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The Perfect Match

Since so many of you asked for an Eddie imagine, here is a new Eddie Diaz story, requested by the lovely @buckslifeline I hope this turned out how you wanted.

Please let me know what you think, there will be a follow up for this one.

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Eddie Diaz Masterlist

Summary: Since she's been single for a while, (Y/n) gives in and lets her mum set her up on a date with the nephew of one of her friends. But wires get crossed when Eddie's aunt is the one to organise their first date.

Enjoy.

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"No, no ma I really don't want to-"

"Oh come on, you'll love him. He's so sweet, always helping out and he's a fireman. He's handsome too."

A groan tumbled past (Y/n)'s lips and her head hung down until it was resting in her hands. Both elbows dug into the kitchen counter that was so cold that her skin was beginning to turn numb from the touch. Her nose crinkled and her brows sagged.

She didn't want to be set up. The last thing she wanted was for her mum to find her a date and set her up with someone who was the total opposite of her. (Y/n) didn't want her family trying to pawn her off with someone they deemed appropriate for her.

Knowing her mother, this man would be a mummy's boy, someone who couldn't do anything without permission or who was the quiet, pushover kind.

Or it could be someone who outdid every expectation about him. He could have a God complex, and (Y/n) wouldn't be able to stand dating someone who thought the world revolved around them and that they were better than anybody and everybody else around them. That kind of ego was something that would cause trouble or get (Y/n) into unnecessary trouble.

And she certainly didn't want to be set up with someone who made her look inferior to her family. Who did everything asked of them and seemed like they were made out of gold dust. Someone who could do no wrong and who her family treasured and thought was lovely beyond compare.

Everyone had flaws.

(Y/n) knew there was no such thing as a person without flaws, and she didn't want to date someone who had no apparant flaws. Because finding out what they were would come as a shock, and someone that pristine would have darkness hidden away somewhere. When she finally dared to lift her head, she saw that familiar smile on her mum's face. That smile usually meant trouble was brewing.

"Come on, he sounds like a catch-"

"Then you date him, I don't want you to set me up with a Saint. Besides, nobody's perfect." (Y/n) angled her head to one side as she gave her mum a pointed look.

No catch was as perfect as her mum seemed to think this man was. The way she was smiling and so giddy to tell (Y/n) and set this up proved that she had been talking about this with this man's family. That was always the way. Since (Y/n)'s few serious relationships had ended, her mum was constantly trying to find someone she knew who she thought would be 'the perfect match.'

He never turned out to be perfect, and he never seemed to be the right guy. There was always a catch, always a deal breaker or these dates went stale after one or two and they never seemed to go anywhere.

(Y/n) was tired if it. She wanted to meet someone by accident, she wanted fate to decide when she bumped into the right guy and drop him right in front of her. Being set up by family always came with expectations that (Y/n) and her respective date could never live up to.

Plus, if their families knew one another and these dates ended in a disaster, it would only cause friction and unnecessary heartache. And (Y/n) didn't want that happening.

"I never said he was perfect. Just go on one date with him, I want to see you happy." The pleading tone to her mum's voice made (Y/n)'s heart clench and she huffed. There was no way around this. She either agreed or got badgered until she gave in. This would be the easier option.

"Who is he?" She sighed through the words and flopped her arms down on the counter rather than digging her elbows down into the countertop.

The bright grin she got in response was like a beaming ray of sunshine that dazzled (Y/n) and made her system flood with adrenaline. She would hate to see that smile fade if this proposed date didn't go very well. There would be a lot of expectations riding on this if it went ahead.

Her mum tapped her hand down on the countertop in triumph before she slid a cup of iced tea across to (Y/n) and leant forward on the opposite side of the counter.

"Tia's nephew, she's desperate to find him someone to be with. He's on his own raising a young boy, she says he's lonely."

(Y/n) did know Tia, she was a sweet lady. Surely her nephew would be a kind person too? If he was anything like her and if he took after her, then it might not be such a bad idea.

"One date. And I'm not making any promises."

Just one. That was all (Y/n) would agree to, she would be pushed on this one date and then see where it went from there. If she didn't like this fireman or if she got strange vibes from him or something didn't feel right, (Y/n) wouldn't go through with the hassle of more dates and more pretending.

He got one chance; (Y/n) hoped he would make a good impression.

Deep breaths tumbled past (Y/n)'s lips as she rung her hands together in front of her. She was starting to regret this. Why did she let them talk her into this?

Her mum had spoken to Tia Pepa after she agreed to this date, and it had all been arranged. Eddie knew his aunt was trying to set him up with someone, and he had told her today was his day off.

The date was supposed to be a surprise. He was supposed to expect someone to come round- at least that was (Y/n)'s understanding- and they would talk and get to know one another. And if they wanted to go out, Tia said she would watch Eddie's boy.

From what (Y/n) could gather, his ex-wife had passed away and his son was around eleven or twelve. (Y/n) seemed to get the impression from Tia that she hadn't liked Eddie's wife very much, so she made a mental note not to bring up his ex, or at least not talk about her a lot. Not until they got to know each other better and he was comfortable around her.

Well this seemed to be the right address. (Y/n) had searched the address and had been staring at the text on her phone and the house she was stood in front of for a good few minutes. She didn't want to turn up at the wrong house and make a fool of herself. And she certainly didn't want to take this Eddie by surprise and upset him if the idea of a date was going to freak him out.

Surely he would have told his aunt if he really didn't want to be set up with someone. Tia had sounded so certain that Eddie would like her that (Y/n) was hoping she had nothing to worry about.

Her stomach ignited with butterflies that surged throughout her chest and fluttered through her arms until her fingertips were cold and numb and she thought she might be having a heart attack.

Each step up the garden path made her knees shake and her hands continued to fumble in front of her until she was scratching her nails down the back of her hands, almost leading indents in the skin.

Her heart was beating so loudly that she was sure everyone in the street would be able to hear it. It was loud enough that her heart could have knocked on the door for her with its incessant thrashing.

There. She had knocked; there was no turning back now. The only choices were having a good first date or walking home in embarrassment and (Y/n) was praying for the former.

She wasn't sure what she was expecting this guy to look like, but the image in (Y/n)'s head looked nothing like the man standing in front of her.

He was out of breath, that much was clear. His chest was heaving beneath his pale mint shirt that seemed a little too tight around the upper chest and shoulders.

He leant forward with one hand clinging to the door handle and the other resting on the doorframe like he was a guard blocking any entrance into his home. His fortress. His dark lips were parted, letting out little pants and puffs of air and his hair- which was long on top and shaved at the sides- was forming in waves with just a few strands hanging down over his temple.

He seemed to look (Y/n) up and down with blown pupils that held a lot of surprise in them, but she wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not. But when his lips quirked into an open-mouthed grin, (Y/n) felt as if her chest was a cage that had opened to allow some of the butterflies within her to make their escape.

A weight was being lifted. She wasn't about to be shunned or turned away or laughed off his front step like she feared.

"Hi, are you Edmundo?" She knew she sounded breathless and somewhat dazed, but she tried her best to smile warmly and stop fidgeting from foot to foot. She didn't want to make him anxious.

A light seemed to sparkle in his eyes and he pushed off the doorframe, stepping back so he no longer looked like some kind of protector or bodyguard for his home.

"Brilliant, you're here. And everyone calls me Eddie, come in."

He knew.

Tia Pepa had told him that she would be coming, or in the very least she had told him about the date. (Y/n) thought he would only know that something was happening today. But his enthusiasm and eagerness told a different story. This was much better than what (Y/n) had been thinking and worrying about all night long.

A sigh tumbled past her lips despite the bright smile on her face and she nodded, moving her hand to clutch her bag to stop from scratching her hands. She didn't want to make any bad impressions. She stepped over the threshold with relief and took her time to look at her surroundings.

She had no idea whether they would be staying here to just chat and see how they got along, or if they would go out. She didn't know what the rules were or what the plans would be, and she wasn't sure what the rules were when it came to his son.

Did she have to wait until they knew each other to meet him? Could she ask questions about him? Would he be okay with his dad dating someone new?

"Thanks, I- I was a bit nervous coming over out the blue, she said it would be fine but we've never actually met, you know?"

She heard the door shut behind her and she stepped to one side as Eddie grinned and weaved around her. He didn't seem to mind that she was looking around the few photos scattered about and seeing the décor. There were a few seashells and boards and décor that suggested he liked the beach. That was one thing they had in common.

"Oh, hey I get it. But you don't have to be nervous, if she trusts you then so do I."

That seemed like a bit of an odd thing to say, but (Y/n) smiled and nodded all the same. Trust wasn't one of the things (Y/n) had been worrying about, but she guessed it was a big issue for him.

He wouldn't want to date just anybody or have a stranger coming into his home. If his family trusted (Y/n) then it seemed likely that Eddie would too or that he would be more comfortable with her being here at his home.

And (Y/n) should feel the same, after all, going into a stranger's home when she knew nothing about him wasn't the smartest idea. But her mum knew his aunt and she said she had seen Eddie a few times. She thought he was lovely and kind, not the creepy type. So it seemed okay that (Y/n) walked into his home, because he wasn't a total stranger. He was an acquaintance, up to now.

"Okay," She nodded and grinned, following him down the hall as she watched him with growing curiosity. He seemed to be preoccupied about something, like he had a million and one things running around in his head.

Her fingers tapped incessantly against her bag which she wasn't sure whether she was supposed to keep hold of or set down. She didn't know whether to take off her shoes or keep them on, but she could hear Eddie's boots thundering against the laminate floor so she supposed it was okay to keep her shoes on.

She was about to hurry down the hall after him when a figure suddenly stepped in her path and caused her to step on her back foot.

Surprise flooded her face and her lips parted as she stared down at who she could only presume was Eddie's son.

He had such a wide grin it was as if (Y/n) was an old family friend that he hadn't seen in years. His grin was somewhat cheeky and reached his eyes that were squinting up at her behind his glasses.

He was fidgeting from foot to foot like he was giddy with excitement and there was something hidden in those eyes that made (Y/n) smile.

"Are you any good at puzzles?" His question took her by surprise and (Y/n) found herself staring at him as if she had forgotten how to speak English.

He didn't ask her what her name was. He didn't ask why she was here or if she was a friend of his dads. He didn't quiz her about what she was doing or if she was staying long or having tea with them. He didn't ask any of the questions that (Y/n) would expect, but then again, this wasn't her typical kind of situation.

She looked up to see Eddie back in the hall, attaching his watch to his wrist as he grinned like they were all old friends gathering together for a night out.

"This is Chris, I'm sure Carla told you about him."

"A little, you're eleven right?" (Y/n) loved how Chris seemed to light up as if she were a psychic considering she was a stranger he had never met before, but she knew his age. He nodded eagerly and (Y/n) chuckled, until something clicked in her mind.

Carla. Eddie said Carla, not Tia Pepa or her mum's name. Who was Carla? Had he got his names mixed up? Did he think that was her mum's name? Was he just nervous and getting his words all in the wrong order? Whatever was going through his mind, (Y/n) couldn't seem to work it out because Eddie was grinning at her with his hands on his hips. He didn't look nervous or embarrassed or panicked.

"Uh you-"

"Puzzles?"

The feeling of a small hand gripping hers and tugging on her arm drew (Y/n)'s attention away from Eddie and down to his boy instead. She found him grinning at her like the cat who got the cream and he began to tug on her arm to get her attention so she would answer him.

"Hm? Oh, I'm great at puzzles, but-" Her tender expression must have been welcoming to Chris, because he didn't let (Y/n) finish her sentence before he was pulling her along with him.

"I need you're help." He was easily impressed and eager for some assistance. He had gotten a new science puzzle and he was starting to get stuck, if (Y/n) could help him then this would keep them occupied for hours, and he would find himself with a new friend.

A quiet 'oh' left (Y/n)'s lips as she was steered away from the hall and towards the living room. But on her way, she managed to catch sight of Eddie, and the smile she saw on his lips made her heart do summersaults. His smile was infectious and the way he flashed those pearly teeth and seemed to tilt his head down whilst looking up through those dark eyes caused (Y/n) to shiver.

She let Chris drag her into the living room that was rather quaint but stylish, and once he plonked himself down on the floor in front of the coffee table, (Y/n) did the same. She knelt down next to him, easing her bag onto the floor beside her while she looked over the puzzle.

He had cleared everything off the table and had gotten half of the edging pieced together and each corner in their place.

Without thinking, she reached out and began to place a few smooth edge pieces where she guessed they went. The puzzle looked to be one of the galaxy, a lot of dark blue hues and swirls of black with tiny specks of white dusted across like flecks of paint.

"Do you like the solar system?"

"Hm, my uncle Buck got me this one."

"It's lovely, I've not seen this one before." (Y/n) picked up another piece and slotted it into the right corner edge which seemed to spark something within Chris. For he sat forward, planted his arms on the edge of the table and began scouring through the pieces to try and find the right one.

When she lifted her head, (Y/n) noticed Eddie was rummaging around grabbing a few things. Was he tidying up? If he was, that wasn't necessary, (Y/n) wasn't here to inspect or judge his home.

She slid another piece into place while she glanced over and watched Eddie pull his phone from his pocket. His smile loosened and his nose twitched when he read what she presumed to be a text.

"Are they checking up on you?" She murmured softly to which she earned a grin that caused her stomach to flutter again.

Was his aunt checking in on him? Was she asking if (Y/n) had arrived and if so, was everything going okay? (Y/n) was expecting her mum to flood her with messages in a little while with tips and begging for information. And she knew she would have to call her mum tonight to let her know as soon as possible how tonight had gone.

"Work have been non-stop today." Eddie gave a slight shake of his phone that was constantly buzzing with messages from Bobby and Buck. Asking him to come in to work, telling him they were short staffed. Reminding him he was on call and they were having a few problems.

"Must be a hard job, being a fireman." (Y/n) wasn't sure what job she would have guessed Eddie did if her mum hadn't told her he was a fireman. That particular job wasn't one she would peg him for.

It was an important job, one that she could easily give him a lot of respect for, especially since he was doing such an important and draining job whilst being a single dad. It must be hard for him, and for Chris too.

"Yeah, we don't always get to leave work at the door, especially not this week."

She turned her head when she heard Chris mutter "Does that look right?" and she chuckled when she realised he had forced one puzzle piece into another.

"I'm not so sure, sweetie." She gently removed the piece and set it in the centre of the puzzle, to be properly placed later.

(Y/n) didn't pay too much attention when Eddie disappeared from the room, she could hear his boots thudding about the place, letting her know exactly how close or far away he was. But her head snapped up in his direction when his next words suddenly called through the hall until he was standing in the doorway.

"Right, dinner is already in the kitchen so don't let him fool you for takeout. I won't be late I swear, work is kinda hectic at the moment, we're short staffed and I'm now on-call until tomorrow."

What was he talking about? Oh God, he was going out. Was he politely asking (Y/n) to leave? Had work called before she got here and now he was telling her that their date couldn't happen and she would have to go?

"Um- late, I thought-"

"It's just a few hours, I promise. I'm really grateful for this, Carla said you're one of the best. Chris I'll see you tonight buddy."

"Bye dad."

Oh shit!

Terror seized (Y/n)'s heart and she tried to pass the puzzle piece to Chris who was none the wiser to her state of panic. He pointed where he thought the piece should go and (Y/n) tried to hurry and slot it into place before she was bashing her hands down on the floor to push herself up to her feet.

Words tumbled past her lips, trying to tell Chris that she would be one minute while her hand stretched out and she called "Wait!" after Eddie right as the door slammed closed.

By the time she got to the door, found the spare key hanging on the hook next to the doorframe and managed to open the door, Eddie's car was already reversed out the drive and heading out of sight.

What just happened? What was that? Did (Y/n) have the word muppet painted across her forehead? How much cheek did Eddie have to think he could just leave her here with his boy- when she barely knew either of them? What was he doing?

Did he seriously just blow off a date and rope her into babysitting duties instead? And who the Hell is Carla?

Deep breaths left (Y/n)'s lips and she let the door shut with a bang as her mind clouded over, leaving her stood in the hall like she had been cast under a spell or put in a trance.

She didn't seem to have much of a choice. She couldn't very well walk out the door and leave Chris here alone, unattended. He was a kid, he needed supervision and he surely wouldn't feel safe being home alone waiting for Eddie to come back. (Y/n) couldn't call anyone. She didn't have Eddie's number to demand he come back and sort this out. She didn't have his aunt's number either to ask for her help and advice.

There was no choice. She would just have to watch Chris and hope he was as happy and easy-going as he seemed to be. She would have to hope that he would be fine with her watching him until his dad came back.

"What a dick."

***

Eddie felt like there was a fire building up in his chest by the time he got back to his locker. Not long now. Not long and he could get back to Chris and be done with this extra shift he didn't even want, but he had stupidly agreed to be on call once a month, just like everybody else.

At least he didn't have to stay for a full twelve hour shift, he was only here helping out because someone else had gotten burned and had to head to the emergency room halfway through their shift. Eddie was only covering half a shift today.

He slumped against his locker, taking a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath. He felt like he had run a marathon, sorting out that house fire. God, he was ready to go home.

It was only because of Carla's help that he even managed to cover this shift.

When Bobby rang and said that Eddie really needed to come in for this shift as he was on call and they were desperate, Eddie panicked. Carla couldn't look after Chris and she was his go-to babysitter. He knew his Abuela and his aunt were out tonight so they couldn't help either. He rang Carla and asked if she knew anyone else, and she came to his rescue.

'I know a great friend, Amy, she's great with special needs kids and she's always willing to help out. Let me call her and ask and I'll send her your address. Don't worry.'

It had been a relief that Carla found someone so quickly, and Chris seemed to take to Amy the moment she walked in the door. Eddie thought she was rather endearing; he might just have to get her number to see if she would babysit Chris more often.

With a shake of his head and a smile toying on his lips, Eddie pushed up and opened his locker to retrieve his phone.

Damn. He hadn't given Amy his number, in case there were any problems. She would have Carla's number, surely she would just message her if there were any problems although Eddie couldn't see there being any. Chris was in a great mood, and Amy seemed eager to do activities with him and actually talk to him. They both looked happy and settled when he left.

He unlocked his phone, but when he scanned through his notifications, Eddie felt his blood turning to sludge in his veins and waves of heat consumed him like he was being burned alive.

Two missed calls from Carla. At least half a dozen messages from her.

*Eddie I'm sorry, my friend Amy was on her way when something came up. She can't make it. xx

*Are you and Chris okay? Have you managed to find someone else to watch him? xx

*Is everything okay with work? xx

*Eddie please answer me!

Oh God. If Carla's friend never made it… then who was that waiting at his home, watching his son?

Why had she walked right in and gone up to Chris? Why did she say she would watch him? How on Earth did she know his and Chris's names and how old Chris was and what Eddie was a fireman?

He presumed everything. He presumed she was the girl Carla had sent to babysit. He presumed that her knowing his name and occupation and that he had a son meant that she was the girl he had been waiting for to turn up at his home. He assumed she would be fine watching Chris and that there was nothing to worry about. If Carla trusted and vouched for her then Eddie had no problem with her looking after his boy, the most precious thing in his life.

But Carla didn't know the girl Eddie had let into his home. He didn't know her. Chris didn't know her. She could be a psycho. She could hurt Chris or take him and wander off and Eddie would have no way to contact or find her.

Shit. What was he going to do?

"Cap, Cap I gotta go, t-there's an emergency at home with Chris."

Who the Hell was looking after his son?

***

Eddie had never burst through the front door with so much vigor and paranoia in his life. His heart was pounding out of his chest and his lungs were burning like the house fire he had put out a few hours ago. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and heat seemed to surround him like he was trapped in a beaming ray from the setting sun.

God, he hoped Chris was alright. He hoped nothing horrible had happened while he was at work. Why did he leave them? Why didn't he talk to this woman some more before he went? Why did he blindly trust her?

Eddie knew better. He knew better than to trust people so eagerly and blindly like this. Shannon broke him time and time again and he trusted her and let her back in. He trusted his father to make amends and do right by him and his sisters, something that had never happened in his life. He trusted his mother to treat him fairly and stop taking over his life like he was such a screw up or disappointment.

Every relationship he ever had taught him not to give his trust to anyone. This girl smiled at him and walked right up to Chris like she had known him her whole life, and that was enough to satisfy and appease Eddie.

Never again. He wouldn't let it happen again, and he wouldn't let anything happen to Chris, just as long as he was alright now. He couldn't have his son injured or missing or frightened and scared out of his mind.

"Chris? Chris, buddy where…" Every word that wanted to spew out of Eddie's mouth and that was on the tip of his tongue suddenly faded out when he stumbled through the hall.

His feet skidded to a stop right on the threshold to the living room and his eyes went wide in their sockets when he looked at the scene in front of him.

Chris, and this stranger, both sat close together on the sofa with a blanket draped over them both and the lamp on in the background. From the music blasting out, he figured that they were watching one of the Toy Story movies. The puzzle was almost fully complete and laid out on the coffee table with just a small bundle of scattered pieces left to finish off in their places.

His boy looked tired, but very happy with a wide grin and his head bopping back and forth in a stim that Eddie knew to be a very content, happy one.

He was alright. This stranger had seemingly looked after him rather than taken advantage and robbed the place or snatched Chris or frightened him or left him home alone. She almost looked like she belonged here, and that was frightening to Eddie.

"Hi dad." Chris giggled when he looked in the doorway. His dad didn't look his usual self tonight, he was still in his messy work uniform which he normally washed down at the station. He would normally come home in his spare clothes that he took in his work bag.

His hair was a matted mess with dirt and soot mingled in and he had a streak of black soot smeared across his left cheek. His eyes were wide, his blushing lips were parted and he was panting like a wild animal.

"Chris, go to your room for me. Now."

A frown furrowed onto Chris's face and he felt the need to whine, but seeing his dad's angered expression was enough to make Chris stay quiet. He huffed, clearly dismayed and he threw the blanket onto the armchair before he got up. A soft "See you soon," was mumbled in (Y/n)'s direction before he stomped off to his room like he had been asked.

Unease flooded (Y/n)'s system as she looked across at Eddie. It must have been a rough shift. Had something bad happened? Had he realised how wrong he had been to dump his date at his house watching his kid who she had never met before? Had he finally come to his senses? Perhaps his ego had deflated just a little by now.

She sat forward, running her hands up and down her thighs while she tried to put on her best smile to keep the atmosphere from becoming stale and putrid.

"He's a great kid, really smart and so swee-"

"Who even are you?"

(Y/n) straightened up, as stiff as a board while her eyes narrowed and her placid smile faded into a contorted look of anguish.

