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𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER TWO: THE REPRISE

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

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 6.7k

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: Age Difference, Slow Burn, Yearning, Fluff, Smut (in later chapters), Soulmates, romcom vibes, billionaire harry, harry learning how to fall in love the human way, nervous harry castillo, pining, emotional vulnerability and all that sweet shi

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Five years after they met, Harry attended her concert.

Ao3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist | Poster/Masterlist

Harry Castillo was still not married.

He wasn’t against the idea, not exactly. But he wasn’t in a rush either, and that had been fine for a long time. He liked things that made sense. He liked return on investment. He liked decisions that came after long walks and longer silences. For most of his adult life, marriage had sounded like a kind of liability. Or at best, a negotiation. His mother, of course, saw it the same way. A transaction. She didn’t push—she was too elegant for that—but she was always saying things like, “Don’t wait so long you forget what it’s for.” Sometimes she would ask, “So?” and he’d be expected to say progress. Or, “No one wants to be alone when they’re sick.” As if the whole point of love was to secure a caretaker for your worst-case scenarios.

He could pay someone for that. Probably.

At first, he didn’t take her seriously. He thought he had time. And more than that, he thought he had options. He was successful, composed, a man who knew how to move through a room without stumbling. He dated, casually and then not-so-casually, and when things ended, he never wondered why for very long.

But it started to get to him. The way his brother looked at his now wife. The way the world suddenly had traditions you had to keep up with—holiday dinners, christenings, photos with matching sweaters. He started to wonder if maybe he had missed something. If maybe his mother was right in that subtle, unnerving way she always was.

As a businessman, the answer was simple: pick women who appreciate financial stability. Someone who will be impressed with a couple hundred bucks worth of dinner every night.

So when Lucy came into his life, he thought, this is it. He didn’t fall in love. But he did feel a kind of clarity. She ticked all his boxes, the same way he ticked all of hers. Smart. Grounded. Attractive in the way that ages well. She was pragmatic, emotionally efficient, and rarely sentimental—just like him. She didn’t ask questions she didn’t want honest answers to. She respected boundaries. She’s also easily impressed, which made it easier for Harry. They worked in the same world, spoke the same language: meetings, margins, expansion, sustainability. The relationship felt like a merger with excellent terms. It wasn’t thrilling, but it was reasonable. And he liked reasonable. A reasonable investment is always better than a thrilling one.

They didn’t talk about love often. He assumed that was the point. This wasn’t about drama or passion or whatever ruined people tried to salvage from their twenties. This was about building something stable. Something good. At least that’s what he told himself. Until, of course, it ended. Until the thing that made the most sense became the thing that unraveled. Harry Castillo thought Lucy might be the final, grown-up answer to the question his mother never stopped asking: “Who will take care of you?”

Truthfully, he just liked what she represented. An answer to the question. A working formula. A beautiful, rational equation with clean lines and no jagged edges. They went to dinners. They work well. She looked good on his arm and didn’t get nervous in front of his friends. They could sit in silence without discomfort. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

He remembered telling her once, not long before the end: “You’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.” And he meant it. But what he’d been looking for at the time wasn’t true, gutting love. It wasn’t fire or ache or anything close to wonder. It was something that worked. A system that ran without friction. A calm, competent life partner. It wasn’t “I love you.” It was something like “You’ll do.”

He was sad when they broke up, of course. But he didn’t fall apart. He didn’t get drunk and call her at 2 a.m. He didn’t beg on his knees or lose sleep or spiral. He just went back to work. Took the trip they were supposed to take together alone. Upgraded his sheets. Changed nothing else.

It didn’t even change his routine. Didn’t make his work life harder. He just… continued to live. Because even then, deep down, he’d known he could live without her. And that was the difference.

He tried her matchmaking company after they broke up. He was set up with Gemma. A nice woman in her thirties. She’s an art dealer. He went into the date the same way he went on a date with Lucy: with business in mind. His criteria: someone who he could trust (because isn’t that how you do business? With someone you could trust?) and someone he could respect. Gemma was someone he could respect. Gemma could do business like Lucy, but unfortunately, like Lucy, she also wanted love. He didn’t call after the first date. Didn’t even pick up the phone from the matchmaker.

He didn’t know if he’s capable of love. Not yet, at least. And certainly not with Gemma. Gemma was supposed to be a perfect investment. And you don’t have to be in love with something to invest in it. You just need to know it works.

So after Gemma, he lied to his matchmaker that he found someone else. Organically. Rose, his matchmaker, was upset but she said it made sense. People like him weren’t gonna be in the market for very long. He laughed like it was true. They were nice enough to give him a 80% refund. It didn’t matter, really.

Eventually, he gave up on the idea of marriage. Peter, his brother, had the family name sorted—happy wife, golden retriever, maybe even babies soon. That was enough legacy for the Castillos. Harry told himself he’d be the cool uncle. The one who sent expensive Christmas gifts and taught the kids poker too early.

He could live with that.

Harry had always preferred structure—clear lines, calm offices, espresso over cappuccino, silence over chatter. And when the chaos of life inevitably found its way in—whether in the form of a failed relationship or an overly ambitious intern—he had learned to manage it with professionalism, coolness, and if that didn’t work, expensive liquor.

Emma came in during one of those transitions. He had needed a new assistant, and she had been available. She was in her early thirties. Maybe thirty-three? Had left her dream of becoming an artist to help her husband support her family. He remembered her saying something vague during the interview—fine arts? Theatre? Maybe music theory? He hadn’t listened that closely, to be honest. It hadn’t seemed important. The job wasn’t creative, after all. It was scheduling, logistics, emails, making sure the water bottles were always stacked in the little fridge under his desk.

But Emma did it well. Unobtrusively, efficiently. And, yes, she was the sort of secretary who remembered things like what kind of bagel he preferred after a heavy night out. Everything bagel, warm, no cream cheese on Mondays and Tuesdays. She had shown up one morning, already in office attire—black dress, far from what artsy people look like.

She held out the bagel without comment, then opened his calendar and said, “We need to move the two o’clock. You’ll want a nap before the calls.”

He had blinked at her, still hungover, and realized she’d become indispensable.

He paid her well. He didn’t think about her much beyond that. She was a good assistant. She didn’t make his life messier. She didn’t ask questions when he was late, or when he looked like he hadn’t slept in three days. She knew how to read a room, how to bring him coffee when he was fuming but didn’t want to say so.

On slower days—days like this—he moved through his space like a man wandering the remains of an empire. Half-shaved, robe still hanging loosely, coffee cooling on the desk. Emma was already there, seated at her desk just beyond the open glass divider, typing away, her own mug beside her and classical music playing quietly from her laptop.

