherine looked up at him. And she didn’t laugh. She didn’t correct him. She just smiled—quiet, warm—like boyfriend was a word she’d said to herself before, just to see how it tasted. Like she agreed. She returned to his side with a softness he hadn’t known he missed until now, sliding her hand into the crook of his arm again, like they’d done this a hundred times before.

“Sorry I haven’t really told anyone,” she said under her breath.

“Haven’t told anyone?” The woman’s voice rose, half-teasing, half-accusatory. “You practically disappeared!”

“It all happened really quickly,” Catherine said, trying to sound breezy, but there was a quiet hopefulness in her eyes. “Did you have fun without me? Please say not much…”

Harry chuckled. Her eternal fear of missing out—on music, on people, on life—had become something endearing. Irrational, maybe, but human. He didn’t mind reassuring her.

They trailed off together, their arms brushing, until the woman tugged Catherine away with the promise of a quick catch-up. Audrey was already on a call, distracted, and Harry found himself momentarily untethered.

He wandered the room alone, hands in his pockets, pretending not to feel the cold absence of her next to him. The lounge was lived-in. Familiar. Jam sessions frozen in polaroid photos tacked to the walls, napkins with scrawled lyrics, stray music sheets curling on the corners of the table. Artifacts of lives more expressive than his. More open.

He spotted a photo—framed, but not hung. Propped on a side table, half-hidden behind an empty vase. A group shot. Friends, instruments, sweat-drenched from what looked like a rooftop concert. Catherine wasn’t in one of her sleek black concert gowns—she was in jeans and a tee, laughing, hair wild. That other version of her. The one he was still discovering.

His eyes caught the arm. A man’s arm, wrapped around her shoulder, like it had belonged there for years.

He didn’t need a name. He knew. There was always a name you didn’t want to say. The one people refused to talk about, the one that made them avoid whole conversations.

Harry stared a little too long. Not out of jealousy—not at first. It was fear. Something guttural and pathetic. He’d been here before. With Lucy, with his college girlfriend. With the knowledge that love could exist for you, but belong to someone else.

He pulled out his phone. Searched. Paused. Realized he didn’t even know the man’s last name. Just Brandon. Too many results. Tried Brandon and Catherine Ainsworth. Nothing. Catherine Ainsworth boyfriend. Nothing relevant.

His thumb hovered over the screen, annoyed at himself. What did he think he was doing? Internet sleuthing like some insecure teenager? He sighed, locked the phone, shoved it into his coat.

But the thought wouldn’t leave him. It sat heavy in his chest all night, even when he dropped her off and she kissed him like they were the only people in the city.

Back in his penthouse, alone again, no smell of food or coffee, no soft humming from the bathroom, Harry cracked.

He asked Emma by morning. He regretted it as soon as he did. The guilt landed hard, like a slap. He expected Emma to judge him—and she did. But not with disdain. With brutal, pointed clarity.

“Catherine’s not like your other girlfriends,” she said, arms crossed, brows raised. “She’s been avoiding this guy. Hasn’t even let her friends talk about him. She’s glued to your side. I don’t know what you’re worried about.”

“I don’t know,” Harry muttered. “Habit?”

Emma sighed but helped him anyway.

It wasn’t through LinkedIn or official sites. It was on social media. Tags on studio accounts. Someone had posted an old video. And there he was: Brandon Dahl. Good-looking. Wild hair. Tattooed arms. Cool in that rehearsed way that rock musicians always were. One song had gone viral a year or two back. Big enough to tour the States, but not yet global. Not Harry’s world. Not even close.

Emma said he looked eerily like Kurt Cobain. He didn’t like that.

“She likes you,” Emma said to calm him down, sipping from her coffee with unbothered finality. “I may be older than her, but I know women. And she likes you.”

It helped. A little. But what calmed him, what truly settled the noise in his mind, was simpler than that.

It was when she called him first.

He’d known from the first ring that it was her (he assigned a different ringtone the first time she gave him her number), but he had left the call ringing for a few seconds, unanswered. He was savoring the first time Catherine called him first. But that didn’t last too long. He couldn’t help it.

Her voice on the other end of the line, warm and tired. “Miss me yet?”

He didn’t even remember what she said after that. Just the sound of her. And suddenly, none of it mattered. Not even the photo.

Just her. Now. Calling him first.

A/N: Any interactions is appreciated! More smut to come.

[yesjazzywazzylove-blog]

Imagining him holding your hips as you grind down on his hardening cock.

Imagine riding his thigh as he talks you through an explosive orgasm, "Baby, that's right, cmon don't stop riding me. Fuck you look so sexy doing that. Make yourself cum on my thigh. Do it baby! Fuuuuccckkk yeah just like that baby, drench me!"

Imagine.......🥵

[hotwritergf]

Crankin' up the tension for negative attention.

Hi guys... This is awkward. Heyyy, yes I've been away for about a year. I found out I have problems with my liver that changed my life last year, I have frequent blood tests and ECG tests now. Oh and a lot of mental health medication to help my BPD. How have you guys been? Did you miss me? Pedro Pascal is my latest hyper fixation and I just booked my tickets to see Fantastic Four AND I have seat number F4 hehehe. Here's a little something about Joel Miller from The Last Of Us. I hope you enjoy my friends, as always I'm @hotwritergf on ao3 if you have any suggestions or requests but please note - I may not get back to them very quickly. <3

POV: You say something that teases Joel and he has to make you pay.

⋆˙⟡ Joel swears under his breath like a prayer, hands tightening almost painfully around your wrists and gripping as if he's terrified you'll float away.

"Christ, you can't just *say* that. Don't you have any damn self-control when you look at me like that?"

He leans down to bring his face level with yours. "I'm older than your father."

He looks into your soul, his eyes piercing yours, your reflection visible in his irises. His hands slide over yours, rubbing with open palms, feeling his calloused skin over your most sensitive areas, groping your breasts and gently squeezing your nipples. He teases over every area he can find a reaction from, going further south until he reaches the waistband.

His fingers slide under the material, finding your panties and pulling them aside. He's careless, and you swear you can hear them rip as he pulls on them. His fingertips play with your clit so lazily-you writhe around while he's really not trying to make you cum; he's preoccupied with something else. His wide, long finger slowly finds your entrance and pushes through, finding your g-spot instantly. Joel grants you more fingers at the sound of your mewls. His other hand brushes against your neck, holding your throat with purpose, his grip getting tighter with each sound you let escape. Joel yanks your head backward, pushing his lips against your own.

You feel him everywhere, taking possession of your entire body. You're just a puppet, and he is your master. With flickering tongues exploring each other's mouths, you let go, putty in his hands, and you can hear his smug smirk in response. "That's right, little girl, let go, melt away into me, darlin'." He growls into your ear, playfully nipping at your earlobe. Your core clenches over his words; he feels your grip tighten on his digits, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't speed up, only continues his teasing torture, his thumb pressing against your clit while his fingers pump into you harder. With each thrust they bring you closer, he brings you closer to heaven.

Chanting his name like an ethereal prayer with visions of paradise, Joel refuses to relent, denying you a break from overstimulation. Your orgasm hits like a tsunami, the waves crashing into you without mercy. Searching for anything to grip onto to prevent yourself from levitating into dreamland, you find his arm, his arm hair tickles your palm as you try to hold on. Joel slides his hand into yours. Holding you tight, making sure you know he's still here, that he's the one responsible for this pleasure.

