#materialists

[userparamore]

DAKOTA JOHNSON and PEDRO PASCAL Off the Cuff | Vogue

[ozarkthedog]

This is driving me insane.

[pedrohub]

PEDRO PASCAL Materialists | 2025

[foxtrology]

Prompt 1 but if someone already choose that number I two alternative. Prompt 9 and Prompt 22.

dad! harry castillo

prompt 9: adella asks what harry’s job is. he tries to explain hedge funds to a six-year-old. she draws a picture of a hedgehog in a tie.

prompt list

⸻

It was a quiet afternoon—the kind of slow, golden hush that only came after a morning of pancakes, spilled juice, and a long walk through the dunes behind their Montauk home.

The sun filtered soft through the windows, casting warm light across the floorboards of the living room where Adella sat cross-legged with a sketchbook in her lap, her tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth in deep concentration. Crayons were everywhere. Frances laid sprawled nearby, her belly up, tail twitching every now and then as if she was dreaming of something important.

Harry sat nearby in the armchair, reading glasses perched low on his nose, laptop open but untouched on his thighs. He wasn’t reading the reports. Not really. Not when she was sitting there like that—completely absorbed, humming softly under her breath.

His wife walked in from the kitchen with a cup of tea, barefoot, hair up in a loose bun, the sleeves of her cardigan pushed past her elbows. She passed by him, kissed the crown of his head without thinking, and settled on the couch across from him, legs tucked beneath her, a book in hand.

Everything was peaceful.

And then—

“Daddy,” Adella said, lifting her head and squinting at him. “What’s your job?”

Harry blinked.

He wasn’t sure what he expected from her at six. Existential questions weren’t it.

“My job?”

She nodded seriously. “Like… what do you do when you go to your meetings and wear the serious coats and talk on the phone with your mean voice.”

He huffed out a soft laugh, setting his laptop aside. His wife looked up from her book, smirking quietly but saying nothing.

“Well,” Harry said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, “I work in finance.”

Adella blinked. “What’s that?”

“It means I help people grow their money. I invest in companies that I think will do well, and I try to make smart choices so the people who trust me can earn more.”

She stared at him. “That sounds boring.”

“It kind of is,” he admitted.

His wife laughed under her breath. “He’s underselling it, baby. He runs something called a hedge fund.”

Adella’s face scrunched up. “A hedge fund? Like bushes?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then why is it called that?”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought for a second.

“Okay,” he started carefully. “Imagine someone gives me five dollars and asks me to turn it into ten. So I go look for smart companies—like, I don’t know, a toy company or a place that makes snacks—and I use that five dollars to help the company grow. And if the company does well, I give the person back ten dollars. Sometimes more.”

Adella nodded slowly. “Okay… but where are the bushes?”

His wife grinned. “You walked into this.”

“It’s just… it’s a term,” Harry said, already feeling the confusion growing. “The word hedge means to protect something. So a hedge fund is about protecting your investment while still trying to grow it.”

Adella stared.

“Still boring,” she declared, picking up her pink crayon.

Harry leaned back with a smirk. “That’s fair.”

She went quiet for a while after that, sketching away, tongue back between her lips. Harry returned to pretending to read his emails, his wife watching him over the rim of her tea with a soft, amused look in her eyes.

When Adella finally stood up and crossed the room, it was with the same confidence Harry had when handing someone a million-dollar portfolio.

“I drew it,” she announced, holding out the page.

He took it carefully.

And blinked.

It was a hedgehog.

In a navy blue tie.

Sitting behind a desk.

The desk had the words Mr. Dad – Business Hedge Fund Man scribbled in glitter pen.

His wife burst into laughter.

“Is this supposed to be me?” Harry asked, stunned.

Adella nodded. “Yup. You’re the Hedgehog Boss.”

“I—”

She pointed proudly. “See? You have your glasses on. And your coffee. And your phone that you yell into. And your tie. And the hedgehog is very serious, just like you.”

He looked at his wife, who was now laughing so hard she had to put her tea down.

“Tell me again why I ever wanted respect in the business world?” Harry muttered, though he was smiling—really smiling, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the lines on his face.

His wife leaned over, her chin on his shoulder, looking at the drawing with him.

“She’s not wrong,” she whispered.

Harry looked down at the picture again. His chest felt warm. Strange. Soft in a way that meetings and mergers had never made him feel.

“Can I keep this?”

Adella looked surprised. “Really?”

“Of course.” He bent down, lifted her into his lap, the drawing still in one hand. “I’ll put it in my office. Right next to the photo of you in your dinosaur hoodie.”

She beamed. “So all the other hedge people can see it?”

He kissed the top of her head. “Exactly.”

That night, after Adella fell asleep in their bed—curled between them, as always, clutching Frances like a plush toy—Harry stayed awake, the drawing beside his phone on the nightstand.

His wife stirred, rolled over to face him, her hand landing gently on his chest.

“You really kept it,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“Of course I did.”

She smiled against his shoulder. “You know she thinks you’re the biggest person in the world.”

“I’m not.”

“You are to her.”

He was quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing absent circles on her back.

“I used to think my job mattered more than anything,” he said finally. “That success made me real.”

Her eyes opened, soft and sleepy.

“And now?”

He looked at her.

At the tiny figure nestled between them, breathing softly.

At the drawing, still clutched in his hand.

“Now I’d let it all go tomorrow if she asked.”

Her breath caught. Not with surprise. But with recognition.

Because she already knew that.

She reached up, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t need to be the biggest,” she whispered. “You just have to be hers.”

Harry closed his eyes.

Held his girls close.

And thought—for the thousandth time—this was the only hedge worth investing in.

[jackytaylor]

MATERIALISTS (2025) — dir. Celine Song

[ssweeterthanfiction]

off the record!

summary: a sweet journalist is picked to trail billionaire bachelor Harry Castillo for an article that could change her career…and life.

harry castillo x fem journalist!reader

content warnings for the whole story: age gap (harry is in mid forties, reader is in her late twenties), some angst in later chapters (other than that this is going to be for my fluff girlies)

word count: 4.9k

mood board

previous part | masterlist | next part

Chapter Two

You woke up to the sound of your alarm blaring at the exact moment you realized you’d barely slept. Not because you were stressed or anxious, but because your mind wouldn’t stop replaying the events of yesterday. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Harry Castillo. The cool precision of his movements, his dry humor, the way his gaze lingered just a moment longer than necessary. And, of course, the very real possibility that you might have accidentally made a fool of yourself within the first five minutes of meeting him.

Not that you had any regrets about the coffee incident. No, you figured it could have gone worse, he could have yelled, or worse, ignored you completely. But Harry had grinned. Which was somehow worse and better all at once.

As you glanced at the clock, you let out a groan. You were running late again.

Fumbling through your closet, you tried to pick an outfit that didn’t look horrible. You settled on a blouse that wasn’t too fancy, but still polished enough to look like you belonged in the same room as a billionaire. After a few minutes, you were ready, almost. A quick glance in the mirror, makeup on, hair not totally out of control, and you grabbed your things, including the new coffee cup you were going to make sure didn’t end up anywhere near Harry’s suit.