It wasn’t unusual. Sometimes she puts on jazz. Sometimes piano. He didn’t mind. It filled the air gently. It softened the sharpness of the city skyline beyond the windows. And then—

He paused. Mid-step, mid-thought, the motion caught in his throat.

She was watching something. A video. And on the screen, there she was.

The cello, the way she moved with it like it was another limb. That impossible grace, unrepeatable in anyone else he’d ever met. And that face—green eyes, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips, dimples barely there. Freckles on her neck. Honey blonde hair, pulled back now, neater than he remembered, but unmistakable.

His throat tightened.

Emma hadn’t noticed him. She was lost in whatever it was. He stepped closer, quietly, without even meaning to. Just one word rose in him, like breath held for too long finally escaping.

“Catherine.”

Emma looked at him, brow lifted in genuine curiosity.

“You know classical music?”

“No.” Harry barely glanced at her before his eyes flicked back to the screen. “I know her.”

“You do? People who aren’t into classical music wouldn’t know about composers.”

“She’s a composer? I thought she was a cellist.”

Emma smiled faintly, as if charmed by how clueless he sounded.

“She plays sometimes, but she was always a composer,” said Emma.

He didn’t respond right away. He was listening. Listening the way he had that night in the cabin—when the music hummed under his skin and dared him to remember it. Now, years later, it was back in his chest like a pulled thread. One sound and the whole memory unraveled.

“Catherine Ainsworth,” he murmured, reading the video title aloud.

“She’s one of the youngest composers ever commissioned by the Royal Philharmonic,” Emma said, sliding back in her chair, watching him. “At 25, she had a piece debuted at the Barbican, and another in Vienna. Her music’s this weird thing—elegant, unpretentious. Sort of haunting, sort of joyful.”

Harry smiled quietly at that.

"I’m surprised you know her, really. She composed mostly love songs, not for everyone. Certainly not something I imagine you listening to. It’s always sweet and never too complicated, like she’s not trying to impress anybody with her skills. Where did you hear of her?" Emma asked.

“I didn’t.” He shook his head, still lost in thought. “I met her.”

Emma’s head tilted. “Oh. You know know her.”

The room went soft for a moment. There was a long pause—his pause, really. He leaned on the edge of her desk, looking at nothing.

“We met. About five years ago,” he said finally, his voice low. “She was very young.”

“She’s still young. Twenty-seven,” Emma said, her voice mild.

“Yeah.” He nodded, eyes still fixed somewhere far beyond the window. “That’s young.”

“She’s going to come back to New York in December. A concert. You wanna go see her?”

“I don’t know,” he said quickly—too quickly.

Then, without giving her a chance to prod further, he turned the conversation elsewhere. A safe detour into something about schedules or deadlines or the mess with the Anderson account.

Emma didn’t push. She rarely did. That was something he appreciated about her. She knew how to clock a boundary without making a show of it.

But the thought lingered.

Even when he made calls or sat through meetings with people who talked too long and said too little, Catherine’s name threaded through his mind like a whisper. Not loud, not insistent. Just there.

It came to him in odd flashes—the way her fingers had moved on the cello strings, the way her coat had smelled faintly of cedar and something floral, the way the storm softened when she’d spoken.You’ll need a coat. The memory played like a looped symphony movement, quiet in the background, but impossible to ignore.

And that was new, because Harry rarely lets anything disrupt his routine.

He tried not to let it show. Not in the emails he dictated, or the investor pitch he reviewed. Not even when he watched Emma walk out with her coat, humming something vaguely classical under her breath.

But distraction had a way of making a home. It seeped into the quiet moments. When the office emptied, and the city buzzed below. When he poured himself a drink he didn’t finish. When he stood by the window with nothing in his hands, nothing to do, and everything waiting.

He pushed it down. Like he always did. Folded the thought neatly, tucked it beneath work and habit and his carefully measured life. That was what he had built in the years since forever—a life that made sense on paper. Balanced, professional, manageable. No edges. No typhoons. Until the very end, at least.

He told himself he didn’t want it, not anymore. The whirlwind, the ache, the unpredictability of falling in love. Love—God. Even the word sounded like a marketing scheme these days.

But he wasn’t proud of that version of himself. He was older now. Wiser. Tired.

And maybe a little lonelier than he cared to admit.

It was one morning in December when he saw it. He looked at the screen, a red circle on his calendar. Underneath it, in a font he definitely did not use: 7 PM, Carnegie Hall.

He frowned. “What’s this?”

Emma, sitting on the edge of his office couch, froze like she’d been caught stealing. Then she exhaled. “Oh.” A pause. “I bought you a ticket. For Catherine Ainsworth.”

He stared at her. No words. Just stillness.

She shifted uncomfortably but kept her chin up. “You have to go. It’s my money.”

“I’ll pay you back,” said Harry quickly.

“Go. Consider it a Christmas gift from my husband and I.”

He couldn’t say anything to that. Not without unraveling something. Because Emma didn’t know the weight of that name in his chest. She didn’t know the smell of cedar and drizzle or the way her voice could quiet a room like snowfall. But still—she had known enough, probably from his reactions. Enough to draw the circle. To say go.

And the reason he did not want to go was because of the feeling in the pit of his stomach, something like anticipation. It felt familiar. Like hope.

The days leading up to the concert passed in a strange kind of haze. New York in December was both beautiful and brutal—icy wind on your face one second, holiday lights the next. Fifth Avenue glimmered like a snow globe, and every sidewalk corner had someone selling roasted chestnuts or playing saxophone under twinkling strings of fairy lights. It was a romantic city if you had someone’s hand to hold. He didn’t.

But he didn’t feel alone either. Not in the obvious way.

He thought about canceling the day before. Told himself he had a meeting, that he couldn’t sit through two hours of music without unraveling. But he didn’t cancel.

Instead, he let the day arrive.

He let himself walk into it slowly, like stepping into cold water.

Emma picked a great suit for the evening.She had thought of everything—down to the cufflinks he’d forgotten he owned. She laid it all out on his office couch that morning, like a quiet but firm declaration: You’re going.

He hadn’t said thank you, not out loud. He just looked at her, nodded once, and said, “Remind me what time it starts.”

“I know you know, Harry. You’re not going to be late,” she replied, not looking up from her computer. “I already scheduled the car. It’s in your calendar.”

The car ride was quiet. Just the city humming past. His mind raced, slowed, raced again. He didn’t know why he suddenly told the driver to pull over near a florist on 57th.

He stood outside the small, warmly lit shop for a few seconds, hands deep in his coat pockets, before walking in and asking for a bouquet. “Something simple,” he said.

The florist gave him a look that said every man says that, and put together white ranunculus, some pale eucalyptus, and a few soft roses—not red, not pink, but a washed-out cream, like candlelight.