"There you go, feel good, baby?" His voice is hoarse and doused in desire. With no energy left to speak, you nod, forcing a weak smile. Joel pats your head softly and offers a smirk in response. Looking down at the mess you've made, he smiles as he squeezes your hand in his, letting his thumb rub against the back of your hand. For someone who loves so forcibly and sadistically, his touch can feel like silk.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Santa Baby

pairing: pedro pascal x f! popstar girlfriend

The stage was bathed in warm, festive light as snowflakes made of glitter descended from the rafters. The audience buzzed with excitement, eagerly awaiting the star of the night. Y/N’s highly anticipated Christmas special was live, showcasing her new holiday album. Fans worldwide tuned in to witness her performance, and among them was her proudest supporter her boyfriend-turned-fiancé, Pedro Pascal, seated in the front row.

Y/N’s voice soared through classic carols and original songs, each note wrapping the room in holiday magic. Dressed in a red velvet gown that shimmered under the lights, she was the picture of festive elegance. Her diamond necklace sparkled with every turn, but her smile was the true showstopper. Pedro leaned forward in his seat, utterly entranced, his warm brown eyes never leaving her.

Then came the moment that would be talked about for weeks. The band struck up the jazzy, slinky notes of Santa Baby, and the audience erupted into cheers. The curtains parted to reveal Y/N in a dazzling new outfit: a fitted red velvet bodice trimmed with soft white fur, paired with thigh-high boots and a sparkling Santa hat. She strutted across the stage, microphone in hand, her playful grin promising something extraordinary.

Pedro chuckled as she made eye contact with him, her flirty energy aimed directly his way. He shook his head, already knowing she was about to steal the show.

Her sultry voice filled the air:

Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree, for me…

The crowd swayed along, their energy building with every lyric. Y/N’s performance was captivating, her charm impossible to resist. Pedro’s grin grew wider as she playfully gestured toward him during the bridge:

Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.

The audience roared with laughter and applause at her antics. Pedro, his face beaming with pride, clapped along, his eyes shining with admiration. But then, the atmosphere shifted as she reached the iconic line:

Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing a ring…

Y/N paused dramatically, her voice trailing off as she raised her left hand. The spotlight caught it, making the enormous diamond engagement ring glitter like the North Star. Gasps and cheers erupted from the crowd, and Pedro froze, caught completely off guard. For a moment, he looked stunned, but then his face broke into the most radiant smile, his eyes glassy with emotion.

The cameras panned to him, capturing his reaction as he stood, clapping and laughing, his expression one of pure love and pride. Y/N flashed him a cheeky grin, finishing the line with a twist:

…and I don’t mean on the phone!

The theater exploded with applause. Y/N gave a playful twirl, blowing Pedro a kiss and mouthing, I love you. He returned it with a blown kiss of his own, shaking his head as if to say, You’re unbelievable.

By the time Y/N finished her set, the news had already gone viral. Social media lit up with clips of the performance, fans gushing over her flawless vocals and Pedro’s swooning reaction. Headlines blared:

“Pop Star Y/N Drops Engagement Bombshell During Christmas Special!”

“Pedro Pascal and Y/N Are Officially Engaged And It’s the Holiday Surprise We Didn’t Know We Needed!”

The next morning, Pedro sat on the couch, scrolling through endless memes of his smitten expression. Y/N curled up beside him under a cozy blanket, her engagement ring catching the morning light.

“You really couldn’t wait to tell the world, huh?” he teased, showing her a tweet comparing him to a love-struck Hallmark movie character.

“What can I say?” she replied with a smirk. “I like making a statement.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Good. I want everyone to know I’m the luckiest man alive.”

Her smile softened as she laced her fingers with his. “Merry Christmas, Pedro.”

“Merry Christmas, future Mrs. Pascal.”

That evening, as the snow continued to drift softly outside, they decided to celebrate their engagement with a romantic soak in the outdoor hot tub. The steam swirled into the crisp winter air, and the glow of the nearby fire pit illuminated the space, casting flickering shadows over the snow-covered patio.

Y/N stepped out onto the deck, wrapped in a plush robe, her cheeks rosy from the cold. Pedro was already in the tub, leaning back against the edge with his arms sprawled out, the muscles of his chest glistening from the rising steam. His dark eyes fixed on her with a heat that rivaled the bubbling water.

“Come on in, future Mrs. Pascal,” he teased, his voice low and inviting.

Y/N smirked, dropping the robe to reveal her figure in a deep red bikini that matched the festive mood of the weekend. Pedro’s breath hitched, his gaze dragging over her like she was the only thing in the world.

“You’re staring,” she said playfully as she descended into the water, the warmth enveloping her instantly.

“Can you blame me?” he replied, his voice rough as he pulled her closer the moment she settled in. “Look at you. You’re stunning.”

She slid onto his lap, her legs straddling his waist, and wrapped her arms around his neck. The contrast of the hot water and the cool winter air made her shiver slightly, but Pedro’s hands on her hips quickly warmed her up.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Pascal,” she murmured, trailing her fingers along his jawline.

Pedro chuckled, but it quickly turned into a groan when her lips brushed against his. The kiss started slow, a gentle exploration, but quickly deepened as the tension between them simmered into something hotter than the water surrounding them. His hands roamed her back, sliding lower as he held her firmly against him.

“You know,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with desire, “you completely ruined me last night with that performance.”

“Good,” she whispered, biting her lip as she looked at him. “I wanted to drive you crazy.”

“Mission accomplished,” he said, his grip tightening as he kissed her again, his lips moving down to her neck, trailing over her collarbone.

“Pedro,” she breathed, her voice a mix of a plea and a tease.

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his dark eyes blazing. “Say it again,” he murmured.

“Pedro,” she repeated, her hands framing his face as her lips brushed against his in the faintest of kisses.

“No,” he whispered, his smirk returning as his hands dipped into the water, pulling her closer. “The other thing. The thing I’ve been waiting to hear all day.”

She smiled, her heart thundering in her chest. “I love you, future husband.

Pedro’s laughter rumbled through the air before he captured her lips again, the kiss slow, sensual, and filled with the kind of love that made the world stand still. And as snowflakes melted on their heated skin, they knew this was the start of a holiday season they’d never forget.

[viktheviking1]

Can we take a moment to appreciate sad boi energy?

[softiepedrito]

These looks... *chef's kiss*

[bweeeb]

BREAKFAST

Summary: Pedro wants more from the reader since he knows how horny she was with the Venety Fair post of him.

Warning: Sex, riding, dirty mouth. If you are not comfortable with this, do not read. Bad writing. English is not my first language, be kind. 🙏

requests are open, I write anything!!!

Start 《 》 Shower heree

The morning light filtered through the curtains, golden and soft — the complete opposite of the way Pedro was looking at you.

You’d barely moved, still lying on your stomach, one leg bent lazily at the knee, your ass peeking out from under the hem of one of his t-shirts.

And he was just… watching. One arm under his head, the other lazily stroking down your spine, fingers tracing invisible lines over your skin.

— You slept like a baby — he murmured.You didn’t respond. You were too relaxed, too warm. But your body arched just slightly into his touch.

That was all the encouragement he needed.He leaned in, brushing his lips over the curve of your ass, then lower, letting his fingers slide under the shirt to grip your hip. His voice dropped:

— I can’t stop thinking about you in that chair.You smirked into the pillow.—

— I wasn’t even doing anything.—

— You were dripping all over me. Moaning my name like I was the only thought in your head. —

He moved behind you now, the heat of his body pressing against your thighs.

— That video fucked you up, didn’t it?—

You let out a breath.— You already know it did.—

— I know. — He nipped your thigh. — But I want you to say it again. I want you to tell me exactly what you imagined when you watched it. —

You lifted your head just slightly, looking over your shoulder at him.

— I imagined those fingers pulling my panties to the side. Just like you did. You moved them like that on camera — teasing — but in my head, you were already inside me.—

Pedro’s jaw tensed. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers trailing through your slick heat, already wet again just from the memory.

