#learn excel formulas

[mp4fileprocessing]

todays moodboard [colin firth edition (and a pedro pascal cameo)]

[mylittleredgirl]

okay never mind i DO want push notifications for “exciting updates” from businesses because i just learned that excel delivered the xlookup function unto the starving masses FIVE YEARS AGO. general release MARCH 2020. are you kidding me. are you kidding me!!! it took until 2025 for me to make a typo in the formula bar and go oh hello? what’s this? and change my entire life. not only have i been dealing with a global pandemic i have been doing it WHILE indexing and matching and nesting iserror vlookups i am going! to! walk into the sea!!!

[glitterdustcyclops]

so i'm preparing a data collection sheet in excel and i need the participants' ages

so i've been looking up their DOBs in our CRM & then tediously entering it into a calculator to get the age and then typing it into excel

when i literally just now realized, wait, i'm using excel, i can just type the formula in the cell and have it put the age for me

sigh

[volfoss]

Sincerely as a former user of both Excel and sheets, it is nuts how much easier libre office calc is. Not in the typical way that certain things are easier to access but moreso that the formulas and ways things are set up just work with my brain better. I never really had much need to learn formulas in Excel because there were so many and the layout felt over complicated, and don't even get me started on sheets. But with calc, there's a lot more freedom with the formulas and a lot of the skills you have from either of those other programs carries on here. Not a super big point or anything to this post, just simply very appreciative of what calc can do.

[bo2go]

Im confused, am I missing something? Chatgpt is (while certainly misused by some) a tool that can be incredibly helpful when you know how to use it. To compare it to cleverbot is to compare a hammer and a wrench, they're built to do different things. And you wouldnt fault the hammer for not having "emotion".

Im not saying you should or need to use it, idc. I think there is anger and an aversion here that is being redirected here from the ai art problem, which I agree is a HUGE problem that severely hurts the artists who are being stolen from. But in the greater AI sphere I think we can leave some room for nuance instead of writing it off completely.

im a proud "ive never used chat gpt" user btw

[treesah]

Me when someone tells me how especially evil and terrible China is: Wow, you don’t know ANYTHING about history or current events at all, do you?

Me when someone tells me how great China is and how much better than the US it is: Wow, you don’t know ANYTHING about history or current events at all, do you?

[markcraft3636]

Advanced Excel | What If Analysis |Microsoft Excel Free | Excel Training |Excel Tutorial

Advanced Excel is complete Excel tutorial that helps aspiring data analysts with excel data analytics fundamentals. This Free Excel Tutorial is for Beginners and will cover basics of excel like data validation, conditional formatting, spreadsheet fundamentals to advanced excel tips like time series analysis, filters, slicers, excel dashboarding, data visualization, and much more.

#advance excel, #advance Excel Tutorial, # advance Excel topics, #Excel Advance formulas , #MS Excel #Excel beginner to advance , #ExcelTraining, #Learn MS Excel, #Excel Basics, #Excel Tutorial For Beginners, #simpli learn

[fahimmentorguide]

Learn , Like , Comment , Subscribe Now

[letapollojusticesayfuck]

good news: interview went well enough that i now get to do a second, longer interview with More People In It

middling news: this interview includes a “brief excel proficiency check” and i cannot find two practice tests online that seem to agree with what level of proficiency one is supposed to have in excel

annoying news: i’m still in the UK so the earliest this interview will be at all is 5:30 PM argh

i have a job interview tomorrow but because of Time Zone Fuckery (phone interview where the interviewers are in west coast canada and i am in the united kingdom atm) it’s going to take place at 8:30 PM. which i think should be illegal. but if i get this job i don’t have to deal with customers anymore so it’s worth it i think

[oneawkwardcookie]

Didn't expect to use the method for calculating an arithmetic sequence formula today, but that was fun!

[dannyriccsystem]

hiii can you do kimi antonelli asking help from a cute girl in his class or a driver’s younger sister to tutor him in math?

LISTEN UP NOW!

FORMULA ONE DRIVER X READER

Summary: Kimi asks his cute classmate for help with math!

Warnings: Silly, fluff, Y/N usage, user is in last year of high school

Featuring: Kimi Antonelli x Classmate!Reader

REQUESTS OPEN! Check here for more info!

Still getting to requests today, but feel free to send some in! Love y’all

Nobody necessarily expected Kimi Antonelli to still be in school. Rarely did you see a Formula One driver who was still learning about the basics, such as math and language, while also simultaneously passing world champions in their sport and making a living for themselves. After this information came out, there was obviously… Quite a few jokes.

Kimi had made a whole ordeal of asking George to tutor him in math, and while viewers (and George himself) passed it off as a joke, the truth was Kimi really was struggling in the subject. It didn’t have much substance to him, and lacked sense. Unlike racing, which came so naturally to the rookie.

