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foxtrology · 22 days ago

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forever young (10)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 20k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, children, unedited, all mistakes are mine.

hi, you. if you’ve made it here, thank you. this is the final chapter of harry’s story—AT LEAST, the big one. i’ve poured so much into this series, and knowing it’s found people who’ve cared for it, cried with it, and rooted for these characters alongside me has meant more than i can say. writing this has been a love letter to grief, growth, and the quiet kind of love that stays. i hope you feel that in these last lines. thank you for reading. truly. always. — alana

The sheets were warm.

That was the first thing she noticed—not the light, not the weight of the day ahead, not even the tiny sighs from the crib a few feet away. Just warmth. Soft and crumpled and clinging faintly to her skin like sleep hadn’t quite finished its hold on her.

Harry hadn’t moved. Which was surprising, given he was usually up by six to check the markets or glare out a window with black coffee in hand like a man born to brood.

But now—now he was still in bed, chest rising slow and steady under the weight of the comforter, his arm slung lazily across her hip, palm warm against the curve of her back. His wedding ring caught a glint of soft light where it rested near her ribs, half-hidden by the fabric of her nursing bra.

He was a now father.

A father to Adella Castillo.

And she was now a mother to Adella Castillo.

The name came from his mother.

She saw the way Harry's face changed when she said it—Adella.

Not a suggestion. A decision. A gift.

The name of the woman who raised him, the one who taught him softness in a brutal world.

He didn’t cry right away. He just nodded. Then took a shaky breath. And whispered, ‘My mother would’ve loved her.’

She’d always known what they’d name their daughter. Before the ultrasounds. Before the kicks. Before the heartbeat on the screen. It had always been Adella.

Naming her after his mother felt right. It felt like choosing legacy. Not the one she came from—but the one they were building.

She loved saying it—Adella. Soft and strong. A name that already felt broken in, like it had always belonged to their girl.

She didn’t know it was possible for a man to become gentler in real time. But Harry did—almost instantly. Like fatherhood had always been just under the surface, waiting.

The moment she heard that first cry, something cracked open inside her. Not pain. Not relief. Something older. Something rooted. Harry cried harder than she did. She remembered thinking that through the fog. That he wept like someone who didn’t think he’d ever get to live this life.

Adella had a full head of hair. Tiny fists. And a cry that sounded offended to be out in the world. She was perfect

The first thing she said after giving birth was just Harry’s name, over and over, like she couldn’t believe it. She was exhausted. Her body hurt in places she didn’t know had names. But when Harry whispered, ‘You did it,’ it all felt worth it.

The second they placed Adella on her chest, time folded in on itself. She forgot the machines. The lights. The sweat. The pain. It was just her, and Harry, and the tiniest weight she’d ever held.

There was blood. There was sweat. There were curses. But there was also the moment she felt her baby move through her body and out into the world—and nothing else had ever mattered so much.

In bed, she slowly came back to earth when she smelled him—soap and sleep and something a little musky that always lingered right at the edge of his skin, especially in the morning. His stubble had rasped lightly against her shoulder earlier, when he stirred to check the baby, but apparently decided against doing much else.

She turned her head, just slightly, until her nose bumped his. His eyes didn’t open. Not fully.

Just the barest flicker—those deep, still-sleepy eyes crinkling at the corners before he mumbled, “Why are you looking at me like that.”

“I’m not,” she whispered.

“You are.”

“Your breath smells like hell.”

He cracked one eye open fully. “Romance isn’t dead after all.”

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. If anything, she shifted closer, draping her arm across his chest. His skin was warm, a little rough. Familiar.

The crib beside the bed let out a soft creak. They both froze. And then—a mewl.

Tiny. Breathy. The kind of newborn sound that was more suggestion than demand.

When she had told him she was pregnant it was the exact day of their second wedding anniversary.

They were supposed to go out to dinner that night. A reservation in the city, something overpriced with waiters in black ties. But at the last minute, she asked if they could stay in instead. Just the two of them.

She made spaghetti from scratch. Harry lit candles. The cat jumped on the table and knocked over the parmesan. It was quiet, perfect, and ordinary—exactly the way she wanted him to remember it.

She told him between bites. No big reveal. No tiny shoes in a box or pastel confetti. Just her looking up from her plate, saying softly, “I think I’m pregnant.”

Harry’s fork didn’t even make it to his mouth. He set it down and stared. Not panicked. Not blank. Just…stunned. Like something clicked into place.

“You think?” he said first, voice lower than usual.

She nodded. Then added, “I took two tests.”

His eyes welled up. And not in the glossy, sentimental movie way. Just full. Raw. He reached across the table and said, “Come here,” even though she was already standing.

They didn’t finish dinner. They sat on the couch for hours instead, legs tangled, the candles burning low, her hand resting lightly on her stomach. It didn’t feel real yet. But it also didn’t feel scary anymore.

Later that night, he walked into the hallway and opened the coat closet. Pulled out a sealed box from the top shelf she’d never seen before. Inside was a blanket. A rattle. And a tiny knit hat.

“I bought these a long time ago,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Didn’t know if I’d ever get to use them.”

She didn’t cry then. Not really. But she pressed her face into his chest and whispered, “You will now.”

They fell asleep with the blanket between them. And when she woke up the next morning, Harry had his hand still resting over it like a promise.

Now he woke up to, two of his girls.

Harry sighed softly. “She's only slept three hours.”

She was already moving, gently peeling the comforter back and slipping out of bed with practiced quiet. The floor was cool under her feet, but the air inside the loft was warm—the heat still on because Harry insisted the baby couldn’t sleep in anything less than “womb temperature.” He read it in a book.

The crib was a temporary setup—nothing grand. Just a bassinet tucked on her side of the bed with soft blankets, a few stuffed animals on a nearby shelf, and a sleepy cat curled in the corner.

Frances.

She loved Adella in a way no one expected. She had taken to guarding the crib like it was her full-time job, eyes barely blinking, tail twitching with lazy vigilance. If the baby cried, Frances was always the first to stir. If someone knocked on the door, Frances would pace between the bassinet and the hallway, fur puffed.

Now, she lifted her head and blinked slowly as the baby squirmed beneath her tiny blanket.

“Hi,” she whispered, reaching down to lift her daughter. Adella was impossibly small—only two days old, and somehow already her entire world. She smelled like milk and baby shampoo and the faintest trace of lavender from the laundry detergent Harry insisted they switch to.

“Come here, little furnace,” she murmured, cradling Adella against her chest as she sank back onto the edge of the bed.

Harry turned onto his side, eyes squinting toward them.

“She need to eat?” he mumbled.

She nodded. “Think so.”

Adella rooted almost instantly on her breast, her mouth latching with the desperation of someone who’d never eaten before in her life—even though she’d been fed four hours ago. Harry watched them with something that looked dangerously close to awe.

His hand reached out under the covers, fingers brushing her thigh, then resting there. “You’re good at that,” he said softly.

“I’m leaking everywhere.”

He grinned, eyes still heavy. “Still.”

She smoothed a hand over Adella’s back, her palm cupping the tiny spine. The baby’s fingers curled instinctively into her bra strap, clinging like she might float away otherwise. Frances jumped onto the foot of the bed with an unceremonious thud.

Harry groaned. “Why does she do that like she pays rent.”

“She protects the baby. That’s worth something.”

“She also licked the toast out of my hand yesterday.”

“She was hungry.”

“So was I.”

Adella made a pleased noise against her skin, sucking lazily now. She was slowing down—drifting again, full and sleepy. The rhythm of it was hypnotic.

Harry sat up finally, rubbing a hand over his face. His hair was flattened on one side, silver-streaked and still damp from last night’s shower. The lines around his eyes were deeper in the mornings, his brows heavy, his mouth soft with age and time and too many things unsaid.

He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Adella’s head, then to her shoulder.

“You wanna try to sleep again?” she asked.

He shook his head, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll make coffee.”

“We’re out.”

He froze. “What.”

“I packed the beans.”

“You packed my Colombia beans?”

“I did.”

He stared at her, betrayed. “You’re a monster.”

She smiled. He leaned in to kiss her, just a brush of lips against hers before muttering, “Fine. I’ll make tea.”

She watched him pad into the kitchen in a t-shirt and sweatpants, hair sticking up, back cracking when he stretched to reach the mugs. He moved slower these days—not in weakness, but in intentionality.

Like he’d learned, somewhere along the way, that not everything had to be done fast. That not everything was a crisis.

The baby whimpered again as she shifted her in her arms. She stood and changed her diaper right there on the bed, using the portable caddy they kept within reach. Diapers. Wipes. Cream. Extra onesies. A muslin cloth that had gone through the wash four times in two days.

All of it tucked into this one small basket, as if it could contain the chaos of new parenthood.

Adella kicked one tiny leg as she cleaned her, face scrunching in protest before settling again the moment she was redressed. Frances hopped down and circled them both.

“Check the list,” she called toward the kitchen.

Harry’s voice came back, muffled. “What list?”

She raised a brow. “The moving list.”

There was a rustle of papers. Then—“We have four lists.”

“Yes. The main one is in the fruit bowl.”

“Why.”

“Because you put it there.”

“Right.”

He reappeared a moment later, two mugs of tea in hand and a slightly sheepish look on his face. He handed one to her carefully, glancing at the now-fed, freshly diapered baby dozing in her arms again.

“She’s like a little drunk person,” he said, sitting down beside them.

“Can't believe she's two days old.”

“Exactly. No responsibilities. No shame.”

She snorted. Adella made a soft cooing sound in her sleep. Harry’s face melted a little.

“I don’t want to move,” he said quietly.

She looked over. “You’re the one who said the loft wasn’t baby-friendly. And the public will find out sooner or later if we stay longer.”

The public didn't know Harry Castillo's wife was pregnant. Wasn't aware of nothing except their wedding three years ago. When the whole wedding thing was released to the public it was a whole thing. Truly. It was everywhere.

Vogue Weddings had even contacted both newly married Castillo's while they were on their honeymoon in Lisbon.

But this. This? This was different. This was his daughter. His daughter that he vows to protect.

“It’s not. It’s drafty and loud.”

“Then why don’t you want to leave?”

He shrugged, sipping his tea. “Because this was ours. Our first place. We painted the walls after our honeymoon. That dinner party where Frances stole shrimp off someone’s plate—here. That time you burned the bread pudding and we ate cereal out of wine glasses—here.”

She smiled, turning her head toward him.

“This place holds our whole beginning.”

She reached for his hand and laced their fingers together. “We’re not erasing it, Harry. We’re just…starting another part.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her. Then at the baby. Then at their cat, who had managed to nestle herself beside the laundry basket and was now fully asleep.

“I want a picture,” he said suddenly.

She blinked. “What?”

“You. Her. This. Right now.”

She blinked again, surprised. Harry Castillo didn’t take pictures. Not for years. Not when he had money or press or reputation to consider. But now—he reached for his phone on the nightstand, adjusted the brightness, and crouched down slightly beside the bed.

“Smile.”

“I’m in a nursing bra.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“I haven’t showered.”

“Neither have I.”

“You’re old.”

He grinned. “And lucky.”

The shutter clicked. Adella stirred slightly, but didn’t wake.

“Got it,” he said, looking down at the photo like he might actually keep this one. “Maybe I’ll frame it.”

She laughed. “You? Hang a photo on a wall? You swore off wall clutter.”

“I’ve changed.”

“God. Fatherhood really has broken you.”

“I’m buying a polaroid camera next.”

“Jesus.”

He kissed her cheek, then turned to the sleeping baby and whispered something too quiet to hear. But his expression said enough. He looked undone. In the quietest, gentlest way. Like this little creature had cracked him open from the inside and made a home inside the softest part of him.

“We should pack up the rest of the kitchen today,” she said after a moment, carefully shifting Adella into her swaddle again.

“No,” Harry said. “Let me.”

“Harry.”

He shook his head. “You’ve been feeding her every three hours and carrying her for nine months. Let me pack the mugs.”

She stared at him. Then nodded.