— You were watching that in this room. Touching yourself?—

You nodded slowly.

— And pretending it was your hand. Pretending you were behind me, whispering exactly what you’re saying now.—

He groaned, low and dark.

— Get on top.—

You didn’t hesitate. You turned, climbing into his lap, straddling his hips — his cock already hard and heavy beneath you. He leaned back against the pillows, watching you with hungry eyes.

— You gonna ride it the way you did in your head?—You reached between your bodies, lining him up, and whispered:

— No, Pedrito. I’m gonna ride it worse.—

And you sank down all at once, making him curse out loud.His hands gripped your hips so tight it bordered on bruising, and you moved — slow, deep, grinding down until your clit rubbed perfectly against his pubic bone.

— Fuck, perra caliente … — he hissed. — Look at you. Look at how filthy you are for me. —

You didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.You rode him like a fantasy. Like the version of yourself from the night before — the one that had been dripping just from the sight of his hands.And he let you take control, until he couldn’t anymore. Until he sat up, wrapped one arm around your back, and fucked up into you, hard and desperate.

— You wanted this, didn’t you? — he growled in your ear. — You wanted to come on my cock the same way you came on my fingers. That’s what you pictured.—

You could barely answer, choking on moans as the pleasure built again — fast, intense, overwhelming.

— Say it — he demanded.— Tell me this cock is better than your imagination.—

— It’s better — you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.— It’s so fucking better, ugh, please—

You came shaking, again, hard, falling forward into his chest as he cursed, grunted, and spilled inside you with one last deep thrust.

Silence. Only heavy breathing. Sweat. Kisses against your neck.

And then his voice, soft and teasing:

— So… still wanna be the big spoon?—

You laughed, breathless, sinking into his chest.

— Not if I get to start the day like that.—

He smirked, tucking you close, possessive even in his exhaustion.

— Good. Because I like waking up with my cock in my little spoon. —

[foxlorests]

𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER SIX: THE BALLAD OF HARRY AND CATHERINE

♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger!Original Female Character

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 9.4k

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, P in V Sex, 2 Rounds, Size kink, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Cum as Lube, Creampie 2x, Doggystyle, Missionary, Fingering, Cunnilingus, Age Difference, Catherine being submissive, Harry losing control, first fight, hospital visit, FLUFF, Slow Burn, Yearning, Mutual Pining, Soulmates, Romcom Vibes, Domestic Harry Castillo, Billionaire Harry, Harry learning how to fall in love the human way, Emotional vulnerability

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Dating life of Harry the billionaire and Catherine the composer.

AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist | Idealists Masterlist

Months passed the way good months sometimes do—quietly, quickly, tucked beneath the folds of routine. Not without its challenges, but gentler, more bearable when the days were stitched with shared meals and familiar faces. Harry worked. Catherine spends her days helping the studio. Sometimes, they occupied different orbits entirely, but they found their way back to each other more often than not. His reason was mostly because she needed to help him eat the groceries she bought before it went bad.

He had started sending for her. Not every day, but enough to call it a pattern. His driver would pull up outside her building like clockwork, and she’d emerge—always with something in hand, a coffee or a tote bag or a violin, talking on the phone, laughing. She never asked for the car, and when he offered to get her her own driver, she declined immediately.

“Mr. Williams is fine,” she had said, slipping into the seat and adjusting her coat. “He’s kind. And besides, he’s saving up for something. He could use the extra hour. I think his wife’s expecting again.”

Harry had blinked. “How do you know that?”

“I ask.”

And she did. She asked people things. How their day was. How they slept. If their mother was still in the hospital. She remembered names and faces and allergies. Mr. Williams—a scary looking man with a small scar on his lips—once told Harry that driving her around was therapeutic. “Talks my ears off,” he’d said fondly. “She reminds me of my youngest niece. One that thinks too hard about the world.”

Harry had laughed at that. “You’ll get a bonus.”

He said he would have done it without the bonus anyway.

It was astonishing, how quickly people opened up if you just knew where to look. Williams needed the extra cash, yes—three kids and another on the way. But more than that, he needed someone like Catherine in the car with him, asking questions that made the day pass easier. Something that Harry knew nothing about.

Catherine had that effect. A kind of soft interference in people’s patterns. She didn’t always mean to fix things, but sometimes she did. Harry saw it on a random Thursday near Times Square, when she stopped walking to listen to a busker with a bent trumpet and a torn glove. Some teenagers were heckling, loud and careless. She gave the musician a fifty and an address—her studio—and told him to come record something, no charge.

“You can’t run a studio giving free services to everyone,” Harry had said later, not unkindly.

“I know,” she said, tying her hair back. “But he’s talented. Think of it as an investment.”

And then he understood. Funny how she could speak his language so easily. She made the world a little more tolerable. For people like him and  Mr. Williams. For Emma, too.

The night Catherine played a private concert for Emma’s anniversary—Harry wasn’t there, but he heard all about it the next day. Emma came into work glowing. She showed him videos, grainy but still lovely, of Catherine in a small personal fancy dining room that they rented, playing an impromptu rendition of a song Emma’s husband used to sing when they were first dating.

“She played it after hearing it once,” Emma had said, eyes a little misty. “And she made us laugh, too. I think she’s magic.”

Harry had nodded slowly, then asked her to send him the pictures—just the ones of Catherine. He said it was for some press kit. It wasn’t.

Catherine still spent nights at his place, though not every night. And most nights ended the same way—him watching her fall asleep mid-sentence, her hair splayed across his pillows, her breath soft and even. She’d kiss him, and they’d kiss some more, and sometimes her hand would slip under his shirt and stay there, and his heart would race, his body would follow. But eventually she’d fall asleep against him, warm and tangled, and he’d lie there, wanting her in ways he didn’t even have words for.

He had taken more cold showers in the last month than he had in the last decade. But he didn’t complain. He wouldn’t have changed it for anything.

Because something in the way she reached for him without thinking, curled toward him in her sleep like he was a constant, made it all worth it. Because this—this was a rhythm he could live with.

And even in his frustrated quiet, he knew what it meant. He was falling in love with her.

Not in the impulsive, blindfolded way of his younger years. Or the way he usually gets attached to someone, with his head and his needs. But slowly. Precisely. Differently than his past experiences when the urgency of getting old got to him. It was a slow process, especially for someone his age, but he didn’t really care. He did it happily. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like there had never been any other outcome.

The first two months were nearly over before either of them noticed. Not because the days went fast, but because they were full. Appointments. Rehearsals. Meetings.

Catherine’s documentary deal was set to begin—her first screen project. She’d turned down films before, but this one felt right. A quiet, poetic piece from the BBC, part of a larger series about the universe. She’d read the project aloud to him once, on the couch, bare-legged and wrapped in his sweater, and he remembered thinking that only she could make gravitational waves sound romantic.

They decided to have a night out before the chaos began. A dinner. A real one.

He took her to Emma’s husband’s restaurant. It was fancier than the usual places he took his girlfriends. There were multiple utensils, arranged according to a specific etiquette that most of his regular girlfriends wouldn’t know, even the upper middle class. It was the kind of fine-dining place that required serious reservations, or at least knowing someone important—which, of course, Harry did. But he hadn’t ever bothered to go before. Not with anyone.

She noticed.

“Why haven’t you been here before?” she asked, between sips of wine. “I know it’s hard to get a table, but a couple weeks' wait isn't the end of the world. You could’ve asked Emma ages ago, or one of your colleagues. I’m sure you have business with important people.”

He folded his napkin with unnecessary care. “I guess I just didn’t like the hassle of putting my name on waiting lists.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t like romantic dinners?”

“I do, but not the hard ones.” He paused. “Not ones that required waiting.”

Her eyebrow rose. “What about your previous girlfriend?”