His teachers were emailing him nonstop, scolding the racer on how unbalanced his school life and work life were. Despite being a kid who raced cars for a living, going at unimaginable speeds, he still walked away with his tail tucked between his legs after being harshly lectured by his elders. After being reprimanded for about the thirtieth time, Kimi was instructed to find himself a tutor.

Online class was easy. Everyone was given their own workload to finish at their own pace, with varying deadlines depending on level of learning. Y/N excelled in this department, finishing most of her work far before the others. She was a straight A student, sitting at the top of her class.

On rare occasions, their class would host little lessons over Zoom. It always reminded her of the quarantine days, but it was nice to see familiar faces nonetheless. Even if most of the time she was sat there quietly, watching everyone else get caught up with the work.

One evening, a surprise guest had popped up. Andrea Kimi Antonelli, whom had never had enough time to make an appearance. Everyone knew of him— Y/N would be stupid if she didn’t. Of course, the reaction to his involvement was rather distracting to the sake of the course, but it was entertaining nonetheless.

He seemed lost the entire time, barely able to answer basic questions about logarithm and pythagorean theorem— Things they had actually learned during the prior years. Being an F1 driver must really be time consuming. Once the call was over, she did what a typical, compassionate person would do…

Offered her assistance!

Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆

Every night, right after Kimi had finished up his responsibilities as an F1 driver, he’d stop by the hotel room his team had booked for Y/N, his new tutor. Every time, without fail, he’d find her sitting at the hotel desk, finishing up any new work the moment it came out. It was endearing how dedicated to school she was.

At first, their meetings were strictly professional. She’d teach him the basics, and then he’d be on his way. But by the fourth night of tutoring, the air had become more friendly. He brought in leftover food from the after party, which they shared while watching the newest episode of whatever reality TV show was airing on the hotel TV.

Y/N found herself craving his company by now. She counted down the minutes until she would see Kimi again, eager to spend as much time as possible with the aspiring racer. He was charming, funny, and… Despite his mishaps, intelligent nonetheless.

The week of her traveling came to an end, and the two parted ways at the airport before her flight back home to Italy.

your.username

liked by kimi.antonelli and others

your.username Tutored this dork, learned about F1, and watched my first race in person… Eventful week.

tagged kimi.antonelli

—

classmate.user1 - Not fair that Y/N and Kimi are out having fun while we’re stuck here!

♥︎ by author

classmate.user2 - Agreed 😐

> kimi.antonelli - Should have offered to tutor a friend in need!!

♥︎ by author

friend.user1 - Jealous!! But we missed you here in Italy 🇮🇹

♥︎ by author

friend.user2 - Did you get to meet any of the other drivers?

♥︎ by author

your.username - Lewis Hamilton himself…

> friend.user2 - I HATE YOU I’M JEALOUS

♥︎ by author

friend.user3 - Woah…

your.username - ??

kimi.antonelli - Miss you already! My grade already went up!

♥︎ by author

Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆

[glowettee]

✧˖° the identity shift: start thinking like an A+ student

post 1

💭 before you even touch your notes, before you highlight a single word, before you drown in exam stress. change how you think about yourself.

most people study with the mindset of “i hope i do well” instead of “i am the kind of person who excels.” and that’s the difference. if you want to start acing your exams, your first step isn’t flashcards or practice tests. it’s shifting your identity. because an A+ student doesn’t just work hard, they think, act, and exist differently.

this is the second post to the final exam survival series. the last post, was focused on how to actually enjoy learning and using that to motivate yourself for school. this post will focus on shifting your identify, which can also work great for manifesting and law of attraction/assumption. i will try to give you the best possible tips to help you shift your mindset to already have the A+ mentality. love you guys <3 - mindy

disclaimer: please don't think i expect you to be perfect, i use 'A+ student' as a way to help you when using loa or manifesting. YOU ARE A HUMAN; DO NOT THINK YOU NEED TO MEET STANDARDS TO BE PERFECT! i love you all and wanted to make sure you know i am NOT setting an unrealistic standard. this post is to help you with manifesting good grades and to inspire you. not for toxic motivation or unrealistic standard setting. - mindy

✧˖° ➼ 01. stop identifying as “bad at studying”

you will never outperform the identity you attach to yourself. if you keep telling yourself: ➝ “i suck at this subject.”➝ “i’ve never been good at exams.”➝ “i’m just not a naturally smart person.”

then you’ll stay stuck. why? because your brain is wired to prove yourself right. but when you shift to: ➝ “i am fully capable of mastering this material.”➝ “i am becoming an A+ student.”➝ “i study in a way that works for me.”

your actions start aligning with that belief. the way you approach studying changes. and suddenly? you’re not “bad at it” anymore.