He stood again, stretched, and wandered off toward the kitchen, already mumbling something about whether they’d packed the cinnamon.

The day would unfold slowly. There would be more diapers. More tea. More Frances sneaking into boxes she wasn’t allowed in. And eventually—more packing. More tape. More decisions about which bookshelf would go where in their new cliffside home in Montauk.

But for now? There was this. A soft morning. A baby full of milk. A man with silver at his temples who looked at her like she was still the best decision he ever made. And that was enough. But of course—it never really is.

Because thirty minutes later, Harry stopped packing. Mid-way through bubble-wrapping a ridiculous espresso glass they hadn’t used in over a year, he turned and looked across the loft at her.

She was sitting on the couch now, curled sideways with Adella tucked against her chest, one sock sliding halfway off her foot and her hair pinned up with the same clip she’d used since her second trimester. Her eyes were closed. Not asleep—just still. Tired in that particular kind of way that lived in the bones of new mothers.

Harry didn't want her to leave their bed yet because she only had a baby less than 48 hours ago. But even if he expressed those thoughts, she would get up just to spite him.

So he set the glass down. And without a word, turned toward the kitchen.

There was barely anything left on the counters—he’d packed up most of it last night, with labels too specific to be useful: Tea + things she loves, Tools for toast, Sauce hopes. But he’d left the essentials out. Breastmilk pouches. Eggs. Bread. Bottle warmer. The cast iron skillet she never let him scrub with soap. A few bowls. One pan. And butter. Always butter.

She’d eaten a full dinner last night—grilled chicken, potatoes roasted with rosemary, sautéed greens with lemon. He’d cooked it all while wearing Adella in the carrier, humming low nonsense and keeping one hand on the baby’s back even while plating everything like she was dining in some coastal restaurant.

He watched her eat it all with a look on his face like he’d just won a war.

So this morning? Breakfast. Again. Like it was sacred.

He cracked the eggs gently into the skillet, whites hissing in hot butter. Toast slid down into the ancient toaster. The whole process was quiet. Methodical.

His hair was still sticking up in the back. His reading glasses sat askew on his face from the last hour of scribbling notes about which kitchen knives were too dangerous to unpack first in Montauk.

He plated everything carefully, soft scrambled eggs with cheese folded in, avocado on toast with chili flakes, two slices of pear because it was all that was left in the fridge, and another mug of tea steeped for exactly the right number of minutes.

She blinked slowly when he brought it over. "You didn’t have to," she murmured.

“I wanted to.” He set it down gently on the tray in front of her. “Eat.”

She looked at the plate. Then back at him. And her mouth opened—but didn’t form any words. Because the moment she looked down again, her stomach turned. She wasn’t nauseous. She wasn’t sick. But suddenly—violently—she didn’t want the eggs. It hit her all at once, the smell, the texture, the wrongness of it. Her body didn’t want it.

Her mouth was dry. Her jaw clenched. “I’m sorry,” she said, setting the plate down too quickly. “I can’t. I thought I was hungry, but—”

Harry was already moving, already crouching down in front of her, already reaching to take the tray away before it made her feel worse.

“Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”

“I was hungry, I swear I was. I don’t know what’s wrong with me—”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

She scrubbed a hand over her face, frustrated. “I’m just tired. I feel crazy. I’ve had, like, four hours of sleep total and this bra feels like barbed wire and my whole body is—”

“I know.” His voice was calm. Gentle. “I know.”

She looked at him then, eyes glassy, “I don’t feel like myself.”

Harry reached up and cupped her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye.

“You just made a human being with your body,” he murmured. “It took you nearly ten months to build her. You’re not supposed to feel like yourself yet.”

She leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering closed.

“I feel like I’m failing already.”

He kissed her forehead, “You’re feeding her, holding her, loving her. That’s not failing. That’s being her whole world.”

Silence stretched for a long moment. Then her voice cracked just slightly. “I really wanted a bagel.”

Harry’s eyes softened.

“I can get you one.”

“No, it’s okay—”

“I want to,” he said, standing slowly, knees creaking. “You want the blueberry one?”

She blinked. “You’d go now?”

“I’d go barefoot in a blizzard for a blueberry bagel if it meant you’d eat something.”

She sniffed a laugh, rubbing at her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours.”

That made her look up.

He was already pulling on a hoodie, brushing a hand through his messy silver hair, muttering something about whether he’d left the car keys. She watched him cross the loft, pausing only when he reached the door.

“Phone,” she said.

He stopped. Turned

“Oh, right. Jesus. Always forgetting that thing.” He padded back to the counter, grabbed it, and tucked it into his back pocket.

She raised a brow.

“Wallet?”

He patted himself down. “Pants.”

“Shoes?”

“Feet.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling now. “Harry—”

“I’m going,” he said, kissing her once—quick and sweet—and pulling the door open. “Don’t move. I’ll be back before the baby notices I’m gone.”

And with that, the door clicked shut. The city greeted him the second he stepped outside. It had only been two days—but it felt like he’d been inside forever. Like time had frozen in the loft, wrapped in muslin blankets and baby laundry and the soft, milk-drunk sighs of a newborn.

The sidewalk was wet from last night’s drizzle, glinting faintly beneath the morning light. He squinted against it, walking slow, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his joggers.

He hated leaving. Hated the way it felt—being apart from them. Even for twenty minutes. The walk to the bagel shop was barely six blocks, and he’d done it hundreds of times. But never like this. Never with the sudden weight of absence pushing at his chest.

Every honk felt louder. Every passerby felt nosier. And when he reached the shop, the line was already out the door. Harry sighed. Of course.

He stepped into it quietly, pulling his hoodie up just slightly, not that it mattered. The man in front of him turned after a second.

“Hey—wait. Are you—?”

Harry didn’t look up. “No.”

“But you look like—”

“I’m not.”

Another person two spots back leaned to whisper, and then there it was—the slow ripple of recognition, the kind that always followed him. Billionaire. Asshole.

That guy who sued a senator. That guy who bought a company then sold it and ghosted the board. That guy with the eyes.

He kept his face neutral. Focused forward. But then—

A voice from the counter. Rough. Familiar.

“Castillo?”

Harry looked up. Behind the counter was Mr. Sal—short, round, balding, with thick glasses and a face that hadn’t changed in thirty years.

“Get over here,” Sal barked, waving him around the line. “Come on. I’m not makin’ the mother of your kid wait.”

Harry blinked. “How do you know—”

“You two haven’t been in all week,” Sal said gruffly. “She was waddling in here for three months. Now she’s not. Baby’s out. I’m not an idiot.”

Harry didn’t argue. Sal pulled a paper bag from under the counter and handed it over.

“Sesame with cucumber. Cinnamon with a little honey drizzle. Two blueberry, one for now, one for later. Couple plain. You can freeze ‘em.”

Harry stared at the bag, then at Sal.

The old man shrugged. “Tell her congratulations.”

“I will.”

“And tell her next time she can send you in with a stroller. I’ll hold the door.”

Harry smiled.

Just barely.

“Thanks, Sal.”

“Go,” the man grunted. “Your baby will probably be a teenager by the time you get back.”

Harry winced, face twisting. “Jesus.”

“What? Saw you wincing walking in here. Old knees don't play. Walk quick.”

Harry clutched the bag tight, backed away, and turned to leave. The line watched him go in silence. Some of them had phones out. None of them dared take a photo. Because even with a bag of blueberry bagels in his hand, Harry Castillo still looked like a man who didn’t tolerate intrusion.

But he also looked…different. Softer. Like maybe the rumors weren’t all true. Like maybe that scowl meant something else now. Like maybe—

Maybe he was just a husband. With a daughter. And breakfast in hand.

He stepped back onto the street, warm bag pressed against his chest, eyes already scanning the way home. His phone buzzed once in his pocket. A text. From her.

come back soon!!! i miss you!!!

He smiled. Fully. Something deep inside him breathed out. And Harry Castillo, the most feared man in Manhattan real estate once upon a time, turned back toward the loft. Where his girls were waiting.

The bag of bagels was still warm in his hand, steam curling faintly through the thin paper. He could see the loft just a few blocks away.

The thought of her sitting in their half-empty bedroom, one sock off, Adella curled against her chest, his breakfast plate abandoned on the table—that was enough to pull him forward.

Almost. Instead, he crossed the street. And headed toward the little baby shop tucked between the bakery and the French bookstore. The one with hand-carved wooden toys in the window and alphabet blocks arranged to say WELCOME LITTLE ONE in pastel letters.

They used to come here before the kicks, before the name, before they knew anything about Adella except that she existed. Back when the entire future was still shaped like questions. Now? Now it was shaped like her.

He opened the door quietly, the bell chiming above his head. The woman behind the counter blinked once when she saw him—tall, graying, in an old hoodie and joggers with a bakery bag tucked under one arm—but recognition flickered immediately.

“Mr. Castillo?”

Harry nodded.

She smiled, kind but a little wary. “You haven’t been in for a while.”

“No,” he said. “We, uh…had the baby.”

Her face lit up. “Oh! Oh, congratulations!”

Harry nodded again, scratching at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Everything has been perfect.”

The woman softened. “Boy or girl?”

“Girl.”

Her eyes flicked to the bag under his arm, then back to him. “And you’re out here running errands?”

“I left the house to get my wife's bagels,” he muttered.

She laughed. Harry didn’t. Not really. Instead, he looked around the store slowly.

The shelves were familiar—same linen onesies and organic cotton bibs and tiny little plush animals arranged by color. Same row of board books they used to read aloud in fake voices while pretending not to cry. Same silly racks of newborn-sized T-shirts with slogans,

I only cry when ugly people hold me

100% milk-fed

My mom doesn’t want your advice

My daddy loves me (and it’s embarrassing how much)

Harry stopped in front of that last one. Held it up. Smiled. Really smiled. He added it to his arm.

And that was the beginning of the spiral. Because then he saw the soft knit booties in the dusky rose color that made her skin look like something out of a Renaissance painting.

Then the cozy little sleeping gown with the fold-over mittens. Then a muslin swaddle patterned with lemons, which he absolutely did not need but could already picture her wrapped in, blinking up at him like he invented the sun.

Then the bottle warmer for the Montauk house. Then the same gentle baby soap that was part of Adella's first bath. Then the wooden rattle that didn’t make noise but felt right. Then the pacifiers in many different colors.

Harry kept shopping. Deliberate. Focused. Completely unaware that he looked like someone had dropped a grumpy silver-haired man into a Pinterest board.

He stopped at the shelf of burp cloths, picked up a set with tiny embroidered bunnies, and actually debated color palettes. He held up a cream one, then a beige one, then muttered under his breath, “This one’s gonna stain too easily,” like he was judging fabric swatches for a damn boardroom.

By the end, he had filled an entire reusable tote the store owner gave him from behind the counter. It said: BABIES ARE PEOPLE TOO in curly script.

“Anything else you need?” the shopkeeper asked, scanning the last onesie.

Harry hesitated. Then looked down at the counter where a soft pink knit hat sat, tiny and round. It had ears. Bunny ears. He reached out and picked it up.

“Add this too.”

The woman blinked. “You sure? That’s a newborn size. She might outgrow it in a few weeks.”

“I’ll take a picture,” he said simply. “Then we’ll frame the hat.”

That answer made the woman grin in earnest. “Wow you’re a softie.”

“Becoming a father does that to you.” Harry said, handing her his card.

But even he didn’t believe it. Not when he looked down at the bag—stuffed full of impractical, unnecessary softness for a baby who didn’t know her name yet but already ruled every inch of his heart.

Harry had been feared once. Called cold. Sharp. Ruthless. Impossible.

Now? Now he was standing in a baby boutique at 9:43 AM with a bagel under one arm and a bunny-eared hat in his palm.

He took the receipt, tucked it in his wallet, and slung the soft canvas tote—that belonged to his wife—over his shoulder. As he reached the door, the shopkeeper called after him,

“Tell your wife congrats!”