He didn’t know why he bought it.

He didn’t know if Catherine would want flowers.

He didn’t know if she’d forgotten him entirely—or worse, remembered him only faintly, like a passing storm she once sat through and never thought of again. She might have a man. A husband. A life. She might look at him and smile politely, say thank you, take the flowers and never think of it again.

But he bought them anyway.

He told himself he’d just say hello. Just a word after the concert, in that strange backstage hum of applause and exhaustion. Hand her the flowers, thank her for the music, maybe say I saw you in a storm once, and you’ve never really left my mind, though he probably wouldn’t say it out loud. He’d give her the bouquet, smile, and walk away.

And that would be that.

He’d go back to his life. The office. The schedules. The version of himself he’d been trying so hard to maintain.

He went inside Carnegie Hall as if in a haze. Sat down, as if drunk, not knowing where to look. His back was rigid. He looked around the room and saw how it was mostly couples, enjoying a romantic night out. He smiled at that.

The lights dimmed slowly, like the hush that fell over New York on snow-heavy nights. The crowd at Carnegie Hall settled into silence.

Then she stepped out.

Catherine Ainsworth.

It had been years, and yet Harry recognized her instantly. She had changed, yes. There was a quiet grace to her now, a self-assuredness in the way she walked toward the cello, cradling it like a part of her body. Her once wild, wet hair was swept up neatly, revealing the softness of her face, the light freckles that still danced faintly on her neck. The girl who had offered him a coat was now a woman who commanded an entire room with a glance and a breath. Still green-eyed. Still real. But older. Better.

The small smile on her lips hadn’t changed either. That half-smile, the one that never stretched too far, but tugged at something deep inside him. He remembered it. It was the smile she wore the night she bought soup with a song.

And then she played.

The first piece was a solo—a quiet, yearning composition that began with a single note held long enough to stretch across the years. Harry felt it in his chest. No grandeur. No showing off. Just beauty, unveiled gently and without ego. Effortless. Alive.

He hadn’t known he could still feel things like that. It came uninvited, the smile—slow and real—tugging at his mouth before he realized it. God, it had been a long time.

And he understood, finally, what Emma meant when she called her music romantic.

He watched her fingers dance over the strings—those same dainty fingers he remembered from a memory blurred by storm and scotch.

Harry, who knew music like most people knew algebra—just enough to pass by—was completely disarmed. He didn’t need to understand it. He felt it.

The concert unfolded in movements. After the solo, the orchestra filed in. Catherine returned later—not to perform, but to conduct. She stood at the front like she belonged there, eyes focused, hands lifting, guiding a dozen musicians like it was second nature.

The audience watched with a silence that buzzed. And Harry—he didn’t watch like an audience member. He watched like a man who had just remembered how to live.

She conducted one more piece. Then came another solo—a piano this time. She played with her eyes half closed, and it felt like the sound was pouring from her very lungs.

Harry didn’t blink.

He sat there in the dark, flowers beside him, and let the music do what it had always promised to do: make everything else fall away.

And for just a while, it did.

It started soft—quiet strings, then piano. And there, tucked into the melody like a memory, was a sound that reminded him of home. Not literal bells, but close enough. That kind of jingle they use in old movies—the kind you hear when someone falls in love on a snowy street. It made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t ready for.

He looked down at the program again. Love, in December.

It wasn’t a flashy piece. None of hers were, really. The entire concert had been like that—emotional, but never begging for it. Beautiful, but never loud about being beautiful. She didn’t show off. She didn’t need to. She just played, and that was enough.

People were crying. He caught a few wiping their faces. He watched Catherine through the curtain of applause and could tell she’d been crying too—just a little. But she smiled through it, bowed low. Everyone stood up and gave her a round of applause.

When the light came on, the crowd slowly stood.

He stood too, eventually. Walked out with the rest. But when they veered toward the exit, he didn’t.

He followed the hallway signs to the backstage area.

Of course there was security. A guy at the corridor—stocky, name tag said Hubert—held up a hand to stop him.Harry expected that. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out the slick business card. Not the casual one, the serious one, the fancy one. Harry Castillo. He introduced himself with his business voice too, and said something about some opportunities for some of the musicians. Hubert squinted at the name, clearly didn’t recognize it, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Harry said it like it should be recognized. Like it belonged in the room. And he had a lot of practice with that. The security guy hesitated a second, then stepped aside with a short nod.

He walked past without a word.

He passed a few dressing rooms—most with names taped to the doors, some cracked open to reveal assistants and musicians gathering coats or finishing bottles of water. Some cheering. Laughter.

And then—at the end—her name. Catherine Ainsworth. Typed neatly, taped to a white door.

He stared at it for a beat.

His palms felt hot.

He raised his hand. Knocked once, firm but quiet.

Inside, movement. A pause. Then her voice. Familiar, unmistakable.

“Coming.”

And there he stood. Suit pressed, bouquet in hand, heart stupidly loud in his chest.

She opened the door, and green eyes fell into his.

Her cheeks were still flushed from the stage, a touch of powder barely hiding it. Her hair was up now, pinned and loose in places, elegant without trying. She still had her performance dress on— black silk dress, modest, but it did something with the way she moved. Or maybe it was just her. Grown. Poised. Lovely.

“Harry?”

He smiled. “Hello, Catherine.”

“Oh gosh. How long has it been? I didn’t know you were coming. Please—come in! I’m so sorry it’s messy, I didn’t expect—why didn’t you contact me first? I would’ve gotten you a better seat, somewhere I could see your face and guess what you think.”

She stepped back to let him in. He took a breath and followed, the bouquet light in his hand, but suddenly feeling foolish.

The room was cozy—soft lighting, clothes and makeup scattered in corners, a chair with a coat slung over it, another bouquet sitting forgotten on the counter. There was a faint scent of perfume and roses, warmed by stage sweat and hairspray. Her cello case was still open.

He sat on the edge of the couch while she fussed with tidying, though it didn’t do much. He didn’t mind.

“I almost didn’t come,” he said. “But I’m glad I did. You were… incredible.”

She looked over her shoulder with a quick smile. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

“No, really. It was beautiful. When you played— it felt like something cracked open in me.”

Catherine blinked, then looked down and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You always knew how to say things like that. Like a line from a book.”

He gave a soft laugh.

There was a pause. The kind that wasn’t awkward.

“You never called me,” Harry said, quieter this time. “Or left a message.”

Catherine looked at him, then leaned against the vanity, arms folded.

“Oh, funny story about that. I fell into a puddle. And the card was too wet and it ripped. You should really invest in some high-end business cards. You know, the ones made of metal.”

“Really?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Yeah.” She grinned.

“That’s the best you came up with?”