✧ homework: rewrite every negative academic belief you’ve held about yourself into a new, empowering one. read them before every study session.

✧˖° ➼ 02. start acting like an A+ student right now

not when you feel “ready.” not when you’re already good at the subject. right now.

✨ an A+ student doesn’t: • cram the night before and hope for the best • avoid studying because it feels overwhelming • rely on last-minute motivation to get things done

✨ an A+ student does: • plan their study sessions like an actual strategy • break down material into small, digestible pieces • work consistently, even when they don’t “feel like it”

✧ homework: take one small action today that your A+ student self would take. even if it’s just organizing your study space or making a realistic revision schedule.

✧˖° ➼ 03. use strategic learning, not just memorization

most students study to remember. A+ students study to understand. if you keep forcing yourself to memorize facts with no deeper connection, you’re setting yourself up for forgetting everything under pressure.

🖇 better study strategies:• teach the material → pretend you're tutoring someone who knows nothing about it. if you can explain it simply, you truly understand it. • apply what you learn → don’t just read about a formula, actually use it in practice questions. don’t just memorize historical dates, understand their impact. • switch up your methods → your brain loves novelty. use diagrams, study cards, summarization, and active recall instead of just rereading notes.

✧ homework: find one concept you’ve been struggling with and try teaching it to yourself out loud as if you were giving a TED talk.

✧˖° ➼ 04. start believing you deserve high grades

subconsciously, a lot of people don’t actually believe they’re the kind of person who gets top marks. they might think: ❝ i’ve never been a straight-A student, so why start now? ❞ ❝ my past grades weren’t amazing, i probably won’t do much better. ❞

but what if you let yourself believe otherwise? what if you fully accepted that you deserve to succeed just as much as anyone else? because you do. and the moment you believe that, you start acting in ways that make it true.

✧ homework: visualize yourself receiving your dream grade. feel the confidence of knowing you earned it. then ask yourself: what would my future self tell me to start doing right now?

✧˖° ➼ 05. control your environment like a top student

your surroundings play a huge role in your academic identity. A+ students set themselves up for success by designing an environment that makes focus effortless.

🖇 small shifts that make a huge difference: • keep your study space clean & minimal (no distractions) • use a dedicated study playlist to trigger focus mode • have a go-to beverage (tea, coffee, water) to make studying feel like a ritual • wear comfortable but put-together clothes to signal to your brain that it’s time to work • remove your phone from your workspace entirely (or use app blockers)

✧ homework: make one intentional change to your study environment today. observe how it affects your focus.

✧˖° ➼ 06. stop waiting for motivation

A+ students know that motivation is fleeting. they don’t rely on feeling “in the mood” to study. instead, they: ➝ create systems (set study times, routines) ➝ make studying automatic (habit, not a debate) ➝ use momentum (just start. five minutes can turn into an hour)

✧ homework: set a 10-minute timer and study right now. no overthinking, no debating. just start.

✧˖° mindy’s personal tips

💌 your identity is everything. if you don’t believe you’re an A+ student yet, start acting like it anyway. your mindset will catch up. 💌 make studying feel aesthetic. wear cute study outfits, light a candle, make it a whole vibe. enjoyable studying = effective studying. 💌 romanticize the glow-up. your academic transformation is a story. imagine looking back and realizing this was the moment everything changed. 💌 you are not behind. you can reinvent yourself as a top student at any time. even now. even today.

xoxo mindy

[chanelnumbermine]

2024 f2 boys when you’re on your period | f2 grid picks! x afab!reader

i tried to keep is as gender neutral as possible, i hope you enjoy! i’m still not over this season tbh, so this is me celebrating all the wonderful we made watching f2 this year! most iconic podiums, best battles and the most amazing lineup. it was a pleasure to enjoy this ride with all of you

pairing(s): ollie bearman x afab!reader, kimi antonelli x afab!reader, zane maloney x afab!reader, paul aron x afab!reader, pepe marti x afab!reader, luke browning x afab!reader;

warning(s): mentions of blood?, periods in general, maybe innuendo?

ollie bearman | prema—> haas f1

surprisingly shy about it!

doesn’t want to hurt you in any way, since you’re so sensitive and sore all over

figures its better to not say anything when you’re having an outburst

just watches you with puppy dog eyes and whisperes “can i do anything for you?”

you either burst into tears or scream at him for being so clueless and then also cry into his chest

so he just makes tea

he doesn't really know how to cook, but the british upbringing made him an excellent tea brewer

or so he tells you, knowing it makes you roll your eyes and chuckle

kimi antonelli | prema —> mercedes amg petronas

so so eager to do anything for you!