By the time you reached the building, the same sleek lobby greeted you, though this time it seemed a little less intimidating. Maybe it was because you knew where the elevators were, or maybe because you now knew Harry Castillo wasn’t quite the cold, unapproachable mogul you had imagined. Still, he wasn’t exactly the friendliest guy either. No, Harry was something more nuanced, something you weren’t sure you fully understood yet.

The receptionist gave you the same cool assessment as yesterday, but this time, her glance lingered a little longer on the coffee in your hand, as if she were silently checking whether or not you’d make the same mistake again.

“You’re here for Mr. Castillo again?” she asked, her voice flat.

You nodded, offering a polite smile. “Yes. Day two. Should be fun.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, instead directing you toward the elevator with a polite flick of her hand.

As the elevator doors slid closed, you allowed yourself a moment to breathe. Today would be different, you told yourself. You had to approach this with a new energy. Less nervousness. More confidence.

You just hoped Harry wouldn’t notice the slight tremor in your fingers as you checked your phone for the day’s agenda. The elevator doors opened, and you stepped out into the same quiet hallway as yesterday, but today, the energy felt different. Less formal, maybe because you’d already been here once. Or maybe it was because, today, you were expecting Harry to act like—well, a person. Not just a business tycoon.

You didn’t have to wait long.

Harry was standing by the door to the conference room, looking even more effortlessly put together than yesterday. He was wearing a dark gray sweater over a collared shirt, sleeves casually rolled up, and to your surprise, he wasn’t wearing his usual suit jacket. You’d seen the kind of clothes he wore at work, the kind of clothes people expected him to wear. But today, he looked…almost normal. Almost like a person who didn’t run a billion-dollar company. Almost like a person who wasn’t a walking, talking headline.

He looked up as you approached, his dark eyes catching yours for just a second too long. “Morning,” he said, his tone easy and casual, as if you weren’t still playing catch-up after yesterday.

“Morning,” you said, maybe a bit too quickly.

There was a beat of silence, and then Harry glanced over your shoulder, his gaze flicking to your coffee. For a moment, his lips twitched, like he was resisting the urge to say something. Finally, he spoke, deadpan as usual.

“No coffee today?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You chuckled nervously, “Not today. Don’t want to risk dropping it.”

He actually smiled, though it was brief and sharp, just enough to make you second-guess whether you’d imagined it.

“Good choice,” he said, stepping aside to let you into the room. “The coffee here isn’t exactly artisanal.”

You followed him into the conference room, which this time was even more minimal than the day before. No fancy lunches, no elaborate set-ups...just a long table, a few chairs, and, of course, a panoramic view of the city.

He gestured to the chair opposite him. “You can sit. We're just waiting for the others.”

You sat down and opened your notebook, trying to appear as casual as he was. But Harry didn’t immediately start talking about the day’s plans. Instead, he just leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he looked you over, like he was trying to figure you out. Not that he’d ever admit it.

“I noticed something yesterday,” he said, breaking the silence.

You looked up at him. “Oh? What’s that?”

“Usually people in your position are trying to impress me,” he said, his voice softer than before. “But you didn’t. You just…did your job.”

Your stomach flipped. Was that a compliment? Or a subtle jab?

“I don’t believe in trying to impress anyone,” you said. “I just wanted to get through the day without making any more coffee-related disasters.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his lips curling just a little. “That’s one way to look at it.”

You blinked, but before you could respond, the door opened, and the team began to filter in—several men in suits, all nodding politely at Harry before taking their seats around the table. The atmosphere was quiet but efficient, each person settling into their roles without much fanfare.

Harry, as usual, took the lead, his sharp eyes scanning the room as he adjusted the papers in front of him. You couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly he commanded the space, how everyone seemed to fall in line when he spoke. Yet, there was something oddly captivating about how little he tried to project that power—he didn’t yell or demand attention. It was just inherent, in the way he held himself.

For a moment, you let yourself get lost in the smooth cadence of his voice as he discussed the agenda for the meeting. Something about his focus made you want to listen more closely. You scribbled down a few notes, trying to keep up, but there was an unmistakable tension building between you two—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

At one point, Harry glanced over at you, his gaze lingering a moment too long. Then, in the middle of a sentence, he added casually, “If you’re not busy with your notes, you can always ask questions. It’s part of the job.”

You paused, pen hovering over your notepad. Was that an invitation? You hesitated before lifting your eyes to meet his.

“Right. Of course,” you said, mentally scrambling for a question that wasn’t too obvious or too awkward.

You could feel his eyes still on you, but he didn’t push. Instead, he continued with the meeting as if nothing had happened.

It was a strange, silent agreement, this unspoken tension. He wasn’t expecting you to be some sort of sycophant, but he also didn’t seem entirely comfortable with you being too detached, either. You were still an outsider, but for some reason, you could tell he didn’t mind you being there. Not really.

After a few more minutes of strategy and numbers flying over your head, you caught Harry’s eyes again, this time with a small, almost imperceptible smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Alright,” he said, standing up. “Break time. You can come with me to the next site visit, but no coffee. That’s the only rule today.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as you stood up. “I can do that.”

The rest of the team began packing up their things as well, heading toward the elevator, but Harry didn’t wait. He turned on his heel, walking briskly ahead. You followed quickly, feeling the distance between you shrink as you caught up with his long strides.

“Don’t fall behind this time,” Harry called over his shoulder without turning back.

“Trying not to,” you called back, amused. “Do you always walk so fast?”

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze focused ahead as he continued down the hallway. “I do when I’m on a schedule,” he said, glancing at you briefly. “I don’t like wasting time.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Must be exhausting.”

He shot you a sidelong look. “Not when you’re used to it.”

The elevator ride was silent, and when the doors opened on the lower floor, Harry immediately stepped out, moving with that same quiet purpose. You caught the slightest hint of a smirk when he glanced back at you as if to check if you were keeping up.

“Keeping up, I see,” he said, the challenge in his voice soft but there nonetheless.

You smiled, determined not to show that his words had an effect on you. “I’m persistent, not reckless.”

He chuckled under his breath. “I’ll give you that.”

The ride to the site was brief, but even in the car, there was something different in the way he carried himself today. The hard edges of his businessman persona were still there, but you were beginning to see the flickers of something else. Something a little more human. As you got out of the car at the site, you noticed Harry seemed more relaxed. He was less rigid in his movements, less sharp in his gaze.

“Do you always go to these places yourself?” you asked, unable to resist the curiosity. “Most CEOs would just send someone else.”

Harry glanced at you, surprised by your question. Then, after a beat, he answered, “I like being involved. I don’t let other people make decisions without me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You don’t trust anyone else?”

He smirked, turning toward the building under construction. “I trust people, just not always with my vision.”

You followed him into the building, a strange thought lingering in your mind....Harry Castillo wasn’t just a businessman, and he definitely wasn’t just a person who would allow someone to follow him around for a week. There was more to him than the sharp suits and stoic looks. But what?

You could feel yourself wanting to find out. Maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.