Well that was rude. Even worse than leaving her here with his son without asking or even thinking about her at all. What had she done to deserve that? She stayed, she looked after his son, did a puzzle and fed him and played a game of cards and answered all his budding questions.

She looked after Chris and treated him with respect, she hadn't let him know that anything had been wrong and she hadn't flied off the handle like she so rightly deserved. What went through Eddie's mind to make him think that he could talk to her like this?

"I beg your pardon?" A snarky tone flooded (Y/n)'s voice and she pushed up from the sofa, daring to step closer to him while her arms folded over her chest.

"Carla didn't send you, did she?"

That name again. That name of someone she was supposed to know, a name that wasn't even vaguely familiar to (Y/n). And that stance, Eddie stood there with his arms folded over his chest and his foot impatiently tapping against the floor like he was the one who deserved an explanation.

"I don't know who Carla is, why do you keep asking about her?" She didn't care how crude she was being, because clearly he didn't either.

A sarcastic laugh left Eddie's lips and he tilted his head back while one hand moved to scratch down his jaw that was ever so lightly layered in stubble. She wasn't even denying it. She wasn't going to deny that she came in under false pretenses. She wasn't denying that she clearly wasn't who Eddie thought she was. She wasn't here to babysit Chris, even though that was what she had seemingly done while he had been at work.

"Great. You know my name, walk right into my house and sit with my kid but nobody sent you? What kind of shit is that, pretending to be the babysitter-"

"Hey, hey who do you think you're talking to?"

The way (Y/n) stepped forward and pointed her finger at Eddie caused his words to die down in his throat and his eyes widened. He was stunned. It wasn't often that someone would so blatently talk to him like that and put him in his place, even if he currently felt like she was the one stepping over the line.

The fury in her eyes was frightening and if Eddie didn't know any better, he would guess that her eyes were close to watering. Her hands were shaking and each breath she took was faster than the last, coming out shallow and hollow as her upper lip curled in anger.

"What kind of prick blows off a date and leaves them- an acquaintance no less, to look after their kid? You barely know me and you walked out and left me here with your son, that's some form of blind trust you have there, pal. I never said I was a babysitter, who told you that?"

Deep breaths ragged past (Y/n)'s chapped lips and her shoulders quaked and heaved as she stared up at the man who was starting to get on her last nerve.

He barely knew her. They were supposed to be on a date and he just left her here to watch his son. He didn't know her, not properly, and he just swanned off to work. What kind of parent was he to trust a total stranger with his child?

And why was he calling her the babysitter?

Was he some kind of macho, old-fashioned man who presumed all women were only good for being mothers and housewives? Did he think that a date meant he decided what they did and that at a drop of a hat, (Y/n) would be a substitute mother and care for his boy?

Well if that was his ideals then he was going to have a harsh landing when (Y/n) brought him back down to reality.

But the incredulity in his eyes caused (Y/n) to frown and she watched him step closer as his lips parted and he huffed. His hands held out at his sides until he was practically shaking and he looked around before his outburst cut through the air.

"You did!"

"No I didn't!"

Not once had she told Eddie that she worked professionally as a babysitter or that she would be happy to care for his son. She hadn't come here to play mother to his boy, no matter how sweet and charming Chris was. And Eddie couldn't just spring this on her and expect he was getting a second date after this fuck up.

(Y/n) felt like stomping her foot, but she hurriedly stepped back when a loud "Fuck!" spat past Eddie's lips and he turned his back to her. One hand tangled in his hair, pulling on the locks until they almost broke free from his scalp.

And when he turned back to face her, (Y/n) could feel a tear trickling down her face at the malice swirling around in those dark fudge eyes.

"Right, I don't care who you are or what you think you're doing but you need to leave. Dios, what is wrong with you, are you fucking insane or what?"

Shudders broke out and caused (Y/n) to look like she was being electrocuted as she turned and reached down for her bag. She barely managed to check that she had her phone and her keys before she turned back in Eddie's direction.

Her hand clenched around her bag, scrunching it in her fist while she stormed forward and barged her shoulder into Eddie's shoulder as harshly as she could. And she hoped he heard her mutter 'bastard' under her breath as she fled for the door.

How dare he. How dare he!

Either he was the most stupidest man in the world or he had misunderstood whatever his aunt had told him.

Well, (Y/n) wasn't going to stand around and be talked to like that. She wouldn't be made to feel like some kind of insane creep when she had done him a favour by watching his son rather than calling the police when she was left alone with him.

This was the last date that she was going to let her mother set up for her. No more dates. No more interactions like that.

And no more Edmundo Diaz.

***

Exhaustion clung to Eddie's body and wove itself into every fibre of his being. His limbs felt heavy and weighed down. His head was pounding and the headache he'd had for the last two hours just wouldn't cease.

He didn't know what to do with himself. He was tired enough to have an early night's sleep, but his mind was too wired to actually let him relax like that. Chris wasn't happy that he didn't get to say goodbye to the stranger who had made herself so at home here, for a reason Eddie didn't even know about.

Chris said her name was (Y/n), and that he'd had a great time with her. He was still under the impression that she was a babysitter; whereas Eddie had no idea who she was.

He ran his hands up and down his face, trying in vain to ward off the futile emotions coursing through his system. He had no idea what to do with himself or how to rectify this situation or whether to just leave it be and hope this girl didn't come back again.

His eyes ached and burned as he stared blankly at the tv while he rounded the sofa and plonked down. Chris was settled in bed now, he wasn't quite asleep but he was on his way. That was one less thing for Eddie to think about.

When a buzzing sound and vibrations caught his attention, he looked down at the sofa. His phone was pinging with messages. It was still on silent from being on shift, he had sent a brief text to Carla to say that everything was covered and not to worry before he dumped his phone on the sofa and stewed around the house in frustration.

Who was messaging him? Was it Carla, triple checking that everything had gone okay and that she hadn't left Eddie in a mess by not finding someone to babysit Chris? Eddie didn't want to tell her what had happened tonight, he didn't want to panic or upset her when it wasn't her fault. It was his fault for not being more diligent.

It wasn't Carla. A frown furrowed on Eddie's features when he looked at who had been messaging him. His aunt Tia Pepa had sent him a flurry of messages. Her son, Eddie's cousin Marcus had also sent a few but there were a lot of choice words in his messages.

*What the fuck did you say to (Y/n)? She was in tears when she rang, said you shouted at her!

Panic and confusion tore at Eddie's heart until he was certain his palpitations were signs of a budding heart attack.

How did they know (Y/n)? How did she know his family? Why had she rang his cousin? What the Hell was going on here?

When he got another text through from his aunt, Eddie didn't bother to read them, he clicked her contact and decided to phone her instead. Talking was going to be a lot quicker and more effective than sending a dozen messages back and forth to try and find out how this woman knew his whole family and what she had been doing.

"Hi Pepa,"

"Edmundo, what did you say to that lovely girl?"

He found himself cringing and coiling inwards at his aunt's sharp voice that cut through to his core. She was angry- no, she was furious. He could hear that coarse hint to her voice like she was getting over an infection or smoked twenty a day.

He didn't like being told off by any of the women in his family. Eddie had a lot more respect for the women than the men in his family and his life. It was the women who raised him, and him who raised his younger sisters while his dad was away far too much for his own good. Eddie had been brought up to try and do his best, to outshine everyone else.

He wanted to make his family proud, that was woven into his soul, so hearing any of his family sounding this disgruntled and disappointed in him cut his heart into shreds.

"What? Pepa I've had a real bad, confusing day and 'that girl' w-"

"I don't care. What did you say to (Y/n)? Her mother just called me, said she doesn't want to see you again. One date, that's all I asked. She gave you a chance and you frightened and shouted at her. And what's this about leaving her with Chris? This was supposed to be a date-"

"Pepa- Pepa slow down. What date?"

It took a lot to confuse Eddie, with all the drama he had to deal with in his life, at his work and with the teledramas he and Chris watched together. He could usually keep up with a lot of things, but this, oh this was different.

Why was he in the wrong or arguing with someone who came into his home under false pretenses? She hadn't explained anything, she had stayed with Chris when she clearly shouldn't have and then she had the nerve to say that she wasn't actually a babysitter. Why was Eddie not allowed to get angry about this?

She hadn't exactly been kind to him either, but Eddie hadn't gone running to friends or family to complain about this strange girl that came into his home and seemed to know an awful lot about him and his son. Compared to Eddie knowing virtually nothing about her. He hadn't even known her actual name until Chris told him.

"You silly boy, I told (Y/n) your address, her mother told her about you. We set up a date for you. Now what did you do to her?" Pepa's exasperated voice cut through Eddie's ears and had him cringing and coiling in on himself.

Oh dear.

His head dropped forward like his neck had been broken and a groan burned at the back of his throat.

This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.

That was why she knew him, and why she called him Edmundo and not just Eddie; that was how his aunt would always introduce him to people to show his heritage and background.

She had been set up with him. That was why she was angry that he left. She thought she was there to go out with him, and Eddie thought she was there to babysit. Their wires had been crossed from the moment (Y/n) walked in the door, and Eddie was mostly to blame for all of this.

Eddie knew his aunt was trying to find him someone, despite him constantly telling her that he was okay and didn't need or want to date anyone right now. But he didn't know she had found someone so soon or that she had arranged a date without telling him or asking him about it first.

"I didn't- I swear, I… Ooh Dios. I thought she was the babysitter, then Carla said- she said the sitter hadn't turned up. I panicked, I had no idea who was home with Chris. She never said about a date!"

"Well you'd better apologise, you've really made a fool of yourself this time Edmundo. And me."

[wanniiieeee]

OH MY GOD!!!! ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥👀👀👀 I NEED MORE OF THEM!! 🥹🥹😍😍😍

you're gonna put me in so much trouble, darling

PART TWO TO 'you better behave, darling'

part 1 here | masterlist

pairing: joel miller x female!reader

warnings: UNPROTECTED P IN V SMUT 18+ minors dni, praise, dirty talking, joel is a little lonely, mentions of sex toys

the next day, the sun was already unforgiving by noon, turning your quick errand into a sweaty, miserable journey. you’d just wanted a few things. your favorite body scrub, your favourite coffee pods, and some tampons, and now you were sitting in the parking lot cursing at your steering wheel.

“come on,” you muttered, turning the key again. nothing. you tried again. still nothing.

you slapped the wheel with a groan, leaned back in your seat, and stared at the blistering sky. your car couldn’t start, so you had no ac. your skin was sticking to the seat. you were dying.

you called your mom first, straight to voicemail. 

then you called your dad. he answered after a minute, and you told him what was going on with a frustrated sigh.

“i’d come get you, kiddo, but i’m stuck at the site all day. we’re behind on drywall.”

you bit your lip. “i’ll call a tow, it’s fine.”

“don’t be silly,” he cut in. “joel’s home today. why don’t you give him a call? he can swing by in his truck and take a look. y’know he knows that stuff better than i do.”

your stomach dropped. of course.

you sat in silence for a second, your heart already racing with the memory of last night. that kiss. that bathroom. his hand over your mouth. and now you were gonna have to call him? after you gave him your underwear at a family bbq night?

“uh-huh,” you said weakly. “sure. yeah. i’ll… do that.”

“call me if you need anything, alright?”

you hung up, sighed, and stared out the windshield. you could feel a headache brewing.

“this is what i get,” you muttered to yourself. “literally manifested this. jesus christ.”

your thumb hovered over joel’s name in your phone. you rolled your eyes at yourself, calling him before you could chicken out.

he picked up immediately.

“hey,” he said, voice low and familiar. too familiar. “you okay?”

your lips parted, caught off guard by how fast he answered. and how steady he sounded.

“i—uh—my car won’t start,” you said, squinting against the glare on the windshield. “i’m at in the parking lot at tee’s. my dad said you might be home?”

a pause. 

“i’ll be there in five.”

the inside of joel’s truck was cool, thankfully. but you felt the heat anyway.

your thighs stuck to the seat. you fiddled with the hem of your shorts. he hadn’t said much after he pulled up, just popped the hood, told you to get in his truck in the ac, and talked to his mechanic friend who came to tow the car. his voice had been low. gruff.

now, with both of you sitting there in silence, the air felt charged. like something unsaid was pressing against the windows.

you cleared your throat. “thanks for coming. i didn’t think you’d pick up that fast.”

joel kept his eyes on the road. “wasn’t doin’ anything important.”

“still. you didn’t have to drop everything.”

he glanced at you, briefly. “you called.”

you opened your mouth to say something. what, you weren’t even sure. but nothing came out. so you just nodded, lips pursed, fingers still fidgeting in your lap.

he shifted his grip on the steering wheel. “you alright?”

the question sat between you like a loaded gun.

“do you regret it?” 

joel’s eyes flicked over to you, confused. “hm?”

you looked at him now, heart thudding. “last night.”

he took a deep breath. his fingers tightened just a little on the steering wheel as he looked back at the road.

“no,” he said finally. “do you?”

you shook your head. “no.”

a few seconds passed before he spoke again. voice lower now, rough around the edges. “i just don’t understand why you’d want anything to do with me.”

that made you look over at him again. joel kept his eyes ahead, his jaw tense, like he didn’t want to say it but couldn’t stop himself. “i’m twice your age. your dad would kill me. like, literally kill me, baby. we’d both be dead.”

you swallowed, heart catching at the way he said baby like it slipped out without thinking.

he exhaled. “i keep thinkin’ maybe you’re just feelin’ lonely. or bored. i mean… i’m sure there’s guys who’d throw themselves at you if you looked their way.”

that stung a little. and it showed in your face.

you let out a quiet breath, eyes flicking to him. “if you don’t see me like that, just tell me. i’ll stop. but i guess…” you paused, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “i’ve had a crush on you for a while. i’m not scared to tell you that.”

joel was quiet for a long beat, eyes fixed on the road like it held the answer.

then, finally, he spoke low, like it cost him something to admit. “i do want you, darlin’.”

your breath caught.

“it’s just…” he shook his head, voice gravel-thick. “it’s risky. we need to be careful, alright? we barely made it out alive out of that fuckin' bathroom, honey.” he chuckled.

his hand flexed slightly on the wheel like he was holding himself back from doing something reckless, like reaching for you.

“i don’t wanna ruin things. or have your dad stormin’ over with a shotgun, looking to bury me in the yard.”

the corner of your mouth lifted, a tiny, involuntary smile.

“so what is this?” he asked, voice a little sharper now. “sex? is that what you want from me? you want someone older to mess around with?”

you blinked, taken aback. 

“what’s happenin’ here, baby?” he asked again, quieter this time. “you gotta tell me. are you bored? lonely?”

you laughed, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “that what you think of me? that i’m just some kid playing games? you think i take my panties off for just anyone when i’m bored?”

joel looked at you. 

“i like you, okay? if you don’t feel the same, just tell me. but don’t act like im a reckless girl with nothing better to do than to throw herself at her dad’s friends.”

when you arrived to your cul-de-sac, joel parked in between your houses. he lived painfully close to you. 

he glanced over at you, one hand still on the steering wheel. “you wanna come in? for a beer?”

you hesitated, “yeah. sure.”

the walk to his front door was short, but it felt longer with him beside you, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. 

inside, the house was familiar. lived-in. comforting.

joel made his way to the kitchen, pulling two beers from the fridge and cracking one open for you. you took it from him with a soft thanks and leaned against the counter, watching him.

“so,” you started casually, trying to sound nonchalant, “when do you think i’ll get my car back?”

joel took a slow sip before answering.

“called my guy soon as we got there,” he said, setting his bottle down. “slipped him a twenty to move it up the list. you should have it back by wednesday afternoon. 

you blinked. “but that’s in 3 days. i need my car, joel.” 

he leaned back against the counter, “don’t worry ‘bout it. i’ll drive you anywhere you need to be. how’s that sound?”

you raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your cool but failing miserably. “oh yeah? you offering chauffeur services now?”

“only for you.”

you raised a brow. “got nothing better to do?”

joel shrugged, running a hand over the back of his neck. “not really. summer’s brutal for work. we don’t do much when the sun’s beating down.”

you smirked. “sounds like you’re kinda lonely, huh?”

he glanced at you with a small grin. “maybe a little.”

“well, i got nothin’ better to do either,” you said, stepping a bit closer. “could keep you company for a while.”

you don't know how, but you successfully managed to convince him to come over to your place and use your pool. your parents were still at work, so you took full advantage of the empty house.

joel had gone inside to grab a swimsuit while you practically sprinted home to pick out the cutest bikini you had. 

now, you were floating on your back in the cool water, letting the heat of the day melt away.

from the pool steps, joel sat with a beer in hand, the sunlight catching the slight curl of a smile on his lips as he watched you splash around. 

you were feeling mischevious. you swam over to the deeper part of the pool with a grin.

“hey,” you called out, voice low and teasing. “there’s something down here.”

joel raised an eyebrow, setting his beer carefully on the step. “what kinda something?”

“don’t know,” you shrugged, eyes sparkling as you glanced up at him. “but you might wanna check it out.”

curiosity got the better of him. he leaned forward over the pool’s edge, squinting down into the water.

right then, you shot out your hand.

“hold on,” you said sweetly.

he was confused, but he took your hand anyway. before he could even react, you tugged hard and pulled him into the water.

joel’s surprised yelp turned into a laugh as he splashed right into the deep end, water rising fast around him.

“what the hell is wrong with you?” he sputtered, coming up with a wide grin.  

you couldn’t help it. laughter bubbled up from deep inside you, bright and genuine, echoing over the water.

joel blinked, eyes wide, clearly caught off guard. he’d never heard you laugh like that before.

he shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. without a word, he reached out, cupping your face gently and pulling you down into a kiss.

the world shrank down to just the two of you, the sun warming your skin, the cool water lapping around you. his mouth deepened the kiss, tongue tracing your lips, pulling you closer.

your fingers tangled in his hair, heart racing as his hands slid up your back, anchoring you to him. time blurred. nothing else mattered except the press of his lips, the heat between you, the rush of water and breath.

you gasped softly when he broke away just enough to kiss down your jawline, trailing hot, lazy kisses over your skin, and back up to capture your mouth again with hungry urgency.

breathless, you pulled back just enough to murmur, “do you.. want to go upstairs, to my room?”

he smirked against your lips, voice low and amused. “feelin’ mighty rebellious this summer, huh?”

you grinned, heart pounding. “we don’t have to. i’m just really enjoying spending time with your old ass”

joel followed you up the stairs. your bedroom door creaked open, and he stepped inside slowly, gaze scanning the space. soft lighting, the faint scent of your perfume, candles everywhere.

you came up behind him, heartbeat in your throat. he just stood there with his wet trunks, like he wasn’t sure what to do. so you reached for him.

he turned just as your hands slid up his chest, and then you kissed him like you’d been thinking about it all damn year.

he made a low sound in his throat, hands coming to your waist as he kissed you back just as fiercely.

between kisses, you whispered, “i haven’t… been with anyone. not in over a year.”

joel pulled back slightly, blinking like he wasn’t sure he heard you right. “a year?”

you nodded, brushing your nose against his. “mm-hmm. so im just feeling a little.. you know”

his voice was low and teasing. “frustrated?” 

you gave a soft laugh and nodded. “my vibrator’s not really cutting it these days.”

joel chuckled. not surprised, just amused. “yeah, i figured you’d have one of those,” he said, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. “bet it’s pink or somethin’.”

you grinned. “it’s purple, actually.”

he tilted his head, eyes warm. “course it is.”

the humor melted into something softer as he looked at you again, his hand brushing gently against your hip, fingers dipping just under the edge of your bikini bottom.

his voice lowered, rough around the edges. “you want me to take care of you, baby?”

your breath caught in your throat as you nodded slowly. “yeah. i do.”

that was all he needed.

joel’s hands slid to your hips, thumbs catching the edge of your soaked swimsuit. he took his time peeling them down carefully, like he was unwrapping something precious. he pressed a kiss to your jaw first, then the soft spot beneath your ear. when he kissed your neck, it made your knees go weak. then his mouth moved lower, trailing kisses down to your collarbone, the tops of your breasts, pausing just long enough to look up at you like he was asking permission again.

his hands stroked down your thighs, spreading warmth in their wake. when his thumb grazed over your inner thigh, his eyes flicked up. he was watching you, gauging every reaction, like he wanted to memorize what made you shiver and sigh. “you sure about this?” he asked quietly, voice gruff but gentle. “you just tell me if you want to stop. any second.”

you nodded, heart pounding. “i don’t want to stop.”

joel exhaled like he’d been holding his breath.

“okay,” he said, bringing his mouth to your chest again, kissing softly over the curve of your breast. 

joel gently guided you backward until your legs hit the edge of the bed, and he followed, pressing kisses along your stomach as you lay back. his rough palms sliding along your thighs as he spread them, lowering himself between them like it was where he belonged.

“you gonna let me taste you, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice low, husky. 

you nodded breathlessly, heart thudding as his mouth finally met you. he licked slow and deep, savoring every reaction, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you right where he wanted you. your fingers threaded through his hair instinctively, hips lifting slightly off the bed as he sucked your clit just right, then slid two fingers inside you, thick and curling just enough to make your whole body clench.

“that’s it,” he rasped against you, his voice wrecked. “that’s a good girl.”

your moans were helpless. every stroke of his tongue and press of his fingers wound you tighter until your orgasm creeped over you like thunder. you barely had time to catch your breath before joel rose to his knees above you, lips slick and eyes heavy with want.

still dazed, you pushed yourself up to straddle him. you kissed him, deep and messy, tasting yourself on his lips, and rocked your hips against his, making him groan low in his chest.

“you ridin’ me now?” he asked, voice gravelly. “that what you want, baby?”

you nodded, touching your forehead to his. “i wanna feel you.”

joel’s breath hitched as you reached between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance with trembling fingers. the weight of the moment settled thick in the air, his eyes locked on yours, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in sharp rhythm.

“you sure?” he rasped, his voice rough like gravel, thumb brushing your waist. “don’t wanna rush you—”

but you were already sinking down, slow and aching, until he filled you completely.

“shit,” joel groaned, head falling back for a moment, throat bobbing as he fought for control. “jesus, baby…”

your mouth parted, a soft moan escaping you as you adjusted to the stretch.you held still for a beat, heart hammering, then rocked your hips once, experimentally, drawing a guttural sound from deep in his chest.

“f-feels so good,” you whispered, hands resting on his shoulders for balance. “god, joel…”

he looked up at you like he could barely believe this was real, like you were something out of a dream.