He turned back. His hand on the knob. And for a moment—just a second—Harry’s face shifted. No scowl. No steel. Just something tender. Real.

He nodded once. “I will.”

Then he stepped out onto the sidewalk, both bags full, chest a little fuller. And started walking home. To his wife. To his daughter. To the life he’d never imagined.

The elevator chimed softly as Harry stepped out into the hallway, the scent of warm bagels drifting up from the paper bag pressed to his chest. The canvas tote from the baby store knocked gently against his hip with every step, filled with softness and excess he didn’t regret for a second.

The loft was quiet. Not silent—never that, not anymore—but soft. Lived-in. Settled.

Harry unlocked the door and he nudged it open gently with his foot, careful not to jostle anything as he stepped inside. The scent of milk lingered faintly in the air. Familiar. New life settling into old walls. He moved slowly, almost reverently, the bags in his arms like precious cargo.

Their bedroom was lit with late morning sun, filtered through gauzy curtains. A low hum came from the sound machine tucked beside Adella’s crib—a soft white noise that had become the soundtrack of their nights. And there they were.

She was back in bed. Propped up on pillows, hair mussed and one sock on still, cradling their daughter against her bare chest. Adella’s tiny mouth was slack now, having just finished feeding, her cheek smushed soft against skin, her impossibly tiny hand curled near her chin. Her little hat had been tugged half off, leaving wisps of dark hair sticking out every which way.

Harry stopped in the doorway. His throat tightened. They looked like a painting. No—a prayer.

He said nothing, just watched for a second, then cleared his throat gently. Her eyes fluttered open, sleep-heavy and soft, and when she saw him—

There it was. That tired smile that made him feel like everything in the world was somehow still okay.

“I got bagels,” he murmured, holding them up a little.

Her smile widened. “You left the house.”

“Don’t remind me.”

She laughed—quietly, because of the baby—and slowly sat up a bit more, lifting Adella to settle her in the crib on her side of the bed. Harry came closer immediately, taking the baby with the kind of practiced ease that had taken root far faster than either of them expected.

He held her like something sacred. Like he’d break before she would.

“Hi, my girl,” he whispered against her forehead. “You give your mama a hard time while I was gone?”

Adella blinked up at him with all the intensity of a child who had no idea she was the center of the universe.

“She passed out like a drunk at brunch,” his wife said, yawning.

Harry grinned. “That’s my girl.”

He handed over the bag of bagels, leaning down to kiss her cheek—slow and warm, lingering just a beat longer than necessary. “Blueberry’s still warm.”

Her eyes fluttered closed briefly. “You’re a good man.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t say that out loud, my reputation will fall apart.”

She laughed again, already pulling a bite from the bagel with her teeth, groaning a little at the taste. Harry watched her eat like it was something holy. Like watching her nourish herself after feeding their daughter was a ritual he would never take for granted.

“I think I want a shower,” she said between bites, stretching her arms overhead. “Like a real one. A long one. With hot water and no interruptions.”

Harry was already shifting Adella to rest against his chest. “Say no more.”

“Are you sure?”

He glanced down at the tiny creature swaddled against him, who was staring at the side of his neck like she had plans.

“I got her,” he said, rubbing a gentle circle into her back. “Go take a long bath. Take your time. Use all the expensive stuff.”

She looked at him for a beat, that post-baby emotion swimming just under the surface of her gaze, then leaned in and kissed him softly—once on the mouth, then again on the edge of his stubbled jaw.

“You’re incredible,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said, deadpan. “Go.”

She disappeared down the hallway, and Harry stood in the bedroom a moment longer, rocking Adella gently in his arms. Her tiny body shifted against his chest, warm and weightless and completely unaware that she’d cracked open something in him he didn’t even know existed.

“Alright, peanut,” he whispered, turning and heading to the living room. “It’s you and me.”

He eased onto the couch with the confidence of a man who had practiced this in the mirror—baby angled just right, head supported, legs curled. She started to fuss almost immediately.

“Nope,” Harry said gently. “No tears. Mama’s in the shower. We’re not calling her.”

Adella disagreed, her tiny mouth opening in a pre-cry protest. Harry stood, rocked, bounced. Still no dice.

He sighed, moving toward the kitchen. There were two breastmilk pouches in the fridge, labeled in her handwriting with date and time. Harry warmed one carefully in the bottle warmer—his hand braced protectively on the counter the whole time, watching the milk spin like liquid gold.

When it was ready, he tested it on his wrist like she showed him. Then again, because he didn’t trust the first time. Then again.

“Jesus, Harry, it’s not rocket science,” he muttered to himself.

Adella’s protest had escalated to small grunts now, her body wriggling like she was insulted by the wait.

“Okay, okay,” he said, settling into the armchair and easing the bottle into her mouth. “There you go. There’s my girl.”

She latched. Instant quiet. Harry exhaled like he’d just won a hostage negotiation. He sat there, arm curled around his daughter, her eyes wide and alert as she drank, and reached for the remote. Scrolled once. Twice. Stopped.

Up. It was ridiculous. Predictable. Dangerous. He pressed play anyway.

By the time Carl floated his house with balloons, Harry’s eyes were glassy and Adella was halfway through her meal. She kept glancing up at him like she was confused by the tears in his eyes, even if she couldn’t name them yet.

He sniffled, “I’m fine,” he told her.

Adella blinked.

He wiped at his face and kissed her forehead. “Don’t tell your mother I cried.”

She made a small, pleased noise and resumed eating. He sat like that for nearly an hour. Feeding her. Burping her. Changing her quietly on the pad they hadn’t packed yet.

When she finally nodded off against his chest, one hand curled against his shirt and the other wrapped in his hoodie string, he stayed there. Just holding her. Breathing.

The sound of boxes being packed around them was absent. Because Harry had already done most of it. Late nights while she slept. Early mornings before the world stirred. He’d packed the books. The kitchen. The office. The closets. Everything labeled. Everything prepped. All except the baby’s things. He wanted to leave those until the last second. It felt wrong otherwise.

They could’ve been in Montauk already. Where his sister and her family lived. Where he could be closer to her after decades of unspoken years. If the house wasn’t delayed by rain and mud and some zoning hiccup that made him want to strangle someone.

But truthfully? He didn’t mind. The loft was cramped now. Cluttered. Half-empty and overflowing at the same time.

But it was theirs. It was where Adella came home. Where they lived in bed for the first 24-hours. Where he paced the floors at 3 AM with her against his chest while she fussed and his wife tried to get two hours of sleep. He’d spent his entire adult life building empires.

Now? He built bottle stations and wipe caddies and diaper drawers. He memorized which onesies snapped at the bottom versus the side. He remembered to download the white noise track to his phone just in case.

Harry Castillo—who once had three assistants and a travel team just to get him through the day—now handled every part of their move with one hand, because the other was always holding a baby.

Danny ran the company now. Not entirely, of course—Harry still reviewed every contract, still signed off on every deal. But he didn’t sit in boardrooms anymore. Didn’t fly to London for 72-hour negotiations. If someone needed him, they waited.

Because he was here now. With her. With their daughter. He did everything—without being asked—because she had already done everything by bringing Adella into the world.

And when she padded back into the room, damp-haired, skin flushed from a real shower, robe tied low and eyes soft, he looked up at her and smiled. Like she was the best thing that ever happened to him. Because she was. And because she gave him her.

“Hey,” she whispered.

He tilted his head. “Feel good?”

“Much better.”

Harry stood, Adella still sleeping against his chest, and moved toward her.

“You should eat the other half of the bagel,” he said. “You barely touched it.”

“I will.”

He kissed her temple, then brushed a thumb down the curve of her cheek. “You okay?”

She nodded. Then leaned her forehead against his. And they stood there—newborn breathing soft between them, the movie still playing behind them, the whole world quiet.

And somehow, Harry Castillo, fifty-nine, reformed bastard and known cold-hearted executive, had never been more warm. More human.

More home. Because they were his now. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

The afternoon light in the loft was syrupy and slow, pouring through the wide windows in golden streaks that pooled on the floor and stretched long across the walls. It was the kind of light that made everything feel still—hushed and warm, like even time had taken a deep breath.

She rubbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her robe, barely hiding a yawn, and Harry took it as the cue it was.

“Come on,” he murmured. “We’re getting back in bed.”

“I was just in bed.”

Harry gave her a look. One of his many expressions she’d learned to interpret without translation.

She sighed softly. “Fine.”

But the moment he brushed his fingers over the small of her back and turned toward their room, she melted into the movement like her bones had been waiting for it.

Two days postpartum felt like being hollow and full all at once—her body loose in ways she didn’t recognize yet, her skin still humming with all the places it had stretched and split and given. She hadn’t slept a full 3 hours since the birth. And Harry knew that.

He carried Adella like she was made of candlelight. One hand cupped beneath her swaddled body, the other tucked behind her head, steady and sure. She was still asleep, her mouth in a tiny, perfect pout, fists curled up by her cheeks like she’d gone down swinging in a dream.

Their bedroom looked different now. It had shifted without ceremony into something else—something gentler.

The crib sat flush against her side of the bed, blankets folded with military precision. Harry had set up a bassinet caddy on her nightstand a week before the birth, filled it with wipes and pacifiers, breast pads and nipple balm, tiny diapers rolled like tea cakes. A water bottle lived on her side of the bed now. Snacks too—nuts, dried fruit, dark chocolate that she pretended not to like but devoured at 2 a.m.

And the new addition—above the dresser, tucked neatly between a hanging mirror and the framed black and white wedding photo he adored—was a television.

He’d had it installed in her sixth month of pregnancy, after she’d mentioned once—casually—that getting up and down from the couch was “kind of a pain now.” The next morning, the television was mounted and streaming accounts were synced. When she teased him for the absurd speed of it all, he’d just shrugged.

“You said it’d help,” he told her. “That’s all I needed.”

She crawled back into the bed now, groaning softly at the relief of lying down, and Harry settled Adella back in her crib. The baby stirred, gave a soft little sigh, then curled deeper into her swaddle. Frances, their cat, was already tucked near the pillows—watchful, loyal, and obsessed with Adella in a way that was slightly unsettling.

“She’s already done her perimeter sweep,” Harry murmured, tugging the comforter over his wife’s legs. “Purred at the crib. Checked the diaper bag for explosives.”

“She’s a working mother,” she mumbled, shifting into the pillows. “She takes her job seriously.”

Harry smiled to himself and leaned down, brushing her damp hair off her forehead. “Warm enough?”

“Mmhm.”

He adjusted the blanket a little anyway. Then turned the TV on. She blinked at the screen—dimmed, already queued to their shared account—and looked at him sideways.

“I can't watch I Love Lucy again.”

“I like it.”

“Its all you watch.”

Harry slid in beside her, reaching blindly for the remote. “It’s peaceful.”

“You’re so weird.”

He handed her the remote. “Pick something.”

“I don’t want to.”

“That’s why I gave it to you.”

She laughed softly, nestling into his side. Her hand found his on instinct, fingers curling between his. He watched her scroll like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. The TV played previews in silence. She paused briefly on a nature documentary, then a cooking show, then scrolled all the way back to a sitcom they’d started in the third trimester and never finished.

He nodded at the screen. “There.”

“Seriously?”

“You liked it.”

“You hated it.”

“I tolerated it,” he corrected. “For you.”

She leaned over and kissed his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. The show began to play, colors flickering across the darkened room. Adella gurgled softly in her crib. Frances sighed.

She didn’t watch the show, not really. Just let it play while her eyes fluttered shut and her body curled tighter into Harry’s side. Her robe had loosened slightly, revealing the soft swell of her stomach, the fading line of postpartum bruising along her hips.

Harry noticed everything. He always did. He shifted just enough to pull the blanket higher, then reached down and carefully took one of her feet into his lap. His fingers rubbed lazy, soothing circles into her arch. She groaned quietly and didn’t even pretend to protest.

“You’re spoiling me,” she mumbled.

“You gave birth two days ago,” he replied, like it was obvious.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re allowed to be spoiled.”