The construction site was loud, the clang of metal and hum of machinery filling the air as you followed Harry into the unfinished building. Despite the noise, there was a certain calm in the way Harry moved through the chaos, his eyes scanning the work, his posture relaxed, but always aware.

You’d expected the site to be a mess, but even amidst the scaffolding and construction dust, everything seemed meticulously organized. There were workmen milling about, pointing at blueprints, and hammering away at various structures. It wasn’t a glamorous place, but you could see the vision behind it—the promise of something sleek and modern rising from the rubble.

“So,” you said, glancing at him, “how often do you actually come to these projects?”

Harry didn’t look back at you immediately, keeping his gaze on a foreman talking to a group of workers. “Usually at least once a week. I don’t like to get too caught up in meetings. I like to see the work with my own eyes.”

You nodded, trying to juggle making observations for your article and keeping up with Harry, who was walking so fast you almost had to break into a jog to catch up. “Do you ever get attached to these projects? I mean, they’re all huge investments, right?”

For the first time since you met him, Harry glanced over at you, his expression unreadable. “I don’t get attached. But I care about the outcome. I want things done the right way.”

You raised your eyebrows. “So no emotional attachment at all?”

“No,” he said, almost too quickly. “Business isn’t about emotions.”

That answer surprised you. You expected Harry to be one of those CEOs who would talk about the “vision” of a project, how much it meant to him personally. Instead, it was all about results, efficiency. You found yourself wanting to dig deeper, but you didn’t want to push too hard.

“So, you just…keep it all business?” you asked cautiously.

Harry stopped walking, turned slightly to face you, and tilted his head. There was something in his expression that made you think he was debating whether or not to let his guard down for a second.

“I think business is more about keeping your emotions in check,” he said, his voice lowering. “The moment you get attached to something, you lose sight of the bigger picture.”

You weren’t sure what to make of that. You could understand the logic—it was a competitive world, after all. But there was still something cold about it.

“Does that work for you?” you asked, the question out before you could think better of it.

He looked at you, his eyes narrowing for just a moment. “It has to,” he replied simply, before turning back to the construction workers who were waving him over.

The brief exchange left a strange feeling in your stomach. You could tell there was more beneath the surface with Harry, something he wasn’t quite ready to reveal. And for some reason, you couldn’t let it go.

As you walked toward the next part of the site, you kept your eyes on the work happening around you. It was impressive, the scale of it all. The kind of project that would change the skyline, something that could really make a difference in the city. Harry’s team seemed to take pride in it, even the laborers working in the heat of the day, sweat beading on their foreheads.

“So, what’s your end goal with this one?” you asked, looking back at Harry. “What’s the long-term vision here? I mean, you’ve already made it pretty clear you’re not in this for the personal satisfaction.”

His gaze flicked over to you, this time with a hint of something like amusement, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s about impact. Making something that lasts.”

“And how does that factor into your company’s values?” You couldn’t resist. You had to ask. The whole point of being here was to get those insights.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You like asking questions, don’t you?”

“I’m a journalist,” you replied with a shrug. “It’s kinda my job.”

“You could always write about something simpler,” he said, his voice lightly teasing. “Like coffee or something.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I don’t think ‘Harry Castillo’s Coffee Adventures’ would make for a very engaging article.”

“No?” He paused, as if genuinely considering it. “Maybe we could add a segment about the best espresso in town. You’d be the perfect candidate for the job.”

You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but something in the way he said it made you want to lean into the conversation a little more. The atmosphere between you was lighter than before, more casual. The small smile he wore, though barely there, felt a little more genuine.

Before you could think of a comeback, you both arrived at a section of the site that was still under heavy construction. You marveled at the steel beams and the bare concrete floors stretching out in front of you.

“What’s the biggest challenge you’ve faced with this project?” you asked, hoping for a less guarded answer this time.

Harry took a deep breath, looking around the site, his fingers tapping briefly against the side of his jacket. “The scope. The more people involved, the more problems can arise. It’s about managing expectations and keeping everything on track.”

His response was businesslike, but there was something in the way he spoke that suggested he understood the weight of the responsibility, maybe more than he let on. It wasn’t just about the financials—it was about seeing a vision through, no matter what.

“You make it sound easy,” you said, giving him a sidelong glance. “Is it ever?”

He chuckled, a rare sound that seemed to echo across the steel beams. “If it was easy, everyone would do it.”

That answer hung in the air between you, and for the first time, you saw a different side to Harry Castillo. Someone who didn’t just manage business but was deeply involved in it, someone who carried the weight of these decisions like it was a constant companion.

You weren’t sure if you should ask more questions, or if you’d crossed a line into territory he didn’t want to explore. But you were starting to see that maybe, just maybe, Harry Castillo wasn’t quite the person you expected him to be.

You and Harry moved through the construction site, walking past the workers who barely glanced up, absorbed in their tasks. There was a sense of organized chaos, paperwork and blueprints fluttering in the wind, beams being hoisted into place, cranes towering above like silent sentinels.

It was fascinating, in a way, how something as industrial as this could feel like a delicate dance. Every person, every piece of machinery, had its role to play. You could see why Harry had such a hands-on approach to these projects. It wasn’t just about the end result—it was about understanding how everything fit together.

As you passed a group of workers on a scaffolding, you glanced over at Harry. “How did you get into all this?” you asked, unable to resist the curiosity any longer. “I mean, this isn’t exactly a family business, is it?”

He glanced at you, the usual coolness in his expression still there, but this time, there was something else too, something more relaxed, less guarded. “It was always business for me. My father was a lawyer, my mother worked in finance. I spent more time with spreadsheets than toys growing up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like fun.”

He shrugged. “Not exactly. But I learned how to look at numbers in a different way. And somewhere along the way, I realized that I wanted to build things, not just manage them. Construction was an obvious fit.”

“You’re telling me you’ve always been into construction?” you asked, incredulous. “What, you were building Lego skyscrapers as a kid?”

Harry let out a small chuckle at the image. “I was more of a puzzle person. But I guess it’s the same thing, finding pieces and putting them together in a way that makes sense.”

“Interesting,” you said thoughtfully. “So you’re the ‘big picture’ guy, huh?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his gaze wander over the site, the gears in his mind clearly turning. Finally, he said, “I think the big picture is important, but it’s the small details that make or break it.”

That answer, once again, surprised you. It wasn’t what you expected from someone who had built an empire. Most of the time, it seemed like people in Harry’s position liked to talk about grand visions and big dreams, the stuff that made for good headlines. But Harry? He was focusing on the smaller pieces, the things most people would overlook.

“And do you think you’ve mastered those details?” you asked, your voice softer now, more curious.

Harry’s eyes flicked to you, then back to the workers as they moved to set a heavy beam into place. “Mastery is a bit of a stretch. But I’m getting there.”

You watched him for a moment, the way his jaw tightened slightly as he spoke, the subtle signs of tension that he wasn’t quite letting go of. It made you wonder how much of him was still holding something back. What was he really thinking when he wasn’t wearing that sharp, professional mask?

You didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because the foreman called Harry over, waving from the corner of the site. Harry gave you a small nod and walked toward the man, and you were left to trail behind, notebook in hand.

As you approached the small group of workers discussing logistics, the foreman turned his attention to you for the first time, giving you a nod of acknowledgment. “You’re the journalist, right?”

You smiled and nodded “Yeah, that’s me.”

The foreman chuckled, glancing between you and Harry. “You must have one hell of a story to write. Not many people get to see the boss in action up close like this.”

You shrugged, playing it cool. “Well, we’ll see if I can manage to keep up.”

As you stood there, the conversation between Harry and the foreman seemed to shift to technical details, numbers you didn’t fully understand, but you were trying to catch bits of it. For a moment, you just listened, watching how Harry spoke to the men—no arrogance, no distance, just a straightforward exchange of information. It was fascinating to see him in his element.

When the discussion wound down, Harry turned back to you, his eyes briefly scanning your notebook. “Taking notes?” he asked, his tone still casual but with an edge of curiosity.

“Of course,” you said, jotting something down quickly. “Can’t miss a thing.”

He looked at you for a beat, then said, “You don’t have to write everything down. Just the important stuff.”

You blinked, surprised. “But… that’s the job.”

Harry’s lips curled just slightly. “It’s not always about the facts. Sometimes, it’s about the people. How they make the facts come to life.”

There was something in that statement that stuck with you, something deeper than just business. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was hinting at something more personal. Was he trying to steer you away from the purely factual approach? Or was it just another one of those cryptic remarks Harry was so fond of?

Before you could ask more, he turned and gestured for you to follow. “Come on. I’ll show you the next section.”

The rest of the tour was quieter, less formal. The workers had grown used to you by now, some of them even offering you smiles as you passed by. Harry continued to point out different aspects of the project, but it was clear that he was more focused on the progress than anything else. You found yourself trailing behind him more comfortably now, listening to his explanations and jotting down more questions for later.

The site visit ended with a quick look at the completed floor plans in Harry’s office, a stark contrast to the raw chaos outside. You stood across the table from him, glancing at the paper in front of you as Harry casually adjusted a pen in his hand.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence, “how do you stay motivated? I mean, this is just one of many projects for you.”

Harry didn’t look up from the plans, but his voice was quieter when he spoke. “Motivation’s easy. The harder part is not burning out.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. He seemed more vulnerable in that moment than he had been all day—almost as if he’d just let down a tiny bit of the wall he’d built around himself.

But before you could ask more, Harry glanced up at you. His eyes were back to their usual coolness. “We’re done here. I’ll have my assistant email you the rest of the details for your article.”

You smiled, still processing everything he’d said. “Thanks. For today.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “You didn’t completely embarrass yourself, so I’ll consider it a win.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving you standing there, notebook in hand and a strange, unfamiliar feeling buzzing in your chest.

As the day wound down, you found yourself back in the lobby of Castillo Capital, the familiar, polished atmosphere settling around you. You had made it through the second day without any disasters, and Harry had been Harry. Unpredictable. Slightly cryptic. More human than you expected.

You glanced at the time on your phone, almost 7:00 PM. A part of you had expected to be sent back to your apartment by now, the day’s work finished. But Harry’s team had clearly anticipated that this would be a longer process. As much as you hated to admit it, you couldn’t help but wonder how many late nights Harry actually spent at the office. How often did this work-life balance get skewed in favor of one side?

Your musings were interrupted by Harry’s voice, smooth but carrying just a hint of exhaustion.

“Ready for dinner?” he asked, appearing next to you in the lobby, his jacket slightly askew but still impeccably styled.

You blinked, a little surprised by the sudden invitation. “Uh, sure. You never mentioned anything about dinner.”

Harry’s lips curled into that same small smile that always made your heart skip a beat. “You didn’t think I was going to work you into the ground without feeding you, did you?”

“Seems like something you’d do,” you joked, raising an eyebrow.

He didn’t respond to that right away. Instead, he turned and walked toward the elevator, and you followed after him, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the otherwise quiet lobby.

The elevator ride was short, but in the silence, you found yourself wondering about Harry’s words earlier that day. It’s not always about the facts. Sometimes, it’s about the people. The statement had been so casual, yet it lingered in your mind. Was he really talking about the project? Or was it something more personal?

When the elevator doors opened, you were surprised to find yourselves in a small but sleek dining room, the soft glow of pendant lights illuminating the space. It was intimate but not overly fancy, an unassuming atmosphere, much like Harry’s approach to the day. No pretensions, no grandeur. Just simplicity and focus.

Harry pulled out a chair for you before sitting down across from you, his eyes scanning the room for a moment before he focused back on you. “Dinner should be quiet. Just a break from the chaos.”

You glanced at the menu, feeling slightly out of place in the pristine setting. “I think ‘quiet’ is a relative term for you.”

He smirked. “It’s quiet when I want it to be.”

You chuckled, setting your napkin on your lap. The waiter appeared a moment later, and Harry ordered something effortlessly elegant, then looked over at you. “What will it be?”

You froze for a second, eyes flicking to the items on the menu. Normally, you’d do something safe, something you could recognize, but suddenly you felt a strange pressure to choose something… fitting. Something that wouldn’t make you look like you’d just walked out of a coffee shop.

You cleared your throat. “I’ll have the… risotto, I guess.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your hesitance. “You guess?”

“Okay, I’m not exactly a gourmet,” you admitted. “I stick to what I know.”

“That’s fair,” he said with a slight grin. “But you should try something new every now and then. You might surprise yourself.”

You found yourself smiling back, a little embarrassed but enjoying the unexpected warmth in his tone. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

The conversation shifted to more neutral territory after that—brief chatter about your respective days, the usual work-related banter that kept things casual. But every now and then, Harry would glance at you, his gaze just a little more thoughtful, like he was trying to figure something out. And, oddly enough, you couldn’t help but feel the same way. Harry Castillo was a puzzle. The more time you spent with him, the more you wanted to solve it.

But for now, you contented yourself with the moment. The conversation was easy enough, the food was surprisingly good, and the quiet between the two of you didn’t feel awkward—just comfortable. In fact, there was a peace to it that you hadn’t expected.

As the meal came to a close, Harry pushed his plate aside and looked across the table at you, his eyes narrowing just a bit. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions today,” he said, his voice steady but with an edge of curiosity.

You smiled slightly, leaning back in your chair. “I’m just doing my job.”

He didn’t respond at first, studying you for a moment, as if weighing your answer. Then, he spoke, his voice softer now.

“I’ve noticed that. You don’t just ask questions to get answers, you’re trying to understand. It’s different.”

You blinked, a little thrown off by the sudden shift in tone. “Is that a compliment?”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Could be.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I’ll take it.”

The small exchange felt significant. Like a line had been drawn between the two of you, one that was a little less professional and a little more human. And that, more than anything else, felt like progress.

As you finished up your meal and prepared to leave, Harry stood up first, offering his hand to you in a surprisingly gentle gesture.