“you’re so tight,” he breathed, gripping your hips. “warm as hell. you takin’ me so well, baby.”

you moaned at the praise, moving a little faster, the rhythm building with every pass of your hips against his.

joel’s hands wandered, one sliding up your back, the other drifting over your breast, thumb brushing your nipple as he watched you ride him like it was the only thing that mattered.

“you look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he moaned. 

you leaned forward, mouth brushing his ear. “been thinking about it. about you. for so long.”

that just about undid him.

his hands clenched at your waist, helping you move, guiding your rhythm as his lips found your neck, your jaw, your shoulder. every kiss was hot and messy. 

“keep goin’, just like that,” he groaned, voice fraying at the edges. “you’re drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy.”

you could feel it coming once again, that tight, overwhelming ache coiling deep in your belly, winding tighter with every slow grind of your hips, every brush of his thumb over your nipple, every soft, filthy word he growled against your skin.

“you close again, baby?” he murmured, voice low and urgent. “feels like you are.”

you nodded, fingers digging into his shoulders. “y-yeah. joel, oh—”

he sat up slightly, mouth capturing yours in a hungry kiss, one hand on your back to keep you close, the other gripping your hip as he thrust up into you. deeper, harder, matching your rhythm with his own.

“let go for me,” he rasped against your lips. “wanna feel you come, sweetheart. come all over me.”

at that, your body went tense and shuddered violently as your second orgasm hit, rushing through you like a wave breaking. you cried out his name, legs trembling, head falling to his shoulder as pleasure tore through you in sharp, hot pulses.

joel groaned deep in his chest, arms locking around you as he held you close,  “good girl… just like that… fuck, you’re perfect.”

you were still catching your breath, face pressed to the curve of his neck, when you felt his hands tighten on your hips.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, voice rough and cracking at the edges. “you’re squeezin’ me so damn good.”

you shifted slightly, and he swore under his breath, a ragged sound that sent a thrill down your spine.

“don’t move,” he gritted out. “christ, you’re gonna make me-”

you couldn’t help it. you rocked your hips again, slow and deep, and he gasped. his head fell back against the headboard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched tight.

“jesus fuck,” he panted, hands now gripping your thighs like he was hanging on for dear life. “you feel so fuckin’ good, baby…”

you kissed the side of his neck, whispering, “then come, joel. want to feel you.”

his body snapped beneath you, muscles straining, and with a low, broken moan, your name falling from his lips like a prayer, he came. hard.

the way he pulsed inside you, the warmth spreading between you as he held you down, buried deep, clinging to you like he’d fall apart otherwise. he breathed heavy against your shoulder, arms still wrapped around you, keeping you flush to his chest. one hand drifted up your spine, slow and shaky.

“goddamn,”, he muttered, voice hoarse, lips brushing your skin. you smiled, still catching your breath, heart pounding as you curled into him, both of you quiet now, your skin warm and sticky and flushed, laying on his chest. 

“you’re gonna put me in so much trouble, darlin.”

thankyou for reading ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

taglist: @3raqya @brittmb115 @wanniiieeee @millersdoll

[wanniiieeee]

OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS!!!! 😍😍😍❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 Can I get tag for the part 2?

i don’t know if you can write something without smut but i want reader’s parents(or dad idc) organizing this barbecue party in their house and joel trying to hard to play it cool and to stay away from reader who wears skimpy jean shorts and top only to tease him, and they end up sneaking in the kitchen to make out and almost get caught by reader’s dad or smth, you can change it however you see right, i just want to feel a lot tension and risk, thnks<33

you better behave, darling

pairing: joel miller x female!reader

warnings: sexual tension, mentions of alcohol and cigarettes, age gap unspecified, dilf!joel

part two (tomorrow) | masterlist

you didn’t know exactly when your crush on joel miller had gone from “dad’s hot friend” to “i think about you when i’m bored, lonely, or drunk”

maybe it was last winter, when he came over to help your dad fix the leaking pipes and left the garage smelling like his cologne. or maybe it was that time he picked you up from a party because your parents were out of town. 

it didn’t matter anymore.

because now it was summer, you just graduated, joel was very much still single, and the tension in your chest every time he was near had officially passed the point of manageable.

it didn’t help that he was practically family. joel had been friends with your parents for over a decade. came to holidays, fixed things when they broke, gave your dad advice about tires and taxes, even helped put up the christmas lights last year. he was dependable, and masculine, and protective, and you …. you had a massive crush on him. and he’d never looked at you like that. which was…. fine. safe. understandable. and completely infuriating. 

you were stirring a spoon around in your coffee, half-listening to your parents chat at the table behind you.

“the weather’s holding up,” your dad said between bites of toast. “could be a good weekend for that barbecue.”

your mom nodded. “we haven’t done one in a while. invite the usual crew? tommy, joel…”

at that, your stomach flipped. you didn’t flinch, or turn around, you just kept stirring your coffee a little longer than necessary, like the silence might cool it down faster.

joel.

you hadn’t seen him in a couple weeks — not since he stopped by to drop off a toolbox your dad had left in his truck. he stayed for a beer, made polite conversation, asked how you’d been. you said fine. normal. 

you tried not to think about him too much. emphasis on tried.

“i’ll call joel later, tell him to bring that smoked sausage he always does,” your dad said. “man knows his way around a grill.”

you turned your back so they couldn’t see the smile on your face. 

ten minutes later, you were upstairs in your room. you shut the bedroom door with your hip and let out a slow breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

you opened your closet and started throwing every single summer dress you owned onto your bed. 

you stared at a faded red sundress with thin straps and a hem that rested above your thighs.

maybe you were overthinking it. maybe it was all in your head. joel probably still saw you as just a family friend, someone he watched grow up. there were a thousand reasons not to try anything . the age gap, the connection to your parents, the risk of looking foolish.

but even with all of that, you couldn’t shake the feeling.

it was stupid. delusional, even. but there was something about this summer. post-grad, the loneliness, the ache to feel something different … that made you want to stop tiptoeing around what you wanted.

what was the worst that could happen?

he says no? he laughs it off? you survive. you move on. life keeps going.

but what if he didn’t?

you flopped back on the bed dramatically, letting the red dress fan out beside you. your heart fluttering. you were tired of wondering. of watching him from across the street like he was just some living daydream. you were going to do something about it.

that night, you couldn’t sleep.

you tried, tossing your arm over your eyes, shifting under the thin sheet, but your body was still humming with something you couldn’t quiet understand.

maybe you could watch a rom-com, fall asleep to it. you got out of bed and padded downstairs barefoot, planning to dig through the kitchen for a snack while watching the movie. 

halfway down the stairs, you heard it. his voice.

oh god.

you froze on the last step, blinking like you’d imagined it.

“-nah, she’s got good taste, i’ll give her that,” joel was saying, voice smooth and warm from laughter.

you stepped into the living room, eyes flicking toward the kitchen where he stood with your dad, each with a bottle of beer in hand. joel turned when he saw you, his smile lazy, casual.

“evenin’,” he said.

“hey,” you replied, swallowing the sudden flutter in your throat. 

“joel brought over that old drill i needed,” your dad said, wiping his hands on a rag. “we got to talkin’, hope we didn’t wake you.”

“no, i was just… getting a snack,” you said, causally.

your dad looked at his watch and sighed. “gotta take a shower before bed. long day tomorrow. mind lettin’ him out when you’re done? make sure the old man makes it to his porch without fallin’ on his ass.”

you snorted. “sure.”

your dad clapped joel on the shoulder and disappeared upstairs.

and just like that, it was just you and joel.

the kitchen felt smaller. he leaned against the counter, nursing the rest of his beer, his eyes meeting yours with a little lift of his chin.

“remind me, when’s your graduation ceremony?” he asked after a beat.

you opened the fridge and pretended to look for something, keeping your voice even. “10th october. why?”

he took another sip before answering. “so i can get sarah to book a flight. she’s been wantin’ an excuse to come home for a bit.”

your head turned slightly, surprise flashing across your face. “that’s sweet.”

he shrugged, eyes warm. “plus i need time to rent a real nice suit. y’know, show up proper. make you proud.”

you turned your head to look at him fully now, your hand still on the fridge door.

“seriously?” you laughed.

he nodded, “wouldn’t miss it.”

your lips twitched into a soft smile. you were really looking at him now, the way the light hit the grays in his hair. at the soft creases around his mouth. at the strong, careful way he watched you.

joel tilted his head, voice quiet. “why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

you shrugged, mouth twitching. “no reason.” a pause. then, just barely above a whisper: “you smell good.”

something shifted in his face. his fingers tensed slightly around the neck of the bottle.

a beat passed. then he spoke again, casual but with something simmering underneath.

“you still seein’ that brandon boy?”

you blinked. “brandon?” you laughed softly. “god, no. he was… stupid. and immature.”

joel made a small noise of approval, almost a chuckle.

“i prefer older guys anyway,” you added, letting the words linger in the air.

his eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t say anything right away. just met your eyes with something unreadable and intense.

you cleared your throat, breaking the silence before it could swallow you whole. “you coming to the barbecue tomorrow night?”

“yeah, course,” he said slowly, like he’d just pieced something together. “you?”

“mhm.” you nodded.  “i’ll just have to look extra pretty, for you, then.”

joel’s brow twitched, and you swore you saw the corner of his mouth lift. “that right?”

you shrugged, playing it cool. “well, if you’re gonna go through all the trouble of renting a suit, i figure i should match the effort.”

“that dress you wore to mrs. adler’s party would probably do it,” he said, voice quiet.

you blinked. “you remember what i wore?”

a blush crept up on his neck. “i mean … i dont know. i guess.”

you smiled, “hm.”

he ran a hand over the back of his neck, “kinda hard to forget. you looked real pretty.”

you grabbed some snacks from the cabinet, trying to fight your grin. “you think you can keep your cool tomorrow?” 

joel exhaled through his nose, “you really tryin’ to start somethin’ right now?”

“maybe” you just tilted your head, all innoncent. 

joel leaned just a little closer, voice low and thick. “you better behave tomorrow, darlin’.”

the evening heat was relentless, sun hanging low over the backyard, making the sky look pink and orange, shimmering with heat. you could feel it sticking to your skin beneath the thin fabric of your dress. restless, you kept stealing glances toward joel. he was the center of attention as usual, leaning against the grill, a beer in one hand, chatting with his blonde neighbors who definitely knew how to flirt. it was clear why: joel was the hottest guy in austin. no competition. 

you twisted the hem of your dress nervously and slipped inside the kitchen, your steps light on the floor. your eyes landed on the bottle of tequila you’d been using to mix drinks for the guests. without thinking, you grabbed it and took a quick, rebellious gulp.

“hey, what the hell are you doing, kiddo?” your dad’s voice cut through the quiet.

caught off guard, you froze, then blurted out, “it’s summer, dad. leave me alone.”

he just shook his head with a smirk, joking about losing a brain cell, and walked away, leaving you to slip back out into the backyard.

as you rounded the corner, you bumped into joel. his beer nearly slipped from his hand, but he caught it without missing a beat.

“hey,” he said, raising an eyebrow as he looked you up and down.

you looked around, making sure nobody could hear you, “you didn’t say a word about the dress, joel. i thought it was for you.”

he chuckled softly, shaking his head. “you’re bein’ stupid. you know your old man would kill me. chop my head off and put it on a plate, probably.”

joel’s eyes softened, and his voice lowered just for you. “you’re real pretty tonight, darlin’, but we can’t.”

you bit your lip, stepping a little closer. “so what if we can’t? makes it more fun.”

he gave you a half-smile, and headed toward the fence, pulling out a cigarette. lighting it, he took a slow drag and exhaled the smoke into the summer air.

you followed him, leaning against the fence beside him. “mind if i have a puff?” you asked casually.

joel didn’t even hesitate, handing you the cigarette with a small grin. after you took a slow drag, you looked down at your dress and then back at him. “hey, can you help me with this?” you said, pointing to the strap sliding off your shoulder.

he glanced at you, smirking. “i know what you’re doing, dirty girl.”

you looked up at him, innocently. “just want you to help me with my dress, joel.” you stepped closer, right in front of him, your breath catching when his hands reached for the straps of your dress. his fingers brushed your shoulders, sending a jolt straight through you.

for a moment, the world shrank down to the two of you. the distant laughter, the grill, the heat of the summer evening, all fading into nothing. you could feel the heat pooling low, your panties already soaked from the tequila and nerves, and the touch of joel’s hands. 

he tightened the strap with slow care, his fingers lingering just a second too long. you swallowed hard, the backyard spinning just a little.

then, you did something stupid. you glanced over your shoulder, making sure no one was close enough to see what you were about to do. with a quick, reckless motion, you slid your light pink thongs down your thighs and, without a word,  handed them to joel.

his eyes widened just the slightest when he caught the delicate fabric.

you turned on your heel and walked away, heart hammering, cheeks burning. 

you didn’t see him again for about an hour. he was avoiding you.

the backyard was buzzing with bodies, laughter, and music. you found yourself stuck in the kitchen, nodding politely while your mom’s friend kelly launched into a drawn-out conversation about your post-grad plans. you tried to focus, offering half-hearted mhms and smiles, but your brain was still caught on what you’d done. the tequila was wearing off just enough for embarrassment to creep in.

god. you’d really handed joel miller your panties like it was nothing.  you shifted your weight, pretending to sip your beer, trying to inch toward the doorway when you caught something out of the corner of your eye.

joel. standing by the hallway.

he wasn’t looking at you directly, but his body was turned just enough that you knew he was waiting. his eyes flicked to the bathroom door beside him, then back to you. a silent message.

you didn’t hesitate.

“sorry-beer’s hitting me,” you said quickly to kelly, leaving the beer on the counter and flashing a small apologetic smile as you backed away. “need to pee before i explode.”

she laughed and waved you off.

you slipped down the hall, heart pounding so loud it felt like your whole body moved with each beat. joel stood there, still as anything, but the look in his eyes was different now. 

when you reached the door, he grabbed your wrist, pulled you inside the bathroom, and shut the door behind you with a click, and locked it. 

you were pressed against the door, chests touching, the very little space between you hot and electric. neither of you moved for a second. just breathing. you could hear the party still humming faintly outside the door, but it felt miles away.

joel leaned in, his mouth close to your ear, voice low and ragged. “you’re outta your goddamn mind.”

you shivered.

“the hell has gotten into you tonight, huh?”

your courage from earlier fizzled out, the reality of it all creeping in now that he was here, so close, and looking at you like that.

“i’m sorry,” you said, breath hitching. “i didn’t mean to pressure you. i just…”

his mouth was on yours before you could finish.

it was rough and desperate, his hand cradling the back of your head as his lips crushed into yours. you gasped, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongues sliding, hands wandering. you felt him everywhere. his body, solid and warm, pressing you harder against the door. his grip firm and grounding.

you whimpered against his mouth, fingers tangling in his shirt, pulling him closer like you couldn’t get enough. he tasted like beer and smoke, and it made your knees weak.

joel finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. “jesus,” he muttered. “you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.” his lips found yours again, hungry and desperate. he kissed you like he needed to memorize the way you tasted. 

you moaned into his mouth, your body practically vibrating with need. his hands moved slowly, trailing down your sides, fingers grazing your hips. you could feel the hesitation there, the weight of everything unsaid between you, but it didn’t stop him.

his touch slipped beneath the hem of your dress, calloused palms dragging up the bare skin of your thighs. your breath hitched, and you couldn’t help it, you let out a soft moan.

“joel …”

he groaned low in his throat. “fuck.”

then.. two knocks.

you both froze.

your heart jumped into your throat. joel’s hand clapped gently but firmly over your mouth before you could react. his palm covered half your face—god, his hands were huge. 

yep. dad was right. you officially lost a brain cell.

“hey, someone in there?” your dad’s voice rang out from behind the door.

joel’s eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights. he took a deep breath and answered with forced nonchalance.

“yeah, buddy. gimme a second. beer’s hittin’ me hard. think i just lost my goddamn bowels.”

PART 2 COMING SOON. let me know if you want to be tagged!

thankyou for reading ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

p.s the whole underwear situation was inspired by the fic we all read and love, fourth of july by jrrmint

[wanniiieeee]

OH MY GOD!!! 😭😭😭😭 I NEED MORE!! THIS IS SI FREAKING GOOD!! 🥹🥹🥹♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

Chapter 9: A Charged Silence

Masterlist

Story Masterlist

Previous, Next

Pedro Pascal x Fem!reader

Summary: Pre-med perfectionist [Your Name] thought her gap year internship at The Late Night Hour would be a fun, low-stakes break before med school. Then she literally runs into Pedro Pascal backstage—and somehow becomes his secret lifeline in the chaos of live TV. Between cue cards, coffee runs, and chemistry that won’t quit, she starts to wonder: is this just a summer detour… or something more?

Tag list: @pascal-mynightlyobsession @wanniiieeee @theendwhereibegin

Your eyelids fluttered open to the pale glow of morning light sliding through Pedro's floor-to-ceiling windows. His arm was a dead weight around your waist, his chest pressed warm against your back, his breathing still slow with sleep. For one hazy moment, you let yourself pretend today wasn't the day he'd leave.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He groaned into your shoulder, his grip tightening. "No."

You twisted to check the screen. "Seven-fifteen."

"Bullshit." His voice was gravel-rough, his lips dragging lazily down the curve of your neck. "Tell the plane to fuck off."

You laughed, but it dissolved into a gasp as his hand slid up your ribcage, calloused fingertips tracing the dip of your waist. "Pedro—"

"Mm?" He kissed the hinge of your jaw, unhurried, like time didn't exist.

"You have a flight."

"Later." He rolled you onto your back, his body slotting against yours with practiced ease. His hair was a disaster, his stubble scraping your cheek as he kissed you—deep and slow, as if he could memorize the shape of your mouth. You arched into him, fingers tangled in his curls, the world narrowing to the heat of his palms and the way he sighed your name against your lips.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, he nuzzled your nose. "Coffee can wait."

You pulled him back down.

By the time you made it to the kitchen, the sun had climbed higher, gilding the stainless steel of Pedro's absurdly fancy espresso machine. He moved through the space like he owned it (he did), all barefoot confidence and sleep-soft smiles as he poured coffee, nudging your hip with his own when you reached for the creamer.

"You're burning the bacon," you said, nodding to the pan where smoke curled ominously.

He swore, flipping the charred strips with a wince. "Distracted."

"By what?" You stole a sip from his mug—bitter, no sugar, just like him.

His grin was wolfish. "By you. In my shirt." His gaze dragged over the oversized fabric hanging off your shoulder. "It's a problem."

You rolled your eyes but let him crowd you against the counter, his hands bracketing your hips as he kissed you again, lazy and sweet with the taste of coffee.

Later, you sat cross-legged on his bed, Pedro's script spread across your lap as you scribbled in the margins. He paced the room, tossing clothes into his duffel with haphazard precision.

"This line's weird," you said, frowning. "Would your character really say 'I'd die for you' like it's nothing?"

Pedro paused, looking up from a tangle of charger cables. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's too easy. Love's not about grand gestures—it's about showing up." You scratched out the line, rewriting it. "I'd choose you every time."

He stared at you, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes. Then he was kneeling on the bed, caging you in, the script forgotten as his thumb brushed your bottom lip. "How do you always know?"

Your breath hitched. "Know what?"

"What I'm trying to say."

Before you could answer, his phone buzzed—another reminder. One hour left.

The car arrived too soon.

Pedro lingered in the doorway, his duffel slung over one shoulder, his free hand cradling your face. His thumb traced your cheekbone like he was memorizing you.

"I'll call you when I land," he said, voice thick.

You nodded, biting your lip to keep it from trembling.

He kissed you one last time—slow, desperate, his fingers tangled in your hair—then pulled back just enough to whisper:

"Te amo."

The words hung between you, soft and unintended. His breath caught. Your stomach dropped.

A beat of stunned silence.

"Uh—" Your brain short-circuited. "Have a safe flight. Send pictures."

Pedro blinked, his ears turning pink. "Fuck. I—yeah. Yeah, of course."

The air crackled with something electric and awkward. He cleared his throat, adjusted his bag strap, stared at the floor like it held the secrets of the universe.

"Okay," he muttered. "Bye."

The door clicked shut behind Pedro.

You stood frozen in his apartment, surrounded by the remnants of him—half-empty coffee cups, rumpled sheets, the script still open to your rewritten line—heart pounding like you'd just lost something you hadn't known you could have.

Outside, the car pulled away.

Silence.

For three heartbeats, you stood frozen in his loft, your skin still buzzing where he'd touched you. The bed smelled like him—coffee and that stupid expensive cologne. Your tank top was draped over the arm of his chair. Your sandals by his door.

Te amo.

You moved suddenly, grabbing your scattered clothes. The shorts from the floor. The bra dangling off the closet doorknob. The hair tie you'd left on the bathroom sink—no, don't leave traces—but your fingers hesitated before snatching it up.

Keys. Phone. Breathe.

The elevator ride down to the parking garage took a lifetime.

The steering wheel burned under your grip. You cranked the AC up full blast, but it did nothing for the heat crawling up your neck.

Your phone buzzed in the cup holder.

Pedro: [Photo of sad airport breakfast sandwich]

Pedro: This should be a war crime.

The forced casualness made your teeth ache. You could see him—knee bouncing in some plastic terminal chair, thumb hovering over send.

You swallowed hard and typed:

You: At least you're not stuck on the 405.

The freeway stretched ahead, sunlight glinting off chrome. All you could see was the way his throat had worked when he realized what he'd said. The way his fingers had trembled—just slightly—when they brushed your cheek.

You didn't knock. Just threw open the door hard enough to make the framed photos rattle.

Lena nearly dropped her smoothie. "Jesus fucking—"

Before she could finish, you blurted it out:

"Pedro said te amo and I told him to have a safe flight like some kind of Delta Airlines customer service rep."

Silence.

Lena slowly set down her drink. "Oh, honey."

You collapsed onto her couch while she poured wine straight into your mouth.

Your phone buzzed:

Pedro: [Selfie making a pained face]

Pedro: They just played the Mandalorian theme over airport speakers.

Lena snorted. "He's reaching."

You: Sounds like karma for stealing my sunglasses.

Pedro: [Photo of said sunglasses on his face]

Pedro: Finders keepers.

Lena grabbed your phone. "Oh no he didn't—"

The texts escalated:

Pedro: Boarding now.

Pedro: [Photo of boarding pass with YOUR NAME as emergency contact]

Lena's jaw dropped. "This man is down catastrophic."

You groaned into a throw pillow.

Pedro: Airplane mode.

Pedro: [Last-second blurry selfie of him pretending to sleep]

You were officially out of excuses.