She didn’t answer that. Just sighed again and let her eyes fall closed for real this time. Sometimes she wondered if Adella would grow up and ask the kind of questions she never got answers to. Like where her grandfather was. Or why no one ever talked about the woman who gave her life and ran from it in the same breath.

She hoped not. But if she did—if one day Adella looked up with those big, steady eyes and asked—she’d tell her the truth. Not all of it. Just enough. That some people leave, and some people stay.

And she’d always stay. She’d tell her that love isn’t always loud or easy, but it’s real when it shows up every morning and holds you through the night. That her mother came from broken things, but she built something whole.

That Adella was never part of the pattern—she was the beginning of something brand new. Something soft. Something safe. Something that stayed.

Harry stayed still. Listened to the show hum on. Listened to her breathing slow. Listened to Adella’s soft little whimpers every few minutes, the shuffle of Frances re-adjusting herself closer to the crib.

This was the new normal. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t tidy. It wasn’t anything like what his life used to be. And Harry wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

At some point, she drifted off entirely. Her mouth parted, breath gentle and steady. Harry reached over and adjusted her robe, tucking her in a little more, then rose slowly from the bed, careful not to disturb her. He moved back toward the crib. Adella was awake now. Not fussy. Just blinking at the ceiling with the slow curiosity of someone who didn’t quite understand what light was yet.

He leaned down and picked her up, swaddled and warm and impossibly small. She didn’t protest. Just looked at him with those big, hazy eyes and let out a soft little sigh. Harry sat in the armchair, tucking her into the crook of his arm, rocking her gently. The show continued to play. The TV glowed softly. He hummed—low and off-key—and didn’t care.

“She’s sleeping,” he whispered to Adella. “And you should be too.”

She yawned in reply. And Harry smiled. There was no fanfare to it. No grand declaration. Just him and his daughter and the quiet pulse of their home, floating gently through another afternoon of everything and nothing all at once.

He looked down at her, at the baby who had made him new, “My whole life,” he murmured, “and I never knew this was what I wanted.”

Adella blinked. He kissed her nose. Then kept rocking.

The days blurred, not in the way time used to—back when Harry measured it in quarterly reports, travel calendars, and market hours—but in the way soft things did. In feeds and naps. In small cries and little sighs. In the weight of a baby on his chest, or her breath warm on his neck.

One morning, without either of them fully realizing it, the boxes were all gone. The loft felt like a skeleton of itself. Clean. Bare. Quiet. Not cold—never cold—but noticeably… uninhabited.

The walls still echoed with them. But most of their life had already been carefully packed and driven out east toward Montauk, where sunlight was supposed to be slower and Isidora had already promised to stock their fridge with things she knew his wife liked.

But not everything left. The bed still sat in its usual corner. The low dresser still beneath the mirror. The crib remained beside her side, now lightly decorated with a fresh muslin drape that fluttered when the windows cracked. A handful of Adella’s onesies were still folded in the top drawer. The nursing pillow was still shaped to the contour of her body on the armchair.

Harry’s book was still left open on the nightstand—spine cracked to page 144, where he’d dozed off sometime mid-paragraph while holding his daughter upright against his chest.

It was their last night in the loft. Well sort of. Weeks ago, during one of those delirious 2 a.m. feedings, with her cradling Adella on her lap and Harry trying to warm up breastmilk without waking the cat, they’d both said it out loud.

They couldn’t give this place up. Too many firsts lived in these walls. They didn’t want to sell it. Not really. Not even when the Montauk place became real and beautiful and filled with handpicked furniture. Not when there were acres of sky and a proper yard and a slow road leading down to the ocean. No. The loft stayed. It had to.

Tonight, she sat cross-legged in bed, Adella curled to her chest. The baby latched easily, her tiny fingers brushing over the skin of her mother’s breast, that quiet, rhythmic sucking sound filling the room like a lullaby.

Harry stood across from them, leaning against the doorway, just watching. It never got old.

Even now—after dozens of feedings, after seeing her bare and soft and half-asleep, after helping her through the soreness and the shifting and the mess of postpartum—he still looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that ever made sense.

She looked up from their daughter, eyelids heavy, skin glowing with that unmistakable softness of motherhood.

“She’s eating like she’s storing food for winter,” Harry murmured, walking over slowly, old knees cracking in quiet betrayal.

“She gets that from me.”

“She gets everything from you.”

He knelt beside the bed, smoothing a hand down Adella’s swaddled back, his fingers brushing his wife’s wrist as he did.

“Not everything,” she said softly. “She makes this face when she’s trying to poop. Looks just like you.”

He scoffed, trying not to laugh. “You did not just say that to me.”

She grinned while Harry kissed her shoulder. “You’re handsome.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You are.”

She adjusted her grip on Adella as the baby pulled back with a satisfied whimper, mouth still pursed like she might want more. Harry offered his hands without needing to be asked. She passed Adella over, already yawning.

“I want a shower,” she mumbled, stretching her arms above her head.

He settled into the bed, cradling Adella in the crook of his arm as he walked slowly around the edge. Frances followed them like a shadow, hopping onto the bed before the mattress even finished shifting under his weight. The lights were dimmed low. The city buzz was quieter now.

Harry ran his palm gently over Adella’s stomach. She was full, pink-cheeked, and impossibly calm, looking up at him like she already understood something sacred about his face. He bent his head and kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, then her tiny fingers.

“This place made us,” he whispered.

Adella blinked slowly, then curled closer.

He hummed, low and tuneless, rocking gently even though he didn’t need to. His wife returned a few minutes later, damp hair pushed back, skin still dewy from the hot water. She wore one of his old T-shirts—oversized and fraying at the collar—and sleep shorts that barely peeked out beneath the hem.

Her eyes softened when she saw them, “Ready for bed?” he asked.

She nodded, yawning again. “She still full?”

“Like a little bear before hibernation.”

She climbed in beside them. Harry passed Adella back into her arms, and the baby sighed in her sleep like she’d been waiting for that reunion. The TV glowed across the room—another quiet show they’d watched half of, then forgotten to finish.

She turned to Harry, voice quieter than before, “You okay?”

He looked at her. Then at the walls. Then back.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Just… remembering.”

She pressed her toes against his leg under the covers. “We’ll be back.”

He nodded, eyes on the ceiling now. “Yeah.”

And they would. They’d return with Adella a little older. Maybe walking. Maybe teething. They’d show her the window where they used to watch snow fall, the kitchen where Harry made eggs she never ate, the couch she was born a few blocks away from. And the crib would still be here. And so would they.

Later, after the baby stirred again and latched again and finally settled, and after his wife had fallen asleep beside him, Harry stayed awake just a little longer. He stared out the window, city lights flickering in the distance.

Then he reached for the baby monitor, placed it beside her on the bed, and carefully slipped from beneath the covers. The hardwood was cool beneath his feet. The loft creaked familiarly as he walked to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water, refilling the kettle she liked to use in the mornings.

He checked the diaper bag—already packed and resting by the door. Double-checked the bottle warmer and a few spare bibs. Made sure the breastmilk pouches in the cooler hadn’t shifted. All ready. Everything was ready.

And yet—he walked back into the bedroom and paused again. His girls were asleep, curled together like they’d always been like this. He stood there for a while. Then turned off the light. Tomorrow, they’d drive east. But tonight—tonight they were still here. And he couldn’t stop smiling.

The next morning was warm in that off-season way—sun coming through the loft windows like it had every morning, but today, it touched packed boxes instead of furniture. The kitchen counters were mostly clear, cabinets emptied, closets bare. The air buzzed with that soft sort of finality, the kind that didn’t ache, but hummed.

Harry was already dressed when she stirred. He always woke first, even now, even after a night of feedings and baby shifts. He moved quietly around the bedroom in his softest hoodie and joggers, hair still damp from his quick shower, slipping his socks on in the dark.

She blinked awake to the sound of the kettle heating and the soft shuffle of Frances rubbing against the edge of the bed. Adella slept beside her, mouth open just slightly, one arm flung up like she had conquered something in her dreams. She had no idea she was about to conquer a four-hour car ride.

Harry padded into the room again, carrying a mug of tea.

“Morning,” he murmured, setting it down on the nightstand.

She smiled sleepily. “Hi.”

He bent to kiss her forehead. “I think she slept well, no?”

“She fussed around four, but went back down after ten minutes.”

“She’s showing off now that it’s moving day.”

She yawned as she slowly sat up, reaching for the mug. “You already packed the last bags?”

“Just about. Frances is mad. She keeps sitting on the car seat like it’s her turn.”

She snorted into her tea. “She can ride shotgun.”

“She’d ask to drive.”

He leaned over and kissed Adella’s cheek gently. “She’s out cold. We’ll let her sleep another fifteen minutes before the circus begins.”

But it started sooner than that. There was a knock at the door — soft, but unmistakably rhythmic. Danny.

Harry gave him a look and headed over. When the door opened, there they were — Danny in jeans and a plain tee, holding a takeout tray stacked with coffee cups, and Maya beside him, cradling two brown bags of food like they were sacred.

“You’re leaving civilization,” Danny said solemnly. “So we brought the sacred breakfast goods.”

Harry raised a brow. “You’re dramatic.”

Maya ignored them both and stepped past, heading towards the bedroom with a knowing smile. The two men following after her.

“Hi, hi, sorry it’s early. You’re probably running around—oh my God.”

She spotted the sleeping baby still tucked beside her and immediately lowered her voice. “She’s…she’s getting chubbier.”

“She’s been eating like she has a mortgage,” she whispered, adjusting Adella’s blanket. “Come sit.”

Maya sat gently at the edge of the bed, already tearing up.

Harry looked at the coffees, then at Danny. “Are any of these the one I like?”

Danny handed him a cup. “Double espresso with your weird foam.”

Harry grunted but took it.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling as Danny handed her favorite — Maya had remembered, of course.

They all talked in low tones for a while, careful not to wake the baby. Maya then cooed softly at Frances, who was now dramatically curled on top of one of Harry’s jackets, as if she, too, had a complex emotional relationship with moving.

The food was good — still hot. Egg sandwiches with spicy mayo, hashbrowns that Harry claimed were over-seasoned but ate half of anyway. Maya ate slowly. Danny picked at his with one hand and rubbed his thumb over Maya’s knee with the other. When Adella finally stirred and let out a soft cry, all four of them paused like she’d said something profound.

“Oh, she’s up,” Maya said, hands already clutched together, emotional.

Harry moved automatically, sliding his half-eaten sandwich to the side and crouching beside the bed. He whispered something soft as he scooped Adella up, expertly tucking one arm under her neck, one under her hips.

“She okay?” she asked, already starting to rise.

Harry gave her a look. “She’s perfect. Finish eating.”

She smiled. Sat back. It still amazed her — the way Harry moved now. No hesitation. No clumsiness. Just instinct. He adjusted Adella’s onesie, kissed the top of her head, and then walked her into the nursery corner to grab a clean diaper. Maya and Danny watched him, stunned.

“He’s like a big, grumpy dad angel,” Maya whispered.

Danny nodded. “It’s unsettling.”

Harry looked over his shoulder. “I can hear you.”

Maya waved a hand. “Don’t pretend you hate it. You’ve been smiling for weeks.”

He didn’t deny it. Once Adella was changed, fed, and burped, it was time. The boxes had been loaded the night before. The diaper bag packed. Snacks organized in a cooler by the front seat.

Harry took the car seat out from beside the door and carefully set it down, motioning for her.

“Want me to buckle her in?” he asked.

She nodded her head. “Yes, I want to watch you do it.”

He let out a toothy grin and gently took Adella from her arms. He knelt beside the car seat, fingers moving slowly, checking every latch, every strap.

“Legs in,” he murmured. “Don’t make a face, baby girl, we do this every time.”

He clicked the harness, tightened it gently, and adjusted the little head pillow.

“She’s getting taller,” Maya sniffled.

Harry nodded solemnly. “She has long legs. It’s a family thing.”

Maya swiped at her eyes as she stood. Then the tears really started.