“Tomorrow’s another early one,” he said, his voice returning to its usual cool professionalism. “But for now, I’ll give you a break.”

You took his hand, your fingers brushing briefly against his, and nodded. “I’m looking forward to it.”

As you both stepped out into the cool evening air, the city lights flickering around you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe—just maybe—you were starting to figure Harry out. Or at least, you were beginning to see that there was more to him than the sharp exterior.

And that, in itself, felt like something worth exploring.

A/N: ahhh it's finally out!! i hope you all enjoyed <33

Taglist!!🏷️ @anonymousbambi @possiblyafangirl @mallingcalling-blog @isa942572 @sarahhxx03 @loveisacowboyyy @jxvipike @anoverwhelmingdin @joelmillerpascal @decadent-hag1 @hotforpedro @meetmeatyourworst @15christyxoxo

if you'd like to be included in this taglist lmk in the replies!

[httpsastral]

"eat the rich" i'm trYING

[millermouth]

𝙭𝙤𝙭𝙤

Masterlist || Harry Castillo x Reader || Part II: RingGate

Summary: After a carefully crafted meeting over coffee, your public debut with Harry unfolds better than you ever expected. Each event slides effortlessly into the next as the plan is executed, performance convincing, and everything seems to fall into place exactly as you intended. And yet, you never could’ve predicted the effect it would have on you. || fake dating, tabloids, Gossip Girl AU, socialite!reader, richgirl!reader, kinda bratty!reader, NYC, reader is in her mid 20s, old money lifestyle, trust fund babies, age gap, rich people problems, reader has a last name for storytelling purposes, no y/n, alcohol consumption, implied drug use ||

You weren’t entirely sure why you’d called Harry back. 

Well, no, that was probably a lie. You knew exactly why. 

Harry Castillo made sense in a way no one else did. He was everything your parents meant when they spoke about a ‘good man’ to ‘settle you down’. He was sophisticated and predictably traditional, he came from a wealthy family, understood reputations and legacies, and didn’t have a scrap of dirt on him being seen at coke fueled yacht parties. Just nice tailored suits, understated luxury watches, and generous golf outings with potential investors.

But there was something else, too. Something that made him even better than all of that combined.

Harry was old enough to make anyone seeing you on his arm do a double take. Old enough to raise eyebrows. And you liked that. Hell, you loved it. Because while your mother would probably sing the praises of dating a nice, rich man with so much generational wealth he could bury you in it, the second she would see it was him, you could almost picture her face falling. 

The Castillo name always earned a reaction in your family. Some long standing rivalry between your father and his, some sort of stock market tension or power play. Your mother always made a face as if the name sounded spoiled on her tongue and your father always got a set in his jaw at the briefest mention of Castillo Investments. And though your families orbited each other for decades, running in the same circles and sharing the same tables, they never managed to sit comfortably side by side. 

So yes, Harry was perfect. 

Because if you had to play by their rules, you’d make sure it still felt like your own game.

He looked the part now, sitting across from you in his crisp button down and open tailored blazer, the espresso cup held delicately between two fingers. The drink had long gone cold, but he swirled what remained, mulling over something in his mind. You were halfway through your latte, bringing it to your lips for another slow sip. 

“So,” he said, voice low and thoughtful, “we’re agreed on hand holding?”

You nodded, watching him over the rim.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “And…kissing?”

You set the mug down with a soft clink. “It’s supposed to look real, isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“Real relationships don’t shy away from touch. I think a few public kisses are okay.”

He nodded back to you, “Just…you’ll have to let me know when you feel uncomfortable. If it gets to be too much.”

“Same to you. I don’t want to look like we’re in some rom-com soap opera.”

He leaned back in his chair, finally setting down the espresso cup with care. “I think you’ll find I’m quite good at moderation. But for clarity’s sake… what is off-limits?”

You considered for a moment, brushing a crumb from your napkin. “I mean… I guess the only rule I really care about is not humiliating each other. I seem to do that to myself enough as it is. So no divulging about us in interviews, no winks or jokes about the bedroom. If people ask, they can assume what they want. But we don’t talk about it.”

Harry nodded, his gaze steady. “Agreed. No innuendo, no details. Private things stay private.”

“Yes,” you agreed, your stomach doing a little flip at the thought.

“How long do you see us doing this for?” he asked.

You took a beat, thinking. “I only need eight weeks. By then, my family and I will be in the Hamptons hosting the annual Midsummer White Party—you know, everyone in white, garden tea, obligatory polo matches, and networking paraded around as philanthropy.”

Harry smiled, knowing. “Ah, yes. The crown jewel of performative generosity.”

You lifted your cup in mock salute. “Exactly. So if that works for you, we can bow out gracefully then.”

Harry nodded, “That should work. Camilla should be back by then and will most likely be attending. So the timing lines up.”

“Perfect,” you said, setting your cup down with a soft clink. “She can blend in with the party, and we can quietly let the news of a breakup make its rounds and...go on with our lives as if none of it happened.”

"Sounds very civil," he murmured, and then, eyes finding yours again as he sipped his espresso, “And when questions get asked about when we started dating?” he added.

You perked up. “Actually, I was thinking about that. I might have an idea.”

“Oh?”

You grinned. “The Met Gala. I’m already on the list, and so are you. I’m thinking, what if we made our public debut at the afterparty?”

“You and after parties, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, “It would be a good place to be seen together, and then if some civilian takes a photo of us cuddling in a booth, I think that would sell the thing perfectly. Rather than playing it up on the red carpet which might look more forced.”

“That’s next week, is that too soon for you?”

“Not at all. In fact–”

You reached across the table, gently taking his hand and adjusting the way he held his coffee cup. You tilted his fingers slightly, so that the emerald ring on his finger caught the light just right, gleaming against the white ceramic.

He gave you a curious look. “What are you doing?”

You brought your own latte closer, arranging your hand just so, both of you touching the handles of your mugs, your nails freshly painted and perfectly visible. You snapped a photo.

“This,” you said, opening Instagram, “is called a ‘soft launch,’ Harry,” 

“Soft launch?” he asked with an amused grin.

You didn’t look up. “It’s where you show just enough to make people wonder who you’re with, but not enough to confirm anything. You post it to stories and let the speculation do the work.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, clearly entertained. “You really have this down to a science.”

You tapped through the filters without much care. “You said you wanted a distraction, right? This is how you make a splash without stepping outside.”

He leaned forward slightly, studying the image on your screen. “No one will know that’s me.”

“That’s the point,” you said. “Gotta keep it mysterious at first.”

He watched you with something that might’ve been admiration, or at the very least amusement. “You’re not what I expected.”

You smiled, “Would’ve been quite boring if I was predictable. Besides, you don’t want calm. You need chaos, and it just so happens the chaos you’re looking for is dressed in Chanel.”

That earned a real laugh — not the polite kind, but a rich, unguarded one that curled warmly at the edges. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, and for a second it made your chest pull in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Alright then,” he said, lifting the last of his espresso in a little toast. “To soft launches.”

You touched your mug to his and took a sip, the two of you smiling at each other over the rims.