but kimi might be quite confused about things, especially if you have some weird cravings lol

he’s going to joke about those brownies or steaks, even if you get mad with him, he doesn’t understand he overstepped until you’re really upset with him

so desperate to get you to forgive him

my boy is panicking

turns into a real-life teddy bear

too scared to say anything and trusts that physical contact with do the talking for him

would put on your favourite movie and press kisses all over your cute face until you pout

"please don't pout, tesoro. can i do anything to make you smile again?"

zane maloney | rodin —> formula e

takes this time as an opportunity to get to know you even better

long talks when you can’t sleep bc of cramps and soreness

makes it a point to ask about everything and anything you might need during this time

absolutely ridiculously in love with you, this guy, i swear

has a list of things to do before you get your period

"why would you have a period tracker on your phone?"

he's totally unfazed if you scream at him, which angers you even more and then burst into tears, because why is he so??

he would kiss belly, especially if you're ticklish, just to make you smile a little

paul aron | hitech —> bwt alpine reserve driver

actually enjoys this immensely

he feels useful and that makes him feel good about himself and your relationship

snack run? watch him storm out of the apartment in seconds

blood stain? more than glad to wash your covers

takes this opportunity to bring more blankets and tuck you in

would go absolutely feral if you're particularly sensitive during this time

has to touch you all the time, just to make sure nothing bad happens to you

right? hm, sure. totally not bc he wants to see you squirm a little, nope

pepe marti | campos, redbull academy

resident boyfriend material

but so so smug about it!!!

would be disgustingly overprepared and proud of himself, bragging about what a great partner he is

especially if you get emotional about it (hormones can be rough ugh)

stops yapping once he realises you’re serious and in need some comfort

you’re in his lap in seconds, his warm arms hugging your frame

i would picture him shirtless, trying to give you as much warmth as he can as you cuddle into the late hours of the night

luke browning | hitech —> f2

that’s, my friends, a classic gentleman

he’s quite known for being close with his family, very down to earth, and mature

so i think that attitude would extend to taking care of you during those few difficult days

i picture him calling his mum to ask how to be there for you

he's very perceptive, any gaps in his knowledge are quickly filled by his keen observations and eagerness to learn

would search the internet for cramp remedies and end up with some oddly specific ridiculous one

it's either a miracle or a total disaster, but he manages to bring a smile to your face every time, so he's satisfied

let me know if you'd like more content like that or any drivers you'd like me to write for

masterlist

[brittle-biscuits]

To Be a Grade A Student… (Fundamental Paper Education)

I love Fundamental Paper Education so much.

With the looming threat of a brutal death being thrust amongst the students, it didn’t require much more incentive for you to start studying up and passing your exams.

The only problem with this is catching the eye of your three teachers. Miss Circle, Bloomie, and Thavel.

There was other students who pass their exams, but there was something with how you took your education seriously that the three couldn’t help but find commendable~

Miss Circle was the most blunt of the three, making an example about you on what a proper student in her class should strive to be. She can always count on you to be one of her shining stars in the class amidst the specks of disappointment and anger the FAILURES bring her.

Miss Circle was quite the clingy type too. She can’t stop you from excelling in Bloomie’s and Thavel’s classes, but only she’s allowed to hug you close to her! The other two can go kick rocks if they interfere with Miss Circle properly cherishing her grade A student.

Miss Thavel, you wanted to say that she was more reserved. To which, she was, but she still makes her favoritism towards you clear. Always having a smug smile when you get called on and getting right any of the language pronunciations she asks you to do.

She never raises her voice at you or even give you a glare like she does with the class, her presence being more soft and gentle as she comes to your desk. You felt bad for your peers, but Miss Thavel would advise you to not be. After all, a top student like you shouldn’t associate with possible failures…

Miss Bloomie’s class required a lot more studying on your behalf with all the formulas you needed to learn and she knew this, making her day all the more better when she sees you pass the next exam with flying colors. You were some kind of superstar to her…

Miss Circle may be clingy, but Miss Bloomie can get downright possessive of her superstar student, often butting heads with Miss Circle over where you got to do to your afterschool study sessions in whose classroom. These tussles can get VIOLENT if no intervention arrives, may the heavens above have mercy on any scholar that gets in the middle of that…

With how vicious the three can be towards any student who fails, take your peer Claire for example, a part of you wonders how bad it could get when the three have a student they actually favor, you.

Things can only go crazy from here in Paper School…

[reminiscingthesea]

Sypnosis: Thinking about… History teacher Phainon (who everyone adores) x Strict maths teacher reader….🙂‍↕️🙂‍↔️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↔️🙂‍↕️

A/N: this is a bit long, so it might not be good because I don’t write often due to exams, so sorry for any cringe I might put you through! Set in college environment. Both Phai and reader are in their early 30s/late 20s btw!