“I’m sorry,” Maya said, sniffling, “it’s just—this is big. You’re moving. You have a baby. I don’t know, it’s just a lot.”

The newly mother wrapped her arms around her best friend, tight.

“We’re going to call. Every day. You’re going to FaceTime me while you make eggs, and I’m going to send you so many pictures of Adella you’ll wish you moved to a cabin without Wi-Fi.”

Maya laughed through her tears. “Okay. Okay. Promise?”

“Promise,” she whispered back. “It’ll be like I never left.”

Maya hugged Harry too—briefly, but real—and told Adella she was the most beautiful baby she’d ever seen in her life and probably smarter than all of them already. Frances meowed in agreement from her carrier. Then— finally —Danny and Maya left.

It took another twenty minutes to actually load into the car. Harry insisted on one more diaper change before they hit the road. So he had to unbuckle Adella. Then the carseat needed one final check.

She held the carrier on her lap as she climbed into the car, glancing back at Adella, now strapped in and sleeping again. Harry shut the back door and walked around the front. He paused. Stared at the building one more time. A whole life inside those walls. A whole new one waiting.

He slid into the driver’s seat. Looked over at his wife. Reached for her hand.

“You ready?” he asked.

She looked back at their daughter. Then at him.

“Let’s go home.”

And Harry smiled.

The kind of smile that said this was everything. And he pulled the car onto the road.

The hum of the city faded behind them, the skyline shrinking in the rearview mirror as Harry merged onto the highway. The roads were clear this early on a weekday, sunlight slipping like silk across the dashboard. A playlist she made months ago played low through the car’s speakers—a bunch of Jim Morrison songs.

Adella slept in her car seat, her tiny head slightly tilted, pacifier bobbing gently with each breath.

Frances, surprisingly composed, was curled in her carrier on the floor of the passenger side, not even meowing. She had reached down a few times to slip her fingers through the mesh to stroke behind the cat's ears. It was peaceful.

Too peaceful. That’s when she felt it. A telltale warmth through her shirt.

She groaned, sinking back into the seat with a wince. “Harry…”

He flicked his eyes to her. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m leaking.”

His brows furrowed, worried. “Shit. Already?”

She sighed, looking down. Sure enough, the soft fabric of her tank was darkening right at the chest. “I didn’t even feel it start. She’s been sleeping for too long, I guess.”

“I packed the pump in the overnight bag,” he told her. “And three extra shirts. They’re in the backseat next to Frances.”

She blinked at him. “You packed extra shirts for me?”

“I’m not an amateur.”

“You’re the best old man I know.”

“Damn right,” he muttered, flipping on the blinker to pull into a rest stop up ahead. “We’ll stop here. You can pump in the back. I’ll walk the cat.”

That made her laugh, even as she winced, cradling her chest. “God, this is not glamorous.”

“You’re leaking life. That’s magic.”

She turned to look at him. He was always like this now — tender in moments that would’ve embarrassed him in another life. She reached out and touched his hand on the gearshift.

“You’re annoyingly perfect.”

“I just listen,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “You said the leaking made you want to light your bras on fire, so I planned accordingly.”

She smiled. When they pulled into the lot, Harry climbed out, rounded the car, and opened the back door for her like it was a damn limousine. He carefully lifted Frances in her carrier and slung it over his shoulder while his wife climbed in the back and settled herself with the pump.

Harry stood beside the car, swaying gently like he still had Adella in his arms, watching cars roll past with narrowed eyes like they might try something. No one did. They never did. Because even in joggers and a hoodie, with a cat carrier, Harry Castillo still looked like someone who could crush you with a phone call. But inside the car, with the gentle hum of the pump and her head leaning back against the seat, she felt calm. Normal. Loved.

When she finished and switched into a fresh shirt, Harry handed her a pack of her favorite rice cakes and opened her water bottle without a word. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she said, breath warm. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. This is the easy part.”

They got back on the road. Adella slept for another twenty minutes before waking up with a single, offended cry that echoed like a protest. Harry reached back with one hand to shake a soft rattle beside her seat while she soothed her from the front, and after a minute or two of half-hearted fussing, Adella settled again.

Another hour passed. Then—

“You know I wasn’t even supposed to be there.”

Harry’s voice came out soft, like he was talking more to himself than to her. She looked over. Then realized.

“The party? At the Met?” she asked.

He nodded once, eyes still on the road.

“That night, on the Met steps…I was mad and bitter, and there you were, sitting there like you were waiting for me to notice you weren’t.”

She laughed. “I was scrolling my phone.”

“Exactly. Unbothered. In your own little world. Didn’t care who I was.”

“I didn’t,” she said gently. “Still kind of don’t.”

Harry’s mouth twitched into a smile. “I know. That’s why I stayed.”

They were quiet for a beat. Then he glanced sideways, and something in his face shifted—softened.

“I think about it all the time,” he said. “How it all hinged on that moment. How I almost didn’t go to that damn party. If Danny hadn’t begged, if I hadn’t gotten so pissed at Lucy’s post—”

“You know if you proposed...she would’ve said yes anyway,” she interrupted. “To the ring.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Doesn’t matter now. Point is… if I hadn’t left when I did, if I hadn’t seen you…”

He trailed off. She didn’t press. He reached for her hand instead, curling his fingers through hers.

“I didn’t think I got to have this. Not after everything. Not after the way things ended. I thought… maybe that was it. You get one shot and it either works or it doesn’t. But then you looked at me like I was just a man. Not a name. Not a headline.”

“You were just a man,” she said softly.

“I know.” He paused. “And now I’m your husband. And her father. And it’s so much more than I ever thought I deserved.”

She squeezed his hand.

Harry exhaled slowly. “You saved my life.”

“I just sat on some steps.”

“And changed everything.”

The music continued playing.

Outside, the scenery shifted—from buildings to trees, to stretches of empty road and wild sky. The world got quieter. Wider. Slower. He looked over at Adella again—her lashes fluttering as she dozed, tiny hands twitching in her sleep.

“She’s everything,” he said.

“She is.”

“We’re gonna give her a good life.”

“I know.”

“No cameras. No press.”

“No legacy she didn’t choose.”

He nodded firmly. “If anyone so much as posts her picture—”

“Harry.”

He looked over.

“I know,” she said again, softer this time. “We’ll keep her safe. She’s got you.”

He reached over and brushed a piece of hair behind her ear. “She’s got us.”

The car hummed beneath them. Hours ahead, Montauk waited — the new house, still slightly unfinished, the soft sea air, the road to Isidora’s, the space to grow and breathe and be. And inside the car — wrapped in cotton and routine and love — their whole world kept moving forward. Together.

The air conditioning kicked in with a soft, steady hum, threading a cool breeze through the cabin of the car. She’d been leaning her head back, eyelids fluttering from the early start and the milk-pumping and the constant movement of new motherhood. But once the chilled air hit her face? Gone. Head turned toward the window, lips parted, breath even.

Harry glanced over and grinned. And when he checked the mirror—Adella, too. Out cold. Her pacifier had fallen to the side, her mouth open in that perfect newborn slack, arms flung out in a pose that resembled victory. Frances had somehow rearranged herself in her carrier so that her body formed a perfect little crescent. Eyes shut. Purring in her sleep.

His girls. All three. Asleep within ten feet of him, trusting him completely. Harry’s chest ached. This was the life.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, a slow exhale falling from his mouth. The highway stretched long and unbothered ahead of them, early light sweeping through the trees, painting golden lines across the road. There was no traffic. No calls. No interruptions. Just the quiet sounds of his wife breathing, the steady whirr of the AC, and the low playlist still humming on shuffle.

He wasn’t used to this much quiet. Not the peaceful kind. He was used to meetings, deals, screaming analysts, the occasional fire to put out by noon. Even after stepping back, there were always papers to sign, people to answer, headlines to dodge. And yet—right now? Nothing. Nothing but the hum of his car and the rhythm of this small family he never thought he'd have.

And it hit him again. He had won. He had won so hard it hurt. Because there was a version of his life not long ago that he used to cling to. That bitter, metallic version where Lucy was still around and he was still trying to convince himself she loved him. He'd dressed it up as something noble at the time.

"People don’t talk about how hard it is to be with someone successful."

That’s what Lucy used to say.

“You expect everything and give nothing.”

He remembered swallowing those words like bad pills. Remembered wondering, in the dim light of their kitchen, if she was right. If maybe he was too hard, too cold, too stuck in his ways to deserve real softness.

But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many dinners he paid for or how many conversations he tried to salvage—he was miserable. He’d had to force the future with Lucy. Imagine it. Prop it up like scaffolding.

Pretend she didn’t flinch when he touched her wrist. Pretend she didn’t look at other men like they made her feel more. Pretend she didn’t treat him like he was lucky she stuck around. He tried to believe in that version of life. Genuinely.

Almost proposed. Almost. And yet…

He turned slightly, watching his wife’s chest rise and fall, one hand still curled loosely in her lap like she’d meant to reach for him before sleep took her. Her shirt was soft and worn, one of his, of course. He could see the faint spot where she’d leaked earlier.

She was perfect. Glowing. Real. And his. No pretending required.

He looked in the mirror again. Adella, dream-fighting something tiny and imaginary. God, he loved his baby. He loved his baby so much it terrified him.

There had been no pretending with her, either. No performance. No calculation. Just a cry and a wrinkled little face and a future that felt undeniable the moment he heard her breathe.

She didn’t care about his name or his bank account or his past. She just needed him. And that responsibility—something he once would’ve scoffed at—was the greatest damn thing that ever happened to him.

He adjusted the rearview mirror just to get a better look. Adella’s fist had tucked beneath her chin. One sock was half off. Just like her mother. Harry smiled.

In another life, the version of him that lived in headlines and Wall Street lore would’ve been annoyed at this softness. Would’ve called it weakness. Would’ve scowled and said something like “Get a grip, Castillo.” But he didn’t feel weak now. He felt whole.

He turned the music down even more and kept driving. Every now and then, a mile marker passed. The sign for Montauk grew closer. They still had an hour to go, but it didn’t matter. Time wasn’t measured in contracts anymore. It was measured in ounces of breastmilk. In diaper changes. In the weight of his daughter on his chest as she fought sleep.

When she stirred in the backseat and let out a tiny grunt, Harry immediately adjusted the mirror and lowered the window just a crack to let in more air.

“You’re okay, baby,” he whispered.

She didn’t wake. Just adjusted and sighed.

He reached over slowly with one hand and carefully touched his wife’s arm.

She stirred. Eyes fluttered open. “Mmm?”

“You’re okay,” he said, thumb brushing her wrist. “Just checking.”

She exhaled softly, smiling half-awake. “Did I drool?”

“Little bit.”

She sighed and leaned toward the window again. “Let me know when we’re close.”

“I will.”

He glanced back in the mirror again. “She’s fine.”

And she was. They all were. Harry Castillo—the so-called bastard of Wall Street, the man who’d made grown men cry over bad deals and worse bets—was behind the wheel of an SUV, a breast pump in his tote bag, a cat in a crate, and a half-dressed baby in the backseat.

And he’d never been more proud of anything in his life. He grinned again. Goddamn, he really won the lottery.

The drive ended as gently as it began. The winding road gave way to gravel, then the long, private lane that hugged the edge of the bluff. Past the overgrown hedgerows and the weathered fence posts. Toward the stone house perched like it had always belonged there, looking out over the sea like it never expected to be anywhere else.

Harry slowed to a stop at the base of the house. Gravel popped under the tires, the engine humming down to quiet. He could already hear the waves—soft, persistent. Familiar in a way that made his chest tighten.

They were home. It was the first time since the baby arrived that they’d seen it with their own eyes. The final stretch of construction had wrapped while she was deep in postpartum, and the furniture deliveries had been coordinated over FaceTime, her swaddled on the couch and Harry handling the logistics with Danny.

But now—it was real. The house looked exactly how they imagined it. Their house.

He was the one who got out first, of course. The car door shut with a soft thud. Harry stood there for a second, looking up at the massive stone exterior, at the steep roofline and wide chimney. The house stood proud at the cliff’s edge, the ocean a deep and endless blue behind it.