She laughed. “It’s true! It was a big puddle too. I sprained my ankle and everything.”

“Ah, shit. Sorry.” He leaned forward a little. “Should’ve taken you back. Given you a ride.”

“No, no. It was fine. Managed to get a ride.” She shrugged, then smiled gently. “I still had a fun day, despite it all. The soup, Jim, you, the people I met… it more than made up for it.”

There was a stillness after that. Not tense. Just charged.

Harry’s fingers tapped against his knee. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this relaxed and alert at the same time. Maybe years ago, back home, when he still thought he had a future doing things that mattered. Now it was mostly boardrooms. Deadlines. Deals. People speaking at him, him barely listening.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, straightening up, “you wanna go for a burrito?”

He blinked. “What?”

“There’s a truck I like. Not far. But it’ll be gone in thirty minutes, so we have to hurry. Come with me.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, sure. We’re old friends, aren’t we?” She stood up.

He tilted his head. “I wouldn’t say we’re friends. Still strangers, really.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” she said as she grabbed her coat. “I remember everyone who’s made an impression on me.”

“And I did?” he asked, following her to the door. He noticed the other bouquets still sitting untouched on the counter. Only his was in her hands.

She shooed him out with a grin. “’Course you did. Hold on—” she handed him her scarf, like he was already someone she knows well. She bent, locking the door and Harry couldn’t help but admire her form, for just a moment. “I told you, didn’t I? I’ve always had a soft spot for old men in the rain. Like they’re in a French movie.”

He smirked. “Yeah. I forgot you said that.”

That was a lie. He remembered. Word for word. He thought it was funny because he didn’t look French at all.

They left through the back hallway, her coat slung casually over one arm, the flowers still in his hand.

“Tell everyone I’m going out for dinner,” Catherine called to someone down the hallway.

“Aw, you got a date already, Catie?” the man shouted back.

“Sure do! I’ll see you all at midnight—Jen’s place, yeah? We’re still on.”

There was laughter from down the corridor, and someone called after her—teasing, familiar.

He didn’t plan on asking. He really hadn’t. But the words edged out anyway, like steam from a cracked pipe. “So… it’s a date?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you want it to be.”

“Sure. It’s a date. But we’re going somewhere after.”

“Only if you drop me off at my friend’s place by midnight.”

“Done.”

It should’ve felt strange—rushed, unexpected, unprofessional, even—but it didn’t. It felt like something that had already begun years ago, paused somewhere between wet clothes and a café table, and picked up again the way only real things could. Without fuss. Without ceremony.

They didn’t talk much on the walk. There wasn’t a need. She led, he followed. He noticed how she kept her hands tucked inside her sleeves, her shoulders relaxed despite the weather.

He didn’t know what scared him more: how easy it was, or how deeply it settled into him. That feeling. That quiet, breathless, inevitable sense that this—whatever this was—wasn’t a spark. It was something else. A match already struck, a flame he’d walked away from once and was now standing in front of again.

He’d dated, of course. Dated well. Dated enough. There had been pretty ones, brilliant ones, ones who challenged him, soothed him, made him laugh. But even at their best, it had always been a climb. Work. Polished versions of himself turning over carefully rehearsed lines. But Catherine—God. Catherine had never asked for any version of him. Even worse, he didn’t have the need to put on a version of himself.

And he remembered—how comfortable it had been the first time. That rain-soaked day. How much of him had stayed with her, tucked away in whatever memory she carried. How she remembered the soup, and Jim, and his card—ruined by a puddle, apparently. A story so absurdly hers, he almost laughed when she told it.

He glanced at her now, walking a few paces ahead.

They ate outside. Not at a table, not at a restaurant—just the side of a food truck wrapped in yellow lights, on a quiet street where the steam from open grates rose like lazy ghosts. She had ordered two burritos, extra hot sauce, and passed him one without asking what he wanted. He took it anyway. It was good. Greasy, hot, and falling apart in the right places.

They stood side by side on the curb like they had done this a thousand times, like they’d done this in another life, another city, another version of themselves. She talked while chewing.

“I always wondered what happened to you,” he said, as they leaned against the side of the truck, warm foil burritos in hand.

“Well I told you what would happen to me.”

“Your studio?”

“Yeah. I have a studio. It’s underground. You wouldn’t know if you weren’t in the arts.”

“Ah, exclusive club?” he asked, biting into the burrito. “How’d you get the money?”

“I have my ways.”

He believed her. Not because it made sense, but because of how she said it—like the details didn’t matter as long as the music still got made. And maybe they didn’t.

She didn’t stop talking when they got into his car. She didn’t even stop to think about how Harry had a driver ready a few feet away, almost like he was trailing them since they left the concert hall. He smiled at how easy it was. Answered all her questions about his life like they were old friends instead of two people who met only hours in total.

The driver took them somewhere not too far—somewhere fancy he liked to go—for just a drink.

He hadn’t expected to like the night this much. He hadn’t expected to feel younger, or older, or anything at all. But he did.

She told him she’d order a Shirley Temple, but when the waiter came, she asked for coffee instead. She said it was because she had to stay awake for the party tonight. He could tell she was tired, though.

He asked, gently, “You sure you want to go? You can rest. I’m sure your colleague would understand.”

“My friends, you mean. I’m sure they will, but I have a big ‘Fear of Missing Out’ disease. You wouldn’t get it. You probably want to miss out.”

He laughed at that, because she was right. It was funny how she knew him. After living the life he had (and a long one at that), parties became boring, friends became few, and the older you get the less you want to waste your time spending it with random people. Somehow, he thought, it wouldn’t be the same for her.

He canceled her coffee when she wasn’t looking and ordered her the Shirley Temple anyway. She sipped it with that little smirk of someone who knew exactly what happened, yet happily drank anyway.

She tapped her foot beneath the table like music was playing somewhere only she could hear.

He didn’t say much for a while. He just watched. And felt. And tried not to let the warmth of the moment scare him the way good things sometimes do.

She had never felt fragile to him—never delicate or breakable. But she did feel real now in a way he hadn’t been ready for before. Real, and within reach. And that was what terrified him. Not the night, or the feeling. But how easy it was to want it again.

It was still only 10:30 when they left and the fancy drink place was long behind them. They ended up back in his car with popcorn in their laps, the kind sold in plastic tubs from a vendor outside a movie theatre. Something childish about it made her laugh. That had been his favorite part of the night so far.

They didn’t need a plan. The city hummed around them, but for once, he didn’t feel like they were in it. It felt like they were just… here. Two people sitting side by side, like they’d done it every Thursday for years.

The conversation drifted.

She asked how long he’d been in private equity now, if he still flew to Zurich every January, if his friend had finally retired like he’d once promised. He said over a decade, yes, and no. He said he focused on acquisitions mostly—real estate, hospitality, infrastructure—though he didn’t touch the spreadsheets anymore. Just the closings. Just the capital.