Laughter, excitement, jokes thrown around, were a common staple in Phainon’s lecture hall, as he’d teach fervently about ancient historical texts to a bright, motivated bunch of young students ready to learn!!.. His lectures were full of elation, that was for sure. There was never a dull moment in that room, no matter how gloomy the day was, how sad his students were, and especially, no matter how sad he was.

..it made you sick to your stomach.

The mere thought of trying to handle such a chaotic bunch of freshly turned adults in a classroom, whilst simultaneously differentiating a long string of formulae on your blackboard, made your stomach churn in pure discomfort and fear. Luckily, however, your group of students were disciplined and trained, driven- not just motivated- and ambitious, thanks to your exceptional guidance.

Through strict measures, harsh grading, full threats of failure, you had managed to mould what you believed to be, the perfect set of students. Students, who, as mentioned before, were determined to succeed and excel, strive in all. Students who’d achieve perfect grades, keep quiet and respectful, and speak when spoken to. That’s how you liked it.

But that’s not how Phainon liked it, that’s for sure.

Everyday, one of the two of you would have the misfortune of having to walk past the other’s classroom, to get to your respective subject offices, due to lectures being arranged at different times during the day. Whenever you’d pass by his lecture room, you’d have to cover your ears and sigh out an air of disdain and walk quickly, avoiding the chance of hearing his boisterous speech boom throughout the hall brightly, with the occasional laughter and claps from his students. Gosh, such a rowdy bunch, it’s no wonder so many people decided to take up his lectures, it’s practically a free space of time, given to waste.

Now, when it was his time to walk past your lecture room, he’d stay completely silent. Not to anger you, in case he’d walk past too loudly, and disturb your trajectory of tranquility and focus, but instead, to try and hear at least something out of your ever silent hall. But alas, nothing, just pure silence and the focus of both you and your students. However, there was the rare moment where he’d hear your voice echo throughout the hall, just not in a cheery manner like his, but rather, anger.

And it just so happens that today, he’s standing right in front of your hall’s door, listening to you berating a student for getting, what you deemed an easy question, completely wrong. Without a moment to think, his hand reached for the door’s handle, swinging it open dramatically, a gleaming smile on his face, awaiting gasps or any sort of reaction from your pupils.

“..Aha, tough crowd we have here!..” He exclaims awkwardly and quietly, a silly, toothy grin on his face as he scans through the sea of pupils, sat on their benches, some looking at him awestruck, whilst others clenched their jaws and kept their heads down, focusing on whatever was in front of them. His dawn blue gaze then falls onto you. Your face was a mix of pure irritation and annoyance, and he could see the way your hands clenched at your sides slightly.

“Sit down. I’ll deal with you in a minute.” You’d say sternly, dismissing the poor student you were previously reprimanding for their lackluster performance on hyperbolic functions, before turning your head back to Phainon with an exhale.

“Pray tell, Professor Phainon. What on earth are you doing in my hall? Barging into my space unannounced, distracting my students? Don’t you have your own hive to tend to?” Your voice was laced with vexation as your teeth gritted together ever so slightly, eyebrows knitted, eyes narrowing as you stared him down from across the hall, in front of your blackboard, where mathematical proofs and equations lay sprawled out across it unevenly.

To this, Phainon only laughed, indulging in the sight of your scarily scornful look.

“I just couldn’t help but overhear you yelling out one of your dear students! And for what, not understanding whatever… ahem, this is?” He asked, charisma, charm, and lightness entwined in his tone, as he gestured towards your black board with his hand, his face becoming gloomy for a second, as he’d try to make sense of whatever was on there.

“This is complex mathematics. Surely the all knowing historian would remember at least some of this from past mathematic lessons from his youth?” You’d reply back sharply, wit and judgement supporting your words, as you’d continue to stare down at Phainon, who had now crossed his arms, leaning his hip against the doorway, smirking slightly.

“Complex mathematics? Mm.. I wasn’t too strong on that back in school, so no, I don’t remember any of this from my old days. But that’s besides the point, my dear mathematician! I’m here to ask you one thing, and one thing only.”

“Out with it.”

“Are your students students, or prisoners?”

In response, you’d shoot him a glare, a dirty look, a snarl that perfectly captured your absolute shock in his audacity to even ask such a thing. Now, some of your students had lifted their focused heads up from their work, now glancing between the two of you.

“Excuse you? I’ll have you know, Mr Phainon, that my students are my students, not prisoners. To even insinuate such a thing about me and my methods of teaching, is incredibly unprofessional and rude. Did you come here to berate me? I’ll have you know, that all of my students here are excellent people, the brightest in many fields, the-“

Phainon quickly cut you off with a hand held up, to begin speaking once more.