He took a sip of water before answering. A beat too slow. That slippery territory again. Still embarrassing.

“I guess I haven’t really bothered before,” he said finally. Or wanted to, he thought. “A multi-course meal isn’t just for anyone.”

He didn’t tell her that he used to take women to the same three places on rotation—quiet but forgettable to him. He liked women who thought a couple hundred was expensive. It made him feel like he exceeded expectations by just avoiding food truck meals. Conversations kept surface-level. Nothing that stuck. Nothing that lingered. He wanted the romance just enough to get by, to make them stay. He’d take them to a somewhat fancy place and they’re already looking at him like he’s amazing, like part of his charm is his money. He didn’t mind. Love had felt like something abstract and theatrical then. 

“Besides,” he added, “this is to make up for our first date.”

Catherine smiled. “I love that burrito truck. It’s seen me at my worst.”

He chuckled.

Back at the penthouse, it was late but neither of them were tired. They talked for a while—feet on the coffee table, glasses still half-full—until the conversation drifted to early years. He told her about the time he’d somehow earned a B in high school art by charming his way through a final presentation. Claimed his poorly drawn still life was a commentary on irony in postmodernism. The teacher had blinked at him, probably too tired to argue.

“I had no idea what I was talking about,” he said. “Still don’t.”

She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine. He liked making her laugh. Probably more than he should.

And then, maybe out of some buried insecurity, he asked if she would get bored of him. If it was strange to date someone who couldn’t tell a C major from a D minor. Someone who, despite his power and polish, couldn’t really understand what it meant to be moved by your own creation.

“You think I pick people based on whether they can do art?” she asked, grinning, her voice soft in the quiet.

He didn’t answer. Not directly.

The pageant conversation happened by accident. A thread pulled too lightly, and suddenly it unraveled. One moment they were teasing each other over bad yearbook photos, and the next they were watching old videos of Catherine—aged somewhere between seven and ten—answering questions on a televised stage, her voice small but oddly composed. A pink sash, a tiara, a winning smile that looked practiced.

Harry hadn’t expected to find it so endearing. The clip was buried deep online, grainy and compressed, dug up through some obscure archive website with buffering issues. Catherine was red-faced the entire time, fingers clutching the edge of the couch cushion as if it might help her disappear. She kept insisting it was awful. She claimed her voice was too squeaky, her dress ridiculous, her walk stiff. But what Harry saw was a child who already knew how to charm a room. Articulate, even then. Witty in a way that didn’t feel coached.

“You won,” he said, softly. “Don’t know why you have to be so embarrassed.”

She rolled her eyes and reached forward to close the tab before the video could finish. He didn’t fight her on it—but he bookmarked the link. He’d watch the rest later, when she wasn’t looking.

Later that night, they were brushing their teeth together when her sister called, a picture of a woman who looked a little bit like Catherine but with darker hair glowed on the screen. Jane. The name flashed on the screen just as Catherine was finishing rinsing. She answered it without hesitation, putting it on speaker like Harry was already in the fold—just another pair of ears in the room, welcome to whatever family mess came through the line.

Jane’s voice was sharp, slightly amused. “Heard you accepted a movie deal.”

“It’s a documentary,” Catherine said, mid-spit.

“Same thing.”

“It’s not a movie,” she corrected. “It’s for the BBC. They’re interviewing Ashoke Sen.”

A pause. Then a scoff. “Like I know who that is.”

Harry tried not to laugh.

“I’m with Harry,” Catherine said, grabbing a towel to dry her face. “Say hello, Harry.”

“Hello.”

“The boyfriend, huh?” Jane said, too smoothly. “Heard a lot about you, Harry.”

They talked about some other stuff too, mostly about family. Harry trailed to his bedroom, half listening.

“Anyways, Jane, It’s late here and I’m having a sore throat. Plus tomorrow is my first day doing the soundtrack, so this is my last chance to get a really good rest.”

When she closed the phone, Harry already went rifling through his medicine cabinet, returned with a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“For your throat,” he said simply, holding it out to her like it was nothing. “You have to drink it again tomorrow. Next time you feel sick, even just a little, you tell someone. Alright?”

She paused. Looked at him for a beat longer than expected.

Then nodded, quiet, and took the pill. He watched her slowly, making sure she really did drink it. He then took the glass and went out again to refill it, to put it on her bedside table— at least the one he assigned to her.

She stood in the bathroom doorway, sleeves of her shirt rolled up to her elbows. Her hair was half-damp, soft at the ends. She looked at him the way she always did—like she was trying to memorize him.

Harry waited, silent, the way he often did with her. Some words had to arrive on their own.

“I like you, Harry,” she said.

He smiled, slow. “Well, I should hope so.”

But something lingered behind her voice. A shadow of guilt, maybe, or melancholy. She’d said earlier how emotional she was about tomorrow—how work would consume her, how her schedule would change. That she hated missing things. Her friends, her studio. Him. There was something about knowing what was coming that made her softer tonight. Like she needed to hold onto something.

She stepped toward him and kissed him. Lightly, at first. A cautious hello, a silent sorry. Then she kissed him again. Deeper. Longer. The kind of kiss that said she’d been thinking about this all day. Her mouth tasted like peppermint. Her hands touched his jaw, the side of his neck, slow and certain.

He kissed her back and found her pulse with his mouth, just under her ear. She inhaled, shallow.

“Thank you for being so patient with me,” she whispered.

He laughed under his breath. “Hasn’t been easy.”

Her laugh pressed against his skin. Then she kissed him again, slower this time. Hungrier. Her hands curled into the back of his neck, her breath a pattern he already recognized. Familiar and new. He groaned before he could stop himself.

“You’re trying to torture me,” he murmured.

She smiled, full and amused. Jumped a little into his arms, light as she always felt in moments like this. He caught her easily, carried her a few steps toward the bed. Their routine.

He laid her down to his bed. 

“I want you, Harry,” she said.

His heartbeat stopped. He stared for a moment, eyes refused to blink, dark with desire, looking down at her on the bed. His frame caged her in.

“I want you—”

“Don’t say that,” he told her quietly. “Not unless you really mean it.”

She looked at him. No blink. No hesitation.

“But I do,” she said. “I think about you all the time. I’m going to miss having you around.”

“You're not going anywhere,” said Harry, giving her cheeks kisses. “I’m going to visit your studio everyday. Check if you’re still alive or not.”

“Everyday? That’s an awful lot of time, isn’t it? You’re not busy?”

“Everyday.”

He kissed her again—soft, and long, and grateful. She was starting to kiss desperately, clinging to him harder than she had ever done before.

“Please, Harry,” said Catherine, her eyes dark with lust.

He looked the same way, but he’d argued his feelings were more intense. It was long bottled up and stored away, waiting for her to start the fire. “You don’t need to beg, sweetheart. My beautiful Catherine.”

His hands trailed her body, braver than he ever was before. He touched breasts, slowly at first, then rougher when she approved with her moans.

“I wanted you so much. Would’ve waited a lifetime,” he said. He took his shirt off slowly, then hers. She was eager, raising her arms then wrapping it around him again.

“I’m sorry it took so long. I wanted you too,” she said, bringing him for a kiss again.

He groaned. “Don’t say sorry.”

She moaned, and the sound woke something so guttural inside him that he stopped.

She kissed him still, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m going too fast,” he said, his breathing heavy, inhaling more of her smell that somehow travelled down to his crotch, making his length hard, wanting to be inside her.

He was desperate. Oh so desperate. How long had he wanted this? So long, so long he wanted to touch her, to be inside her. To hear her moan as she writhed under him. The thought was too strong, traveling through his body like electricity.  

“I’m not a virgin, Harry,” she whispered.