“Goddamn,” he whispered again.

Then he moved. He rounded the car, opening the back door to unbuckle Adella. She was still mostly asleep, cheeks flushed from the warm ride, her tiny fist curled under her chin. He checked her diaper by instinct, cradled her in one arm, and carefully lifted her out. She grunted once, then went back to sleep.

Frances meowed faintly from her carrier in the front. And she had just begun to stir, blinking sleep from her eyes, hair tousled from leaning against the window.

“We’re here,” Harry murmured, ducking his head in.

She blinked again, slow and dreamy. “We are?”

He smiled. “Yeah, honey. We’re home.”

The inside of the house smelled like wood and salt.

Sunlight poured in through the wide archways and tall windows. It was the same furniture they’d loved in the loft—her linen armchair, their worn-in leather couch, the big coffee table covered in the same old rings from cups set down without coasters. The rugs were theirs. The art was Maya's. The throw blankets folded just how she liked them.

It smelled like them, too. Harry stepped in first with Adella, moving toward the living room to settle her into the bassinet tucked against the stone wall. It had been waiting there. Just like everything else. Like the house had known they were coming.

She followed behind with Frances, who immediately yowled for release and darted out of her carrier the second the latch clicked. She scurried in wide circles around the main room before beelining for the corner where her new scratching post stood. Harry grunted in approval.

“At least someone knows what to do with herself,” he muttered.

His wife laughed quietly behind him. “She looks like she owns the place.”

Harry cast a glance at her, smile tugging at his mouth. “She doesn’t. You do.”

The bedroom faced the water, as she had insisted. Not just a peek of it—but the whole damn ocean. Big windows, wide French doors that opened onto a balcony she’d once drawn on a napkin. The crib was already set up on her side of the bed, just like in the loft. Same mattress, same muslin swaddles folded on the shelf. A little mobile hung overhead, wooden and soft-colored, spinning slowly as a breeze drifted in.

She stood there for a long time, one hand on the crib’s edge, staring out at the water. He came up behind her, wrapping an arm around her middle.

“Told you,” he said into her hair.

She leaned into him. “It’s perfect.”

“Yeah,” he said, already looking at her instead of the view. “It is.”

Later, while she nursed Adella in their bed, Harry walked the house slowly. Room by room. Checking the water pressure in the bathroom faucets. Opening the fridge to make sure it actually turned on. He pulled back the curtains in the nursery—even though Adella wouldn’t be sleeping in there for months—to make sure the blackout shades worked.

He checked the washer. The dryer. The extra fridge in the garage. Then he came back and folded laundry that wasn’t dirty—just for something to do with his hands.

Because the truth was, he couldn’t stop looking at them. His wife. His baby. Their things. Their cat. Their life.

He caught her watching him with a soft smile when he returned with folded towels.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re nesting harder than I ever did.”

“Damn right I am.”

By sunset, they were all in the living room.

She curled up with Adella on the couch, feet under a blanket, the baby sleeping in a tight little comma against her chest. Frances had claimed the wide windowsill and was baking herself in the last rays of light. Harry built a fire—not because they needed it, but because it felt like the right thing to do.

Dinner had been easy—leftover sandwiches from the cooler, with sliced fruit and cheese that a neighbor had dropped off earlier. They ate on the floor like teenagers, backs against the couch.

“You know,” he said quietly, watching the flames move, “there was a time I thought I was gonna die in that penthouse. Alone. With the company, maybe. But not like… this.”

She didn’t interrupt. Just reached over and slid her fingers between his.

“And then you showed up,” he added.

“You were obsessed with me as soon as you looked at me.”

“I was.” He glanced over. “Liked you as soon as I saw you.”

She turned to face him, sleepy but smiling.

“I like you too.”

He huffed a laugh. “You married me.”

“I did.”

“Had my kid.”

She nodded, brushing a curl back from Adella’s head. “Sure did.”

Harry looked at the flames a little longer. “Think I won.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I’m not an easy man,” he said after a moment. “You know that.”

“You’re my man,” she said simply. “That’s all I care about.”

The house was quiet by nine.

Adella was down again in the crib beside their bed, swaddled and dreaming. Frances curled up on the rug nearby. The door to the balcony was cracked just enough to let the sea breeze in.

Harry came out of the bathroom shirtless, teeth brushed, pajama pants low on his hips. He looked like a man who should’ve retired a decade ago, except he was still pacing the house, checking thermostats, peeking out windows, refolding the swaddles that didn’t need to be touched.

She climbed into bed, watching him from her pillow.

“Harry.”

“Yeah?”

“Get in bed.”

He sighed, glanced at the crib again, then finally crossed the room.

When he slid in beside her, the sheets shifted. She curled immediately into his chest, one hand against his bare skin.

“I love this house,” she whispered.

He kissed her temple.

“I love you.”

And with the ocean crashing softly in the distance, the fire gone to embers, Harry Castillo—the asshole, the legend, the man with too many zeroes in the bank—closed his eyes in the house he built, and let himself finally rest.

But her. His wife. She stayed breathing with her head on his chest. Thinking.

Sometimes, when things were quiet—when Adella was asleep and the wind moved gently through the trees—she remembered Lisbon. Their honeymoon. The warm light on the white-tiled buildings. The way Harry had touched her like he couldn’t believe she was real.

He told her then. In bed. One arm beneath her neck, his thumb brushing over the slope of her shoulder. His voice quieter than usual. Guilty.

That her mother had shown up at the villa in France, right at the start. Right when they’d first started. She hadn’t knocked. Just appeared at the gate. Screaming. Screaming for her daughter.

Danny had found out she was looking for money. Didn't want to tell Harry because it was too awful but he did anyways. For the sake of Harry protecting his relationship with her.

“Didn’t let her in,” Harry had murmured. “Didn't even speak to her, really. Just told her to go.”

She’d gone silent then, heart thudding.

“But I should’ve told you,” he said, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I didn’t want to ruin it. Any of it.”

She’d only whispered, “Thank you.”

Thank you for not telling her back then. For not letting the past ruin something that was finally hers. And he’d kissed her like a promise. Like he never would.

When they had finally settled into their Montauk home, it didn’t happen all at once.

Settling in never did—not really. It was slower than packing, less dramatic than moving boxes and ticking off checklists. It was the way she began hanging her robe on the same hook every morning. The way the light shifted across their bedroom walls depending on the hour. The little trail of seaweed Harry brought in on his boots after their walks. Frances learning every sun-warmed square of floor and claiming them all by rotation.

The rhythm arrived in pieces.

Adella was almost two months old now, and they were finally beginning to understand the tempo of their new life. Or maybe it was just that the house had started to fit them like skin, the way the loft once had. This house was different—quieter, grander, more permanent—but it held them just the same.

She loved everything about it. The smell of salt in the morning. The way the trees rustled in the wind at night. The sound of Harry talking to Adella while he poured her bath, making up little stories about dolphins who worked in real estate and clams that gossiped about seaweed prices.

They walked most mornings—just the three of them.

Sometimes the sun was still low in the sky, fog curling around the edges of the lawn like spilled milk. She’d wrap Adella in the sling Harry liked best—“looks like a damn throw blanket,” he’d mutter, but he’d always help her tie it—and together they’d cross the lush, green field behind the house.

Frances followed, always. Darting through the tall grass like she owned it. Harry carried the thermos of coffee, always too hot for her to sip at first, and they’d talk about everything and nothing at all.

“This is better than work,” he said one morning, his boots wet with dew, eyes half-lidded behind his sunglasses.

She joked. “Aren't you glad you left your billionaire business to hang out with your favorite girls.”

“Frances excluded?”

She rolled her eyes but laughed.

One Tuesday, they finally needed to do a proper grocery run.

Not the quick-stock-the-fridge trip Isidora had handled. Not the box of deliveries Harry had ordered from some curated organic nonsense that delivered in ice-packed bags. A real trip. A cart. A list on her phone. The sound of fluorescent lights and freezer aisle music humming over everything.

Adella was dressed in the soft yellow onesie with the ruffles on the sleeves. Frances stayed home, sulking dramatically in her window seat when they left.

Harry insisted on driving because she would look up at the mirror every two seconds to look at Adella with a grin.

They found a small grocery store tucked just off the main road. Local. Quiet. The kind of place where people lingered in the bakery section and staff actually said good morning.

She pushed the cart while Harry carried Adella in the carrier strapped to his front. She fit there perfectly—still so small, still curled in the same way she’d been when she first arrived, her head resting just beneath his collarbone. Harry’s hand never strayed from her back.

“Don’t put that in,” he grunted when she reached for some oat milk.

“Why not?”

“Tastes like drywall.”

“Harry—”

“I’m just saying. If I wanted beige water, I’d drink bath runoff.”

She dropped it in the cart anyway. “We’re not living off red meat and espresso alone.”

He quickly followed her down the cereal aisle without complaint. The only time he abandoned her was to go pick out a very specific mustard—“the only decent one”—and he came back with two jars and a loaf of rye bread, grinning like he’d won something.

She was leaning over the produce when it happened.

Well, when Lucy happened.

Lucy hadn’t planned to go to the store at all.

She’d been staying with her college friend at a rental down by the bluff. Just for a few weeks, she said. Just to “get some air,” she said.

Just until John cooled off and she figured out what she wanted. Which sounded more palatable than the truth—that John had left. Or maybe she’d left him first. She didn’t know anymore. The fight had stretched over three months and two therapists and ended with her waking up on the floor of their guest room with mascara still on her cheek.

She told herself it was a self-care week. Get back to basics. Vitamin D, fresh air, fewer carbs. She’d only stopped at the store for almond milk and a fruit. That was it. She didn’t even want to be seen. She was in sunglasses. A hoodie. Leggings with a hole in the waistband.

She’d just turned down the canned goods aisle when she saw him.

Or rather—them.

Harry fucking Castillo.

Pushing a cart with a baby strapped to his chest. And next to him, the woman.

The woman she screamed at her wedding reception.

The woman she called a child.

The woman he’d married.

The woman he’d had a fucking baby with?!

Lucy froze.

She didn’t even breathe for a moment.

It wasn’t that she was shocked Harry's marriage lasted this long. She’d always known it sort of would.

But she hadn’t expected it to look like this.

Not a baby. Not soft, domestic affection. Not him smiling at anyone like that.

He looked like a man who hadn’t just changed his life but escaped it.

Lucy ducked behind the display, nearly knocking over cans of kidney beans. Her breath came shallow, her face hot under her hoodie.

She had said something and Harry laughed—laughed—the sound low and real, the kind she used to wish he’d give to her.

Lucy stared. She couldn’t help it. The way his hand rested on the baby’s back. The way he reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear while she scanned the canned tomatoes.

The way he stood slightly angled in front of them, as if shielding them from the world without even realizing it.

Lucy swallowed hard. They hadn’t seen her. Not yet.

And she wasn’t going to let them.

Lucy turned on her heel, nearly bolting for the back exit. She didn’t get the almond milk. Or the fruit. She sat in her car with the engine running and her heart in her throat.

This was the man she left.

This was the life she gave up—for something she thought would be better.

And it hadn’t been. Not even close.

Back in the store, Harry picked out two types of granola he had no intention of eating and dropped them in the cart.

She rolled her eyes. “You only like the one with chocolate clusters.”

“Let me live a little.”

She bumped his hip with hers, and he smiled. His hand settled on the small of her back.

“Wanna go down the baby aisle?” he asked. “See what other overpriced plastic we’re missing?”

“Only if you promise not to buy more bottles.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

And just like that, they carried on.

Oblivious to the ghost that had passed through their morning. Too in love, too full of joy, to notice the woman who’d once sworn Harry Castillo would never make a good partner. Or father. Or man.

But he had.

And he had her.

And their daughter.

And a cart full of groceries, and rye bread, and the best goddamn mustard money could buy.