“I never said your students weren’t exceptional prodigies, so don’t get it twisted, Miss [Name]. All I’m saying is that they.. could use a little more friendly encouragement, y’know? Not threats of giving them a failing grade just because they went below slightly their target, which I will say, goes against school rules, does it not?”

Phainon now stood up straighter, taller now, his own, cerulean, eyes now narrowing as he looked down at you from the topper end of the hall. At this, your gaze fell to your side momentarily, lips thinning into a line, cheek bitten slightly to come up with a good retort back. However, your eyes suddenly met his once more, full of dispute.

“My lessons, are strict, and perfect. I only want the best for my students. So yes, warning them of a failing grade because they went below their target grade, is perfectly fine. It disciplines them, and I have no shame in saying this in front of them, they’ve been made aware of this countless of times in the past. But it is by no means going against the rules, I’ll have you know, it’s just not.. supported by the board, that’s all.”

You then let out a huff, your expression shifting from one of indignation, to one of pride and provocation, lips curling into a sly grin, eyelids becoming slightly hooded.

“However, what I do know that is against school rules, are teachers who encourage disarray and lawlessness in the classroom. And you, Sir, have been acting onto these desires this whole semester. Wouldn’t it be such a shame if I were to go to the board right now, and complain to them that Mr Phainon is not creating a habitable working environment for his students, and that I’m oh-so worried for his poor little students? That wouldn’t be so good, would it?”

Your tone was now laced with sarcasm and ridicule, pride seeping into your being as you waited for Phainon’s reaction.

But there was nothing.

His eyes widened slightly, but not in shock, but rather in intrigue and interest. His pink lips curved up into a small grin, as he began to relax once more.

“Hmm.. you bring such a great argument, dearest mathematician! Bring it up for the wondrous, brightest mind of Miss [Name], folks! She’s absolutely outdone me here!”

His voice was high as he sung artificial praises for your name, grinning ear to ear, holding his hands up in leisurely pleasure, before beginning to speak once more.

“But alas, being the great holder of knowledge, must make you so much better than the rest of us, isn’t that right? You wouldn’t have to play by the rules like the rest of us, because you’re so above the rest of us, right?”

His voice grew lower now, less soft and happy, and more imposing and stern. It was a sound no student was familiar with, considering his laid back and joyous attitude to all. He watched as your eyes widened ever so slightly, lips separating a little as he backed you into a corner yet again.

“You- that’s not what I meant and you know it. I’m not better than everyone else, we’re all equals. So don’t you dare twist my words- facts- into opinions driven by petty, haughty belief, got that? I strive for equality and fairness, I don’t put myself above the rest because of my capabilities, what an absurd argument, Mr Phainon.”

You huffed once more, trying to keep yourself calm and collected, your hand now gripping your desk’s corner besides you tightly, shutting your eyes to control your utter displeasure.

“Get out of my hall, now, Phainon. We can discuss this in my office after class, personally.”

Your unsmiling eyes met with his, which were now dark with demise and irk, you swore you could see one twitch quickly.

“Fine. I’m more than willing to discuss this away from unknowing students, [Name], maybe then you’ll show your true colours, instead of breaking your fingernails trying to suppress them.”

Before you could bite back with even more poise, he left without a word, making you even more irritated, vexed, and hurt. You glanced down at your nails, which were now on the brink of bending back and snapping painfully, from how hard you were digging them into the wooden table of your desk. Quickly removing them and pressing them to alleviate the pain, you turned back to your students, who swiftly put their heads back down on their work.

“Carry on with your work, or you’ll end up just like him. Berating others with strings of lies, woven by opinions and beliefs. Pathetic.”

You spat, your voice lingered with traces of venom and cruelty as you sat back onto your chair, tidily, rubbing your forehead in exasperation.

Little did you or any of your students know, Phainon was fixed right outside your hall’s door again, listening to every word you said about him. He chuckled to himself, before lazily making his way to your office now, which was situated right at the top of the building. He then spoke like there was a bitter paste on the tip of his tongue.

“Pathetic? Oh I’ll show you pathetic, all knowing teacher.”

It was now rest time for students and teachers alike, a time where many could leave the campus to go out and eat with friends, or study quietly in a library. Some lecturers stayed in their respective offices, whilst some ventured out into the general staff room, to gossip about students, or other teachers in this case.

“Did we all hear about the dispute between Mr Phainon and Miss [Name]? I overheard some of my students talking about it during my Epigenetic’s lecture.” Ruan Mei began, sipping some sweet tea from her teacup, before politely taking a bite out of her delicious plum cake.