She asked if he liked it. Just that.

Not "how’s work." Not "how’s business." But do you like it?

He’d been asked that before, of course. At dinners, in passing. But it was always rhetorical. No one ever really wanted an answer. Catherine, though—she just waited. Like he had all the time in the world to figure it out.

So he told her. That he didn’t hate it. That he was good at it. That it paid well. That it was easier than what his brother did, and harder than what people thought. That he was good at it and that’s what matters. He also told her how it distracted him from his boring life. How he liked the stability, and somehow it made him feel in control.

She nodded through all of it. Not like she understood, exactly. But like she thought it made sense that he felt that way. And for some reason, that was enough.

She had already given the driver an address—her friend’s place, he assumed. Some apartment where the music people gathered like moths to the last lamplight of the night. But the car didn’t move.

Somewhere along the way the conversation had started to quiet. A long pause here. A soft sigh there. And somewhere between the story about her audition in Berlin and the one about the pianist who once fainted on stage, she stopped responding.

He turned, and found her asleep. Just like that.

Head tipped against his shoulder, her face relaxed in a way it hadn’t been all night. Hair slipping slightly from its clip. Her breathing even.

Harry didn’t move. Not right away. He just stared ahead, the lights of the city blinking through the glass like distant stars, and let the silence stretch.

It wasn’t that she’d fallen asleep—that part was almost funny. But that he’d talked her there. That she felt safe enough to let her guard down.

When they pulled up in front of her friend's building, just a minute or two before midnight, Harry didn’t have the heart to wake her.

He tried, halfheartedly. Nudged her shoulder, murmured her name. But she barely stirred—only shifted deeper into sleep, like her body had made the decision for her. She’d stayed up for everything else, carried the whole night on sheer momentum, and now it had run out.

So he let her rest. Gently slid his shoulder out from under her head, left her curled up in the corner of the backseat, jacket draped over her legs. For once, the city outside the car didn’t feel hostile. The streetlamp made everything look a little softer. Her building stood tall but not unkind.

He got out and looked around, unsure at first what to do. Then, like fate was a little too on-the-nose tonight, a man walked past with a guitar case strapped to his back. Early thirties maybe, thin, a little dazed-looking—like someone who’d just played a show or left one. Harry asked if he knew the musicians he’s looking for, the apartment number, said he was trying to find a friend’s place.

The guy didn’t even blink.

“Yeah, everyone’s upstairs. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Harry followed him in but stopped at the entrance to the stairwell. Another man, still in a suit, exactly like the concert outfit the orchestra wore a few hours ago, greeted him.

“She’s asleep in the car,” he said, quietly. “I don’t think I can wake her up. It looked like she needed rest.”

The guy nodded, unfazed. “Ah. No worries. She is safe, though, yeah?”

“Safe.” Harry handed over a card—his actual one, with his personal number. “Here. Just in case.”

The man squinted at the card, nodded again. “Cool. Mr… Castillo.”

“Oh, and uh—if you could not mention too much how fun it was tonight,” Harry added, hesitating. “She said she had a big, uh—”

“FOMO?” the guy offered.

Harry blinked. “Sorry?”

“Fear of missing out?”

“Yeah. That.”

The man chuckled. “All right. So you do know her.”

“I do.”

“Okay then. Take care, Mr. Castillo.”

Harry said goodbye, offered one last thank you, and stepped back out into the night.

The car was still idling quietly under the streetlight, warm and sealed away from the hum of the city. Catherine hadn’t moved. She was still curled up in the backseat, one hand tucked under her cheek, lips slightly parted, breathing deep and slow.

He opened the door gently and slid inside beside her, careful not to disturb the quiet. He settled her head on his lap, trying his best to make her comfortable. The driver gave him a look in the rearview mirror—something between curiosity and amusement—but said nothing. Harry thanked him, and made a mental note to ask Emma to give him a raise.

There was something sacred about that moment. Maybe because no one else was watching. Maybe because it didn’t feel like something he’d earned. Her hair spilled across his legs like ink, and her breath was warm against his thigh. He kept a hand hovering near her face, just in case she stirred. She didn’t. Somewhere along the way, his hand patted her hair.

The last time he brought a woman back to his apartment, it was only for sex. And it had been… vastly different. Intentional, sexual, carefully orchestrated. He’d made sure the lights were dimmed just right, that there was a drink ready, that jazz was playing faintly in the background. There had been laughter and flirtation, the smooth exchange of practiced lines and mutual expectations. But this—this was not that. This was Catherine.

When the driver pulled into his building, Harry didn’t think too hard. He didn’t want to. He just slipped one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lifted.

He carried her inside—not like a friend doing someone a favor, but more like a partner would. Not in the public way, the performance of it. But in a quiet way. Arms around her back and legs, careful not to jostle her. Not a single word said. He kicked the door closed behind him with his heel and moved straight to his bedroom. There wasn’t even a flicker of hesitation.

She weighed less than he expected.

He laid her down, eased her onto the bed like she was something fragile. Removed her shoes, then tucked the blanket over her legs. She shifted again, brow twitching at the change in environment, but never opened her eyes.

Harry stayed there for a long time after. Kneeling beside the bed, just watching her. As if she might disappear if he looked away. As if none of this was real, and she might flicker out like the ghost of some half-forgotten evening. He didn’t touch her. Just watched. Only for a moment.

He got up, pulled off his tie and jacket, and went to sleep on the couch. He didn’t bother with a blanket, but he slept better than he had in months.

A/N: Let me know what you think! Will be updated every week, but might upload twice a week if I feel like it/confident enough to do it.

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foxlorests · 10 days ago

Text

𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER ONE: PRELUDE, IN THE RAIN

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

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 4k

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: Age Difference, Slow Burn, Yearning, Fluff, Smut (in later chapters), Soulmates, romcom propaganda

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Before the mess of Lucy, before the heartbreak and the embarrassment, Harry met a young cellist on the outskirts of Cold Spring, New York.

Ao3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist | Poster/Masterlist

The story starts before the storm. The storm of Lucy and John and Harry, and all the messy things in between. Funny enough, another kind of storm, a literal storm, was brewing outside the gala.

Harry was unaware of it.

He didn’t pay attention to the weather. He rarely did. Weather was for people who planned picnics or took walks without purpose. Weather was for people with time. With softness. With someone waiting for them at home to say, “You’ll need a coat.” Harry didn’t have that. He had a driver who knew his calendar, made by a private assistant who knew his whole being better than he did, and a closet of coats that still somehow made him feel cold.

But tonight, for some reason he couldn’t name, he left the gala on foot.