“It's not that,” he said hurriedly.

“I’m on the pill. Just started last—”

He groaned, stopping her words. 

“No, it's just… I don’t think I can hold back, sweetheart.” He winced at the surge of feeling. How pathetic he sounded.

“You don't have to.”

It took a few seconds for the words to settle. Then Harry took off the rest of their clothes, and his hand moved rougher, faster. Took off her bra in a hurry, her panties with the same urgency. He touched her there, felt the wetness and groaned again.

“So wet, Catherine,” he said, his voice unfamiliar. Lower.

He touched her clit, his fingers moving in slow circles.

Harry loved touching her, making her sigh. It made him look at her in a different light, like she was older than she is. And when he touched her, he felt intoxicated. His fingers caressed her velvety insides, hot and wet. She was, simply, the most beautiful woman in the world. He’s not exaggerating. Her curves, entirely woman. Soft, lovely.

His lips trailed down her collarbone, then lower to her breasts. He took one nipple in his mouth, sucking gently before biting down softly. She gasped quietly as he moved lower still, kissing her stomach and hips before settling between her thighs.

Harry buried his face between her legs, his tongue licking up her slit before finding her clit. He sucked hard, making her arch off the bed. He was hungry for her taste and sounds. Her moans always urged him on. His tongue worked her with skilled precision, each lick and suck more intense than the last. His hands gripped her thighs firmly, keeping her pinned down as he ravaged her.

“Fuck, Catherine”, he muttered against her. “Tastes so good.”

She moaned, a low sound that made him harder, had him searching for more friction. He groaned against her clit, the sound vibrating through her sensitive flesh. He knew he was pushing the limits of his own control, but he couldn't stop. He needed more of her sounds. More of her taste. His mind repeating the name Catherine like a prayer.

He slid two fingers inside her, curling them upwards to hit that spot deep inside.

Catherine let out a sound. The sound of her nearly screaming his name, but somehow lost in thought, like she felt too much pleasure she forgot. It nearly made him lose it. His fingers went faster, and faster.

He growled low in his throat. A sound of pure primal need.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered against her thighs as he moved back up her body quickly. “You’re killing me, Catherine.”

His cock pressed against her entrance.

“I want you too,” he said, desperately. “So much.”

Without waiting another second, for fear of his growing insanity, he pressed the head of his cock against her soaked entrance and pushed inward. Harry's mind went blank, his pulse inconsistent. It was, simply, the tightest, warmest cunt he ever felt. It made him forget all the others. He was sure nothing came close. He wondered how he went so long without it.

He took his time, savoring the feel of her tight heat enveloping him inch by tortuous inch. Once he was fully sheathed, he paused, his breath coming hard and fast against her neck.

Then in an effort to not pounce her immediately, he bit her neck, sucking, making a mark. He couldn’t even focus on her breath, didn’t even notice when her hands trailed around his back, urging him to move. He stayed there for a minute, holding himself back despite her moans. He couldn’t be too rough, even if he wanted to. Maybe someday, when they were both desperate for each other. But not now when he was sure his needs excelled hers. When it nearly clouded his control.

Harry began to move, his hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm that made her back arch off the bed.

He filled her up slowly, inch by inch, watching as she took him perfectly. He was overwhelmed by how good it felt. How tight, how it squeezed his cock almost painfully. It was a hard fit, but it didn’t matter. He liked the feeling. Revelled in it. It was hot, wet, and perfect. Frankly, he wanted to stay buried in her forever.

She was caressing him, as if urging him to go on. Her soft hands went from his shoulders to his arms.

“Fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart,” he finally said.

With a sound of pure desire, he began to move gradually faster. His hips slammed into her with brutal force, each thrust designed to take her to the edge and beyond. He fucked her harder, his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her vision blur.

She begged, repeating the word “please” but never got to the end of the sentence. There was something about her voice, the way she said it that made Harry hungrier. She was so polite, so soft in her request. And although he told her not to beg, he loved it. Loved the way she said his name like a prayer, as if her desire is close to anything he ever felt for her.

His thrusts became punishing, almost violent. He watched as her breasts bounced with each snap of his hips.

He knew he wasn’t being gentle anymore. He couldn’t. His body took control, claiming her hard and deep like he always wanted to.

Her moans filled the room, pushing him further.

His large hands found her breasts, squeezed it roughly, thumbs rubbing her hard nipples. He leaned down to capture a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as he continued hammering into her. His balls slapped against her ass with each thrust. He was grasping the last bit of control he had left, fucking her like a wild animal.

He switched between her breasts, lavishing them with equal attention. His teeth grazed against one sensitive nipple, making her gasp.

“Such beautiful breasts, sweetheart,” he growled, pinching one nipple between his fingers while he continued to suck the other. His hips still hammering.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. I can’t control myself, I’m sorry.” He went back to her mouth, kissing her again.

Her erotic face looked up at him, her brows furrowed, her voice softer, “It’s fine. I want you to.”

Those words were his undoing. He groaned so hard, his deep voice finally out from its restraints. Somehow, he thrusts faster. If his bed wasn’t expensive, it would’ve made a sound, would’ve moved with them and banged the walls. Internally, he cursed himself for not being able to stay quiet, focus on her body. Catherine, though, seemed to enjoy it. She didn’t mind that he went harder. Even better, she moaned right into his ears. The sound became louder when he groaned too. It was like a song, harmonizing, except it was erotic, filled with need.

His balls tightened, warning of his impending release. He squeezed her breasts roughly, sucked on her neck, marking her with hickeys.

Harry's body was a landscape of hard, coiled muscle beneath her trembling fingers. He could feel her hands. She mapped every ridge and valley, committing it to memory. He did the same, more out of need than to urge her. He explored the soft, yielding expanse of her skin. His hands roamed, possessive and hungry, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He cupped her breasts again, thumbing her nipples into aching peaks, before trailing lower, over the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.

"Fuck, Catherine," he groaned, his voice rough with desire, "You're exquisite. Every inch of you." He settled between her thighs, his hard length pressing against her slick folds, making her gasp. "I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you. Needed you."

She moaned louder.

"You feel incredible," he murmured, nipping at her earlobe and making her shudder. "Like you were made for me. Made to take my cock so perfectly." He began to move again, his thrusts deep and powerful.

Catherine’s fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails leaving red crescents in his skin. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him to go deeper. Harry obliged, pounding into her with a fervor that stole her breath. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin and their mingled moans and cries of pleasure.

Harry felt her tightening around him, her inner muscles clenching, as if close. He redoubled his efforts, determined to bring her to the peak, to hear her scream his name in ecstasy. He was close, so fucking close, and he could tell she was too. He reached between her legs, finding her clit again and rubbing it furiously as he pounded harder and harder.

“Come on my cock, sweetheart. Milk me dry. Squeeze me, just like that,” he said, urging her on.

Catherine let out a sharp cry as she came undone, her body shaking beneath his as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. His name came out in a desperate moan as he felt her pussy clench around his cock. 

That squeeze of her release did something to him. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he found his own release. He let out a loud roar, his hot cum shooting into her pussy. He kept coming. His balls were emptying completely inside her.

Harry collapsed on top of her, still buried deep inside. His heavy breathing filled the room as he tried to catch his breath. His softening cock remained inside her, still leaking cum. God, he felt like he was a few decades younger.

“You did so well. Such a good girl,” he whispered against her neck.

“I could still feel you,” she whispered. “Your cum is so warm.”

He felt her warm breath on his neck and her squirming body against him. His soft cock twitches inside her, still sensitive. He presses a kiss to her neck, then her lips, swallowing her heavy breaths. He remained buried inside her, not ready to pull out just yet.

After some time, Catherine squirmed some more.