“Ah! Mine were talking about it too, such a dramatic turn of events, especially for Sir Phainon! Perhaps I should have my students reenact the scene during a practical lesson next time…” Argenti responded enthusiastically, before scribbling down notes for his next drama lecture, regarding the argument between you and Phainon, his pretty lashes now fluttering with thought as he wrote.

“I must say, I’m quite intrigued myself. To really tick Mr Phainon like that is one thing, but to have him personally meet you in your office is another thing indeed!” Herta mused, fixing the purple flower adorning her light brunette hair, letting Ruan Mei, who was now finished with her snacks, fix up her hair in a prettier style.

“They’re both idiots to say the least. To argue in front of students like that? They’re both asking for sanctions from the head board.. I won’t be surprised if I find the history and mathematics department both missing a teacher tomorrow, looking for replacement and all..” Veritas Ratio groaned, rubbing his forehead in frustration as he poured himself a cup of dark coffee, swirling it around in the cup, which was adorned with the picture of a large ducky in the centre; having been gifted to him by a grateful student.

“Then I’m surprised Mr Phainon didn’t come for you first, Veritas. You and [Name] both share similar ideals and teaching methods. Though, I will say, less students have dropped out of her course compared to how many have dropped out of yours..” Ruan Mei spoke again, having now fixed Herta’s hair into a cute, braided hairstyle, adorned with her favourite purple flowers. She stepped away, now fixing up her area free from her food and plates, beginning to wash them in the sink next to Veritas, who scoffed at her ideology.

“The difference between me and her, is that I have class and she doesn’t. She mindlessly berates and torments her students for not understanding the fundamental laws of quantum physics, whereas I opt for patience.” Veritas replied elegantly, not missing a beat in his tone.

“..I wasn’t aware physically picking up your students and throwing them out your classroom because of their bribery tactics was considered ‘classy’, Dr Ratio.” Argenti murmured quietly, ignoring the horrifying death stare Veritas shot at him from across the room, simply focusing on the work ahead of him, a slight smirk adorning his face.

As the teachers chatted amongst themselves, you entered the room, putting down your heavy stack of folders and papers on a lone desk near the door, panting and huffing softly, not realising the glances the other teachers shared between each other. But the silence of the group said enough.

“Why are you all staring at me? If you have something to say, say it.”

You quipped coldly, keeping your head fixated on the notes within your files.

“Ouch. I didn’t realise we had a walking thorn among us. Argenti, you might wanna deal with this..” Herta teased, before walking up to you and standing next to you, helping you sort out your work, since you were prone to stress at times, and such disarray wouldn’t help.

“Say.. don’t you have a certain historian waiting for you in your office, [Name]? I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting, especially considering it’s approximately been.. four system hours since your argument?” Herta spoke faintly now, bringing you back to your senses. You sighed gently, blinking back the tire from your eyes.

“I know that. I told him to meet me there. I just hadn’t assume he was stupid enough to actually wait there for this entire time. Doesn’t he have his own lectures to lead as well?”

“Hmm.. well. He cancelled all of them today, just to talk to you. So you better get up there quick. Don’t worry, I’ll sort these out for you.” Herta answered, basking slightly in the look of shock on your face.

“He cancelled his lectures.. what about his students? Does he have no shame? What a joke. Whatever, I’m leaving. I’ll be sure to tell you the details of his utter demise, trust me.” You responded, before dusting yourself off and making your way out the door again, leaving the group to their own thoughts as you made your way up to your office.

“I have a feeling that this meeting of theirs will be a little more than a simple discussion..” Argenti contemplated loudly, noises of agreement could be heard from the other teachers as they went back to their own issues.

You had now made your way to your office, which was situated at the topper end of the campus site, overseeing other departments and areas of the school. Opening the door, you were hit with the smell of fresh oranges and citrus fruits, and the sight of Phainon sat at your desk, on your spinny chair, fondling and playing with a random elastic band from your shelf. Upon seeing you, he looked at you with playful lint in his eyes, the sunlight bouncing off of them prettily.

“You can put that band down Mr Phainon, we have things to talk about.” You spoke harshly, leaving no room for his jokes or playful banter, standing in front of him, looking down at him in anger.

“Oh, come now, Miss [Name]! Surely you’ve already forgiven me for my past mistakes. You know I didn’t mean any of what I said, really.” Phainon replied, putting the band down and getting up, letting you sit in your own respective seat, having made a mental note of the tired look on your face as you sat down with a puff of air. Phainon sat at the other end of your desk, staring at you with an unreadable face.

“I mean it when I say you were truly so disrespectful to me this morning. To barge into my lecture, distract my students, trying to cause an uproar! Are you trying to put dirt on my name? Have my students rebel against me Insulting my methods of teaching, absurd.” You spat out bitterly, hands on the table as you’d glare at him with pure disgust, to which Phainon could only awkwardly laugh at in return of it all.