It was stupid, maybe. The car had been idling by the curb. The doorman had opened the door like muscle memory. But Harry kept walking. Past the pillars, down the steps, away from the light and chatter and clink of glasses. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked as if he had somewhere to be. He didn’t.

Maybe the reason for poor judgement was the wine. He felt drunk, which made him lonelier, which could be cured by walking. Or at least, that’s what the article he read this morning said to him. The New York Times had a way of convincing him he needs more out of life. Maybe he should consider that matchmaker nonsense too. His brother certainly did.

By the time he reached the end of the block, it started raining.

Not politely. Not a drizzle. The kind of rain that meant it. So hard it pricked his skin. The kind that soaked you fast, punished your shoulders, ran into your eyes, asked if you still wanted to be here. He kept walking.

It was almost laughable—him, in a suit worth more than some people’s rent, wandering the city like he’d lost something. Maybe he had. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, his life had become one long executive summary. PowerPoints. Projections. Value. Worth. He liked it, but he needed more in his life. Such is the way of a rich person. They always want more.

It was after a minute of walking that he regretted his decision. It was very cold, and he hated wet clothes.

He stopped under a dim streetlamp, pulling his collar up, trying to keep the worst of it off his neck. His mind spun with things he’d rather not think about—board meetings, fractured deals, the ache of feeling empty despite everything.

Then, out of nowhere, she ran past him—a flash of movement against the gray wash of rain. Her coat flared behind her, damp hair plastered to her face, and strapped across her back was a cello case, seeming impossibly delicate for this storm.

She didn’t hesitate. No words, no pause. Just a quick glance, sharp and bright, before she reached for his wrist and tugged.

He barely had time to blink before she was pulling him forward—splashing through puddles, weaving through empty sidewalks. His suit soaked through, his expensive shoes squelching, but he followed without question. There was something in the way she moved, urgent but light, like she belonged to the rain, not the other way around.

They ran until the city noise faded behind them and they slipped into the shadow of a weathered bookstore, its awning stretched wide like an old friend offering refuge.

They stood side by side, catching their breath in the sudden stillness. Thunder rolled distantly, rain pounding the streets beyond their shelter.

She turned to him then, and for the first time, her eyes met his fully—unflinching, alive.

Her lashes held tiny droplets. Her smile was soft.

“Expensive things shouldn’t be wet,” she said quietly. “Like this.” She reached back to the cello case, fingers tracing the leather strap. “Or your suit.”

He laughed, surprised by the sound—short and dry but real. She watched him, clearly pleased by the reaction.

“You looked like you were having a moment out there,” she said, voice calm but curious. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

He shook his head, still smiling a little. “You interrupted it anyway.”

“True,” she said, completely unbothered. “But now you’re marginally less soaked. You’re welcome.”

He glanced down at himself, dark fabric clinging to him like second skin. “Did you really drag me in here just because of the suit?”

“Partially.”

“It’s already ruined.”

“I figured. But I thought I’d spare it the final blow. There’s something tragic about wet suits.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Tragic?”

She nodded, peeling damp curls off her cheek. “Custom tailored suits aren’t supposed to be caught in storms. Like cellos. Or tailored men.”

He huffed out a small laugh. “Right.”

“Plus,” she added, with a shrug, “I have a soft spot for sad-looking old men standing in the rain like they’re in a French film.”

He looked at her, then out the window, where the storm still blurred the city in streaks of silver. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

A beat passed.

“We’re the same, you know,” she said, voice softer now. “Alone in the rain. It's a bit pathetic, really.”

“Depressing’s generous,” Harry said, leaning back. “I’m more of a walking tax bracket.”

That made her laugh. “Let me guess. Finance?”

“Private equity,” he admitted, bracing for the usual judgment.

But she just nodded like it confirmed something. “Nice.”

He smiled—just slightly.

“You from New York City, kid?” Harry asked, glancing between them. “I just figured since you have the cello. Artists don’t really thrive here, not like the city anyway—”

“Yeah, I’m from the city. Well, I moved there a while ago, at least,” Catherine said. “Just past Morningside Park.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded. He hesitated, then added, “Tribeca.”

Catherine raised an eyebrow, a teasing grin playing at her mouth. “That fits you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“So,” she asked, folding her arms loosely, “you live there with your family?”

“Uh, no. Never married. No kids.” He said it all dryly, like a checklist he was tired of hearing about himself.

She didn’t respond with pity or interest. Just nodded, like that too made sense. Then she gave a thoughtful little hum. “That explains the suit. And the watch. And the slightly tragic look in your eyes.”

“And here I thought I was being subtle.”

She smiled at him, something softer now. “You’re not. But that’s fine. A lot more in life than just that.”

“What are you doing in Cold Spring?”

She was about to speak again when a noise behind them made both their heads turn—a soft creak of hinges and the clatter of something metallic hitting wood.

An old man stood at the doorway just behind them, peering out from the shadows of the dimly lit store. He looked like he belonged to the shelves themselves—stooped, with a long cardigan that nearly brushed his knees and spectacles that magnified kind eyes.

He glanced between the two of them, then to the puddle they were unintentionally forming on his porch. His face twitched—something between surprise and amusement—and he said, in a thick, lilting accent Harry couldn’t quite place, “Well, you two planning to swim out here all night, or shall I put on the kettle?”

She blinked, then grinned. “Sorry, we didn’t mean to—”

“Ah, nonsense,” the man waved her off, already turning back into the store with the slow assurance of someone who’d been around a very long time. “Come on in before you catch a fever. Storm like this isn’t one you wait out on porches.”

Harry and the girl exchanged a look. The kind that asked, do we? The kind that didn’t really need an answer.

They stepped inside. It smelled of paper and dust and something herbal—maybe dried mint, maybe age itself. The lights were dim, yellowish and uneven, casting the place in the kind of glow that made you whisper without meaning to.

Books filled every crevice—stacked on tables, leaning against chairs, crammed into crooked shelves. There was a coat rack by the door with only one item on it: a faded scarf that might’ve once been red.

“Take your time,” the man called from somewhere in the back. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Don’t touch the Emersons, they’re organized by resentment.”

The girl gave Harry a side glance. “Organized by what?”

Harry smiled and shrugged.

She wandered a few steps ahead of Harry, her eyes skimming the shelves as if trying to read every spine at once. She turned toward the voice calling from deeper inside the shop.

“Your accent,” she called lightly, voice echoing off books and beams, “Liverpool?”

There was a pause—then the sound of something clattering, like a teacup being set down too hard in surprise.

“Scouse, aye,” came the reply, tinged with a kind of pleased defensiveness. “Sharp ear on you.”

“I had a roommate from Wavertree,” she said, smiling toward the dark hallway at the back. “She used to curse me out with words I didn’t know existed.”