You were rather pleased with yourself as you sat down at the table marked with your family name. The tablescape was decadent with pink and white flowers, crisp linen pressed to perfection beneath the gleaming gold flatware and bone white china. Tiny menus rested at each place setting and were printed on thick, textured cardstock with  blush borders and embossed initials. Mimosas floated past in crystal clutches, delivered by white-gloved staff as the bridal shower brunch officially began beneath a silk-draped pergola on the Van der Woodsen terrace.

A harpist played delicately in the background, drowned only by the clinking of glasses and happy conversation around Serena. She was absolutely glowing in her white floor length gown and long white gloves, the essence of bridal straight from a magazine. 

But it wasn’t the atmosphere that had you feeling so content. No, the smile tugging at the corner of your lips was from the fact that you’d sent the bait and people were flocking to it. Your soft launch with Harry had gone perfectly. You went unnoticed in the coffee shop but public online, it was purposely vague and yet sparked obsession across Gossip Girl and your DMs. Your plan was working. And across the table, it made your mother’s glare taste even better.

“Honestly, you think you’d want to actually be on time given the circumstances.” she scoffed as she aggressively snapped her napkin across her lap. Her greying hair was scraped back into an uptight bun, silver Tiffany hoops glittering in her ears and a beautiful, fresh look to her makeup. She was the picture of nobility, even as she sat across burning daggers into you. 

And you too looked put together, good enough to pretend our weekend scandal never happened. A gauzy, floor length floral dress tickled your ankles, with woven wedges and golden teardrop earrings to accompany your understated look. But you could still feel the eyes, the whispers, the people around you looking over. 

You knew your headline wouldn’t die with a simple coffee date exposition. 

“I wasn’t even that late,” you muttered, sipping at the bubbly flute of champagne and orange juice. The look she gave you doesn’t go unnoticed, but it was cut off by another voice behind you.

“Did you really block my number again?”

You didn’t even have to turn to see who it was.

“Are men even allowed at these things?” you asked your mother flatly, ignoring the voice behind you.

Your mother exhaled, “Charles,” she said in greeting, though tired, “thank you for joining us. But yes…usually it is just the women who come to these.”

You glanced over your shoulder to see your brother with his hands gripping the back of your chair. Impeccably dressed, a crisp blue blazer and freshly cut hair. Of course, he also had a faint white dusting beneath his one nostril.

“How’re the donuts?” you smiled sweet as syrup, using your code for wipe your fucking nose, dumbass.

He clocked your meaning with a swipe to his nose with the back of his hand. “Delicious,” he murmured with a mocking smile, reaching for a glass of champagne like it was a handshake.

“But seriously,” he added as he flopped into the seat beside you, “are you mad at me or is this about your Girls Gone Wild debut?” 

“Can people please stop calling it that?” you whined into your hand, covering your face, “I especially don’t need to be hearing it out of my own brother’s mouth, Chuck.”

He shrugged, “Kind of iconic, sis,”

“Charles.” your mother hissed with a scowl.

“Where’s B?” you asked him, hoping to god for a change of subject.

Chuck didn’t look at you as his jaw tightened and he stared out onto the terrace.

“Busy, I think.” he finally said.

You narrowed your eyes, “Busy with what? I just talked to her last night. She’s supposed to be here too.”

He leaned back in his chair and downed the rest of his glass. “I didn’t ask. She said not to come over last night, so I didn’t.” His voice was casual, but you knew him too well, there was a crack in it, right under the surface.

You didn’t press, you rarely did. It was their thing, whatever strange, codependent gravity held them together all these years. You’d long since stopped trying to understand it, and it wasn’t worth messing into anymore, even if it was the strangest feeling in the world: having your brother and best friend dating, that is.

But before you could say anything else, you felt a shift in the air, could smell warm perfume and that glowing Serena energy that always preceded her like a weather front.

“There you are!” she beamed, sliding up behind your chair and throwing her arms over you. You stood automatically, turning into her embrace, your arms sliding around her waist in return. Her hair brushed your cheek, smelling clean and floral and always so impossibly soft, and for a moment it felt like being sixteen again, sneaking out of benefits and charity galas just to smoke in the park and talk about boys you’d never marry.

She squeezed you once more than necessary.

And then, right beside your ear, voice low and lilting, she said, “Harry?”

You pulled back, blinking. For a second, you forgot where you were. She was smiling tightly, eyes bright enough to register the glee beneath it all. Your pulse spiked.

She knew. You didn’t know how, but she knew. 

She gave a tiny nod, conspiratorial, and you mirrored it automatically, your body moving before your brain could catch up. 

She giggled, delighted, and pulled you back into her arms

“I won’t tell a soul until you’re ready!” she whispered like it was sacred, “I recognized the Darius ring immediately!”

Your stomach dropped. Because if she knew, if she could identify it from a vague, cropped, untagged post over morning coffee... then everyone else wasn’t far behind. You’d set the match and the fuse was lit.

It was only a few seconds that you held each other there, but as you let go of each other you realized your hands were clammy when you reached for your champagne glass. You’d wanted this, you’d pictured how it’d go, when people would finally figure it all out and the gossip would start. But it was another thing to see the knowing in Serena’s eyes. To realize it had worked.

And the nicest thing about her was that she never asked about your messes or pressed you to do better or change your ways. She had her own fallouts once, and you were each other’s favorite bad influence until she got help junior year and started using words like boundaries and healing. But even now—clean, radiant, engaged—she wasn’t sanctimonious. She never needed you to explain yourself.

She just watched, knew, kept secrets like a dragon keeping its jewels. And she didn’t miss much, least of all a man’s ring.

The following week, you arrived at the Gala with your nerves fluttering beneath a glittering, bespoke Gucci gown. As the car crept behind a long line of black SUVs outside the Met, you ran your hands over the hand-sewn jewels stitched across the fabric, trying to steady yourself. The fabric clung like a second skin, sheer and opalescent, dusted with crystals that caught every flicker of light. Soft tulle spilled from your hips in delicate, weightless layers, each one shifting like smoke when you moved. The bodice swept off your shoulders in an ethereal curve, barely there, as if the entire dress had been spun from stardust and breath.

Outside the windows, camera flashes strobed like lightning. Journalists, paparazzi, and red carpet interviewers stood pressed against barricades while celebrities floated past them, their stylists, managers, and handlers hovering just out of frame. Everything looked exactly as it always did every year, controlled and perfect and expected. But something about this time felt heavier, almost electric.

Maybe it was you, maybe it was the buzz of cameras flashing in your face while you were sober this time. Maybe it was the fact you and Harry were going public tonight. The thought of him made your stomach turn and flutter into your lungs. 

The moment your driver opened the door, everything shifted. The hum of the carpet swelled into a roar with the snaps of camera flashes and sharp cries of your name cutting through the night. From the left and the right, voices shouted, whistles pierced the air, all of it crashing toward you in a dizzying rush of flashbulbs and frenzy.

Typically, you just waltzed into these without so much commotion, just a pretty daughter of a major donor to the museum. But tonight there was no chance you’d sneak by with only one or two photos. At least this time your dress, though it clung to every curve, was full coverage. Elegant and thoughtfully styled and tailored to your body. Not like last Saturday when your nipples made headlines.