The last text sat heavy in your hands, the image of Pedro's sleepy smirk blurring as your vision doubled. Lena's couch creaked when she sat beside you, pressing a fresh glass of wine into your shaking fingers.

"Okay," she said softly, bumping her shoulder against yours. "Tell me everything from the beginning."

You took a shuddering breath. Outside, the afternoon sun painted golden stripes across Lena's hardwood floors—the same sunlight that was probably streaming through Pedro's airplane window right now, glinting off the stolen sunglasses still perched on his nose.

Somewhere between the wine and the way your phone kept lighting up with notifications from his delayed flight, the truth settled in your chest like a stone:

This wasn't just some fling. And you were terrible at pretending otherwise.

The last text sat heavy in your hands, Pedro's sleepy smirk blurring as your vision doubled. Lena's couch creaked as she settled beside you, pressing a fresh glass of wine into your shaking fingers.

"Okay," she said, bumping her shoulder against yours. "First time at his place and he drops the L-bomb? Start from the top."

You swallowed hard. Outside, the afternoon sun painted golden stripes across Lena's hardwood floors—the same sunlight probably glinting off the damn sunglasses he'd swiped from you last weekend. He'd plucked them right off your face, laughing when you tried to grab them back, slipping them on like they'd always belonged to him. "Finders keepers, cariño."

Lena studied you over her wineglass. "You're panicking because...?"

"Because it's too soon," you whispered. "Because he's literally on a plane right now. Because he said it like it was nothing—"

"Like it was obvious," Lena finished. The knowing look she leveled at you cut straight through your chest.

Your phone buzzed.

Flight DL 2372 Delayed - Now Arriving 8:17PM

Three more hours of limbo. Three more hours for him to sit there in stale airplane air, replaying those two words in his head, fingers tapping restlessly on the armrest.

Lena smirked as you drained your wine. "He's gonna call the second he lands." She plucked the phone from your death grip. "And you're gonna answer."

8:17 PM came and went.

You'd kept yourself busy—half a bottle of wine deep, helping Lena fold laundry (which you never did), scrolling aimlessly through your phone, staring at your unread texts like they might change if you blinked enough times.

Nothing from Pedro.

You weren't going to text first. Absolutely not. No way.

...But maybe his flight was still taxiing. Maybe he'd forgotten to turn off airplane mode. Maybe he was waiting for you to make the first move—

Nope. You shot up from the couch, wobbling slightly. "I need carbs."

Lena watched, unimpressed, as you beelined for her kitchen and started rummaging through cabinets. "Uh-huh."

"I mean it," you insisted, waving a half-empty bag of pretzels like it was a lifeline. "You know what happens when I drink on an empty stomach."

"What happens is you get emotional and text your situationship at 2 AM," she said dryly, lifting her wineglass. "And you don't have an excuse this time, because he already texted you."

Your stomach flipped. "No, he didn't."

Lena just arched a brow and pointed at your phone—where, sure enough, a new message lit up the screen.

Pedro: Landed.

That was it. Just one word.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your thumb against the cool glass like it might tell you more. No missed you, no talk soon, no what the hell happened back there?

Just landed.

Like he hadn't just changed everything. Like he hadn't looked at you with those dark, steady eyes and said te amo like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like he wasn't regretting it now.

Lena whistled lowly. "Oof. The ellipsis is deafening."

You threw a pretzel at her. "There is no ellipsis."

"There might as well be."

You chewed your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What were you supposed to say? Glad you made it? Cool, have fun pretending that didn't happen?

Before you could overthink yourself into oblivion, your phone buzzed again.

Pedro: Call you when I'm home.

You stared.

Lena sat up straighter. "Okay. That's something."

It was something. He was calling. Not texting. Not waiting.

Your pulse tripped as you forced your voice into something resembling nonchalance. "Yeah. Guess so."

Lena smirked, tipping her glass toward you. "Buckle up, babe."

You clinked your glass against hers. Then you drained it.

By the time your phone rang, you'd already changed shirts twice, brushed your teeth (why?), and paced Lena's living room so much she threatened to sedate you.

Now, standing in the kitchen, staring at Pedro's name lighting up your screen, your stomach twisted itself into knots.

Lena, sprawled on the couch, pointed at the phone. "Well? Answer."

You took a breath, pressed accept, and—

"Hey."

Pedro's voice was warm, low, a little rough, like he hadn't spoken much since landing. The faint sound of a door clicking shut in the background, followed by the soft rustle of sheets as he shifted, made you feel like you were right there in the room with him.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. "Hey."

A pause. Just the muffled hum of hotel air conditioning, distant voices from the hallway, and the occasional clink of glass from the floor above.

Then, softer, like he was propping himself up on a pillow, "You okay?"

Your throat went dry. "Yeah. You?"

A humorless huff. "I've had better nights."

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead. "Pedro—"

"I meant it." His words were quieter now, a steady reassurance. No hesitation this time, just the sound of his breath, slow and even, as if he was taking his time to make sure you heard him clearly.

Your breath hitched.

"I didn't say it because I was leaving," he continued, his voice a little lower now, like he was leaning in, "Or because I wanted something from you." A beat. "I just—do."

The floor beneath you seemed to tilt, like the weight of his words had shifted everything.

Lena's gaze snapped to yours, wide-eyed, mouthing what is he saying?

You ignored her, pressing a hand to your forehead. "I—"

"You don't have to say anything," Pedro said quickly, the soft sound of a key being tossed onto a nightstand in the background. "I don't expect—" He exhaled, frustration threading through his words. "I just didn't want you to think it was a mistake."

Something in your chest cracked open.

Because you had thought that. Or at least, you'd been afraid of it.

But he wasn't taking it back.

He meant it.

Lena shot you a say something look.

You cleared your throat, gripping the counter for balance. "I don't—" Your voice faltered. "I don't know what to do with this."

Pedro let out a quiet, breathy laugh, the sound warm despite the exhaustion threading through it. "Me neither."

Your fingers curled into your palm, a grounding pressure. "But you still said it."

"I did."

Another silence. But not awkward, not tense. Just there. Holding both of you in the space between what had been and what would come next.

Pedro sighed, his breath deep and tired, like he was sinking back into the bed. "I should go. I'm barely keeping my eyes open."

Your heart clenched. "Okay."

"Yeah."

Neither of you hung up.

His voice softened further, like he was already halfway to sleep. "I'll call you tomorrow?"

Your stomach flipped, the excitement fluttering in your chest. "Yeah. Tomorrow."

A quiet chuckle, almost a hum of affection, slipped through the line. "Goodnight, cariño."

The line clicked off.

You stared at the screen, at your reflection in the darkened glass.

Lena's voice broke through the silence: "Soooo..."

You turned slowly, the warmth of the call still lingering in the air.

She grinned, mischievous. "That sounded like a man in love."

Your heart pounded. The words felt heavy on your chest.

Because, yeah.

It did.

[wanniiieeee]

Ughhhh now I want to be the controversial gf for him 🥹🥹👀♥️♥️♥️ this is so freaking good!!!

ᴄʜᴀʀɪᴛʏ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ

pedro pascal x younger!fem!reader one-shot

insta smau

or just being pedro’s secret controversially young gf . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

a chance raffle win leads to unexpected texts, slow-burning chemistry, and stolen moments with pedro pascal. she’s younger, balancing school and real life. he’s careful, charming, and maybe a little too into her for his own good. what starts off light turns tender, and one cozy night might just change everything.

masterlist | 9k words | all fiction, pedro is 45-50 and fem!reader is 23 (I don't rlly gaf if you're annoyed with age-gaps if you don't like it fucking scroll), flirting, YEARNING (you’ll never stop me), kissing, celebrity things like that paparazzi, fingering, oral f!recieving, pussy job, unprotected piv sexxx

You hadn’t even meant to enter.

Your best friend, Kelsey, had texted you in the middle of a script revision meltdown with a link and three question marks.

“A Pedro Pascal charity meet & greet raffle. $25 to enter. Winner gets a private lunch.”

It was for some children’s literacy nonprofit, and you’d clicked it half-delirious, half-joking, adding one entry just to say you did.

Two weeks later, you got the email.

You thought it was a scam. Then your phone rang—an actual event coordinator from the organization, confirming details, verifying your ID, telling you a car service would be provided, that Pedro’s team had already cleared the date.

You stared at your phone long after the call ended. You were twenty-three, in college for a degree in screenwriting, juggling a bookstore job and unpaid pitch work. Pedro Pascal had been your comfort actor since your late teens—long before the mainstream hype. You’d watched his indie films, not just the blockbusters. You knew lines of dialogue he probably didn’t even remember.

Now you were going to sit across from him. At lunch. For an hour.

You didn't even have anything to wear that didn't look like it came off a Goodwill clearance rack.

The restaurant was tucked away in Laurel Canyon, low lighting, all exposed brick and polished glass.

You checked your reflection four times in the car window. A blouse that didn't cling too tight. Mascara you applied with shaking hands. You told yourself he probably did dozens of these. He wouldn’t even remember your name.

When you arrived at the restaurant the host said, “Right this way,” and there he was.

Pedro Pascal. In a dark blue button-up, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Beard trimmed. Brown eyes soft.

He stood when you walked up.

“Hey, you must be the donor,” he said warmly. “Thanks for donating.”

You managed a smile. “Thanks for being the prize.”

He laughed. A real one.

You thought it would be awkward. Stilted. But he was funny, sharp, easy to talk to. You ended up rambling about how much his performance in The Bubble meant to you—how you watched it on your laptop in your dark bedroom during a bad depressive episode, how it got you through that awful year.

He looked surprised. Touched.

“I forget anyone actually saw that movie,” he said with a lopsided smile.

“I watched it five times. At least.”

He blinked. “Wait, are you messing with me?”

“Nope.” You grinned. “I even wrote a paper on it for a class on satire. You play a man who's aware he’s a fraud but keeps smiling through it—like, that’s the whole metaphor.”

Pedro blinked again—then gave you a slow, stunned laugh, mouth slightly open.

You weren’t flirting. You were just being honest. And maybe that’s what caught him off guard.

He walked you out after. His hand hovered at the small of your back but never touched.

“Seriously,” he said, “this was the best version of one of these I’ve ever done. I usually feel like a trained monkey. This felt like…” he paused. “A real conversation.”

You tried to play it cool. “That’s the goal. I’m supposed to be a screenwriter, right?”

He smiled, wider this time. “If you ever finish something, I’d love to read it.”

You stared at him, then snorted. “That sounded like a line.”

You were standing on the curb with him now, your rideshare still a few minutes out.

Pedro leaned against the building’s side wall, sunglasses back on, arms folded. The California sun caught the edges of his hair, bringing out the warm gray in his curls. You tried not to stare.

 You were failing.

“Do you ever get tired of people telling you they’ve been obsessed with you since they were sixteen?” you asked, mostly teasing.

He laughed under his breath. “Depends on how they say it.”

You glanced up at him. “And how did I say it?”

His mouth curled. “Like someone who isn’t obsessed anymore. Just curious.”

That made you blush, which only made it worse. “Right. I’m too grown for fangirling.”

He tilted his head a little. “How grown are we talking?”

You gave him a look. “Grown enough to know that question is a trap.”

He grinned. “Smart.”

The pause that followed wasn’t awkward—it was warm, almost private. Like something unsaid had passed between you, and he was waiting to see if you’d name it.

You didn’t. You weren’t that bold. But you did say, “So, are you always this charming at these things? Or did I just catch you on a good hair day?”

He chuckled, then looked at you fully, one eyebrow raised. “Can I be honest?”

“Please.”

“I thought this would be fifteen minutes of smiling, nodding, and trying to avoid weird questions about The Mandalorian. I didn’t expect to actually…” He stopped, glanced away for a second, then back at you. “...like someone.”

Your stomach fluttered. “Someone?”

“You,” he said plainly.

Oh.

You blinked. “I—um. Okay. That’s… wow.”

Pedro rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry. That might’ve been too much.”

“No—no, it’s okay,” you said quickly, too quickly. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”

He smiled again, softer now. “That’s fair.”

Then, casually—almost like it was nothing—he said, “Would it be weird if I asked for your number?”

You stared at him. “Wait—seriously?”

He shrugged, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re comfortable. If not, that’s okay. I just—” he hesitated, then said, “I think I’d like to talk to you again. Not in front of cameras. Or PR people.”

You swallowed. He was looking at you like he meant it. Like he wasn’t in a rush, like he could wait forever.

“…Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll give it to you.”

Pedro handed you his phone. No hesitation.

You typed it in, heart pounding a little harder than it should’ve. Saved ___(from lunch) and handed it back.

He glanced down at it, then nodded. “I’ll text you. So you have mine.”

“Cool.” You tried to act normal. “Cool, cool, cool.”

Pedro smirked. “You’re very cool, yeah.”

Your rideshare pulled up just then. Saved by the bell. He opened the car door for you, gentlemanly as ever.

Before you got in, he said, voice low: “I’m really glad it was you.”

You didn’t even know what to say to that. So you smiled, and got in the car, and tried not to immediately check your phone.

But when it buzzed two minutes later, your breath caught.

Unknown Number: Glad I made it through lunch without embarrassing myself. – Pedro

You didn’t text back right away.

Mostly because you didn’t want to seem eager. But also because you were still staring at your phone like it had just whispered your name out loud.

You waited ten minutes.

Then typed:

You: I think we both made it out with our dignity intact.

But that’s a pending review once I replay the whole thing in my head at 2am.

The dots appeared instantly.

Pedro: Damn, you’re already funnier over text. I’m scared. Should I be worried about my performance?

You smiled, flopping back on your bed.

You: You were decent. You only said “like” twelve times in that one story about Oscar Isaac. Pedro: You counted?? You: I’m a writer. I observe. Pedro: Dangerous. Pedro: Remind me never to lie to you.

He kept texting over the next few days. Nothing crazy. Nothing that could get him in trouble.

But his messages were always right there—close enough to be curious. Casual enough to deny.

Sometimes it was jokes about his press schedule. Sometimes questions about your scripts. One night, it was a photo of an old movie on his TV.

Pedro: I think this director peaked with this one. Tell me I’m wrong. [screenshot from Days of Heaven] You: You want discourse at midnight? Pedro: I want you to talk to me at midnight.

You stared at that one for too long.

Typed. Erased. Typed again.

You: That sounds dangerously flirty for a man with a whole IMDb page. Pedro: That sounds dangerously flirty for a girl who called me “decent.” Pedro: …But I’m not taking it back.

By the end of the week, he was sending you voice memos.

Low, rough-voiced ones. Mostly teasing. Sometimes just quiet thoughts he didn’t want to type.

“You know, I reread your screenplay sample. You weren’t kidding when you said it was dark. That final scene? Fuck me. Also, I think I’m obsessed with the way your dialogue sounds.”

Another night:

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought about texting you something sexy but decided on this instead: Do you think people fall for potential, or do they fall for the version of themselves they think the other person sees?”

That one stayed in your phone for days.

You didn’t answer it. Not directly.

But your next message said:

You: If you’re ever back in L.A. and bored, I know a dive bar that makes the best nachos in the city.

We could talk about your IMDb shame pile.

Pedro: You tryna seduce me with nachos? You: Maybe. Pedro: Tell me when. And don’t wear that blouse again. Or do…

Four Weeks Later

The texts don’t come every day anymore.

He warned you. Said work was picking up again—press junkets, travel, long days on set. You said it was fine. You meant it. You’d gone in expecting one hour of his time, not a month of flirty messages and midnight voice memos.

But still, you missed it. The tiny buzz of your phone. His name lighting up your screen.

You missed the way he made you feel like he actually saw you—like you weren’t just some girl who lucked into a celebrity lunch but someone with ideas, talent, nerve.

The last message had been five days ago:

Pedro: Sitting in a hotel bar in Berlin. Bartender looks like he’s judging my wine choice.

You responded. He didn’t reply.

You told yourself he got busy. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

Still, you reread the thread more than once.

He kept opening your chat. Typing. Erasing.

He didn’t know why you stuck in his head. Why you’d gotten under his skin like a song he couldn’t stop humming. You were so much younger, so new, but you had a sharpness he envied. You made him want to say shit he hadn’t thought to say to anyone in years.

And you hadn’t even done anything, really.

You were just... honest. No agenda. No sucking up. You looked him in the eye like he wasn’t on a billboard but sitting across from you at a tiny table, halfway real.

And now you were quiet.

Maybe you’d gotten bored. Moved on. Maybe it was better that way.

But when his plane landed in L.A., jet-lagged and strung out, the first thing he wanted—before coffee, before sleep—was to see if you were still around.

You’re watching a terrible dating show in your apartment, sipping flat wine, wearing the same hoodie three days in a row when your phone buzzes.

Pedro: Back in town. That nacho place still open?

You stare at it.

Then:

You: It closes at 2am. So yeah. Still time for questionable choices. Pedro: Are we talking about food or me? You: Don’t make me say it. Pedro: Say it in person.

Then:

Pedro: Tomorrow night?

Your stomach flips.

It’s been weeks. You thought he forgot. You thought maybe you dreamed the whole thing.

You wait ten seconds.

Then:

You: Tomorrow night.

The bar is dim and humming when you walk in. Wood-paneled walls, strings of yellow bulbs, and that warm, greasy smell that hits just right after 9 p.m.

You spot him instantly.

Pedro’s in the far booth—back against the wall, baseball cap low, beer bottle sweating in front of him. He’s dressed down: jeans and a hoodie, that you recognize from one of his press photos. 

He looks up and sees you. Smiles.

Not the friendly kind. The fuck-I-missed-you kind.

“Hey,” you say as you slide into the booth opposite him.

“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours.

You settle your bag beside you. Try to ignore the way your heart’s fluttering like it’s your first date in high school.

He leans forward slightly. “You look…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tired?”

He laughs. “No. Just better than I remembered.”

You smirk. “You say that to all the raffle girls?”

Pedro grins and takes a sip of his beer. “You think I’m doing a lot of raffle lunches lately?”

You don’t answer. You just meet his eyes—and hold them a second too long.

The first drink goes fast. So does the second.

Conversation’s easy again—teasing, snappy, laced with innuendos but grounded in that same curiosity he showed the first time.

“You’ve got that look again,” you say at one point.

He tips his head. “What look?”

“Like you’re thinking too much.”

Pedro taps his fingers on the table. “I am.”

“About what?”

“You.”

That shuts you up. For a beat.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re officially flirting.”

“Only officially now?”

You glance at him. “Are we pretending we haven’t been doing that for weeks?”

He leans in a little, voice lower. “I haven’t been pretending, cariño.”

That word—cariño—drops right down your spine.

You sip your drink just to buy time.

Half an hour later, the nachos are cold and forgotten.

He’s shifted to your side of the booth. Close enough that his thigh brushes yours when he moves.

You can feel the heat of him—slow and steady, like a stove left on low.

“You’re braver than I thought,” he murmurs, voice near your ear.

You turn your head, pulse thrumming. “Why?”

He’s looking at your mouth when he says, “Because I think you know exactly what this is.”

You swallow.

“You think it’s a game?” you whisper.

“No.” His eyes lift to meet yours again. “I think it’s trouble.”

You let the silence stretch. Then, quietly:

“I think I want it anyway.”

Pedro exhales, almost like relief.

His hand finds your knee under the table, gentle at first—like he’s asking.

You don’t stop him.

Back at your place — 1:07 a.m.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He stands just inside your apartment, glancing around like he needs to ground himself. Like he’s cataloging every detail in case it’s the only time he sees it.

“Cute place,” he says.

You shrug. “It’s fine. It has a couch, at least.”

Pedro gives you a look. “So subtle.”

You smirk, toeing off your shoes. “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to sit down without my feet throbbing.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” he says, trailing behind you into the living room. “Because when you leaned over the jukebox earlier, I swear I saw—”

“—Shut up,” you laugh, swatting his arm. “I was picking a song.”

“You were bending the laws of nature, muneca.”

You plop onto the couch and toss a pillow at him.

He catches it easily, eyes dancing.

And then he sits.

Close. Closer than necessary.

Your knees touch.

And for a moment, neither of you say anything.

His hand brushes yours.

Once.

Twice.

Then it stays.

“I keep telling myself not to do this,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.

You tilt your head. “Then don’t.”

Pedro looks at you.

Long. Direct. Hungry.

And then he kisses you.

It starts slow.

His lips soft, searching. No rush. No agenda.

But your hand slides into his hair and his body shifts, just a little, and suddenly—

His other hand is on your thigh, gripping it.

You gasp into his mouth, and it makes him groan. A low, broken sound, like he’s been trying not to make it for weeks.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You started it,” you whisper, breathless.

His tongue traces your bottom lip. “Don’t remind me.”

He pushes you back into the couch cushions, one knee slipping between yours, just enough weight to make you feel it.

You arch beneath him. Hips rising—seeking.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

Your hair’s messy, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown.

“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he says, voice low. “You know that?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “You’re not bad either, old man.”

He huffed a laugh—and kissed you harder.

You end up straddling him, your hands under his shirt, his teeth grazing your neck. You whisper something shameless into his ear and he freezes, groaning into your shoulder like you just ruined his life.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re dangerous.”

“You like it,” you say, biting back a smile.

“Too much.”

It doesn’t go any further.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

Not because you don’t.

But because there’s something delicious about stopping here. Something about the ache. The tease.

 1:41 a.m. your apartment

You don’t get off his lap.

Even after the kissing slows. Even after his hand stills on your thigh and his breath evens out against your collarbone.

You just lean into him, cheek resting against the warm curve of his neck, and say:

“So what’s your comfort movie?”

Pedro chuckles, a low, content sound. His hands stay on you—one lightly tracing your waist, the other cradling your knee.

“You want comfort?” he murmurs. “I watched Paddington 2 three times in a row on a flight once. I cried. Full grown man. Tears.”

You sit up just enough to look at him. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

You grin, brushing your nose against his. “Mine’s Coraline. I know it’s for kids. Don’t care.”

“Oh, I respect that,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Creepy doll button eyes? That’s some formative trauma.”

You laugh into his shoulder. “Exactly.”

The conversation drifts.

From movies to music, then weird dreams, then the worst job he ever had (you make him promise never to do commercials for adult diapers), and the story of your first kiss (in a movie theater during a Marvel sequel, popcorn still in your braces).

You fall asleep like that for a while.

Wrapped around him. The TV is still on. His hoodie swallowing your frame.

It’s not a sleepover. But it’s the kind of night you only have when the flirting has already cracked open into something more dangerous—something real.

5:07 a.m. 

He kisses you again on the sidewalk, slow and tired and a little reluctant.

The Uber’s headlights bounce off the curb.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your hip.

You raise your brows. “You’d behave?”