A bark of laughter echoed back.

“You poor thing,” he said. “She teach you how to survive, at least?”

“She taught me how to argue over washing up. That’s close enough.”

Harry watched as something seemed to shift in the air. The old man emerged again, this time with a dish towel slung over his shoulder and a plate of buttered toast in one hand. His guard was down now, cracked open like a familiar book.

“Well,” he said, offering the plate with a nod, “if you had to survive Scousers, might as well come warm up with one. I’ve got soup on and too much of it.”

She took the toast with a soft laugh. “Thank you. We really didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You didn’t,” he waved a hand again. “I saw you two on the porch. Looked like one of those old records, y’know? Lonely man in a suit, beautiful girl in a worse mood than the weather. But no, you looked pretty happy to me,” He chuckled, then looked at Harry. “You looked a bit... ruined.”

Harry didn’t answer. He wasn’t quite ready to yet.

“Come on then,” the man said, already turning. “Place is falling apart, but the kettle still works. You can sit by the heater.”

They followed him into the narrow back kitchen—old, mismatched tile underfoot, stacks of books even here lining the corners, as if the shelves had spilled and nobody bothered to stop them. There was a small table set for one. The man reached for two more mismatched bowls from a cupboard above the sink.

“Name’s Jim,” he said.

“Catherine,” she answered easily.

The girl nudged his side.

“Harry,” he finally said.

The soup was hot and surprisingly good—potato, leek, maybe something else neither of them could place. They sat around the small table, bowls in hand, steam rising between them like soft fog.

Catherine did most of the talking. Jim had taken a clear liking to her, leaning in over his mug of tea, asking questions like an old friend, utterly delighted by her presence. Harry watched it unfold quietly, spoon paused in midair as he listened.

“So what’s a girl like you doing out in this god awful weather with a big violin?” Jim asked, eyes twinkling with suspicion and curiosity.

“Cello,” Catherine corrected with a grin. “Came from a gathering. Friends, sort of. Mostly strangers. I was trying something new.” She stirred her soup absentmindedly, then glanced toward the cello resting safely by the wall. “I’ve been thinking about putting together a small studio. Back in the city. A place for artists, musicians— Anyway, they seemed interested. And I came with my cello to prove that I am one of them.”

Jim sat back, visibly impressed. “A bold girl with a plan. Now that’s rare.” He looked around the room, as if picturing the ghosts of old songs and stories.

Jim pointed at Harry with his spoon, finally acknowledging him. “And your fella didn’t bring a car? Och. What kind of knight are you, eh? An American, in America, without a car.”

Harry wanted to say he not only had a car, but a driver too. He didn’t though. He sensed that he had to explain why he was in the rain in the first place if he brought that up.

Catherine almost choked on her soup, laughing. “Oh—he’s not my fella. We just met, actually.”

Jim blinked, then nodded slowly, like something had clicked into place. “Ah, now that makes more sense. You’re just too young and lovely. Couldn’t imagine you settled yet. Not with that old man.”

Harry gave him a look. He didn’t like this Jim person very much, to be honest.

Catherine tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, what? And what’s wrong with an older man?”

Jim raised a brow, bemused.

She gestured across the table. “Harry is a handsome man. Not as handsome as you, obviously, Jim, but close enough.”

That made Harry laugh—actually laugh, sudden and genuine. He shook his head and looked down, hiding the grin tugging at his mouth. For the first time that night, the chill of the storm seemed far away.

Time passed unnoticed, like warmth slowly spreading through chilled limbs. The bowls were scraped clean, mugs refilled, and the room thick with the soft hum of conversation and scotch. Harry, who was so often surrounded by people that talked too much and said too little—gallery girls, men with names you had to Google, women who called his car “cute” like it was a pet—now found himself flanked by two strangers whose personalities filled the room to its edges and back. Jim and Catherine were wildly, effortlessly themselves, and somehow that made everyone else from the past decade seem like background extras. Forgettable silhouettes. These two? They were vivid. Full.

The storm still howled outside like a drunk looking for a fight, rattling the glass with every gust. Catherine stood, brushing the wrinkles out of her damp dress—some delicate black thing that clung to her like melted ink—and pulled her soaked hair into a makeshift knot with a pencil she found on the windowsill. She looked like someone from a photograph you’d find in an old bookshop: timeless, a little ruined, but unforgettable.

“I’ll pay for the soup,” she said, gently tightening her cello’s bow. “With a song.”

Jim laughed, already pouring another round of scotch. “That’s the best currency I’ve heard all week.”

Harry didn’t say much. He never did, not in places like this. He felt oddly like a child again—watching magic unfold from the edges, unsure whether to be part of it or protect it from himself. Because this wasn’t his world. Not really. He was used to neat conversations and quiet transactions. Art as decor. Music as background. People as curated choices. But this? This felt real in the way storms were real—loud, inconvenient, alive.

“I’m not gonna play my original yet. This one is by Piero Piccioni, and it’s called ‘amore mio aiutami’. I adjusted the arrangements because it’s–”

“Hurry up, lass. We don’t care what you’re playing as long as it’s pretty.”

“Don’t mind him, kid. Go on,” said Harry.

Catherine giggled and continued.

She settled into Jim’s old wooden chair, the one that wobbled with every shift, and rested her cello between her knees. Her fingers, pale and long, curled around the strings like she was holding something sacred. Then she played.

The room stilled—two men, decades apart, leaning in as if listening to a language only she spoke. And maybe she was. Something old and aching and gentle filled the air. Even Harry, whose thoughts never stopped moving, forgot them entirely.

Catherine played the cello like it was an extension of herself—too free, too effortless, too perfect for some local artist just starting out. Every note breathed as if it had been living inside her all along, waiting to be spoken. Her fingers moved with a quiet grace, delicate but sure, each shift and stroke precise yet fluid, like she was telling a story only her cello and she understood. It was intimate, personal, and completely unstudied—an organic dance between soul and instrument.

Harry, still tipsy from the gala and the long night before, suddenly sobered as the music pulled him in. He stopped chasing thoughts and distractions, letting the melody sink into every corner of him. He savored it—this memory, this moment—as if engraving it into his mind forever. Because Catherine wasn’t some polished act or curated performance. She was real. So real it hurt, a sharp ache behind his teeth he couldn’t ignore.

She looked like she belonged in the music: her green eyes—bright but shadowed—held a secret light, flickering gently beneath the soft pull of her small, almost shy smile. A dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth, like a tiny signature she forgot to hide. Freckles scattered lightly across the pale skin of her neck, subtle as dust motes in a shaft of afternoon light. Her dark blonde hair, more honeyed, caught the flicker of the low lamp, falling loose in soft waves that framed her face. And then there were her hands—dainty fingers curved around the cello’s neck with such tender familiarity, it was as if the instrument had grown from her very bones.