“Look. I’m aware I wasn’t the nicest or most courteous with my way of speaking. And yes, you’re right. Barging into your lecture hall mid speech is incredibly disrespectful, and I apologise for that.” His tone was now softer, kinder, not as spiteful as how yours currently was, or even as his from before. He gave you an apologetic look, trying to at least sympathise with you, but no avail.

“Not only that, you said things about me that just weren’t true at all, Phainon. You made it out to be that I had some sort of superiority complex regarding the other teachers and staff, which I can I say, I most certainly do not. You should know better than to say such horrid things about your co-worker, especially in front of young people.”

Phainon looked at you with a look of incredible sadness and shame, his gaze downturned as he looked away. Any notes of charisma, eloquence, and jest were all now long gone from his face. He almost looked like a kicked puppy, how sweet.

“I am.. truly sorry, for that. I really didn’t realise how much my words may have affected you. But please, you have to understand that I couldn’t just walk past, ignoring the way you yelled at that poor student. I mean, from what I’ve seen, the work you assign them, teach them, preach about, seems so incredibly difficult, especially for new learners.” His hand was now unconsciously entwined with yours, rubbing it, as if to calm you down.

“Phainon.. I understand what you mean, but this is just my method of teaching. I’m aware it may not align with your more.. laid back, easy-going approach, but I strive for my students to be disciplined, especially with such a hard course. I don’t mean to shame your course, Phainon. But my course requires deep, in depth, focused, cognitive skills. Whilst you may be able to preach so enthusiastically about historical events, I must take a more forward, pragmatic approach to teaching my students the fundamentals of mathematics. And yes, that includes stricter methods of teaching, that does indeed include harsh criticism of failure and mistakes made.” You watched as Phainon contemplated for a minute, glancing to his side as he’d take in your words, humming softly to himself in thought. His hand, still entwined with yours, squeezed it gently, as if to remind you he was still there. He then began once more, looking at you directly in the eyes, trapping your gaze onto his.

“Whilst I am aware that your course requires more focus than mine, and is less to joke around about, I still believe embarrassing a pupil over a small mistake is wrong. Mistakes are bound to be made, but as you mentioned before, what you teach is difficult, but mistakes are bound to be made, that’s what we as teachers were told at the start of this academic year.” He now leaned back in his chair, hand still interlocked with yours, looking out the large window lazily, the sun casting a pretty glow over his face.

Sighing in response, you got up and started to fix up some books and rearrange some discarded notes of scary looking formulae left on the table in disarray.

“You do make a very good point, Phainon, as expected from an ever so talented and optimistic person, such as yourself.” You praised genuinely, a slight teasing edge lilted in your tone as you spoke. Phainon could only chuckle in response, you could’ve sworn his cheeks flushed slightly, before returning back to their normal pale hue.

“I never expected to be praised by the hard going, strict maths lecturer, feared by all, never spoken up against before today.. it’s making me blush. But back to our original point. We both screwed up. Provoking each other, acting out of turn in front of students. It was incredibly inappropriate on both of our parts. I say, we put this past us? Make amends and learn from this like the adults we are?” He asked cautiously now, silently praying you weren’t still too angry at him to move on and away from it all. He felt himself relax as he heard your soft laugh and saw a rare, sweet smile, adorn your features.

“We’re not children after all, Phainon, despite how childish we’ve been acting today, I’m willing to let this slide and forget about this. I’m glad you took the mature route out of this. I won’t shame your methods of teaching, or report to the committee for your classroom etiquette, and in return.. I’ll consider being a bit nicer to my students from now on, no promises though.”

You were now stood in front of him as he got up from his seat, standing in front of you, a soft smile now gracing his features on his face. The pair of you looked into each other’s eyes for a few moments, before a faint flush creeped onto both of your cheeks from the long moments of staring at each other.

“Apologises. I was just thinking to myself.” You spoke quickly, looking away from him.

Phainon laughed quietly, lifting his index finger and placing it below your chin, bringing your gaze back onto his.

“It’s no worries.. besides, you look a lot nicer up close than far away..” He mumbled softly, studying your unique features carefully with his dawn-blue eyes, that almost resembled suns as you looked closer into them.

His eyes locked onto yours once more, a mutual agreement between them, as you both leaned in for a soft kiss.

.

.

.

“They did it.” Herta quipped quickly, eyes fixated on the screen in front of her, the other teachers now huddled behind her as they viewed the security footage.

“Oh my.. such a romantic scene! I’ve never seen such intense emotion in movies before..” Argenti rambled, his emerald orbs shining enthusiastically at the scene.

“Oh? What’s Phainon doing? He seems to be taking off his tie-“

“okay enough of this.”

[foxlorests]

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.