“No.”

“Then go home.”

Pedro grins, teeth sharp in the early morning haze. “I hate that you’re right.”

“You love that I’m right.”

He kisses your forehead. “Text me when you wake up, cariño.”

Then he climbs into the car and disappears into the fading dark.

Later

You you looked like a mess when you left was kind of hot

Pedro don’t start i walked into my kitchen like a teenager head against the fridge door. dramatic sigh.

You “what is she doing to meee…”

Pedro don’t mock the broken man

You it’s cute I kinda like breaking you

Pedro yeah i could tell you were smiling while you ruined me

You and you didn’t stop me

Pedro never would

Pedro (real talk though… i haven’t kissed someone like that in years) what are we doing?

You no idea but i don’t really want to stop

Pedro good i’d be pissed if you did

You also i’m watching Paddington 2 tonight thought you should know

Pedro you’re trying to make me fall in love with you

You Trying?

A Few days Later

Pedro okay serious question what’s your go-to coffee order i’m at a café and there are too many words on the menu

You iced oat latte. extra cinnamon. no reason. just vibes. why?

Pedro just wondering what i’ll need to remember when i see you again it’s been a minute you free soon?

You maybe. depends. is this a brunch date disguised as a “casual hang”?

Pedro yes. and i might wear a hat and sunglasses like a criminal

You hot I’ll see you Sunday then

Two Weeks Later

Outside a café, 2:12 p.m.

You’re holding iced coffees, your oversized hoodie tucked into the waistband of biker shorts, and Pedro’s walking beside you—cap pulled low, hoodie up, sunglasses on.

You look like…friends.

Which is the goal.

Except his hand keeps brushing yours.

And when you laugh too hard at something he says about a failed audition back in ‘99, he looks at you like he feels it. Like he wants to bottle it.

You don’t even notice the guy on the opposite sidewalk.

Phone angled low.

The shutter click barely audible.

Another car slows down. Just a beat.

Pedro notices first.

His body tenses next to yours.

You follow his gaze. A pair of figures across the street. Hoodies. Big lenses. Moving fast.

Click click click.

You suck in a breath. “Shit.”

He doesn’t grab your hand.

He can’t.

Instead, he leans in like he’s just whispering something dumb.

“Just keep walking,” he mutters. “Act like you’re annoyed with me.”

You glance up at him. “That’s not hard.”

He grins, tight-lipped. “Atta girl.”

You duck into a bookstore.He buys a random novel and keeps the receipt.

You pretend to browse while your stomach spins.

He brushes his hand against your back briefly as you walk toward the back exit.

“Your face was covered,” he says quietly. “You’re fine.”

But he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

You slip your sunglasses on, exhaling.

“I knew this might happen,” you mutter. “Still sucks.”

Pedro looks at you for a second too long. Then, under his breath:

“If anything ever actually comes out…I’ll handle it.”

You nod.

But it hangs there. Heavy.

You’re still you. Still just 23. Still not used to this world he lives in.

But the part that makes your pulse spike isn’t fear.

It’s the way his voice dipped when he said “I’ll handle it.”

Like he already decided he would.

Like you weren’t just a girl from a raffle anymore.

Pedro they didn’t get anything you’re safe

You you sure?

Pedro i’ve done this a long time if they had something good it’d be online already trust me

You i do just didn’t expect it to feel that...real

Pedro it is real at least for me

You i know. me too.

Pedro next time no public sidewalks just you my place pizza and zero danger

You and maybe another dramatic sigh against your fridge?

Pedro oh i’m already practicing i’ll be thinking about you all week

You good maybe i’ll make you wait again

Pedro maybe i’ll let you

Few More Days Later

You i just bombed my stats exam tell my family i died doing what i hated

Pedro nooooo not stats not you :(

You i’m so tired i might actually cry in the campus parking lot like a teen drama character

Pedro you want company or silence? or pizza? or a forehead kiss?

You omg

You that last one just made my brain short circuit is that allowed???

Pedro it is if you want it to be offer still stands come over i’ll put on something dumb and hold you until your brain restarts

You you’re dangerous give me an hour

That night — 8:13 p.m. 

Pedro’s apartment.

The kitchen smells like garlic and fresh basil.

Pedro’s in front of the stove in a worn tee and joggers, barefoot, stirring pasta like this is just…normal. Like you always do this. Like he wasn’t in a galaxy far, far away a few months ago while you were still writing essays in the library, humming through AirPods.

“You ever cook for girls like this?” you tease lightly, watching from the counter stool.

Pedro smirks without turning around. “Not girls who make me nervous.”

You blink.

He glances back at you. “Just being honest.”

You open your mouth—then close it again.

Your throat’s warm. So is your chest. Your fingertips tingle against the glass of red wine in your hand.

The rest of the night unfurls gently. Like a held breath being let out.

He makes a simple pasta with veggies. You help slice strawberries for a little balsamic-glazed dessert (“This is so extra,” you laugh, and he just shrugs—“You deserve extra”).

You eat on the couch with the coffee table dragged closer, your knees brushing under the bowls.

Music plays low. Something acoustic and nostalgic.

His hand rests on your leg, casual but firm.

Yours finds his thigh a little later.

You’re sitting sideways in his lap again, back to his chest, your cheek against his jaw. He smells like citrus body wash and red wine and something inherently him.

His hands haven’t left you all night.

Thumb tracing slow lines into the top of your thigh. Fingertips under your hoodie hem.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw.

You hum softly, turning your face toward his. He doesn’t hesitate.

The kiss starts easy. Then deeper.

And deeper.

You straddle him this time, your knees pressing into the couch cushions, your hands in his hair. His grip tightens around your hips—then softens again, like he’s reminding himself to slow down.

There’s heat. So much heat.

You shift against him, just slightly—and feel him underneath you.

He breathes hard into your mouth, breaking the kiss. “Wait—wait.”

Your foreheads press together.

You blink. “Did I do something—?”

Pedro shakes his head fast. “No, no. God, no. You’re perfect.”

You’re quiet. His thumb brushes your cheek.

“I just…” he swallows, “don’t want this to be fast. I want it to be right.”

You exhale, your nose brushing his. “Okay.”

He looks at you—tender, serious. “You trust me?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You trust me?”

Pedro leans forward and kisses you again, slower this time. His hands stay on your waist. Yours trail up the back of his neck.

Then he says the most dangerous thing of all:

“Stay tonight.”

You borrow one of his tees and wash your face in his sink with the cleanser he shyly offers you.

The bed’s big and warm. You climb in beside him, and he pulls you close, one arm under your shoulders, the other across your waist.

Neither of you says much.

But when you whisper, “You smell like something familiar,” he smiles into your hair.

And when he murmurs, “I like having you here,” you smile too.

You fall asleep curled up against him. No more nerves. No more pretending this is just for fun.

It’s not the night everything happened.

But it’s the night everything changed.

The Next Morning — 9:12 a.m.

You wake up warm.

Pressed against a solid chest, one of Pedro’s hands heavy over your waist, his breath slow and deep against the back of your neck.

It takes you a second to remember where you are.

The smell of his sheets. The weight of his arm. The stretch of your legs tangled with his.

Then it hits you.

Last night. Dinner. That kiss. Him asking you to stay.

You shift slightly, careful not to wake him.

But you feel him stir behind you.

His voice is a slow, rough murmur in your ear. “Morning.”

You twist in his arms to face him. His hair’s messy. His eyes are sleepy, half-lidded. There’s a small smile on his mouth that makes your heart kick like a rabbit.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He leans in and kisses you—soft at first. Barely there.

But then he kisses you again, firmer this time. Longer.

And it doesn’t feel sleepy anymore.

It feels like wanting.

Pedro’s hand moves under your shirt, smoothing up your back, dragging his fingers up your spine. You sigh into his mouth as you press your chest against his, your body already buzzing.

He rolls gently onto his back, bringing you with him so you’re straddling his hips. His hands settle on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow circles just beneath the hem of your borrowed sleep shirt.

“You okay?” he murmurs, looking up at you.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes search yours. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say, clear and certain. “I really want to.”

That’s all he needs.

He sits up, kisses you again—this time with intent. His hands slip under your shirt fully now, dragging it up over your head and off.

Pedro pauses when he sees you.

Like he’s trying to remember every inch.

“God,” he breathes, hands sliding up your waist to cup your chest. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You shiver as his thumbs graze your nipples. You shift forward, rolling your hips against his just a little, and feel him hard underneath you.

He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, tugging his shirt off too.

It’s slow. He treats your body like something worth learning.

Mouth on your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue dipping below your breasts.

He lays you back and kisses down your stomach, looking up at you the whole time like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

You don’t.

You arch for him, tug his hand between your thighs.

Pedro groans when he finds you wet.

“So ready for me,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “Jesus, baby…”

He touches you slowly, gently, working you open with his fingers until you're panting, until you're grabbing at his hair and whispering his name like it's the only word that matters.

Then he comes back up and kisses you again—deep, messy, tongue pushing into your mouth as his fingers stay between your legs, stroking you through every soft sound you make.

“You like that?” he breathes.

You nod, nails digging into his shoulder. “Yeah. God, Pedro—”

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You smile shakily. “I’ll tell you if it’s not enough.”

When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow.

Painfully slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch of it. Like he wants to feel you—wrapped around him, holding him, trusting him.

You gasp. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple.

“You okay?”

You nod, hand fisting the sheets. “Keep going. Please.”

Pedro groans, deeper this time, and begins to move.

It’s not fast. It’s not rough.

But it’s intense.

Every roll of his hips is deliberate, slow and deep, the kind of rhythm that builds unbearable heat between your legs. He stays close, his chest brushing yours, one hand cradling your head, the other gripping your hip like he needs to anchor himself there.

You moan into his mouth. “Pedro—oh my god—”

“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to take him deeper. The change makes you gasp—your whole body tightening around him.

He curses, thrusts harder once, then slows again, like he’s fighting to stay in control.

“Not gonna last,” he groans into your neck. “You’re too good—fuck—”

You cling to him, mouth at his ear. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t.

He fucks you through it—slow, patient, like he’s memorizing you.

Until you come with a cry, back arching, legs trembling.

And then he lets go.

Buried deep inside you, his arms locked tight around your body, he shudders with a groan that sounds almost broken.

Pedro lies beside you, one hand still tracing circles over your bare back.

You’re tucked into his side, head on his chest, your body boneless and warm and aching in all the right ways.

He kisses the top of your head.

You murmur, “So…”

“So?” he echoes softly.

“I don’t want to leave.”

He smiles. “Then don’t.”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze.

“Okay.”

10:36 a.m.

The bedroom’s quiet, dim with late morning light.

Pedro’s hand is still on your back, fingers idly tracing slow, lazy shapes like he doesn’t want to break the silence. You’re sprawled across his chest with your leg slung over his hip, still tangled in sheets and sleep and warmth.

You murmur, “My thighs hurt.”

Pedro laughs softly under you. “That’s a good sign, right?”

You pinch his side gently, but you’re smiling. “You’re annoying.”

He kisses your hair. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweaty.”

“Same thing.”

You hum, turning your face into his neck. “We should get up.”

“We don’t have to.”

“We will eventually.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m making coffee and putting on music and not wearing pants, so. Prepare yourself.”

You brush your teeth side-by-side in front of the mirror, barefoot and rumpled. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips. You’re in one of his big, soft shirts that barely covers your ass.

Pedro spits, then wipes his mouth and gestures toward your reflection. “You’re doing the ‘walk of shame’ all wrong.”

“Oh yeah?”

He steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. You’re supposed to sneak out. Look flustered. Not stand here looking like a smug little goddess.”

You lean back into him. “I can sneak if you want.”

He brushes your hair over your shoulder, mouth at your ear. “Don’t you dare.”

You perch on the counter while Pedro makes eggs and toasts thick slices of sourdough. Coffee gurgles in the French press. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker—Fleetwood Mac, or maybe The Rolling Stones, something vintage and cozy and a little flirtatious.

He hands you a piece of toast like it’s a peace offering.

“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur between bites.

He shrugs. “You stayed the night. That earns you toast rights.”

“What else does it earn me?”

Pedro leans on the counter next to you, pretending to think. “More coffee. Back rubs. The good chocolate from the top shelf. Maybe a foot rub if you beg.”

You laugh.

But he watches you for a second, quiet, eyes soft.

Then, a little more serious, he says, “You’re okay? With last night?”

You nod right away. “Of course I am.”

“You don’t feel—like it was too fast?”

You pause. “No. Do you?”

He looks away for a second. Then back at you.

“No. I just… I don't want to mess this up.”

Your heart thumps.

“You’re not,” you say, and it’s true. “I like being here. With you.”

Pedro steps closer. Kisses you on the forehead.

“You make me feel lucky,” he murmurs. “Like… really lucky.”

You hide your face in his shoulder, smiling into his shirt. “Sappy.”

“You love it.”

“I kinda do.”

You end up back in bed with the window open and your coffee cups half-full on the nightstand.

You scroll through your phone lazily while Pedro reads a book beside you, one hand resting on your thigh like he just needs to be touching you, even when he’s distracted.

Eventually, he sets the book down and watches you instead.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “let me take you out properly. Like a real date.”

You glance up. “Like…in public?”

He nods, hesitating. “If you want. I can be careful. Private table. Back entrance.”

You study him for a beat.

Then smile.

“Okay.”

He exhales, slow and relieved. Pulls you toward him.

And it hits you—how easy this could be. How dangerous. How close you already feel to something you shouldn’t want this badly.

But you let him kiss you again.

Because right now?

You just want more.

Pedro 🍯 Friday night okay for our scandalous outing?

You depends will there be food? and you opening doors for me like a gentleman?

Pedro 🍯 I’d open every door in LA for you even the ones I’m not supposed to

You that’s hot okay I’m in what’s the dress code? do I need to look famous?

Pedro 🍯 You are famous. In my phone. In my bed. In my head. But no—look like yourself. That’s what I like.

You you’re lucky you’re cute I’ll give you flirty and effortless

Pedro 🍯 It’s a look that destroys me every time

 Friday Night – 8:04 PM

Private restaurant in West Hollywood

The hostess barely glances at you as she leads you down a narrow hallway to the back, where the lights are low and the table is tucked away in a cozy, dim corner.

Pedro’s already there, standing when he sees you. Black dress shirt, a little open at the collar. Trim beard. That soft smile that’s reserved for you now.

He says, “Wow,” under his breath when he sees you.

You grin. “That’s what you were waiting for?”

“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But it’s a damn good bonus.”

He pulls your chair out for you, brushes his fingers down your arm as you sit. The tension’s quiet but buzzing. This isn’t like being at his apartment in sweats and bare legs. This is real.

The waiter arrives quickly—Pedro’s arranged everything. Wine’s already poured. A cheese plate. You’re grateful, because you’re nervous.

“Not what you expected?” he asks, eyes warm.

“It’s nice,” you say. “Just… kinda crazy. We’re really out.”

He leans in, voice low. “We don’t have to stay long.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising yourself. “I want to.”

You talk about movies. About food. He asks about your classes. You ask about scripts he’s reading. It’s easy, even with the candlelight and clinking glasses and murmurs behind you.

But at one point, you feel someone glance toward the corner—just a shift, a flick of someone’s head.

You both go still.

Pedro reaches across the table and touches your hand, thumb brushing the back of your fingers.

“Don’t look,” he says gently. “They won’t get anything.”

You nod, swallowing.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

His grip tightens slightly.

“So am I.”

Outside the restaurant

Pedro’s car pulls around to the back entrance just like he’d asked. You both slip out quietly, sunglasses on—even though it’s dark—and hoods up. The manager gave him a discreet nod on the way out, like this wasn’t his first time protecting someone.

Once you’re in the car, doors shut, windows up, and seat belts clicked… he finally exhales.

You laugh a little, heart still racing. “That was weird.”

“It was,” he agrees, starting the engine. “But not terrible, right?”

You glance at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been watched while eating cheese.”

Pedro grins. “To be fair, you looked very hot doing it.”

You nudge his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

You do.

 10:05 PM – His Apartment

He lets you in first. The lights are soft. The space smells like bergamot and whatever cologne still clings to his jacket.

You take your shoes off by the door without thinking. He shrugs out of his coat, throws it on the back of the couch. His shirt’s still half-unbuttoned.

“Wine?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Just water.”

Pedro nods and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it from the fridge. You trail behind him, watching the lines of his back move beneath the dark cotton of his shirt.

When he turns, you’re sitting on top of the counter, arms crossed.

“You’re quiet,” he says gently, handing you the glass.

You take a sip. “Just thinking.”

He nods. Waits.

You hesitate. Then, “Do you worry? About people knowing?”

He pauses. Then crosses to stand in front of you, leaning back on the opposite counter, arms loosely folded.

“I do,” he says honestly. “Not because I’m ashamed. I just… I know how people talk. And I don’t want them to get it wrong.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He watches you.

“I also don’t want to stop seeing you,” he adds softly. “So I guess I’ll figure it out.”

That makes your stomach flip.

“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?” you ask. “This?”

He tilts his head, thoughtful. Then he shook it.

“No. Not when you look at me like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

Pedro smiles a little. “Like I’m not just some actor you had a crush on once. Like I’m… real.”

You don’t say anything, but you take a step forward. So does he.

Your hand lands gently on his chest.

“I like the real you,” you say. “Even when you’re dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic.”

“You literally made an escape plan for dinner.”

He chuckles in a low tone. “Fair.”

Your fingers hook at the collar of his shirt.

“Can I stay again?”

Pedro leans down and presses his forehead to yours.

“Please do.”

Pedro steps between your legs, his palms firm against your thighs, slowly sliding up under the hem of your dress. The fabric bunches at your hips, but neither of you cares. You’ve kissed him before, but not like this—not when everything feels like it might break open if you dare to go a little further.

“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, lips brushing just below your ear as his hands roam.

Your breath catches. “I haven’t even done anything.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to look at you. “You wore that dress.”

You tilt your head. “You told me to.”

He smirks. “Yeah. My own damn fault.”

His mouth is on yours again—hot, unrelenting. The kiss turns hungrier. You moan into it when he presses closer, the hard line of him slotting between your thighs.

His hands are greedy now, tracing the backs of your thighs, then cupping your ass, pulling you forward against him. Your hips grind instinctively. He groans into your mouth, like he’s trying to hold back but failing.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—Jesus—”

One of his hands slips around to your front, dragging his fingers between your legs over your panties. He feels how warm you are, how soaked the fabric is. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and full of heat.

“This all for me, baby?”

You nod, lips parted. “Been like that since dinner.”

He lets out a low, guttural sound and presses the heel of his hand right where you’re throbbing. You roll your hips against it, helpless. Your legs tighten around his waist as your back arches into him.

Pedro leans in, his voice ragged. “You want me to touch you?”

You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”

His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them to the side. And then he touches you—slowly, carefully—like he’s trying to memorize every reaction. The pad of his middle finger slides through your slick folds, circling your clit just once.

You jerk slightly, gasping.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, watching your face. “You’re so wet already.”

You try to kiss him again, but he teases you, keeping his lips just out of reach. His fingers move lower, pressing gently at your entrance. He slips one inside, slow but sure.

Your head falls back. “Pedro—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, curling them just right. “You feel fuckin’ incredible.”

You rock your hips in time with his rhythm, your moans filling the quiet kitchen. The counter is cool beneath your thighs, but you’re burning everywhere else—chest flushed, heart racing.

Pedro leans in and kisses the underside of your jaw, then your neck, his voice hot and gravelly against your skin. “I wanna see you come like this. Just like this.”

You grip his shoulders, legs trembling slightly as the pressure builds. He keeps his thumb on your clit, circling it in time with every curl of his fingers.

“Fuck—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

“I won’t, baby. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”

It hits fast. Your hips stutter, mouth falling open in a whimper as you come around his fingers, clenching tight while he keeps working you through it. He watches every second of it, like he’s completely wrecked by the sight of you falling apart in his hands.

When it’s too much, you grab his wrist, panting. “Okay. Okay—”

He kisses you then, deep and messy and full of hunger. You taste yourself on his tongue, and somehow that just makes it hotter.

“Next time,” he murmurs against your lips, voice full of promise, “it’s gonna be in bed. And I’m not gonna stop until you beg.”

You smile, still breathless. “Who says I won’t beg right here?”

He laughs softly, tucks your hair behind your ear, and leans his forehead against yours. “You’re trouble.”

“You like it.”

Pedro hums, pressing one last kiss to your lips. “I really do.”

Pedro kisses you again—more urgently this time, like he’s chasing the taste of your moan. You’re still coming down from your high, but he’s nowhere near finished. His hand strokes down your thigh, then back up slowly, deliberately. His lips drag down your neck to your collarbone, tongue flicking over the skin as he murmurs, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby.”

You squirm in his grip, panting softly. “Pedro…”

He groans when you say his name like that, like a plea. His hands slip under your thighs, and in one swift, effortless movement, he lifts you from the counter and carries you into the living room. He lays you out gently on the couch, kneeling between your legs, spreading them with his hands.

Your dress is still bunched around your hips. Your panties are crooked, barely hanging on.

Pedro looks down at you—lips swollen, legs open for him, pupils blown wide. “You want more?”

You nod, voice shaky. “I—I want your mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He leans in, dragging your panties down your legs slowly, deliberately. You watch him with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. He kisses the inside of your thigh first—soft, reverent—then bites, just a little, enough to make you whimper.

And then he licks you.

It starts slow—his tongue parting your folds, gentle strokes that make you arch your back. But he doesn’t stay soft for long. He groans into you like he’s starving, hands gripping your thighs as he locks you in place and sucks hard on your clit. Your hips jerk up, and he just tightens his grip, flattening his tongue and dragging it slowly up and down before circling your entrance.

You’re already close again.

“Pedro, fuck—oh my God—”

He looks up at you, mouth shiny, eyes wild. “Come again for me. Just like this.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, anchoring yourself while he devours you. He slides one finger back inside you, then another, curling them just right as his tongue works your clit. You fall apart again—loud, shaking, hips grinding against his mouth as you come harder than before.

You feel him groan when you clench around his fingers. He fucking likes how wrecked you are.

When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless and trembling. He kisses your inner thigh one more time before leaning over you, lips slick with you, eyes blown wide.

You reach for him, cupping him through his sweats. He’s rock hard and twitching under your palm. “Your turn.”

He swears under his breath, grinding into your hand. “I’ve been dying since you walked in.”

You tug the waistband of his slacks down. He helps, finally freeing himself—and your mouth waters at the sight of him. He’s thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

Pedro watches your face as you stroke him slowly, teasing him the way he teased you.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” you ask, sweet and soft.