The ride home was quiet in that warm, full kind of way. The way it always got after a good outing, when everyone was a little tired and sun-soft and vaguely proud of themselves for managing something as monumental as a grocery run with an infant.

Harry kept one hand on the wheel and the other stretched out toward her thigh, his pinky hooked around hers. She could hear the baby breathing in the back—deep and steady, the kind of sleep that only came from motion and overstimulation.

The road curved gently through Montauk, sleepy and slow this time of day. Trees shadowed their path like old friends. When they turned up their drive, the house greeted them like it always did, steady, unbothered, waiting.

Frances was pressed against the living room window when they pulled in, tail flicking. She never liked being left behind.

It was Harry who lifted the groceries from the back. She got Adella—still asleep—and the diaper bag. The sun had begun to lower, washing everything in gold. It made their stone house glow at the edges, like something out of an old storybook.

She adjusted Adella on her chest, the baby curling instinctively into her collarbone.

Harry came around to her side and kissed the top of her head, then the baby’s, like he was saying we’re home in a language only they understood.

They walked up the porch stairs slowly. The boards creaked beneath their feet, just as they always did. But this time—this time something quiet and ancient moved between them.

Harry’s hand brushed hers.

And they passed the bottom stair—the one Adella would one day tumble down, just a small fall, the kind that made her cry out in shock before standing back up. Harry would sprint across the yard that day. He'd scoop Adella up and check her knees, only to find a shallow scrape and a wobbly lip. Frances would meow nearby like he’d seen it happen but had no intention of tattling.

They passed the side hallway—the one where Adella’s first crayon mural would end up. She’d draw a wobbly sun and a stick-figure cat, and when they found it, Harry would groan dramatically, only to smile while scrubbing it clean. And secretly, she’d keep a photo of it tucked in her nightstand drawer for years.

Inside the house, the air was cool and familiar.

They moved through the hallway where Frances would one day take down an art frame mid-sprint, trying to escape a chubby toddler in socks who screamed her name like a battle cry. They’d come running to find Adella laughing so hard she’d fallen backwards, the glass shattered, the cat looking appropriately unbothered.

Into the kitchen they went.

Groceries were unpacked one by one, almond milk in the fridge, granola in the pantry, Harry's rye bread tucked in the ceramic bread bin she insisted on getting. Adella stayed asleep on her chest through it all, just a little warm ball of weight and love.

Harry leaned against the counter when they were done, arms crossed, watching her.

“What?”

“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.

“At what?”

He shrugged. “Everything.”

She flushed and looked away, smiling.

Later, she laid Adella down in the bassinet beside their bed. Harry wandered out to the porch with a glass of wine. She followed with a warm cup of tea.

They sat beneath the evening sky, the ocean stretching out in front of them, vast and steady.

From the porch steps, she’d one day watch Adella ride her first bike. Harry would be behind her, jogging with a hand on the seat, pretending to still hold her steady even after she was already flying on her own.

From this porch, they’d one day see Adella off to her first day of school, her backpack too big, her pigtails slightly uneven. Harry would cry in the hallway but deny it for hours.

And one day—far from now, but not too far—this house would be the place she’d bring home a best friend. A scraped knee. A found kitten. A heartbreak. And eventually, maybe even someone she loved.

And they would be here. Always here.

Back in town, Lucy sat at the end of a different kind of porch.

The rental house was quiet except for the slow tick of a wind chime and the low churn of regret that lived in her stomach.

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

Them.

That baby.

The look on his face when he glanced at her. Not Lucy. Her.

The girl who made him different.

Lucy sat curled in a borrowed cardigan, staring out at the gray sliver of ocean barely visible between trees. Her phone buzzed, another ignored message from John. She hadn’t answered in days.

It should’ve been her.

That was the thought that wouldn’t leave her alone.

It should’ve been her walking next to Harry. Carrying his child. Laughing while he held granola. Settling into a beautiful house in a town like this.

But it hadn’t been her. Because Lucy had walked away.

Because she hadn’t thought he could be soft, or loving, or stable. Because she'd thought she'd find something better.

And instead, she'd found exactly what she'd chosen. A man who didn't stay. A life that didn’t feel like hers.

She stayed on the porch until the sun dipped low, trying not to cry, and knowing no one would come looking even if she did.

Back in their home, the fire crackled softly.

Adella stirred in her bassinet but didn’t wake. Frances curled at her feet, guarding her like a silent sentinel.

Harry reached out for his wife, tugging her closer under the blanket draped over their legs.

She leaned into him, her body already memorizing the shape of his, even after all these years.

They stayed like that until the stars came out, until the wine was gone and the tea had cooled and the world had gone quiet again.

“I can’t believe this is ours,” she whispered.

Harry turned to her, eyes tired but certain.

“I can,” he said. “Because I finally stopped fucking it up.”

And with that, she leaned into his shoulder. He kissed her temple.

Adella sighed in her sleep. Frances stretched on the rug. And the house—their home—settled into the soft stillness of another ordinary, perfect night.

The kind they’d always dreamed of.

The kind they'd never take for granted.

The kind they’d remember forever.

TEN MONTHS LATER

The smell of cut grass and charcoal hit first.

Then came the��pop of another balloon twisting in Harry’s old hands, followed by a grumbled “damn thing” as he tied it off with surprising dexterity for a man who spent most of his life signing contracts and breaking bank indexes.

It was barely 8 a.m. and the Castillo house looked like a bunny farm exploded in the backyard.

Max and Ruby. Everywhere.

Big round bunny faces taped to the backs of lawn chairs. A handmade welcome sign in Harry’s bold, sharpie-scrawled handwriting that said “HOP ON IN” hung across the stone archway that led to the backyard. He’d tried to draw a bunny on it too—though it came out looking more like a cat with judgment issues, and his wife hadn’t stopped laughing since.

He’d been up since six.

Insisting on doing everything himself.

“Why would I hire someone to hang streamers?” he’d said. “She’s not getting a party thrown by some guy named Chad in a headset. She’s getting one from her dad.”

And that was that.

Now there were pastel pink streamers tied to every surface that would hold still. He’d cleared the long wooden table by the pool and covered it in a checked linen cloth, weighted down with ceramic bunny salt shakers they’d found in town the week before. There were jugs of lemonade, glass dispensers filled with strawberry water, and matching plates shaped like rabbit ears that Harry had opened with great care.

At in their fridge sat a small white cake.

Homemade, with vanilla bean icing and a single, round candle.

“Mama,” came a soft voice behind her.

She turned—and nearly burst into tears for the fifth time that morning.

Adella was in the middle of the kitchen rug, teetering gently on her chubby legs, bunny ears on her headband crooked, holding a silicone spoon like it was the most important artifact on earth.

“Mama,” she repeated, cheeks full and pink, two little teeth peeking out when she smiled.

Harry had heard it too. He ducked in from the patio with a balloon in his mouth and a roll of tape in one hand. When he spotted Adella, he froze.

“Did she just—?”

“She said it again,” she whispered, kneeling to pick their daughter up, heart aching with how big she suddenly felt.

Adella clung to her shoulders and gave a sleepy little hum. Harry stepped in and kissed both their heads in turn.

“We’re not gonna make it through this party,” he mumbled. “I’m warning you now.”

She kissed his cheek. “You’re doing amazing, by the way.”

“Damn right I am. Did you see the ears on the juice cups? Craftsmanship.”

She smiled and watched him go back outside with his roll of tape and his soft curses, because one of the signs had blown off again and “I should’ve used the industrial stuff, I told you we needed it.”

Inside, Adella followed her around in her walker, stopping to grab her favorite plush rabbit every time she passed it on the rug. She had two teeth coming in, both on the bottom, which made her dribble just slightly, and she’d developed this new habit of clapping whenever music played—something she did when Harry turned on the jazz station while cooking.

By mid-morning, the backyard looked perfect. A long row of chairs along the edge of the grass. The grill set up just past the pool, already prepped by Harry, who had marinades chilling in glass bowls and a timer set for everything.

There was even a shady corner with a soft quilt spread out and baby toys arranged like a play area, because Harry refused to let anyone else buy them a travel crib or “those dumb padded pens—our kid gets grass under her toes or what’s the damn point of having a yard.”

Frances had been bribed indoors with tuna, already napping in the sunroom, hiding from the pastel chaos.

Inside, she was dressing Adella in her birthday outfit—a soft cotton onesie with little bunnies across the front, and a tutu made of pale pink tulle that made Harry dramatically exclaim, “You’re killing me with this outfit,” the second he saw it.

“She looks so pretty,” he muttered, already trying to snap pictures with the Polaroid camera his wife liked to use for sentimental days.

“She’s gonna eat the candle, isn’t she?”

“Oh, 100%.”

They were just finishing setting up when her phone buzzed with the first on the way! text. Maya and Danny of course.

They were coming. To celebrate a year.

A year that felt like it had flown and also somehow held a lifetime.

A year since she’d become a mother.

Since Harry had become something softer and better than she ever imagined he could be.

And somewhere in the middle of it all—Adella had been born.

Their daughter.

The girl who loved Max and Ruby and waving at the vacuum and pressing her face against the glass doors until Harry picked her up, every single time, without fail.

The baby the world didn’t know about until a month ago—when Harry, in a hoodie and sweatpants, had carried her out of the vet’s office holding Frances' carrier, pressed against his chest with her hand gripping his collar. The photo had caught the exact moment he’d bent down to nuzzle her cheek.

It went viral in under three hours. No caption. No statement. No press release.

Just a blurry photo of one of the richest men on earth, smiling like a fool at his daughter.

Now, their house was ready for Adella's first ever birthday party.

Adella was already dozing off again in her arms when the doorbell rang.

“Here we go,” she whispered, kissing the baby’s hair.

Harry pulled open the door, and the first voice came in loud.

And just like that—the party began. The house filled slowly—like warm water in a big basin.

First came Danny and Maya, arms full of pink gift bags and bakery boxes, grinning like idiots and smelling faintly of espresso and car air freshener. Maya nearly tackled her with a hug the second she stepped through the front door, then promptly burst into tears again when she saw Adella’s little ears bouncing as she toddled in her walker.

“She has teeth,” Maya sobbed, kneeling to kiss Adella’s chubby hands.

“She’s got two, and they’re ruining everyone’s sleep,” Harry muttered from behind them, holding up an ice ring teether like it was a war medal.

“Worth it,” Danny grinned. “She’s too perfect.”

Then came Isidora, laughing breathlessly as she held her two girls’ hands—both already racing to the backyard where the bunny garlands fluttered in the breeze. Her husband followed behind with a basket full of scones and a bottle of prosecco tucked beneath his arm.

Francesca and Luca rolled in shortly after, jet-lagged and stylish, with a huge cloth-wrapped box and a baby piano.

“I’ll kill you if this sings,” Harry warned.

“It sings six songs,” Luca said.

Harry groaned. “You're dead to me.”

And then came Sadie—in a floral sundress, glowing with pregnancy, and holding her fiancé’s hand like it was the only anchor she needed. Both of the women looked truly happy.

“I made the flight, boss,” Sadie said, cheekily patting her belly. “So did he.”

“Jesus,” Harry muttered, already hugging his wife tighter than she expected. “You’re next.”

“Don’t jinx me,” she laughed.

By noon, the backyard looked like something out of a magazine. Sunlight danced off the pool water, birdsong flitted in from the trees, and Adella—her party outfit now crinkled and speckled with bits of pastries—was the undisputed queen of it all.

Harry manned the grill like a general. Tongs in one hand, Adella in the other, and a towel slung over his shoulder. He was wearing an apron, a gift from Danny, and he hadn’t even flinched when he’d handed it to him.

He looked so much like a dad she couldn’t breathe for a second.

That was her husband. That was Adella’s father.

Greys at his temples, strong arms, focused on the temperature of the veggie skewers while gently rocking their teething daughter against his chest.

“Grill’s hot, you're hotter,” he joked as she walked by, nudging his hip with hers.

“Disgusting,” she said, smiling.

“You married me.”

She kissed his shoulder and grabbed a plate.