Your heels hit the carpet and you glided forward, plastering your best soft smile across your face, though the redness in your cheeks was hard to miss. You didn’t stand for photos, you kept moving, kept walking, because you thought your knees might give out if you didn’t. 

Just find your family, find your table and your family and just sit before you throw up.

And then, once mercifully inside the grand doorway, a softer, elegant buzz fell around the room and you let out a long breath. Crystal chandeliers glowed above long tables dressed in gold and white, set between marble statues and famous paintings. It was breathtaking, curated within an inch of its life.

You spotted your mother and father at a table across the room and began to move towards them, when you were suddenly stopped short. There, stepping directly into your path, was a woman with a sleek, dirty-blonde bob and an icy blue coat draped over her shoulders. Her sequined gown shimmered with an elegance that commanded a room without question.

“Anna-!” you blurted, “Ms–Ms. Wintour, how are you?”

She didn’t smile or even reply to your greeting. Her eyes were like sharp daggers through silk.

“Miss Montclair,” she said crisply, “You were removed from the guest list earlier this week due to recent…events.”

The words hit like a slap across the face. You almost wish she had slapped you instead.

Your mother’s words from last week rang through your mind as you stared into Anna’s cold, green eyes.

You can forget about your cover with Forbes. Vogue sure isn’t going to take you back.

And here was the truth, standing in your path— the editor and chief of Vogue herself telling you that you were no longer welcome. 

“I—what?”

“Your family is, of course, still welcome. I believe they’re in their seats right now. But you were struck from the official list.”

You didn’t even realize how tight your hands had curled until your fingernails pressed so hard into the palms of your hands you thought you might start bleeding. You glanced over her shoulder at your mother who was suddenly not looking at you at all.

So this was how it happened. Your first public appearance since the scandal, in front of every person who mattered, and you were going to be escorted out.

You felt your chest tighten—your throat caught, eyes already hot.

But then, there was a warm hand at the small of your back.

“Ah, Ms Wintour, thank you for finding my date.”

You turned, and there he was.

Flawless in all black Tom Ford, tie knotted perfectly and not a single hair out of place. He stood beside you, his chest emitting warmth as it brushed your shoulder, steady and calm as his eyes met Anna’s without blinking.

“Mr. Castillo–” Anna said, surprised.

“I’ll take her to her seat now, thank you,” he said calmly.

“You’re attending together?”

“Yes,” Harry said, “she’s my guest tonight.”

There was a long pause as Anna looked between the two of you, her eyes momentarily caught on the way his arm was around you.

“Very well,” she said with a nod, stepping back. And just like that, she turned and disappeared into the crowd of curated faces and brand sponsored gowns.

You stood frozen, watching her go.

You heard Harry’s voice, so gentle beside you, as it brought you back to the moment, “You okay?”

You took in a gulp of air, remembering yourself, and nodded. He didn’t say anything else before gently guiding you forward, hand staying at the small of your back, through the velvet ropes and into the glittering madness of the main hall.

“You look really nice tonight,” he whispered in your ear as you closed in on the table with your family. It was decorated with white orchids and gold place cards, and you could just make out your name when he stopped you. He turned you towards himself, his hand coming up to your upper arm, steady and gentle.

“Thanks,” you swallowed, but your voice felt so small. You weren’t sure all you were thanking for, but it was for everything, really. For saving you from social torment, for guiding you through the buzzing crowd when you could barely catch your breath. Maybe even for the compliment.

He smiled, just slightly, then lifted a hand to your chin. His thumb brushed softly against it before he glanced behind you. He nodded once, tight, toward your family before turning away and melting into the crowd.

You watched him for a long moment, already being stopped by some hedge fund heir in a pearl bespoke tux.

Sinking slowly into your seat, you could already feel your mother watching, your father’s eyes on the back of Harry’s head.

Both of them confused, and more than anything, furious.

“Care to explain what exactly that was?” your mother said tersely over the rim of her champagne flute.

The swell of the room came back to you as if you were stuck in a whirlwind and finally climbing back out. Around you, the long table buzzed with idle chatter as guests admired the floral arrangements, whispered about other guest’s attire, and traded gossip beneath the glow of crystal chandeliers.

“Can we do this later?” you managed to say, barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure you had it in you to explain everything in the midst of your near social exile.

Your mother opened her mouth to object, but your father cut in first. “She’s right. Later.” and then his deep, stern eyes were on you, “But I expect to hear about it.”

You gave a small nod, grateful for the reprieve, even if temporary, just as Blair slid gracefully into the seat beside you.

She looked like she’d walked out of a fashion editorial, or perhaps an old film—her deep plum gown cut sleek and sharp across her collarbones, the satin catching the light like still water. A band of silver sequins wrapped low around her hips, subtle but stunning, accentuating the drape of the fabric. Her hair was curled softly around her shoulders, her expression calm but knowing.

She didn’t say anything at first, simply reached for her water, took a slow sip, and then leaned in slightly toward you. “You looked incredible,” she murmured. “Even with the parental firing squad.”

You smiled, immediately at ease with your best friend beside you.

“I’m so glad you’re here, B.”

“Please. Like I’d miss this circus. Besides, half of these people are wearing Waldorf gowns, you think my mother would let me miss out on her chance to boast?”

You exhaled, shoulders lowering just slightly. Around you, the room went from a buzzing livewire to hushed tones and the scrape of chairs as everyone took their seats. With Blair beside you, you almost felt like you could face everything the night had in store.

And when all the glitz and glamor dissolved into a haze of flashbulbs and farewells, you found yourself grateful to slip away from the velvet ropes and instead, behind a nondescript steel door with music blaring from inside.

The speakeasy was low-lit and smoky, filled with only the right people. No flashing cameras or press agents. Just velvet booths, a marble bar backlit in soft amber, and a jazz band in the corner with a singer who looked like she was plucked straight from a 20’s Hollywood movie. You let your shoulders drop as the door swung closed behind you, the noise of the outside world sealed off completely.

“Oh god,” Blair muttered beside you, adjusting her diamond earrings. “I see Chuck.”

You rolled your eyes. “He wasn’t even at the gala.”

“Exactly,” she hissed, already backing away. “Classic Chuck, always ruining my night when it’s just about to get fun. I’ll find you later, okay?”

You nodded, amused, and made your way toward the bar.

You ordered your dirty gin martini—Ice cold. Like frostbite. I want my hand to hurt just holding it. The bartender smirked as he went to make it, his gaze lingering too long at your neckline. You stared back blankly until he finally turned away.

Your fingers skimmed your phone screen as you leaned into the bar, scrolling through the expected: red carpet recaps, Vogue slideshows, slow-motion video of someone’s Glambot from the night. You caught sight of yourself in a carousel of photos—you, for once, not for scandal, but for style. A quiet thrill settled in your chest.

Then came a voice, low and close.

“And how many martinis are we thinking for tonight?”

You didn’t have to turn. “You really do have a knack for sneaking up on me tonight, Harry.”