He groans low. “Not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

But he lets you guide him on top of you, your thighs still slick and spread. You rub his tip against your folds, not letting him in—just grinding, coating him in your arousal. You both moan at the contact.

He leans down, forehead pressed to yours, hips moving in slow, desperate circles.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he mutters.

You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, your voice a whisper against his jaw. “Next time, you’re gonna fuck me for real.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “This isn’t even close to done, sweetheart.”

He ruts against you again, both of you panting now, bodies slick and sticky. He kisses you—deep and messy—as he comes against your stomach with a groan, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

You lie there together, tangled and panting, the whole room humming with the tension that still lingers.

Pedro finally exhales a breathy laugh. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

You grin, heart racing. “Big, big trouble.”

He kisses your shoulder and smiles into your skin. “Worth it.”

You’re curled up in Pedro’s bed again, half-asleep with your cheek against his chest, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on your back.

He shifts a little beneath you, reaches over with a yawn to grab his phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen as it lights up.

Then he goes still.

You feel it before you hear it—his body tensing just enough to draw your attention.

You peek up at him. “Everything okay?”

Pedro doesn’t answer right away. He swipes through something on his phone with a sharp breath through his nose, then hands it to you silently.

Your stomach flips.

It’s Twitter.

A photo. Grainy, long-lens, obviously taken from across the street.

Pedro Pascal on a late-night coffee date?He’s walking beside you on the sidewalk. His hood is up, and yours is too. Your face is angled down, half-covered by your oversized scarf. But it’s undeniably him.

His hand is on the small of your back. Gentle. Familiar.

The photo already has over 80k likes.

“Shit,” you whisper, sitting up a little.

Pedro watches you carefully. “Your face isn’t in it. You’re okay.”

“I mean… yeah, but people are gonna figure it out, aren’t they?” You hand him the phone, heart thudding.

There are already hundreds of quote tweets. Gossip accounts, stan edits, comments like:

“whoever she is… I fear I’m her now” “idk who she is but I know she smells like vanilla and reads poetry” “Pedro Pascal out on a date???? Real man hours” “y’all think this is PR? 😭”

You fall back into the pillows, groaning into the sheets. “I literally had exams yesterday. I was studying in a hoodie like twelve hours ago.”

Pedro chuckles softly. “And now you’re an anonymous femme fatale. Wild.”

You glance over at him. “This doesn’t freak you out?”

“Not really.” He reaches out, brushing your hair back. “I’ve been through worse. You okay, though?”

“I mean…” You sit up, wrapping the sheet around yourself. “I didn’t think this was gonna get real like that. That fast.”

Pedro watches you quietly for a moment. Then he reaches for your hand.

“We don’t have to rush anything. If you want to pull back, stay private, disappear for a bit, we can do that. But I also—” He pauses, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I like this. You and me. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You soften. “I don’t want that either.”

“Then we play it smart.” He smiles a little. “Let them talk. They don’t know anything.”

You squeeze his hand. “Okay. But if I get doxxed by a thirteen-year-old running a fan cam account…”

“I’ll delete the internet for you.”

You laugh, and he leans over to kiss your temple.

Just like that, the tension fades a little. Not gone, not really, but tucked away beside the coffee cups and slow mornings and quiet confessions in bed.

You wake up later to the smell of butter and fresh coffee.

The space in bed beside you is empty, but warm. Sunlight spills through the curtains in long strips, cutting across the crumpled sheets and your bare legs. You stretch slowly, sore in the sweetest way, your body still humming from the night before.

You find Pedro in the kitchen, barefoot in his plaid pajama pants, the ones with a little rip near the pocket. He’s focused on the skillet in front of him, brows furrowed, spatula in hand like he’s trying to win an award for best boyfriend breakfast.

You linger in the doorway, quietly watching him like you’re afraid saying his name will break the spell.

He turns at just the right moment, catching you with a sleepy smile.

“Well, good morning, mystery girl.”

You grin. “Don’t call me that.”

“What? You are a mystery.” He gestures to the open laptop on the kitchen counter. “You’re trending.”

Your stomach dips. “So it wasn’t just a bad dream?”

Pedro nods. “Hashtag 'Pedro Pascal Date Night' has entered the chat.”

You groan and pad into the room, barefoot in his T-shirt, curling your arms around his waist from behind. “This is so surreal.”

He leans back into you just enough to kiss your knuckles. “You’re still you. I’m still me. Nothing changes that.”

You rest your cheek against his back. “I know, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting it to feel this big.”

Pedro turns gently in your arms and cups your face with those warm, capable hands. “Then let’s keep it small. Just you and me in this kitchen. My bad pancakes. Your bedhead. The rest can wait.”

You nod. Let him kiss you. Let him hold you like that.

A few minutes later, you’re sitting at the little dining table while he plates the eggs, toast, and strawberries in a way that’s oddly charming and not very symmetrical. He brings you your coffee just the way you like it—too much cream, not enough sugar.

“God,” you say, taking a sip. “This is dangerously domestic.”

Pedro raises an eyebrow, settling across from you. “Dangerous?”

You smirk. “You’re lucky I’m into it.”

He lets out a low laugh. “You have no idea how into you I am.”

You pause, caught off guard by how easily he says it. How it doesn’t scare you the way you thought it would.

After a beat, you lean across the table and whisper, “So what happens next?”

Pedro reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it like it’s second nature.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “We will figure it out. Together.”

And there it is again—that quiet thrum of something honest. Something with roots.

Hope.

divider by @/cursed-carmine 🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @annulmaelae @millersdoll @inbred-eater @thezatannaprint @stvrl1ghtt123 @umadirectioner @aj0elap0l0gist @heather81 @subconsciouscollapse @catch1ngmoths @littlemillersbaby @lizziesfirstwife @amyispxnk

[wanniiieeee]

I love this so much and I've been waiting for the update too 🥹🥹🥹❤️❤️❤️ Can you please add me to the taglist?

Objection Part 13

Rafael Barba x fem!Carisi!reader

3.1k word count

Summary All you wanted was to be a lawyer like your big brother Sonny. So what happens when you get a job working under the famous ADA Rafael Barba

slow-burn, colleague to friends to lovers

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

The door opened, and there she was.

Y/N walked into the courtroom with her shoulders squared, but I could see the tension in her spine. She looked pale under the fluorescent lights—tired, like she hadn’t slept in days. Olivia walked just behind her, solid and steady like always. Protective.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. I couldn’t. Not when I knew what was coming. Not when I knew what this would cost her.

She sat, hands folded tightly in her lap. She didn’t look at me. She hadn’t, not since the trial began. I didn’t blame her. Every moment she was up there—every word out of her mouth—was because of me.

Peter rose, calm and measured, thank God. If anyone could walk her through this, it was him.

“Can you state your name for the record?”

“Y/N Carisi.”

Her voice was quiet but clear. Stronger than I expected. My chest tightened at the sound of it. How many nights had I sat at her bedside, watching her breathe, just grateful she’d made it back alive? And now she was in front of a courtroom, telling strangers about the worst days of her life because some deranged man had wanted to make me suffer.

She described that night. The reunion cut short. The way everything changed in an instant.

“I never made it home,” she said.

I swallowed hard, forcing my jaw to stay still. If I moved—if I let myself feel too much—it would all come spilling out.

Peter kept his questions gentle, just enough to guide her without pushing too far. She told him about the sound of waves. Laughter echoing somewhere distant. The way her body had refused to move.

Then came the question.

“Do you know the man accused of kidnapping you—Marco Espinosa?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

I clenched my fists beneath the table. That was the worst part. She hadn’t even known him. She hadn’t done anything. She was just a pawn. A message.

And then the real knife:

“Do you know why he might have targeted you?”

She hesitated, just for a second. Then, “No.”

Because she didn’t know. Because I hadn’t told her. Because Marco thought hurting her would hurt me more than anything else in the world.

Peter brought up the fabricated relationship. I kept my gaze on the table in front of me, afraid that if I looked at her, she’d see too much.

“We weren’t. We’re not,” she said. “He’s… a friend. Someone I trust.”

Friend. The word sat like lead in my stomach. I wanted to be more than that. God, I wanted to tell her everything. But that wasn’t why we were here. I didn’t get to want anything. Not after what she’d been through.

Peter finished, and then it was Rita’s turn.

I braced myself.

“Miss Carisi,” Rita said smoothly, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. She circled Y/N like a vulture—soft, calculated, cruel. Picking apart her answers. Twisting them.

“How close would you say you and Mr. Barba are?”

Y/N blinked. “We’re… close. We work together.”

“Close enough that someone might mistake that for something more?”

Peter objected, but Rita didn’t stop. She was laying the foundation. Feeding the jury a story. That Y/N had been taken not at random, but because of me. Because of something that didn’t even exist.

“Would it surprise you to know the accused believed you and Mr. Barba were in a romantic relationship?”

Y/N hesitated, and I could see the confusion behind her eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “That would surprise me.”

I had to look away. My chest felt too tight.

Rita wrapped up quickly after that, but the damage had been done. The seed had been planted. Marco’s delusions had been spoken aloud, and Y/N had been dragged through them like they were real.

She stepped down from the stand slowly, Olivia already moving to guide her toward the door.

I didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

She left without looking at me.

And I sat there in silence, surrounded by whispers and judgment and guilt so loud I could barely think.

…

The courtroom door opened again, and this time, I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Marco Espinosa.

Even his footsteps felt calculated—slow, deliberate, like he was walking into a room he believed he owned. He was dressed well. Too well. Charcoal suit, black tie, the picture of composure. But I knew better. Underneath all that polish was rot.

He took the stand like it was a stage.

Peter stayed seated, arms crossed. He wasn’t going to lead him. That was the defense’s job. Rita approached with her signature cool confidence, offering Marco a small nod before launching into her opening questions.

“Mr. Espinosa, can you tell us a bit about your sister, Anya?”

His jaw tightened, and for the first time, I saw something real flicker in his expression. Pain. Or at least something close enough to pass for it.

“She was everything to me,” he said, voice soft. “Smart. Brave. She wanted to make a difference in the world.”

My stomach turned. I forced myself to stay still, even though I wanted to shout at him.

“And what happened to her?” Rita asked gently.

“She met a man through a dating app,” he said, gaze dropping. “He… hurt her. Took something from her she couldn’t get back.”

I felt the courtroom shift around me. Eyes moved. People leaned forward.

“She went to the police. Then to the DA’s office.” He looked up now, and his eyes landed on me. Cold. Controlled. “She met Rafael Barba.”

Rita didn’t interrupt.

“He told her there wasn’t enough to build a case. That going to trial would only hurt her more.” He paused, voice breaking—carefully, I noticed. Like a man well-rehearsed. “She begged him to fight for her. He turned her away. A week later, she was dead.”

I flinched.

“She didn’t kill herself because of me,” I wanted to scream. “She was failed by the system. By all of us. But not like this—not like this.”

“And what did you do next?” Rita prompted.

He leaned back slightly, like this part required less effort.

“I tried to get justice,” Marco said. “Tried to convince Mr. Barba to hold someone accountable. He refused. Said the evidence wouldn’t hold. So I accepted that. I moved on.”

A lie.

Every word.

He hadn’t moved on. He’d buried it. Let it fester. Until he found a way to make someone pay.

“And how did you come to know Ms. Carisi?”

He smiled—smug, practiced.

“I didn’t,” he said. “I only knew her name. Saw her once at a press conference beside Barba. They were close—anyone could see that. The way he looked at her. The way he always stood just a little too close.”

My hands curled into fists.

“She wasn’t the target,” he continued, his tone flattening. “She was a consequence. A symbol.”

“A symbol of what?” Rita asked.

He looked at the jury now, not at me. “Of what happens when men like Barba think they’re untouchable. When they get to decide who deserves justice and who doesn’t.”

Peter objected. “Your Honor—”

“Sustained,” the judge said sharply. “Jury will disregard that last statement.”

But they wouldn’t. We all knew it. It had already burrowed into their minds.

Rita gave a small nod. “No further questions.”

Peter stood slowly. He didn’t rush. He didn’t yell. He just walked to the center of the courtroom and looked Marco in the eye.

“You claim Y/N Carisi was a symbol,” he said. “Not a person.”

“She was a person. That’s what made it effective,” Marco answered smoothly.

“You kidnapped her. Drugged her. Left her for dead under a pier.”

“I left her somewhere safe. Somewhere she’d be found,” Marco said flatly.

My breath caught.

Peter’s voice hardened. “You put her through hell because of a fantasy you built in your head. Because you couldn’t stand that your version of justice wasn’t the one served.”

Marco didn’t respond.

Peter stepped closer. “Did you send Rafael Barba a text message the night Y/N disappeared?”

“I did.”

“What did it say?”

He tilted his head, calm as ever. “‘An eye for an eye.’”

I didn’t realize I’d stood until I felt Olivia’s hand at my elbow, grounding me. Reminding me to stay put. To breathe.

Peter stepped back. “Nothing further.”

Marco leaned back in the witness chair, smug again, like he thought he’d won something.

But I saw what Peter was doing.

He wasn’t just putting Marco on trial.

He was laying the foundation for who the real monster was.

And finally, everyone was starting to see it.

…

The courtroom was still, like the whole room had forgotten how to breathe.

Peter stood from his seat, buttoning his jacket with quiet precision. His calm wasn’t rehearsed—it was armor. He stepped to the center of the floor, glanced once at me, then faced the jury.

“Marco Espinosa wants you to believe this was justice,” Peter began. “That this was about balancing scales that never tipped in his favor. But what he did wasn’t justice. It was cruelty. It was calculated, it was deliberate, and it was personal.”

He walked slowly, letting his words settle.

“He kidnapped an innocent woman. A detective. Someone who devoted her life to protecting others. He drugged her, kept her hidden for days, left her buried under rocks like she was nothing.”

A murmur rolled through the gallery. Peter didn’t flinch.

“He says she was a symbol—but she’s a person. A sister. A friend. A survivor. And she’s not on trial. He is.”

Peter’s voice dropped, low and steady.

“Don’t let him redefine justice. Hold him accountable. For Anya. For Y/N. For every choice he made along the way.”

He paused. “Find him guilty.”

Then he returned to his seat without another word.

Rita Calhoun rose. Her heels clicked sharply on the floor as she walked. She smiled at the jury like she was letting them in on a secret.

“Mr. Stone paints a very emotional picture,” she said. “But emotion doesn’t equal fact. Yes, Mr. Espinosa did terrible things—but why? Because he was pushed there. Rejected again and again by the same system sworn to protect people like his sister.”

She gestured toward me.

“Rafael Barba had a duty. He failed. And if there’s blame to be laid, you can’t ignore the years of negligence that led us here.”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Rita finished with a soft shrug. “My client isn’t a monster. He’s a grieving brother who made a terrible mistake. Don’t let vengeance guide your decision.”

She sat down.

The judge gave the standard instructions to the jury. The gavel hit wood, and they were led out.

And then the silence fell.

…

They say the worst part is the verdict. But they’re wrong.

The worst part is the waiting.

After closing arguments, we were herded like ghosts into the conference room just off the courtroom. It was too bright in there. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and every surface was sterile—chrome, glass, polished wood. Like it had been designed for lawyers to suffer in quiet.

Olivia stood stiffly by the door, her arms folded like she was holding herself together through sheer force of will. Peter hadn’t sat down at all. He was pacing in a slow loop around the room, lips pressed in a tight line, jaw tense. Sonny leaned back in a chair, legs stretched out in front of him, one hand resting over his face. The other fisted tightly on his knee, white-knuckled.

And Y/N—God, Y/N.

She sat across from me, hands clasped in her lap, her back perfectly straight. Still, composed, but too still. Like she was holding her breath under the weight of everything that had been said about her on the stand. About us. Her eyes flicked up now and then, looking to the door like it might open at any moment, like the jury might come in and say they changed their minds and didn’t need time after all.

I couldn’t stop bouncing my knee. Couldn’t stop replaying everything I’d said on the stand. Everything I hadn’t.

“Why is it taking this long?” Sonny muttered suddenly. His voice cracked like a whip in the silence. “It’s open and shut. What the hell are they even discussing?”

“They’re doing their job,” Olivia said softly, though even she sounded unconvinced.

“Yeah?” Sonny shot back. “Well, maybe they should’ve done it faster when Y/N was missing. Maybe we wouldn’t be sitting here now if someone—”

“That’s enough,” Peter said, turning sharply toward him. “We all did everything we could. Don’t start unraveling now.”

“Unraveling?” Sonny barked, shooting to his feet. “My sister was buried alive because some psycho thought she was in love with a man she works with! I think I’m allowed to be a little unraveled!”

Everyone turned to look at me.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

I just stared down at my hands. They were trembling. I laced my fingers together to make it stop.

Y/N’s voice broke the silence. “It’s not Rafael’s fault, Sonny.”

“Doesn’t change what that bastard believed,” Sonny muttered, then exhaled hard and sat back down. “I just want this over.”

So did I.

The silence settled again, heavier this time. Peter sat. Olivia shifted closer to me but didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say that hadn’t been said a hundred times.

Time dragged. Ten minutes. Then twenty. Then thirty. A clock ticked somewhere behind me, and I hated it. It made everything feel slower.

I thought of Marco’s voice booming over the loudspeaker that night—how it had stopped me cold, how I’d recognized it instantly and still couldn’t believe it. I thought of the text that had arrived on my phone minutes after Y/N vanished, the mockery in it, the promise of revenge. I thought of the case file I had once closed with a shaky hand and an aching heart, never knowing how far the consequences would reach.

I thought of her under those rocks.

I couldn’t sit anymore. I stood and walked to the window. The glass reflected all of us, tired and bruised and waiting for a gavel to decide whether or not any of it had meant something.

A soft voice spoke behind me.

“If they come back with anything less than guilty…” Y/N trailed off.

I turned.

“I’ll appeal,” Peter said quickly. “We’ll fight it.”

She nodded, but I saw the crack in her armor. Her hands trembled once, then steadied.

And that’s when the door opened.

A clerk stood there, breathless.

“They’re back.”

…

When the door finally opened, the court officer didn’t have to say anything. We all stood.

Back in the courtroom, the jury filed in like ghosts—expressionless, unreadable. My heart hammered behind my ribs like it wanted out.

The foreperson stood.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The clerk took the slip of paper, read it silently, then passed it to the judge. He nodded, his voice steady:

“In the case of the People vs. Marco Espinosa, on the charge of kidnapping in the first degree, how do you find the defendant?”

The foreperson looked up. “Guilty.”

A breath escaped me—sharp and fast.

“On the charge of unlawful imprisonment, how do you find the defendant?”

“Guilty.”

“On the charge of attempted murder—”

“Guilty.”

Sonny closed his eyes. Y/N pressed a hand to her mouth, trembling but standing tall. Peter didn’t smile. Olivia reached for my arm, steadying me when my knees threatened to give.

Marco didn’t flinch.

Not even once.

The judge dismissed the jury. Court was adjourned.

But for the first time in weeks, it felt like something had finally ended.

Not the pain. Not the guilt. But the chase.

Justice had come.

And this time, it had stayed.

…

The courthouse doors swung shut behind us with a solid clunk, and for the first time in weeks, I could breathe.

The sun was bright—too bright after hours under flickering fluorescents. It hit my eyes hard, but I didn’t care. It was over. The jury had spoken. Guilty on all counts. Marco would never hurt her—or anyone else—again.

Peter stood off to the side, phone already pressed to his ear, likely calling Jack. Olivia was talking low to Y/N, her hand resting gently on her shoulder. Sonny lingered close by, protective as ever, but less tense now—like he could finally let his guard down without the fear of losing her again.

I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and stared out over the courthouse steps, the city buzzing around us like it didn’t know what had just happened. Or maybe it did and didn’t care. Either way, we were still standing. Still here.

“Hey, look who finally dragged themselves out from behind a desk.” Amanda’s voice cut through the air, familiar and grounding. She came striding toward us in a leather jacket and a grin, Nick and Fin close behind her.

“You mean you finally stopped making excuses not to visit court,” Peter quipped, sliding his phone into his pocket.

“I go where the action is,” she shot back. “And today, the action was justice.”

Nick gave me a nod. “Heard you were the star witness, Barba.”

“I think I aged a decade on the stand,” I said dryly.

“That makes two of us,” Sonny muttered under his breath.

Fin clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You all held it down in there. Seriously. That was tough to watch. Tougher to live through, I’m sure.”

“Still standing,” Olivia said, glancing at Y/N with a soft, proud smile.

Fin rocked back on his heels, looking between us all. “So… we just gonna stand here and let the press catch up? Or are we hitting the bar?”

Sonny’s head jerked up. “Yes. Yes to all of that. Drinks. Many of them.”

“I second that,” Peter said.

Amanda slung an arm over Olivia’s shoulder. “Forlini’s has karaoke tonight, too.”

“Karaoke?” Nick raised a brow. “You trying to get Barba up there to sing Sinatra again?”

I groaned. “That was one time and I was heavily coerced.”

Amanda smirked. “You hit the high note. Don’t think I forgot.”

Y/N laughed—a real, full laugh that turned every head toward her. She shook her head, wiping away the remnants of tears that hadn’t quite dried from earlier. “I vote yes on karaoke,” she said.

Fin spread his arms. “There it is. Majority rules.”

We started down the courthouse steps as a unit, something lighter than victory trailing behind us—something like peace.

I stayed close to her without making it obvious, just a step behind and off to the right. She glanced over her shoulder once, her eyes catching mine, and something unspoken passed between us. Gratitude. Understanding. Something I wouldn’t name yet.

But maybe tonight—maybe after a few drinks and a terrible cover of “My Way”—I’d find the courage to.

Taglist:

@geeksareunique @pinkladydevotee @pumpkindwight @chriskevinevans @svzwriting29

[wanniiieeee]

ARMS ARMS ARMS ARMS AMRS ARMS 🤤

Somebody fucking sedate me, this man can’t be real

[wanniiieeee]

Fuck me could he get any hotter??! That’s shirt fits him like a glove *chefs kiss* 😩🥵🤤

[wanniiieeee]

50 years old and he’s the sexiest man I have ever seen.

fuck kids my age,i need this age gap.

[wanniiieeee]

Pedro THE man you are.

[wanniiieeee]

OH MY GOD!!!!! I FREAKING LOVE THIS!!! 🥺🥺🥺🥹🥹🥹♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️👀👀👀

Chapter 7: Study Session & Stolen Kisses

Masterlist

Story Masterlist

Previous, Next

Pedro Pascal x Fem!reader

Summary: Pre-med perfectionist [Your Name] thought her gap year internship at The Late Night Hour would be a fun, low-stakes break before med school. Then she literally runs into Pedro Pascal backstage—and somehow becomes his secret lifeline in the chaos of live TV. Between cue cards, coffee runs, and chemistry that won’t quit, she starts to wonder: is this just a summer detour… or something more?