A deep groan escaped his throat as his cock started to harden again inside her, slowly. Some of his spent leaked from her, making a sound that sounded too erotic. He tried to tune it out, think of anything but how it good it felt to be inside her.

“Stop, Catherine,” he whispered against her lips, but his hips moved involuntarily, thrusting slowly this time. “You’re making me hard again,” his hand gripped her hips, trying to somehow stop it. Not because he didn’t want to, but because she needed the rest.

He looked at where they were joined. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the slight amount of blood on her thighs.

“Fuck, you’re bleeding,” he said apologetically. “You're sure you're not a virgin?”

Catherine, still finding it hard to speak, whispered, “I’m sure.”

He hissed, looking down at the mess they made. His thick length was almost fully inside her. He withdrew slightly, watching his shaft coated with her juices and a little blood. He was supposed to pull all the way out, but instead he pushed in slowly again. It was arousing, watching her pussy clung to him. He watched as some of his cum from a few minutes ago went down to his balls. The sensation made him want to thrust again.

She was so tight. Tighter than any woman he had ever been with.

“I want you again,” he said and winced as he tried his best to halt any motion.

She moaned, her eyes half-lidded. He couldn’t tell if she was tired or if she wanted more too. Then she squirmed again, and that did it for him. 

"Fuck, Catherine," he growled softly, "you're so goddamn tight." He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside her and making her gasp. "It's like you were made for me, molded to take my cock, aren’t you sweetheart? To take every fucking inch of me. You can take me, can’t you? You’ll stretch just for me, hm?"

“Yes,” she said, breathlessly. “I can take you, Harry. I’ll be good.”

“Good girl,” he said. “So eager to please.”

Harry leaned down and sealed her lips with his in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth to tangle with hers. He devoured her moans and whimpers, swallowing them greedily as he began to move faster, his hips snapping against hers with increasing urgency. The wet, obscene sounds of their coupling filled the room again, spurring him on as he lost himself in the exquisite feel of Catherine's body beneath him.

"That's it, baby," he panted harshly against her ear, "Come for me. Squeeze my fucking cock with your perfect little cunt. I want to feel you come undone again. It feels good, doesn’t it?"

“It does,” she said hurriedly, nodding. “You’re so big. I’ll stretch for you. It hurts so good, it feels so good. I want you deeper. Please, Harry.”

Harry agreed but too busy with ecstasy to say so, almost laughing with relief when she said it.

He flipped Catherine onto her hands and knees, his large hands gripping her hips tightly as he positioned himself behind her. She felt the head of his cock pressing insistently against her dripping entrance, ready to plunge back inside her welcoming heat. With a swift, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside her, making her cry out in a mix of pleasure and slight pain.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, pausing to let her adjust to the depth and girth of him stretching her open. "You're so tight like this. I can feel every inch of your little pussy clenching around me. You like it hard, sweetheart?"

“Yes, please, Harry.”

He began to move, his hips rolling in a deep, sensual rhythm as he held her hips steady. The new angle allowed him to reach even deeper inside her, stroking that special spot that made her knees shake. His balls slapped against her clit with each thrust, the lewd sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the room yet again.

One hand reached up to tangle in her hair, gripping it lightly as he pulled her back against his chest. She was smaller than him, yet still fit perfectly. His other hand slid around to her front, finding her swollen clit and rubbing it in tight, quick circles. Harry could feel her getting closer to the edge, her pussy fluttering and clenching around his pistoning cock.

"That's it, my good girl," he growled in her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine, "Come on my cock. Milk me, sweetheart. Good girl. So wet. Soak me. Tighten, just like that. Yes, just like that."

His words were filthy, dirty, and oh so effective. They pushed Catherine over the precipice, her body convulsing and shaking as a massive orgasm ripped through her for the second time that night. She screamed his name, a guttural, primal sound of pure ecstasy as her pussy clenched down on him like a vice. The sensation was too much for Harry, and with a roar, he slammed into her one last time before exploding, his hot seed spurting deep inside her spasming channel.

They collapsed together onto the bed, Harry's weight pressing Catherine into the mattress as they both struggled to catch their breath. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as the aftershocks of their intense coupling subsided. Harry pressed a tender kiss to her shoulder, letting her finally rest.

⊹

Harry had never known anyone to disappear quite so completely into their work. Not the way Catherine did. She didn’t just work at the studio—she lived there. Morning coffee gave way to late-night tea, which bled into caffeine-fueled dawns. She existed on crackers and adrenaline. When her hand began to tremble, she brushed it off—this happens when I forget to eat, she’d said with a smile. He didn’t find it amusing.

So he made a point by bringing her food. Had asked for her manager’s number to keep track of her when she’s not answering.

A bag dropped off at odd hours. A thermos. A warm pastry in the morning. A full dinner in a box, even if it was eaten cold. Sometimes he sent Emma, always with the excuse that he was running late, but never because he forgot. It became a habit. A quiet rhythm. Nourishing her had become the most important part of his day.

Her replies slowed. A text here, a missed call there. Sometimes silence altogether. He could’ve taken it personally, but he didn’t. He knew the pattern. She usually doesn’t answer when she’s with the whole orchestra. When she’s too preoccupied with other people. He knew how she worked, now that he knew her. 

So he came to her everyday. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Even if it was just for a few minutes. Even if he stood at the edge of the room while she adjusted microphones or ran through a melody again and again until the sound was right. He always made time, because there was always time, if you looked for it. Although, that hadn’t been the case before her.

During spring, when she was supposed to be done, the word done lost its meaning. The BBC sent back notes—two tracks needed to be redone at some parts— higher or lower or more mellow in the parts they needed it to be. At first, she handled it. Smiled. Shrugged. The usual. But then she stopped sleeping properly. Stopped leaving the studio at all. The notes had burrowed in. Perfection became an obsession. He watched her slow down between takes, sometimes staring at the same page for twenty minutes, searching for something only she could hear.

She didn’t complain, but he saw the shift— in the way she tucked her knees into the studio chair, in the clutter around her, in the quiet frustration that lived in her shoulders. She was usually very neat.

Their first fight came during that period of time. Partially, it came from sleep deprivation and cheap takeout. From too many nights curled up on the studio couch, too many cold coffees reheated twice. It also came from a bump on her wrist that had been growing for a few days, under the skin like a second bone trying to form.

Harry walked in just as Talia, her manager, raised the book.

He didn’t register it at first—just the sound of voices, laughter maybe, and then that strange, high-pitched urgency he recognized as Catherine’s voice. He moved fast. His hand caught Talia’s wrist mid-air. The book stopped inches above Catherine’s arm.

She looked up at him, annoyed. “Stop, Harry. I need it to get fixed fast.”

He didn’t answer her right away. Just looked at the bump. It’s not red, it just looked like her joint got bigger in size. Though he noticed how she winced when she moved it. That was enough proof that she was in pain.

“That’s enough, Catherine,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

“But I have to finish this song. And it’s hurting. I can’t concentrate—”

“You’ll finish it later.”

“No,” she snapped. “I’m so close. Just one more day. You don’t know how hard it is to get it right. I can’t get the harp to sound like it should—”

“Let’s go.”

“No.”

They ended up at the hospital anyway.

It was a quiet ride. She didn’t say a word. Just sat with her wrist in her lap, like a child sent to the nurse’s office. Her shoulders curled inward. He kept glancing at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

At the hospital, the verdict was clinical: a ganglion cyst. Harmless, mostly. Common in musicians. Sometimes painful, yes—but not dangerous. The doctor explained the options with the kind of voice that didn’t leave much room for comfort. They could drain it, but it might return. They could operate, but that meant downtime—weeks, maybe. A brace would relieve the pressure, but she wouldn’t be able to play. And then there were medications. Slower, but manageable.