He settled in beside you, his presence tall and steady and gleaming at the edges—like some sleek, expensive car pulling up beside yours at a red light.

“Only one,” you murmured to answer him when he didn’t say anything. “Just enough to take the edge off.”

He lifted his own glass, ice clinking faintly. “Tequila.”

“Of course,” you said, “Can’t help but wonder what that says about you.”

“Dangerously misunderstood,” he replied, deadpan.

You smirked.

The bartender set your drink down with a soft clink, and Harry’s hand brushed your lower back as he gestured toward a booth across the room.

The leather was black and glossy beneath the dim gold light that bounced from the sconces along the wall. Harry slid in first, and you followed, settling beside him as his free arm draped behind you along the top of the loveseat. The heat of him was immediate as he moved in closer. He smelled like sandalwood and amber, sharp and expensive. You could feel the weight of his presence, could hear the shift of his jacket as he leaned in. He was close enough to count the gold flecks in his dark, endless brown eyes.

“Did you have a good night?” you asked, keeping your voice smooth even as your pulse ticked higher. You tried not to shift under the burn of his nearness, tried to ignore the way your skin prickled where his breath grazed your cheek.

He nodded, his thumb lightly circling your wrist as his hand drifted closer on the table, casual but intentional.

“You're a natural,” you added, tilting your head up at him, trying to make it look like flirty banter to any wandering eyes. God he was close.

He mirrored your tilt with a slow, knowing smile. “I saw the bartender looking at you.”

You glanced back toward the bar and caught it. The glint of a phone, half-concealed behind the ice bin. Filming.

“I think he’s recording us,” you whispered when you looked back up to Harry. You leaned in slightly, your voice like a secret.

“What do you say we get this show on the road?” he asked. 

You faced him full, heartbeat quickening. “Okay.” you said, softer now.

“Come closer,”

You set your glass down. Condensation kissed your fingertips as you brushed your hand along the front of his tuxedo jacket, pulling him toward you. The room seemed to fall away—replaced by shadows, low voices, and his warmth beside you.

“I’m going to touch you now, okay?” he asked, and when you nodded, your throat too tight to speak, he added, “Let me know if it’s too much,” 

His breath fanned over your face, smelling like spearmint and alcohol and that oud wood cologne as his fingers trailed from your wrist to the bend of your elbow, cold from the glass of his drink. Goosebumps bloomed across your skin like reflex as he moved in closer—so close his nose nuzzled yours, then traced the high arc of your cheekbone, lingering at your temple before slowly sliding into your hairline, hidden from sight. His breath was warm, slow, steady.

You didn’t mean to grip his lapel so tightly. But your fingers curled anyway, holding him closer than maybe necessary, your knuckles brushing the silk pocket square as if searching for something to anchor you.

Your eyes fluttered shut and he hovered at your ear, close enough for the edge of his jaw to graze your skin.

And then, just when you thought he might pull back, he said: 

“Good job,” voice low, neither smug or insincere. You weren’t sure if he meant your touch, your composure, or the flush you could feel blooming high on your cheeks. Maybe all three.

You drew back slowly, your hand falling from his jacket as your eyes lifted to meet his. But not before they lingered for a second too long on his mouth. When you looked up again, his gaze was already there, steady and a little cheeky, the burned caramel of his eyes catching the soft light and holding your reflection inside them.

You offered him a smile, “Not bad for our first show, huh?”

He shifted slightly, his eyes flicking to the table just as your phone began to buzz beside your glass.

“You tell me,” he said, his voice lighter now, a smile playing at the edge of his mouth.

You picked up your phone, and for a moment, your smile threatened to widen. But you caught it quickly, schooling your expression into something more performative—eyes wide, just the right amount of shock, thumb frozen above the screen like you weren’t expecting exactly this.

Across your notifications, Gossip Girl was already doing what she did best.

“I am trying very hard not to look excited right now,” you whispered, keeping a hand over your mouth so no one could see your smile.

“Why, have I gotten you all twitterpated?” Harry said in your ear, reading the screen.

“Harry, it’s the twenty-first century, no one says that shit anymore,” you said, letting your smile break free as you dropped your hand to reach for your drink and took a sip. The alcohol was cooling against your burning skin, your parched throat, your heavy tongue. Everything felt so real suddenly, like it was snowballing further and further as you saw people around you reaching for their phones, reading their notifications, their eyes finding you in the corner of the room.

“So yes, I think we put on quite a show, don’t you?” Harry said, lifting his glass to his lips.

You leaned back just slightly, letting the confidence settle in your bones. “Close it out with a standing ovation?”

He laughed softly, then set his drink down and reached for you again, nodding. His hands found your waist and tugged you in, your shoulder bumping against his chest. Without another word, he pressed a single kiss to the high point of your cheekbone. Just a small, sweet, calculated gesture. The kind that would photograph beautifully under dim lights of the room.

“How’s that?” he asked in your ear.

You blinked, caught off guard.

“I was thinking of something a little more exciting, but I think that'll do.” you chuckled, voice low, eyes flitting to his lips before settling back on his eyes.

“Can’t give them everything they want,” he said, eyes twinkling.

You huffed in amusement, but then quietly asked, “Can I return the favor?”

His eyes flicked to yours, just a fraction of hesitation before he gave a subtle nod that was measured and careful, like everything he did.

You leaned in, pressing your lips to the edge of his jaw, where his five o’clock shadow covered his skin. It was brief and camera friendly, but still, the second your mouth met the warmth of his rough with scruffy face, your stomach gave a tight and fluttering twist.

“I’m starting to think you’re better at this than me, Castillo,” you murmured, your lips brushing just close enough to make sure he felt the words.

He smiled, soft and smug, “Wouldn’t dream of it, Montclair.”

note from the author: okay yes chuck is your brother and im pretending he doesn't have the last name Bass in this!! sorry bass lovers!! his dad sucked anyway!!

taglist: @ovaryacted, @boscogirlsworld, @or-was-it-just-a-dream, @marisemonteiroo, @obsessedwithjustaboutanything, @umadirectioner, @yslgreen, @blogwagenzmom, @ch0c01atech1p, @vickie5446, @silksepia, @maiamore, @avengersfan25, @indiegirlunited, @tofics, @magicxmiller, @stevie75, @littlcdarlin

[haleyatwell]

CHRIS EVANS, DAKOTA JOHNSON & PEDRO PASCAL Chris Evans, Dakota Johnson & Pedro Pascal Argue The Weirdest Would You Rather? Questions | LADbible (June 2, 2025)

[amyleepascal]

Props up for auction from Materialists

#pedropascal

[pedropascal24-7]

Dakota, Chris, and Pedro on set of Materialists

[elliespuns]

[yellenabelova]

Dakota Johnson & Pedro Pascal Answer Rapid-Fire Questions | Off the Cuff | Vogue

[pinklemonadesociety]

I would pull him over just to look at that pic.

[gryfficons]

[archivecevans]

CHRIS EVANS, Pedro Pascal and Dakota Johnson for Empire Magazine 🤍