Tag list: @pascal-mynightlyobsession @wanniiieeee @theendwhereibegin

The sharp citrus of highlighter ink mixed with the faint vanilla scent of your candle as you flipped another MCAT notecard. Outside, the muffled sounds of traffic blended with the rhythmic ticking of your kitchen clock, the golden-hour light painting long rectangles across your scattered study notes that shimmered when the pages moved.

When your phone buzzed against the wooden desk, the vibration traveled up your arm just as Pedro's name lit up the screen. Four days. That's all it had been since he'd met your gaze across that crowded café table, right before stealing your fry with that dimpled smile. "So if you're pre-med," he'd said, "does that mean you can legally tell me to take two aspirin and call you in the morning?"

You swiped to answer, pressing the phone to your ear. "Hey."

"Hey." His voice was warm, slightly hesitant. "So...hypothetically. If someone got a new prescription with instructions that look like they were written in another language—"

You burst out laughing. "First of all, I'm not a doctor yet. Second—you absolutely did not need to call me for that."

"No," he admitted, his smile audible. "Just wanted a reason to hear your voice."

The words sent a warm flutter through your chest. You twirled a highlighter between your fingers.

"It's actually a legit script this time. Pages of medical jargon that might as well be from one of your textbooks. Thought maybe...you could translate?"

"Come on over," you said. "But fair warning—my refrigerator is basically a science experiment at this point."

"Perfect," he replied. "We'll order takeout and you can explain why 'take with food' doesn't mean 'chew the pill with a bite of taco.'"

A knock at your door sent your heart leaping into your throat. You smoothed your hands over your jeans before pulling it open.

Pedro stood there, a paper bag of takeout in one hand, a six-pack of sparkling water in the other, and a small white pill box tucked between his fingers. His dark curls were slightly windswept, and the scent of his cologne—something warm and subtly spicy—wrapped around you as he stepped inside.

"Brought reinforcements," he said, holding up the drinks before heading to your fridge. He paused, staring into the barren interior. "Wow. You really weren't kidding."

He slid the bottles in with a grin, then placed the pill box on your counter. "Exhibit A: the mystery medication."

You reached for it, your fingers brushing his. A spark shot up your arm—

But Pedro caught your wrist. Gently. His thumb traced slow circles over your pulse point as he stepped closer, until you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

"Hi," he murmured.

"Hi," you breathed.

Then he kissed you—soft at first, just a testing brush of lips. When you sighed into it, his other hand came up to cradle your face, his palm broad and warm beneath your jaw, fingers spanning your cheekbone. The sheer size of his hand made your knees weak. He deepened the kiss slowly, like he had all the time in the world—

The pill box clattered to the floor.

Pedro didn't pull away. Just rested his forehead against yours, his breath uneven.

"So," he said after a moment, voice rough, "about that prescription..."

You bit your lip, still tasting him. "Right...right. Very important Tylenol instructions."

His laugh was a warm puff against your mouth. "Life-threatening dosage guidelines," he agreed, stealing one last kiss before retrieving the box.

Pedro flopped onto your couch with dramatic flair, producing a folded script from his back pocket like a magician revealing a trick. The cushions groaned under his weight as he stretched out, long limbs taking up nearly the entire length.

"We both need to study," he declared, though the glint in his eyes suggested other priorities.

You arched an eyebrow. "You just—where did you even—"

He grinned and pulled out a pair of black-framed glasses from his shirt pocket, sliding them onto his nose. The effect was devastating—sharp cheekbones and intelligent eyes peering up at you over the rims.

"Problem?"

"No," you said too quickly, then cleared your throat. "Nope. Studying. Right."

You grabbed the takeout bag and joined him, spreading containers between you. For a while, the only sounds were pages turning and the occasional crinkle of paper as you passed food back and forth.

Empty takeout containers and beer bottles from your fridge littered the coffee table. Pedro's script lay abandoned on the floor, thoroughly annotated. Your MCAT notes were half-filled with his doodles.

"I'm done," you groaned, sliding to the floor and resting your chin on the couch cushion, gazing up at him.

Pedro hummed, fingers playing with your hair. His glasses—which he'd never taken off—caught the lamplight. "Think we passed the productive part of the evening."

"About forty minutes ago," you agreed.

His hand slid to cup your cheek. "So what should we do now?"

You let him tug you up until you were sprawled across him, his mouth meeting yours in a hungry kiss—

The front door burst open without warning.

A woman with razor-sharp eyeliner and a designer bag froze in the doorway, her manicured fingers still curled around the knob. Her gaze locked onto Pedro like a missile finding its target, taking in his disheveled hair, his glasses hanging from one ear, and the way his large hand spanned your lower back.

For three excruciating seconds, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator.

Pedro's thumb paused its lazy circles on your spine. Without breaking eye contact with the intruder, he said calmly, "Excuse me. We're studying here."

The woman's eyebrow arched impossibly higher. "Uh huh." She stepped inside with predatory grace, dropping her bag on the counter with a thud that made you flinch. "And what exactly were you studying? Advanced tongue anatomy?"

You choked on air.

"You're disrupting our study session," Pedro countered smoothly, his arm tightening around your waist. His voice dropped to a whisper against your ear: "Who is this terrifying woman?"

"Lena," you hissed back, face burning. "My best friend whose party I'm supposed to be planning right now."

Lena's smirk could have cut glass as she flipped open her laptop. "Since you're clearly failing at your studies—" Her pointed look at your tangled limbs made your ears burn. "—you're both on party duty now. Glasses, aux cord. Now."

Pedro adjusted his frames with exaggerated care. "We were just getting to the good part of the textbook," he lamented, earning twin glares from both of you.

The quiet crack of a beer bottle broke the silence as Pedro rose from the couch. "Another drink," he announced, stretching with languid grace. His shirt rode up to reveal that tantalizing sliver of toned stomach—

Lena's pen froze mid-scribble in her planner.

Your gaze snapped to hers. For one electrifying moment, you shared perfect understanding through widened eyes before simultaneously pretending sudden fascination with opposite walls.

Pedro paused, glancing over his shoulder. That slow, knowing smirk appeared when he caught your mirrored reactions. "Distracted?" he asked, all innocence.

Lena was first to recover. She adjusted her glasses with precise fingers before fixing you with a look that could etch glass. "We are absolutely discussing your study methods later." Her tone suggested this would be a forensic examination.

Pedro's smirk deepened as he casually tugged his shirt down. "I excel at hands-on learning."

"Mm." Lena's pen tapped once—a judge's gavel—before returning to her notes. "Playlist. Now. Before we all lose our dignity."

Pedro's fingers brushed yours as he handed you a drink, the condensation on the bottle making his touch slick and cool at first before warming where your skin met. His knee pressed against yours when he sat, the rough denim of his jeans catching slightly on your leggings in a way that made you hyperaware of every tiny movement.

Lena didn't look up from her planner, but you saw the way her pen hesitated mid-word when Pedro's thumb traced absent circles on your thigh. "Pascal," she said, the leather cover of her planner creaking as she flipped a page with unnecessary force, "if you make me regret allowing you on aux duty, I will revoke your oxygen privileges."

His chuckle vibrated through you where your thighs touched, a low rumble you felt more than heard. "Wouldn't dream of it, boss." The hand not holding his beer found the small of your back, his fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your shirt to trace nonsense patterns that burned against your skin.

You took a shaky sip of your drink, the crisp bubbles bursting against your tongue as Lena finally looked up. Her gaze flickered between you—the way Pedro's fingers flexed possessively against your bare skin, the flush creeping up your neck, the bottle clutched too tightly in your hands—before she sighed dramatically and tossed her pen down.

"Unbelievable," she muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched as she reached for her phone. "Fine. New rule: no more studying during party planning. And you—" She pointed at Pedro with her charging cable. "If you make her miss one more question about the Krebs cycle because you're distracting her, I'm prescribing you a one-way ticket out of my contacts list."

Pedro's laugh was warm against your ear as he leaned in, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "Better take this seriously," he murmured, his lips brushing your earlobe. "I think she's drafting my obituary in that planner."

Pedro's fingers tracing patterns on your bare skin beneath your shirt made it impossible to focus on Lena's playlist rant. The debate about music genres had raged for nearly two hours now, his deep voice vibrating through you where your sides pressed together as he defended his questionable taste in 90s alternative rock.

"—and that's exactly why your 'chill vibes' playlist is fundamentally flawed," Lena declared, stabbing her cocktail stirrer at Pedro like a tiny sword. "Nickelback isn't a mood, it's a cry for help."

Pedro's responding chuckle sent pleasant shivers down your spine. "First of all, that was one suggested song. Second—" His thumb pressed deliberately into that sensitive spot just above your hip bone, making you squirm against him. "—clearly you've never properly appreciated Chad Kroeger's poetic genius at 2 AM."

You snorted into his shoulder, your laughter muffled by the soft cotton of his t-shirt. The combination of Pedro's warmth, the late hour, and Lena's increasingly ridiculous arguments made your eyelids grow heavy despite yourself.

"Automatic...disqualification," you mumbled, your words slurring as your fingers loosened their grip on your beer bottle.

Pedro caught it before it could tip, his hand dwarfing yours as he gently set it aside. "Someone's hitting the wall," he murmured, his fingers combing through your hair in a way that made you melt further against him.

Lena's smirk softened slightly as she took in your drowsy state. "Wow. I finally found something more boring than organic chemistry." She snapped her planner shut. "Alright Sleeping Beauty, let's—"

"I've got her," Pedro said quietly, already shifting to lift you. His movement roused you slightly, enough to register strong arms sliding beneath you—one under your knees, the other cradling your back—as he stood in one smooth motion.

"Mm...'m awake," you protested weakly, your arms looping loosely around his neck out of pure instinct. The scent of his cologne—that addictive cedar-and-citrus blend—wrapped around you as he carried you down the hallway, your face pressed against the solid warmth of his chest.

"Course you are," Pedro agreed, his voice vibrating through you where you touched. "Just conserving energy for tomorrow's study session."

The world tilted gently as he laid you on your bed, the cool sheets a shock against your skin after his warmth. Something soft brushed your forehead—his lips lingering just a second too long to be casual—before he pulled away.

Through heavy eyelids, you saw Pedro silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the soft glow of the living room lamp. "Stay," you murmured, the word slipping out before your sleep-fogged brain could catch it

He paused, his hand frozen on the doorknob. Even in the dim light, you saw the way his jaw tensed before he shook his head with a quiet sigh. "Your couch is calling my name," he said finally, voice warm but firm. "Get some rest, querida."

The door clicked shut. Muffled voices drifted through the walls as Pedro found Lena in the living room, slipping on her leather jacket with practiced ease.

"Let me walk you down," he offered, already reaching for his shoes.

Lena studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Fine. But only because this building's elevator smells like regret and poor life choices."

The elevator doors slid shut behind them, sealing them in flickering fluorescent light. Pedro watched the numbers descend in silence, acutely aware of Lena's assessing gaze burning into his profile.

At the curb, a yellow cab materialized through the hazy streetlight glow. Lena spun on him so suddenly her designer bag clipped his elbow.

"Look." Her voice was low, razor-sharp. "That girl in there?" A jerk of her chin toward your apartment windows. "She's going to cure cancer or win a Nobel Prize or some shit." The neon diner sign across the street painted her face in streaks of red and gold. "Don't be what holds her back."

Pedro didn't blink. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said, matching her quiet intensity.

Lena held his gaze for three pounding heartbeats before wrenching open the cab door. The hinge screamed in protest. "If you're still there in the morning," she tossed over her shoulder, "I'm bringing bacon."

The door slammed like a punctuation mark.

Pedro watched the cab disappear around the corner before heading back upstairs. The apartment was dark except for the dim glow from your cracked bedroom door. He paused, listening to your steady breathing, before quietly settling onto the couch.

The last thing you heard before sleep took you completely was the soft rustle of blankets and the contented sigh of someone exactly where they wanted to be.

Sunlight striped across your face through the blinds, dragging you awake to the sizzle of bacon and the rich scent of coffee. You padded barefoot into the kitchen, still wrapped in yesterday's rumpled clothes, to find Pedro at the stove—hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair sleep-mussed, flipping pancakes with one hand while scrolling through his phone with the other. The sight of him in your space, bathed in golden morning light, made your chest tighten.

Lena sat at the counter, demolishing a mimosa with the focus of a surgeon. "Told you I'd bring breakfast," she said without looking up, stabbing a piece of fruit from her glass.

Pedro turned at the sound of your footsteps, his smile slow and warm. "Morning, sleeping beauty." His gaze dropped to your disheveled state—the crease from your pillow still marking your cheek, your hair hopelessly tangled—and something unreadable flickered in his eyes before he nudged a steaming mug toward you. "Coffee's ready."

You wrapped your hands around the mug—your favorite, the one with the chipped rim you'd never told him about—and found it already perfectly doctored with just the right amount of cream. His fingers brushed yours as he passed the sugar, lingering just a beat too long.

"Still want me at that party?" he murmured, low enough that Lena had to pretend not to hear. Morning light caught the amber flecks in his eyes as he waited, spatula hovering mid-flip.

Lena groaned. "Oh my god." She slammed her glass down hard enough to make the silverware jump. "Either kiss or hand me the syrup. This tension is ruining my appetite."

Pedro's laugh was warm against your ear as he leaned in. "Later," he promised, just for you, before turning back to the stove with a wink that sent heat straight to your toes.

And as you watched him slide a stack of pancakes onto your plate—banana slices arranged in a ridiculous smiley face—you realized this was already something far beyond studying. Something with syrup-sticky fingers and morning light and the terrifying, exhilarating weight of permanence.

[wanniiieeee]

OH MY GOD!!! I'M CRYING!! 😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️❤️ THIS IS SO FREAKING GOOD!! 🥹🥹🥹♥️♥️♥️

blue velvet (9)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 20k

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

There was a pot on the stove that kept boiling over. Just slightly. Not loud. Just that soft hiss of starch against metal, the kind of domestic sound that didn’t register until it had already left a mark.

She didn’t hear it at first.

She was folding laundry with her knee pressed against the side of the couch, a towel slung over her shoulder like it had something to say. The loft was quiet in that way it always was midafternoon—humming the floorboards, the occasional rustle of the lemon tree Harry insisted they drag inside for the winter, and the thrum of traffic seven stories down.

The water hissed again. Frances yowled in protest from her perch on the windowsill, tail flicking like a metronome for the restless. She blinked. Stood. Moved the pot. And then just…stood there. Hands on the lip of the stove, steam brushing her face like something personal.

It had been a year. Almost to the week. The wedding had taken place on a day that smelled like sea salt and rot. The kind of day that came with folded napkins and teeth behind every smile.

Lucy had walked down an aisle she didn’t own in a dress that tried too hard, and Harry—Harry had stood beside her like an act of defiance. Unshaken. Solid. Watching with his hand on her thigh, his mouth at her ear.

A year later, and she still remembered the champagne glasses sweating in her hand, the way Francesca had said, “You look like a movie star who burned down the studio,” and the way John—her John, in that unreal, tragic, strange little way—had looked at her like she was a ghost he couldn’t place.

She stirred the pasta absentmindedly. It had gone soft. Mushy, really. Harry would pretend to like it. He always did. The front door creaked open. Not loudly. Just that familiar, specific sound of the lock catching on the wood, followed by the low thud of his shoes on the threshold.

“Baby?” he called.

“In the kitchen,” she said, already scooping the noodles into a bowl.

Harry’s tie was loose. His hair wind-blown in a way that meant he’d walked home despite the driver’s offer. His coat was slung over one arm like it had betrayed him. He kissed her cheek. Barely a breath.

Then stared at the bowl. “This is a crime.”

She smiled. “It’s mushy.”

“It’s illegal.”

“You’ll eat it.”

“I’ll love it.”

And he did. Of course he did.

Ate the whole thing with the quiet stubbornness of a man who would go to war for a dish he hated, if only because she’d made it. She sat across from him, legs tucked under her, chin in hand. Watched him eat like she didn’t already know the way his mouth turned down when something was too salty, or the way he hummed slightly when something reminded him of a childhood he didn’t talk about.

He looked up at one point, eyes narrowing. “You’re staring.”

“You’re handsome.”

“I'm old.”

“You’re both.”

Harry Castillo, in his mid-fifties and no longer quite the young thing of Wall Street he'd once been called, leaned back in his chair and said, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Say that again when I’m in your bed later.”

He did not reply. But he finished the pasta. And kissed her wrist when she took the bowl away. The thing about Harry was that he didn’t lie. Not to her. Not even when it would’ve been easier. He told the truth like it cost something, but he paid anyway. Which is why the silence—lately—felt off. Not a big silence. Not a dangerous one. But a different one. Something about the way he left the office a little earlier. The way he turned off his phone at dinner.

The way he started locking the drawer of the old walnut desk they kept in the corner of the loft, the one that used to hold little more than spare charger cords and two unread novels. She didn’t think he was cheating. God, no. But doubt was like that. Slippery. Ugly. It didn’t arrive with sirens, just whispers. Just a look. A turn of his head. A glance that didn’t land.

She sat on the edge of their bed that night and stared at her reflection in the old freestanding mirror he'd bought her for no reason at all.

“You’re spiraling,” she said softly.

Frances, watching from the dresser, blinked once like agreement.

“Shut up,” she added.

Harry had started taking more meetings lately. More calls. And yet the numbers weren’t climbing. There were no new acquisitions. No press releases. Just long stretches of time he wouldn’t account for and a new, hushed kind of warmth when he came home.

It was beginning to rattle her.

Worse—she hated that it did. She was not someone who unraveled. Not someone who paced or spiraled or stared at their partner’s phone like it owed them something. She had survived a father who defrauded an entire generation of investors, who buried her under the weight of his name, who taught her that silence was safer than truth.

She did not fall apart. And yet. Harry left his watch on the bathroom sink the next morning. It wasn’t like him. The man wore it like armor. She stared at it while brushing her teeth, foam in her mouth, wondering what it meant.

By the time she padded barefoot into the kitchen, he had already made coffee. Two mugs. Hers a little lighter, with cream. His bitter as sin. She accepted the cup in silence. He kissed her temple.

Then added, “You wanna come in with me today?”

She blinked. “To the office?”

Harry shrugged. “You’re bored.”

“I am not.”

“You’re going to alphabetize the pantry again. That’s the last station before madness.”

She snorted. “You hate when I come in.”

“No, I hate when the interns flirt with you behind my back.”

“And then you stare them down. Making them run off, scared.”

“Exactly.”

He set the mug down. Looked at her. Earnest. Crooked. “Come with me.”

So she did. She changed into black pants and one of Harry's long sleeve button ups. Left her hair down. Wore the earrings her fiancé had bought her in Rome, even though they pinched.

The car ride was quiet. She stared out the window. Harry’s hand was on her thigh. Thumb brushing slow.

At the office, people paused when they entered. Everyone at his office knew Harry was with her. How could they not? The Carrie Roth article hit every part of the world. And once her problematic family was posted about online too, everyone knew her.

And here she was. She sat in his office on the couch, curled with a book she didn’t read, watching him work. He didn’t speak much. Just glanced at her sometimes like she was gravity. Like she was the reason the pen moved. It should’ve settled her.

But it didn’t. The weirdness grew. Little things. He changed the password on his laptop. He started carrying something in his pocket—tucked, hidden, checked on when he thought she wasn’t looking.

He left earlier one day and came back smelling like pine. Not cologne. Not sweat. Just...forest.

“You okay?” Maya asked over coffee the next week.

She nodded.

“Harry weird?”

“No more than usual.”

Maya blinked. “But something’s off.”

She stirred her coffee. Stared at the spoon.

“I don’t think he’s cheating,” she said quietly.

“Jesus.”

“I don’t. I just—he’s hiding something.”

Maya’s face softened. “Maybe it’s good.”

She scoffed. “Nothing ever is.”

But Maya said nothing. Just squeezed her hand.

That night, Harry came home with a new plant. For the rooftop.

“Why a rosemary bush?” she asked, watching him try to wedge it between their second lemon tree and the aloe.

“Because it’s hardy.”

“That’s a weird word.”

Harry wiped his forehead. “You’re a weird word.”

She kissed his shoulder. Later, she found him standing on the rooftop long after dark, hands in his pockets, staring up at the string lights like they were a message he didn’t understand.

She stepped behind him. Wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she whispered.

Harry turned. Looked at her.

And said, “Soon.”

Which made her want to scream. The next day was uneventful. Which made it worse. She alphabetized the pantry again. Found herself staring at the junk drawer. Pulled it open. And saw it.

A small, velvet box. Dark blue. Tucked beneath a stack of contracts. She didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. Just closed the drawer. Backed away. Stood in the middle of the kitchen and let her heart thud against her ribs like a warning.

By the time Harry came home, she was on the couch, blanket up to her chin, a book in her lap and nothing in her head. He paused.

“Hey.”

She looked up. Smiled.

“Hey.”

He crossed the room. Sat beside her. Touched her knee.

“You okay?”

She nodded.

Then said, quietly, “I found it.”

Harry blinked. Then laughed. Not loudly. Just…relieved.

“I was going to do it tomorrow,” he said.

She stared at him. At the man who had buried empires with a line of his mouth and now looked like he was afraid she might shatter. He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out the box. Opened it. The ring was old. Gold. Worn. His mother’s.

“Say something,” he said softly.

She didn’t. Not right away. Just…looked at it. Then looked at him. “You asshole,” she whispered.

Harry’s mouth twitched. “I know.”

“You’ve been making me crazy.”

“I was nervous.”

“You? Nervous?”

He shrugged. “You matter.”

She touched the ring. Touched his hand.

Then said, “Yes.”

Harry exhaled. Like a man coming home. He slipped the ring on. Then kissed her like salvation. Frances yowled in protest. They didn’t care.

Outside, the lights on the rooftop flickered. Inside, time folded quietly. And for the first time in her life— She believed in beginnings. She wrote it in her journal that night—beginnings—underlined once, then again, as if repetition might root it into something permanent.

She wrote it after Harry had fallen asleep beside her, one hand still curved around her waist, the other resting lightly against her thigh like a promise.

He slept like a man who had survived war and still dreamt of it. She watched the way his brow twitched, the way his mouth softened in the dark.

He’d said I don’t snore earlier. He absolutely snored.