They ate under the big tree by the fence. Everyone tucked into grilled corn, kebabs, grilled zucchini, buttered rolls, fresh fruit, and a strawberry salad that had gone viral in their friend group after she made it last spring. Harry refilled drinks, made everyone laugh, and stole bites from her plate even though he had his own.

Adella was passed around like a celebrity, but always ended up back in their arms, especially when her gums started bothering her again. She gnawed gently on her teether while her little hands grabbed at the sunlight.

At one point, as everyone was lounging and chatting, she caught herself watching the scene and thinking—Teddy would have loved her.

Her twin. Her other half.

He would’ve thrown himself into this day. He would’ve made Adella laugh louder than anyone. Would’ve worn the bunny ears just to get a giggle. He would’ve snuck her frosting when no one was looking.

She blinked back tears as she rubbed Adella’s back, whispering something about how she had an uncle who would’ve adored her to the moon and back.

Harry noticed. He didn’t say anything—just came over and brushed her hair back, leaned in, and kissed her temple without a word. That was how he handled grief. With presence.

Then came the cake. It was small—perfect. Topped with a little Max and Ruby figurine and one chubby pink candle that Harry lit with surprising precision.

Everyone gathered around the table, phones out, smiles wide.

“Mama!” Adella squealed right as the candle was lit.

Everyone lost it.

She laughed and held her daughter tighter as Harry led the group in singing—loud and off-key and proud. He even clapped twice at the end, just to make her giggle again.

Then came the big moment.

Harry leaned down and whispered, “Okay, sweet girl, ready to blow?”

She didn’t. But she sneezed—and it puffed the candle out just enough that everyone clapped anyway.

“Close enough,” he declared, scooping her up into his arms while she tried to eat the candle.

Cake was served—sloppy and perfect. Adella got a small slice, mostly icing, which she smeared across her cheeks and promptly tried to share with Frances when the cat wandered nearby. Frances wisely retreated.

Presents followed.

A tiny chair. A shelf full of books. Handmade booties. A blanket embroidered with her initials. And, of course, the loudest, most offensive singing rabbit toy ever created, courtesy of Luca and Francesca.

Harry turned it on once.

Then took the batteries out.

By the time the sun began to lean west, the day was golden and warm, and the baby was sticky and sleepy, clinging to her mama’s collar and humming little nonsense syllables.

People would be heading out soon.

But not yet.

Not before Harry poured one more round of lemonade.

Not before Adella clapped one more time when Sadie’s fiancé put on a pop playlist.

Not before Harry walked up behind her, slid his arms around her waist, rested his chin on her shoulder, and murmured, “This is everything, isn’t it?”

She turned to look at him. His face had a softness he never wore in public. A gentleness saved only for her, and for the little girl now snoring on her chest.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “It really is.”

And just as the first few cars slowly rolled up the driveway to leave, the wind picked up, tugging at the bunting across the patio, sending the balloons into soft spins above their heads.

Harry reached up to fix one.

“Still standing,” he said.

She smiled.

So were they.

The sun had finally dipped low enough to cast everything in gold—real gold. Not the kind Harry was used to.

Not bank wire gold.

Not watch dial gold.

This was baby-on-your-hip, frosting-smudged-fingers, sun-warm-sky gold. The kind that made you slow down. Breathe slower. Notice.

Adella had long since passed out in her mother’s arms, pink from sugar and sunlight and all the love her little body could hold. Her curls were damp with sweat at the crown, the soft beginnings of hair finally growing in, and one tiny sock had vanished somewhere during the afternoon.

Inside, the house smelled like smoke from the grill, icing from the cake, and baby shampoo left over from the morning bath. The tablecloth was askew, the leftover lemonade half-empty, a gift bag had blown over near the porch swing.

Harry started moving through it all like he always did—efficient but quiet.

He didn’t say much while he cleaned. Just hummed faintly while stacking paper plates, covering the last of the grilled corn, putting lids on the remaining dips and folding up the bunny napkins with practiced hands. The decorations stayed. He decided they could enjoy the sight of them for one more day.

The plates clinked gently into the sink.

The lights were dimmed.

The house slowly softened.

By the time she came in—Adella still snuggled on her chest, cheeks flushed, lips pursed in sleep—Harry had wrapped up everything that needed to be wrapped.

"You didn’t have to do all of it tonight," she whispered.

"I wanted to." He kissed her temple. "Tomorrow’s for bunny banner removal. Today was for her."

Their daughter stirred slightly, nuzzled deeper into her mama's collarbone, then settled again.

“Let’s do a bath,” she murmured, brushing back Adella’s curls. “Get the frosting out of her hair.”

Harry nodded, already leading the way down the hall, the old hardwood creaking under their steps. The overhead lights were off. Just the hallway sconces lit the space now in warm pools of amber. Frances padded out of the nursery like she was giving them the all-clear, then flicked her tail and disappeared again.

The bathroom was warm already, steam rising from the oversized tub. She'd turned on the small Bluetooth speaker and Lou Reed played through it, soft and instrumental.

Harry slipped out of his shirt, setting it neatly on the counter, then helped her with hers. They moved quietly, comfortably, like two people who had done this dance a hundred times, because they had—even if this version had an extra set of baby toes and a stubborn bunny washcloth.

Adella blinked awake just as her feet dipped into the water, letting out one soft whimper that turned into a squeaky sigh when her mama kissed her cheeks.

“There she is,” Harry whispered, stepping in behind them.

She leaned back against his chest, Adella in her arms, and the three of them sank slowly into the bath—water lapping up over tired limbs and cake-sticky skin. Adella blinked again, then began chewing quietly on the rubber bath turtle Harry insisted they buy during a pharmacy run last week.

The silence wasn’t heavy.

It was warm.

The kind of silence you only got with people who loved you in the bones of their being.

She passed Adella to Harry after a while—her arms limp from holding the baby all day—and watched as he carefully supported their daughter’s back, fingers splayed gently beneath her shoulder blades, thumb brushing under her chin to keep her head up.

Her little fists curled and uncurled, splashing slightly with sleepy delight.

“You think she’ll remember this?” he asked quietly, voice gravel-soft.

“She’ll remember the feeling,” she murmured. “The way it felt to be safe. That always stays.”

Harry swallowed, eyes still on their daughter. “I hope so.”

Adella gurgled in response, clearly thrilled with the water temperature and the squishy toy now floating near her elbow.

Her father smiled at her like she hung the moon.

Like she was the moon.

After rinsing, drying, and wrapping their little strawberry in a hooded towel that made her look like a marshmallow, they padded softly into the bedroom. She changed Adella while Harry fetched her last pouch of milk from the mini-fridge they kept in the nursery corner.

“She drank a ton earlier,” he said as he handed it over. “Might not finish this one.”

“Lets see.”

Adella took her milk slowly, nestled against her chest, thumb curled in her collar, eyes half-lidded. The two teeth pushing through her gums had made her fussier than usual at night, but not tonight. Not after a day like this.

Harry stood behind them, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

"She said 'mama' again," he whispered, reverently.

"I know," she said, voice thick with love.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to her.”

She tilted her head back just enough to look up at him.

“She’s the best thing that ever happened to you.”

He leaned down, forehead pressed to hers, breath shared.

“Both of you.”

When Adella was finally asleep, cheeks warm, tiny snores barely audible, they tucked her gently into the crib beside their bed—the same crib that had sat beside her during those early nights in the loft. The same crib Harry had reassembled himself in Montauk, without directions, because “who needs instructions for love?”

She stood at the edge for a moment longer, just watching their daughter dream.

Then she turned.

Harry had already pulled the covers down, her water bottle on the nightstand, the fan set on low. He was fluffing her pillow like it was part of his daily devotion.

She climbed into bed without a word.

He followed.

And when they finally lay back, limbs tangled, hearts still echoing with laughter from earlier in the day, Harry looked over at her and whispered—

“I don’t care how old I was when I became a dad. I would’ve waited a hundred years if it meant it was you. And her.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

Pulled his hand into hers.

Said the only thing that ever really needed saying.

“I love you.”

This.

This is the only thing that ever mattered.

The sheets were cool beneath their skin, the soft hum of the fan just enough air to lull them into that quiet, weightless kind of calm. The kind that came after a day so full it left no room for stress, no edges for worry to catch on. Just peace.

Adella had been asleep for a full hour now.

Occasionally she made one of her tiny sleep sounds—half a sigh, half a whimper—and each time, Harry tilted his head slightly toward the crib, alert but relaxed, that protective instinct always humming just beneath the surface.

She laid tucked into his side, head on his shoulder, fingers playing absently with the edge of his sweats. Neither of them had spoken for a while. The silence between them was never uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that only came with time, trust, and love worn in like denim. They didn’t need to fill it. But tonight, she found herself turning something over in her mind. A question. A maybe.

She pressed her nose to his collarbone and said it so softly, he almost missed it.

“Do you ever think about…another baby?”

Harry didn’t move at first. Just breathed in slow.

She felt the shift of his chest under her cheek, the subtle tension of his arm tightening around her waist. Not rejection. Just surprise.

“I mean,” she added quickly, “not now. Obviously. I just—sometimes I think about Adella being older. Having a sibling. Someone to share things with. You know?”

Harry turned his head, resting his cheek against her hair.

“I do,” he murmured.

She lifted her head slightly, enough to look at him. “But I know you’re—”

“Old?” he cut in, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She made a face. “I wasn’t gonna say it.”

“You were thinking it.”

She grinned. “Maybe.”

Harry shifted so he could see her better, one hand still tracing gentle circles on her hip beneath the blanket. His face was soft in the low light, all the edges dulled by years and the kind of contentment that made a man glow without even trying.

“I’ll be fifty-nine in two months,” he said plainly. “And yeah, sometimes I think about that. About how I’ll be the dad in the school parking lot that people mistake for her grandfather.”

She didn’t say anything. Just watched him.

“But I also think about how when I look at her, I don’t care. I think about how I’d do it all over again. And again. Because if it meant more little people who look like you—who smile like she does when she sees you—then yeah.”

Her heart squeezed.

He looked at her fully now. Voice lower, more sure.

“I’d give you as many kids as you wanted.”

She blinked, swallowing hard.

“Harry—”

“I mean it.” He brushed his fingers through her hair, letting his thumb rest against her temple. “You gave me this life. You made me a father. I don’t care if I’m sixty or seventy. If you want more, we’ll make it work.”

She pressed her face to his neck, kissing the space just below his jaw.

“I love you.”

“I know.” He smirked again. “You tell me when I’m folding laundry.”

“You’re a hot dad. You deserve to know.”

He laughed quietly, kissing the top of her head. "I love you more."

They laid in silence for another minute, then she murmured, “I’d like one more. Someday.”

He nodded. “Someday.”

She reached out blindly and traced the top of Adella’s crib with her fingers, that small familiar habit of checking. Making sure their baby was still there. Still safe.

“She’d be a good big sister,” she whispered.

“She will,” he said, eyes closed now, a smile playing at his lips.

She smiled too, curling deeper into his chest, their legs tangled under the sheets. His hand found her hip again, then slid up to her stomach. Protective. Comforting.

Not now. But someday.

And when that day came—they would be ready.

Wrinkled hands, aching back, graying hair and all—he would show up.

Every day.

For every bottle and teething ring and midnight rocking session. He’d do it all again. Because he was hers. And he was theirs.

They fell asleep like that—quiet and close.

Adella stirred in her crib once around three a.m., fussing for just a moment before settling again. And when she didn’t, it was Harry who slipped out of bed, scooping her up with a practiced ease and pacing the room barefoot, whispering soft nothings into the crown of her curly head.

She watched from the bed, the man she loved swaying gently in the moonlight, holding their daughter like she was made of stars.

And all she could think was—

Yes.

This is what forever looks like.

and that’s the end of the chapter—thank you for being here. this might be the official end of the series, but not the end of them. i’ll keep writing little moments and everything in between for harry and her. they’re not done with me yet. your support, your messages, your love for these two—i’ve felt it all. thank you for reading. always love, alana

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