In that room, with the storm raging outside, Catherine’s music wrapped around them like a spell—intoxicating, unyielding, and utterly hers.

When the music stopped, the silence that followed felt like a velvet curtain falling. None of them spoke right away. Even Jim sat unusually still, the usual sparkle in his eye subdued, mellowed into something softer. Catherine smiled, a little shy now that the song was over, brushing a stray hair behind her ear as if the applause she received—two stunned men and a creaking floorboard—were too much.

After that, time didn’t quite return to normal. It lingered in that strange, slowed haze—the kind that settles after a heavy rain or a dream you don’t want to wake from. They stayed at the little table longer than expected, the cheap scotch softening the edges of their words. Catherine curled into the couch, barefoot now, long legs tucked under her, her hair loose and still damp at the ends. Jim had returned from the back with a wool blanket for her shoulders and a second bottle of something stronger. They talked like old friends who’d only just met.

She asked Harry about the gala—what it was for, who it was honoring, if he actually cared.

“Not really,” Harry had said, swirling the scotch in his glass. “The music wasn’t even good. Not a fraction close to what you played.”

“Well that’s because artists who perform at galas usually have a strict set list. They can’t play anything too distracting, or else it would cover the important conversations being held, isn’t that right? I’m sure you didn’t pay attention.”

He shrugged, trying not to smile. “True.”

“I know it’s true.”

And that’s how it went. Catherine poked at things like she was pulling threads—his likes, his family, what it meant to be surrounded by people but still felt unbearably alone. The conversation became too smooth and she seemed so interested that Harry couldn't help but open up.

He told her about his annual trip to Zurich, a funny story about his friend who wanted to retire early and begged him to do it too. He didn’t mind that it made him feel old, because she looked like she enjoyed his stories.

She talked about the kind of studio she wanted to build, “somewhere warm, and loud,” where artists and musicians could just be without having to sell pieces of themselves to survive.

Jim, in the middle of it all, refilled glasses and told stories from the war, about a woman he once loved in Marseille, and how the rain back then didn’t feel so different. “Except now,” he muttered, “I’m slower, and my knees hate me.”

“We still love you,” Catherine told him, squeezing his hand.

Harry just watched, half-drunk and completely sober at once, folded into this odd scene. It was quiet and human and so unlike the nights he usually had.

Eventually, the storm outside softened into a steady drizzle. A faint hush blanketed the city beyond the fogged windows, and Harry knew he had to leave. He had a flight tomorrow. Back to the hotel, back to his driver, back to the cold marble world he was supposed to live in.

When he stood to go, he hesitated, then pulled a card from his pocket. It was damp around the edges, smudged, but he carefully pressed it into Catherine’s hand, making sure his number was still there. He didn’t know why he gave it to her. She was younger—probably still a student—but something tugged quietly at his heart. Maybe it was wishful thinking, or a hope that this unexpected night wasn’t the last.

Catherine looked at it for a moment. Her expression unreadable, but not unkind. There was a tug at the corner of her lips.

“You’re probably a brilliant prodigy slumming it for fun. But, uh—there’s my number. In case you… ever need it. Maybe you need an investor for your studio?”

Catherine giggled. “I got that covered, thanks. But I’ll take this card. Because you’re my friend.”

He started toward the door. The air had a bite to it now, the scent of wet asphalt rising.

Then, as if the scene was written by fate themselves, her voice said the words he’d long to hear since he started this damned journey into the storm in the first place:

“You’ll need a coat.”

He turned, struck. His heart was beating. His breath hitched. He could remember praying for that just moments ago. Of not having anyone to say those exact words to him. That was funny, he thought.

She was holding her coat out for him to take, a faded olive green trench with worn buttons and sleeves too long for her arms.

“Here, have mine,” she said.

Harry stared at it, at her. He wanted to laugh it off, say it wasn’t necessary, say the drizzle didn’t matter. His suit was already ruined anyway. But instead, he took it. Quietly. Gently. Because something in him wanted to.

He slipped it on. It smelled like rain and cello rosin and something sweet he couldn’t name.

Catherine gave him a look, one part smile, one part mystery.

“Goodbye, Harry.”

He stood in the doorway for a second longer than he should’ve. The rain fell around him like applause.

That was years ago.

He had waited for her call—maybe not right away, but someday, when she was older, when she had built the studio she talked about. Maybe he’d hear from her with an invitation to a classical concert, a small private gathering, something fitting for the girl with green eyes and a cello. But it never came. And over time, that night became a sweet memory, wrapped in nostalgia, folded carefully into the back pocket of his life. He had thought, more than once, about looking for her. But he didn’t. Some memories were too perfect to touch.

So he lived his life as if nothing had changed. As if that stormy night had only been shelter and soup. As if the freckled girl with the honeyed hair hadn’t quietly shaken something loose in him. He returned to his world—of business suits and curated smiles, of gallery openings and glass-walled meetings. He played his part. Well. Efficiently. But something had shifted, even if he didn’t let it show. There was now a quiet ache where something new had once flickered to life.

Then came Lucy.

The matchmaker. The woman with ambition in her eyes and a plan for everything, including love. He had liked her. Truly. She was intelligent and quick, and he admired how much she wanted to be right—for herself, for him. She had a list of things she wanted in a partner, and Harry ticked enough boxes to make her try. And maybe he had wanted to be the man on someone’s list, just once.

He had told Lucy about the storm once. Briefly. Skimming the surface. He mentioned the bookstore and the cello and the odd magic of it all, calling it “the realest moment” he’d had in years. But he didn’t say how it made him feel. That part he kept for himself. He knew Lucy wouldn't care anyway. Not for an odd story about strange people and drenched thousand-dollar suits. He couldn’t explain that it wasn’t even about romance—that it was something quieter, more sacred. Something that had made him feel seen.

And then came that storm. The one he didn’t like.

The one Lucy brought with her, and the one he brought himself. The whirlwind of trying to make two puzzle pieces fit when the edges had already worn down. The one where it made sense in the head, but not so much the heart. It had started fine, even pleasant—until it’s not. Lucy’s ex-boyfriend showed up. Looming, present in every silent pause between them. Harry had felt it the moment he met him—that sense of unfinished business. And from there, the storm only grew. The love triangle turned into a typhoon of messy truths and repressed wants. He could laugh at it now, in the way people laugh at their worst decisions, but at the time, it was excruciating. Embarrassing. He had stayed too long, said too little, and ignored too much.

It was a well-needed lesson, in life and in love.

But it was, thankfully, a finished story.

STORY WILL BE UPDATED EVERY WEEK

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