She listened to each option like she wasn’t really there. She chose whatever got her back to the studio fastest without any more pain, which was draining it.

It wasn’t a hard procedure. The needle wasn’t even big, and she didn’t look like she was scared of it. But when it came time for it to be drained, she asked Harry to hold her and he could feel her other hand tightening on his shirt. It must’ve hurt.

When she finally laid back on the hospital bed, exhaustion took her almost instantly. She didn’t argue anymore. She just closed her eyes and folded into sleep like it had been waiting for her all week.

Harry stayed by her side, asking the doctor quiet questions in the hallway about recovery time and some other stuff they should know.

“She’s pushing herself too hard,” the doctor said. “That is a symptom from working her wrist too hard. What she needs is proper rest. If she keeps this up, she’s going to get sick with other symptoms worse than just a ganglion. She could get really sick.”

Like he didn’t already know that. Like he wasn’t already worrying everyday. He wanted to tell the doctor that he knew but the girl is too stubborn and stupidly drowning in her work. Instead, Harry just nodded. Noted it all. Took the pamphlets. When he came back into the room, she was still out cold.

They let her sleep until the nurse finished checking her vitals. The doctor woke her gently. She blinked up at Harry, a little disoriented. He didn’t say a word, just took her coat and helped her get up.

The ride back to his apartment was silent. Catherine had crossed her arms like a teenager, staring out the window with tight lips and a jaw that had locked into place twenty minutes ago. He didn’t speak. He knew her enough now to know it wouldn’t help. Not yet.

When the driver pulled up to the penthouse, she didn’t wait for the door to be opened. She was out of the car before him, stomping ahead like she meant to put distance between them. Her shoes echoed in the marble hallway. By the time he caught up, she’d already dropped her coat on the arm of the couch and was sitting with her legs curled up, arms crossed again, sulking with intent.

He closed the door behind them quietly.

“I can’t believe you didn’t take me back to the studio,” she said, not looking at him. Her voice clipped and fast. “I told you I could finish it in one day. Maybe even tonight.”

He didn’t respond immediately. She wasn’t really asking him. She just needed to release the tension building in her bones.

“The deadline’s a week away,” he said finally. “You have time.”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “I want them to be impressed. I want them to hear it and think—wow, she did it fast and she did it well. I was so close, Harry. You have no idea. I just needed the harp to fall right and I would’ve been done.”

She rubbed her wrist without thinking. The soft bandage made it look more fragile than it probably was. He couldn’t look at it too long.

“I should’ve just hit it with a book,” she mumbled.

That annoyed him. He stopped in front of her. Took a breath.

“That’s irresponsible,” he said firmly. Harder than he ever spoke to her before. “You hear me, Catherine? You don’t do that again. Never— Never do that again.”

She rolled her eyes. “I did it once before.”

“And you’re lucky I wasn’t there,” he said, still pressing, still loud. “Because I would’ve dragged you to the hospital that time too.”

She sighed, deep and dismissive. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No,” he said, walking past her to the kitchen, already reaching for water, maybe something to put in front of her. “I’m being a responsible adult.”

She didn’t argue after that. Just sat there, silent again, sinking slowly into the realization that her body—like time, like deadlines—was something she couldn’t control completely. And Harry, in his stubborn, quiet way, wasn’t angry. He was worried. That was worse somehow.

He walked to the kitchen and reheated the food he’d picked up earlier that afternoon, still in its paper bag from the studio run—untouched, because the hospital detour had gotten in the way. The microwave hummed quietly as he leaned against the counter, watching the numbers count down like they meant something.

He’d probably been too sharp with her. Too forceful. But at least she was here now. Safe, if grumpy. And if she hated him for it—fine. She could hate him while getting one full night of rest. That was the bargain he was willing to take.

Then she was there, padding into the kitchen like someone coming down from a fever. Her posture softer, head low. Like she was ready to surrender but didn’t want to say it out loud.

“I’m so tired,” she murmured.

“I know.”

He stepped in first. Arms around her before she could collapse into herself. He didn’t realize until then how much she needed that hug—how much she had been holding in with caffeine and sheer willpower.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re not being dramatic,” she said into his chest. Her voice cracked just enough to make his throat tighten. “And I missed you. Missed my friends. I’m never taking a screen deal again.”

He smiled, his chin above her head, resting against her hair. “You might change your mind later. You liked the first half, didn’t you? Before the notes came in. You just overthink the rest. That’s what happens when you care too much. It’s harder when you’re making things for other people.”

She nodded against him.

“It’s not like an album,” he went on, quietly. “When the only person you need to impress is yourself. They’ll have notes. Opinions. And you’ll listen, because that’s who you are. You care. That’s not a bad thing.”

There was a pause, and then he said: “Should’ve done an indie film first. They’d be so grateful you could send them an out-of-tune violin and they’d say it’s ‘experimental.’”

She laughed. Her body shook against his. When he looked down, her eyes were wet.

“You just have to learn to balance your life,” he murmured.

“I should,” she whispered. “I get lost in it sometimes. In wanting to do good.”

“I know you do.”

“I was working hard to make it perfect, but the urgency in which I did it, it’s because I didn’t want to miss out. I tried to make friends with orchestra people, but they’d rather see me as a composer than a friend. I sensed it. And my friends, well they’re artists in their own time, with their own schedules, with time to date and party. I’ve spent so many years missing out. Missing everything, getting left out. I’d be the one asking what the joke was, and they’d say, ‘You had to be there.’ And I wasn’t. I was practicing.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t want to miss out. On them, on you. But I keep needing to disappear to make great music. So I try to finish as quickly as possible, no matter how messy it gets, how unhealthy it is. As long as it means there’s no more inside jokes I couldn’t get, or a memory I missed.”

“We’ll make our own inside jokes,” he said. “Besides, nothing’s happening to me. Ever. And if something were to happen, you’d be the first person I’d tell.”

She looked up, smiling faintly through the mess of emotion. “I just want it done quickly so I can go home and not miss out on anything ever again.”

“I want you home too,” he said. “With proper rest. But you have time. What’s one more day?”

And that was that.

She fell asleep early that evening, he changed her into her pajamas while she was barely conscious. She collapsed into bed and slept like she hadn’t in weeks—deep and dreamless. When morning came, she didn’t stir even when he moved around the apartment. He let her be.

He left a note by her nightstand before work, told her to eat something and that he will be checking. That she could ask Mr Williams to take her back to the studio when she’s ready.

And then he was gone, leaving the door softly shut behind him. The penthouse felt warmer with her there, even in sleep. Even in silence.

⊹

True to her words, Catherine finished the piece the day she said she would. The BBC accepted her revised renditions almost immediately, sending a short note of approval that made her breath hitch and shoulders finally relax. She was proud. That much was obvious. And Harry could tell, because she showed up at his office door with wine and flushed cheeks— unannounced, of course.

He didn’t know she was coming. He should’ve. Emma had been acting strange for the past hour, typing with too much energy and dodging questions with suspicious precision. When he pressed, she deflected with unusual efficiency. Only later did he realize Catherine had called to ask for the address, and Emma—predictably loyal—had played accomplice.

“I come bearing gifts!” Catherine announced, pushing open the glass door to his office, her grin already brighter than the last few weeks. “Well, you’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you? If this were my office, I’d work every day.”

He laughed, unable to stop smiling. Still in disbelief that she was actually there, like a bolt of light into a room that didn’t know it was dim. “No you wouldn’t.”

She leaned over and kissed him like she’d always belonged in his life.

“I was going to pick you up,” he said.

“I know. I wanted to see you earlier. See where you actually spend your time.” She spun slowly in the middle of the room, eyeing the bookshelves, the windows, the skyline behind them.

“That’s nice,” he said, his eyes trailing her movement. “You want to go out?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I want to treat you to something.”

Of course she did. He knew he wouldn’t let her, but he let her think she might. That was enough.

“They gave me a bonus,” she added like a secret, and her joy was so unfiltered it made him warm in a way expensive scotch never could. “So tell me, what’s your favorite food? Anything. Your pick.”

He blinked. A strange question. An ordinary one. And yet, no one had asked him that before. Not any of his previous girlfriends. Not anyone. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

“I don’t think I have one.”

“Sure you do.”

He thought. “Bagel?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll get you one tomorrow. But right now we’re celebrating. And you can’t possibly expect me to toast with carbs and cream cheese.”

He laughed, grabbing his coat, reaching for his wallet and phone in one movement. She was already halfway to the door, talking about possible options. He didn’t care where they went. It was the sound of her voice he was listening to.

Downstairs, as they exited the elevator, the doorman— more doorboy by the looks of it— smiled at Catherine with surprising familiarity. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Ainsworth.”

Harry squinted. “How’d you already know the doorman?”

“My heels fell off my feet when I was running in, and he helped me.”

“And you introduced yourself?”

“He asked who I was here for. I told him I was visiting my very important boyfriend.”

He looked at her. She was completely serious.

They settled on steak. Something grounding and simple, because Harry just wanted her to eat something filling and proper. The wine was good, the conversation better. She told him about the BBC meeting, how she finally felt a strange type of peace. Then, in between bites of potato gratin, she mentioned wanting to throw a small gathering. A celebration, with her friends, maybe some musicians. She said she’d need his help setting it up.

Harry mentioned he had a gala to attend tomorrow, some industry networking thing. She should come with him, he said. She’d be happy to, she said.

By the time the check came, Harry had already slipped his card to the waiter. She made a fuss about it for exactly ten seconds before yawning mid-protest. They were barely in the car when her head fell against his shoulder and stayed there.

By the time they arrived at the penthouse, she was fully asleep.

He didn’t wake her. Just carried her upstairs. Still in disbelief, still grateful. The wine, untouched in its bag, sat quietly beside her coat.

He placed it on the table and turned off the lights. And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t thinking about harps or deadlines.

Just sleep.

And maybe—if he was lucky—him.

⊹

His work gala came a day before her celebration party. 

Catherine was the first girlfriend he actually invited in a while. His exes rarely came, and if they did, they never bothered to pay attention to the conversations. After noticing that they might like to stay home, he stopped inviting them. They wouldn't be interested, he knew. He had never minded if his girlfriends were uninterested in his life, he’s convinced few actually did. He had seen relationships differently back then. But now he had the need to show his life to Catherine. And more, he wanted Catherine to go. So he asked her.

Catherine had been excited to go, more than he expected. Maybe it was because he told her that most of his friends were in the industry—men with cufflinks and practiced grins who only saw each other during events like this. 

The afternoon of, a few hours before they had to leave, he stepped out of the shower with a towel around his waist and steam still clinging to his skin. There it was, laid out across the bed like a gift—an unfamiliar suit. Sharp lines. Seamless work. Stitching so fine it was invisible. It was expensive. Probably more expensive than the ones he already owned, and those were nothing to scoff at.

He didn’t ask. He just stood there for a moment, towel dripping, a little stunned. Then smiled.

She must’ve taken one of his suits when he wasn’t paying attention, had copied the custom sizing and improved. She knew his measurements better than he did. He felt it in his gut again—that fluttery, maddening thing she kept making him feel. The one that settled somewhere behind his ribs and just… lingered.

He put the suit on. Of course it fits perfectly. Of course it did.

He found her in the walk-in closet, standing in front of the mirror in the middle of getting dressed. Her reflection caught him and she smiled, real and soft. Then she turned around, not fully zipped up.

“You look so handsome. I must say, I’m pretty darn good at this gift giving thing, huh? Turn around,” she said, biting back a grin, eyes flicking over the suit.

He laughed. It should’ve been the other way around, really. But he did as told, like a good man. Then after a second, he stepped closer and told her to turn instead. She obeyed.

His fingers zipped her up in silence, steady, deliberate. She smelled like flowers and that expensive hair oil she refused to admit was expensive. She hummed under her breath. He wondered, in the space between their bodies, how this became their life. How something this delicate could feel so certain.

The gala was held in a hotel ballroom dressed up to look like something finer. Marble floors, gold trim on the ceiling. A sweeping chandelier that no one really looked up at. It was for something or other—an annual event to recognize client milestones and corporate achievements, mostly a chance for industry types to see who was still around. There was always one or two names missing from the list. The gala was, if anything, a gentle reminder that the game never stopped.

This year felt different. He felt it before they even entered. Before they gave their names at the door and got a nod of recognition, before they were handed drinks. The room looked at him longer. Or maybe, most likely, they were looking at her.

Catherine wore a dark navy gown with a clean neckline and a fabric that glinted when she moved. Nothing loud. Just elegant. A single curl behind her ear. A slight flush on her cheeks—not nerves, just her usual color. She held his arm the way she always did, casual, natural. As if they’d been walking into rooms like this together forever.

The first twenty minutes passed in a blur of names and champagne. Harry shook hands while Catherine smiled and remembered every name. She charmed the bartender within minutes, said something complimentary about the way the napkins were folded. She complimented the color of a passing woman’s shoes. She leaned down to speak to a server holding a tray of miniature pastries and asked about some type of pastry he never bothered to know the name of.

Harry watched from a few feet away, sipping his drink. She made people feel like people. He was used to faces glossing over after the second glass, names forgotten, wives clinging to arms like accessories.

“Who’s this young lady?” one of his colleagues asked.

“Catherine, nice to meet you,” she said, offering her hand.

“Nice to meet you too, Catherine. I’m glad Harry finally found a girl who looks happy to be here.”

“I’m happy to come,” she said with a small laugh. “The chouquettes were so good I asked for the recipe.”

“My wife would love you. She runs a bakery.”

“Really? Is she here?”

“Somewhere. I’ll introduce you.”

And he did. Catherine was whisked away to meet her, and Harry let her go without protest. She was like that. A tide. Moving from one person to the next, leaving everyone warmer than before.

He found her again ten minutes later, deep in conversation with his friend’s wife about sustainable packaging in pastry boxes. And although Harry was huddled with his friends— or colleagues— his eyes trailed to her.

One of his single colleagues, predictably, was two glasses of whiskey in and smirking. He talked to Catherine only briefly a few moments ago, yet she managed to make an impression on him.

“Where’d you find her?” he asked, leaning in.

“Cold Spring,” Harry said.

“Does she have a friend?” Another one of his colleagues asked. One that already has a partner.

“You’re not gonna have luck with that, she befriended the whole of New York already. She already introduced herself to the caterers. Give her a few more hours and she’d memorized all the names in this room.”

They laughed. Someone refilled their drinks. Somewhere between the toasts and the polite speeches, Catherine returned to his side and whispered something about how good the wine was and how she loved that the pianist played actual classical pieces instead of mainstream songs with repetitive melodies. She clinked glasses with someone’s wife, told someone else they had a nice laugh which made them turn scarlet and laugh harder than anyone was supposed to on these occasions, and remembered the name of a woman Harry hadn’t seen in ten years.

He hadn’t thought about it before, but it struck him then— how perfectly she fit with his crowd even with her unusual approach. Not like someone pretending. Just like someone who didn’t need the world to change for her. She shaped herself around it and still managed to remain exactly who she was, and somehow, she belonged. He didn’t know how she did that. But he knew this: they’d remember her long after the next course. Long after the speeches. And if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. He would.

[yesjazzywazzylove-blog]

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[be-loved-moon]

[javierpenaismyhusband]

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