It was two in the morning when she turned off the lamp. The ring on her finger felt too big and too right all at once. His mother’s. Worn and beautiful and chosen.

They didn’t tell anyone right away. Not even Maya. For two full days, it was just theirs.

They woke up the morning after he proposed and didn’t go anywhere. Stayed in bed too long, drank coffee under the covers, ordered lunch from the Thai place with the curt delivery guy Harry tipped like he was royalty. She wore one of his shirts. He didn’t even button his. They read. Fell asleep again. Read some more. She forgot what time was. Forgot the way doubt had once lived in her like rot.

She didn’t feel like a woman who had been abandoned by a mother who faked a passport and fled to Mallorca. She didn’t feel like a woman who had a father in prison for crimes she could recite backwards. She didn’t feel like a woman who had a brother buried in a suit he never wanted. She felt—quiet. And loved. And new.

On the third morning, Harry poured her coffee and said, “When do you want to tell people?”

She raised an eyebrow. “People?”

“Maya.”

“Ah. The entire world.”

He handed her the mug. Kissed the top of her head. “Start there.”

She didn’t plan it out. Maya came over for wine and beloved snacks—rosemary crackers, three cheeses, one sliced peach—and as they sat on the floor of the loft, toes under the coffee table and Frances curled into a resentful ball beside the ottoman, she casually held up her left hand.

Maya blinked. Then blinked again. Then launched herself across the floor, nearly knocking over the Manchego.

“No. No—no. You’re kidding. You’re fucking joking. You’re a liar. You’re—”

“Maya.”

“You’re engaged?!”

She nodded. Smiled. Bit her lip. Maya stared at the ring. Then at her. Then at the ring again.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered. “You’re perfect. He’s—I mean, he’s old, but he’s perfect.”

She laughed. Maya tackled her into a hug. Frances made an undignified noise and slunk away.

“When did he ask?”

“Two days ago.”

Maya gasped. “You held it in for two days?! You sociopath.”

“I wanted it to be ours for a minute.”

Maya nodded. “Okay. That’s allowed.”

Then—softer—“You deserve this.”

She swallowed. Maya brushed her hair back from her face.

“Hey. Look at me.” She did. “I’ve known you through some shit,” Maya said. “Some bad men. Some worse men. Some god-awful years. But this? You and him? This is the realest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her throat tightened. She reached for her wine glass. Maya stopped her. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Let me ask before I explode.”

She smiled. “Ask what?”

“Can I be your maid of honor?”

She burst out laughing. “You’re not even gonna wait for me to ask?”

“No. I’m taking initiative.”

“Yes. You’re my maid of honor.”

Maya grinned so wide her face went pink. “Yes!” Then paused. “What are we doing? When’s the wedding? Are we eloping? Are we doing City Hall with a dress that makes him cry? Are we renting a house in the Alps? Do I have to wear heels?”

She smiled again. “We’re doing a vineyard. Harry owns one. In Europe. He bought it ages ago. Says it’s quiet and private.”

Maya blinked. “You’re gonna be Mrs. Castillo on a vineyard in Europe?”

“Apparently.”

“I love you. I’m going to cry.”

“And I'm going to cry with you.”

“Also I need to start working on my speech.”

“You have a year.”

“Oh, honey,” Maya said, pulling out her phone. “That’s barely enough time.”

Harry did not like the idea of a wedding planner.

“I don’t want a stranger touching our day,” he said.

“Our day,” she smiled, like she couldn't believe it.

“Yes. Our day.” Harry leaned down and kissed her cheek.

He was annoyingly good at logistics, which meant he somehow became the one who coordinated flights, worked with the vineyard’s staff, hired a local florist, and made a spreadsheet that was both terrifying and perfect. She took over the invitations. They wrote them by hand. On real paper. With real pens. At the kitchen table, elbow to elbow.

“Do people even open mail anymore?” he asked, flipping through the stack of thick cream envelopes she’d bought in Brooklyn.

“They will if it’s from us.”

“Arrogant.”

“Confident.”

He smirked. “God, I love you.”

“Write that in your invitation.”

He started with his star's invitation. To his sister.

Isidora, the card said, in his uneven, blunt handwriting. You once said I was born angry. You weren’t wrong. But I’m less angry now. Maybe because I’ve found someone who makes me feel like I don’t have to defend myself just to exist. I’d like you to come. I’d like your husband to come. The girls too. She wants them there. I do too.

She watched him sign it. Watched him hold the pen like a weapon until he relaxed. They addressed the rest together. Francesca and Luca, obviously. Danny of course. Sadie would try to pretend it was just a business trip, but she’d bring three backup dresses and a portable steamer.

James and his wife, who had quietly become their favorite people. She remembered James hugging her at Harry’s birthday and saying, “I’ve driven that man for fifteen years. I’ve never seen him happy until you.” That was it. Ten people. No cousins. No plus-ones. No press.

Well—almost no press. Because someone at Forbes caught wind of it. Some intern probably noticed a shift in the property record, a flight manifest, and Harry’s purchase of three dozen linen napkins from a French wholesaler.

Sadie called in a cold sweat. “I can’t spin this,” Sadie said. “I can’t even contain it.”

“You don’t need to,” Harry replied. “We’re not hiding.”

“But—”

“No but.” His voice dropped. “They can write whatever they want. But this is ours.”

Later that night, as she folded guest favors into cream tissue paper—little jars of local honey and sprigs of dried rosemary—Harry wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“You doing okay?”

She nodded. “It’s a lot.”

“I can make it less.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He kissed the side of her neck.

“I want it to be beautiful,” she murmured.

“It already is.”

She turned in his arms. “I want it to feel like the start of something. Not the end.”

Harry brushed her hair back. “You are the beginning.”

They sat on the couch with the list between them.

Location: check.

Guests: check.

Music: no playlist yet.

Food: Mediterranean, with her aunt’s lemon pasta on the menu even though the aunt had been dead for ten years.

Vows: unwritten.

Dress: unknown.

That's when she decided to start going dress shoping. Harry insisted, “You deserve the best. Go take the credit card and break something.”

In Paris, she found a dress that didn’t sparkle but whispered. That slipped like water. That felt like herself, if herself was allowed to be worshipped for one entire evening. She texted Harry a single photo of the fabric—a blur of ivory silk in a windowpane of morning light. He texted back: I’m not ready.

When she returned, he waited at the arrivals gate with a bouquet of peonies and a driver who knew not to speak.

Back in New York, the loft felt like it had expanded. Like the rooms were waiting. She started sleeping in one of his shirts again. The oldest one. The one with frayed cuffs and a faded logo from a failed tech company Harry had once invested in, then dismantled for parts. He caught her in it one night. Didn’t speak. Just crossed the room and kissed her like she was fire and forgiveness. The next morning, they made pancakes. She burned the first two. He flipped the rest.

“Do we have to write vows?” she asked, watching syrup pool at the edge of her plate.

Harry nodded. “I do. You can freestyle.”

“I’m going to write them.”

He grinned. “Make them dirty.”

“I’m going to make them holy.”

“You’re already holy.”

She threw a piece of pancake at him. He caught it. A week later, her vows still only had the words, You make me want to stay. That felt like enough. But she kept writing. On napkins. On receipts. On the back of old journals. The vineyard sent updated photos—golden light, neat rows of vines, white stone buildings that looked carved into the land. Harry studied the photos in bed.

Then murmured, “You’ll look good against this.”

She rolled over. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m obsessed with you.”

“I know.” She kissed his chest. Listened to his heartbeat. Slept like someone waiting for something soft.

They mailed the invitations in person. Walked to the postbox together in the rain, Harry holding the umbrella too high, her scolding him the whole way. They mailed ten envelopes. No more. No less. Each one sealed with a quiet kind of faith. They stopped for pastries after. Harry bought two. She stole half of his. He didn’t complain. He never did. Not when it came to her.

By the time spring stretched its way toward the city again, the lemon tree on the rooftop had bloomed. Small white blossoms. Sharp scent. Hope. They stood beside it one night, glasses of wine in hand, watching the sun slip behind the buildings.

Harry said, “Do you ever think about the ceremony?”

She nodded. “Every day.”

“What do you see?”

“You. Waiting.”

He kissed her temple. “And you?”

She looked up. “What do you see?”

He touched her face. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted.”

The wind stirred. The city below buzzed like a secret. And for a long, long moment—There was nothing else. Just them. Just light. Just beginning.

Her wedding dress hung at the far end of the closet. A white garment bag, thick and expensive-feeling, with a gold zipper and a hand-lettered card pinned to the hanger. Her name, in soft cursive. A florist’s ribbon threaded through the loop. Harry walked past it every morning.

And every morning, he paused. He never touched it. Never peeked. Not once. He had a quiet, almost reverent fear of it. Like it might vanish if he looked too closely. But he saw the curve of the hem tucked near the floor. The tiny bow of the ribbon. The card with her name. And it did something to him.

Made his heart slow. Then stutter. Made the coffee in his hand feel warmer. The morning light feel softer. It was a silent, constant reminder—he was marrying her. Her. The woman who burned toast and kept rearranging their fridge magnets to spell out the most random words she could think of. The woman who let Frances sleep on his side of the bed, then teased him for sleeping like a corpse. The woman who made him believe in love again. His future. Right there. In the corner of their shared closet.

Sometimes, when she was still asleep and he was getting dressed, he’d glance at it, just once, and mutter under his breath, “Jesus Christ.”

Not out of nerves. Just out of disbelief. He was really marrying the love of his life.  Because this—this quiet life, this rooftop lemon tree, this woman asleep in his bed in one of his t-shirts—was everything he’d stopped believing he could have.

She still visited him at work. Despite herself. She hadn’t wanted to work at the office. Had resisted. Loudly. She didn’t want to be “the girl who sits at a desk outside her fiancé’s door and color-codes paperclips.”

But then boredom crept in. So did curiosity. And the understanding that if she wanted a certain kind of cheese served at their wedding, she had to email six Italian vendors, not two. So she showed up one Tuesday with her laptop and a sharp opinion on chair rentals. And never really left. She didn’t have a title. Didn’t want one. But she took meetings when she felt like it, made suggestions Harry actually listened to, and once rewrote an entire pitch deck because “I couldn’t sleep and you were doing it wrong.”

She’d deliver lunch, too. Sometimes in brown paper bags. Sometimes in Tupperware. Once in a pastry box labeled FOR THE ASSHOLE IN SUITE A. She dropped it on his desk and left without a word. Harry opened it. Smiled. And ate every bite.

His staff watched her like a myth. Not because she was intimidating. But because she was the only person Harry Castillo had ever let into his orbit without pretense. He didn’t bark at her. Didn’t interrupt her. Didn’t ignore her when she curled up on his office couch to read or asked if he’d printed the seating chart. He listened. He smiled.

He sometimes shut his laptop mid-email just because she asked, “Want to go get coffee with me?” And when she did stay home? She wrote her vows. Or tried to. It was harder than expected. Not because she didn’t know what to say. But because every time she tried to pin it down, her words felt too small.

How do you explain I love you so much it makes my hands shake in a way that doesn’t sound like you stole it from a Hallmark aisle? She sat on their couch one afternoon, curled under an old throw blanket in one of Harry’s sweatshirts—gray, frayed, warm from the dryer. Pen in her mouth. Blank page in her lap. Frances on the windowsill, twitching her tail every time a pigeon got too bold.

The sweatshirt was her favorite. It still smelled like his cologne. Or maybe just his skin. She wore it when she missed him, even if he was only five floors away. She chewed the end of the pen, then sighed. Crossed out the sentence she’d just written. Tried again.

You make me feel like I belong somewhere. Not in a house. Not in a city. In a person. In you. Too vague. Too soft. Too—

She groaned and let the pen drop. She needed air. Tea. A distraction. She padded barefoot into their bedroom. Reached for the socks in the laundry basket and noticed it—something crumpled, sticking out from beneath the drawer where Harry kept his extra notebooks. Half-tucked, like it had slipped and never been picked up. She bent down. Pulled it free.

A single piece of thick white stationery, creased in half, faint coffee stain at the top. His handwriting. Slanted. Rushed. She didn’t mean to read it. But she did.

Vows — Draft One (throw this away)

I don’t believe in a lot of things. Not God. Not fate. Not soulmates. But I believe in you.

I believe in the way you look at me when I’m tired and unkind and still trying. I believe in the way you steal my socks and burn my toast and make me laugh when I’m too far inside my own head to find the door out. I believe in how you love me—loudly, recklessly, like I’m not a man who’s ruined everything he’s touched.

You make me believe in things I didn’t ask for. And I want to wake up next to you until my back goes out. I want to read beside you until my eyes give up. I want to argue about dish soap and sing badly in the car and die knowing you knew every version of me and didn’t flinch.

I love you. I’ll love you when we’re old. When we’re boring. When no one knows our names anymore. I’ll love you when I forget to say it.

I’ll love you always. Even after.

–H

Her chest stuttered. She sat down on the edge of the bed. Read it again. Read it a third time. By the end, her hands were shaking. She didn’t cry. Not really. Just pressed the page to her chest and whispered, “Of course I’ll marry you.”

Later, she tucked the draft between the pages of her journal. Didn’t tell him. Not yet. She liked the idea of hearing whatever version he landed on without knowing. But she also liked knowing that he’d written that. That he’d meant it. That even the vow he’d thrown away felt like a liturgy. That night, he came home late. Jacket slung over his shoulder. Eyes tired. Shoulders tight. She met him at the door. Wrapped her arms around him. Didn’t let go.

He let out a breath against her hair. Kissed the crown of her head. “What’s all this?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I just missed you.”

Harry smiled. “That’s a crime, you know.”

“What is?”

“Being this in love with me.”

She laughed into his chest. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you’re stuck with me.”

She didn’t answer. Just kissed his jaw.

He groaned. “God, you’re gonna wreck me in that dress.”

“You haven’t even seen it.”

“I don’t need to.”

He walked past her into the closet, started unbuttoning his shirt. Paused. Glanced at the dress bag.

His voice went quiet. “I saw your name on the tag today.” She stepped up behind him. Slid her arms around his waist. “I see it every morning,” he added. “Makes my heart do that annoying thing.”

She smiled. “Thump?”

“More like oh fuck, I’m going to cry.”

She kissed his back. Felt him relax. He held her hands over his ribs. They stood like that for a while. Breathing together.

Spring turned to summer. Summer turned to countdown. The vineyard sent updates. Rows of vines stretching green under the sun. White tablecloths delivered. The chef confirmed. The cake finalized—lemon, of course. She picked her shoes. He picked the wine. Maya picked her dress and cried in the group chat. Francesca wrote a toast that involved both the stock market and Harry’s record achievements. Luca offered cigars. Danny offered to keep the peace along with Sadie.

The final week arrived like a wave. And through all of it—through the stress, the softness, the boxes that kept arriving and the seating chart that kept changing—Harry stayed constant. Steady. Warm. The kind of man who took her hand during a chaotic phone call and squeezed it once. Who let her steal the sheets every night and still tucked her in. Who whispered, “I can’t wait to see you walk toward me,” when she was brushing her teeth.

He wasn’t like other men. He never had been. Because when he looked at her, it wasn’t with hunger. It was with reverence. And when she looked back—

It was home.

The rain started like a joke. A single droplet. Then a few. Then the kind of summer downpour that felt sudden even when it wasn’t. New York in June didn’t apologize. The city had no warning systems for softness. Just clouds and concrete and a kind of cinematic surrender.

She loved it. Always had. That thick, humming kind of rain, heat bleeding through it, streets glistening like film stills.

They were already running late. The car had hit traffic, some construction detour with a single blinking light and a cop who didn’t care who Harry Castillo was. He hadn’t said a word about it. Just let his hand rest on her knee while they idled, watching people dart between puddles, laughing and shrieking and slipping on corners that hadn’t been dry in hours.

He looked good that night. Really good. White dress shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough, dark pants that sat perfectly on his hips, the soft graying scruff. His hair was damp at the temples. He smelled like salt and cedar and that cologne she’d asked him never to stop wearing.

She wore a black slip dress that clung a little, in the way silk does when it rains, and a pair of earrings Maya had talked her into. Her umbrella had snapped in the wind earlier that week—cheap bodega plastic—and she hadn’t replaced it. Harry had his own. Big. Dark blue. Old enough to have been repaired at least twice.

When James, Harry's driver, finally pulled up to the curb, Harry slid out first. The rain was heavier now. He didn’t hesitate. He opened the umbrella with one hand, turned toward her with the other, and held it at that particular slanted angle that kept every drop off her—even if it meant soaking the entire right side of his own jacket.

“Harry,” she said quietly, glancing at the growing damp patch on his arm.

He didn’t blink. “Walk.”

So she did. He kept his stride slow. Steady. Let her take his arm like they were on some old movie set. When a gust of wind caught the edge of her dress, he shifted closer, shielding her with the bulk of his body. They looked like money and history and something romantic you didn’t quite believe until it was in front of you.

The restaurant sat tucked beneath the overhang of a building that had been there forever. Brick. Low lighting. The kind of place that didn’t advertise, didn’t seat walk-ins, didn’t trust Yelp. They’d come here a hundred times. Probably more. The host knew her drink order. The chef sent them things “off menu.” One of the waiters always asked about Frances. 

They hadn’t been back since the proposal. She’d wanted one last dinner here before they flew out. One last night before vows and vineyards and their honeymoon in Lisbon and waking up with a different last name.

Harry reached for the door first. Shook off the umbrella. Opened it for her, like always. And that was when she saw them.

Lucy. And fucking John. At the host stand. Talking. Laughing. And, for just a moment, not noticing them. Lucy looked exactly the same. That too-long fringe. That half-smile that never quite matched her eyes. She was wearing something tan and soft and undoubtedly expensive. She turned slightly—laughing at something John said—and that’s when she saw them.

Lucy's eyes landed on the ring. His mother’s ring. The one Harry kept in a drawer she’d once been told not to open. Lucy stared. The smile faltered. Then—quietly, calculatingly—she turned fully to face them.

“Harry,” Lucy said, voice slicing through the room like the clink of cold silverware. “Wow. This is a surprise.”

Harry didn’t flinch. Just placed a gentle hand at the small of his fiancé's back and said, without looking at Lucy, “We’re late.”

John, smiling awkwardly, stepped forward. “We’re just visiting. Up for a friend’s reunion. Saw this place on a list and figured—”

“You could afford it?” Harry said, voice dry as dust.

John flushed. “Hey, now. I got a job.”

Lucy smiled tightly. “My father brought him on at the company. Construction management. We just bought a house in Chatham.”

“Good for you,” Harry said, voice so flat it might as well have been printed.

She said nothing. Just watched Lucy. Lucy watched her back. Their eyes met. And Lucy’s gaze dropped—to her dress, to her shoulders, to her ring on her left hand. It lingered.

“That’s...quite a ring,” she said finally. “I recognize it.”

Harry’s jaw shifted.

Lucy continued, lightly, like she wasn’t sharpening a knife. “Didn’t you say nobody was ever going to wear it again? That it wasn’t for public?”

Harry’s voice was quiet. Cold. “I said it wasn’t for you.”

The silence was swift. Even the host blinked.

John cleared his throat. “Guess we didn’t get an invite to the wedding, huh?”

Harry turned to him then. Smiled. Just slightly.

“You didn’t get one because you weren’t wanted.”

John’s mouth opened. Then closed. Lucy’s eyes narrowed. And that was when the maître d’ appeared. Harold. Mid-sixties. Glasses pushed up his nose.

“Mr. Castillo. Miss. Your table is ready.” He didn’t even glance at Lucy. “Apologies for the delay. We’ve kept it waiting. Wouldn’t dare seat anyone else.”

Harry nodded. “Of course.”

He touched the small of her back again, guiding her forward. They didn’t say goodbye. She didn’t need to. He didn’t need to. Their silence said enough.

The booth was tucked in the back. Candlelit. Quiet. Familiar. Harry didn’t speak for the first full minute. Just reached for the wine list, handed it to her without asking, and then drummed his fingers once against the white linen tablecloth. She stared at him. He stared back. And then—slowly—he smiled.

“That was terrible,” she said, laughing before she could stop herself.

Harry nodded, smiling, trying not to laugh with her. “It was terrible.”

“She saw the ring.”

“She’s always wanted something that wasn’t hers.”

“She looked like she wanted to bite it off my hand.”

“She can try,” he said, “but I’m faster.”

She laughed again. He didn’t. He just looked at her. Really looked. And then leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, fingers brushing hers.

“I like you in the rain,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because you love it. And it puts you in a good mood.”

She blinked.

He shrugged. “And because I get to get wet shielding you.”

She laughed. “You're an idiot.”

“Your idiot.”

They ordered the usual. The wine they always liked. The burrata with the peaches. The pasta with saffron. The steak, rare, because Harry swore medium was for quitters.

The waitress—Jess—winked at them as she dropped off the plates. “I’ve already told the chef. He’s sending dessert. Congratulations on your engagement, again.”

“Thank you,” she said, cheeks flushed.

Harry nodded once. His hand was still on hers.

“I want to be out of here before they eat their first course,” he said, very seriously.

She smiled. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Only in defense.”

“Of?”

“You.”

She went quiet and smiled. He let that sit. By the time dessert came—some fig tart thing she didn’t even order—she had forgotten all about the host stand. Because Harry had leaned in again.

And told her, in that gruff, quiet voice that always hit her somewhere low in the chest, “Seeing that ring on your hand might actually kill me.”

She smiled. Soft. Lethal.

“Then it’s doing its job.”

They walked out an hour later. The rain had stopped. The streetlights cast everything in gold. Harry opened the umbrella anyway. Held it above her head, just in case.

“Old habit,” he muttered.

She slipped her arm through his. They walked to the car like the world hadn’t tried to dig up old ghosts. Like love was the only thing that had survived. Because it was. And it always would be.

Lucy didn’t finish her drink. The stem of her wine glass had been pressed between her fingers for too long—skin warming the Sauvignon, knuckles pale from the grip. She wasn’t listening to John anymore. He’d been talking about something—renovations, tile samples, maybe the way her father had offered him more work. She couldn’t recall.

Her gaze had drifted, caught somewhere near the front of the restaurant, where the door still lingered open just enough to let the evening draft roll in. Where Harry and the woman he's going to marry, walked out of the restaurant. The air smelled like wet concrete and wood polish. It reminded her of something old. Something half-remembered. Her nails tapped softly against the glass. She kept seeing it. The ring. That ring. Harry’s mother’s ring.

The one he used to keep locked in a drawer with a tarnished clasp, buried under tax returns and a folded menu from a restaurant that didn’t exist anymore. Lucy had found it once. Early on. When they were still new and reckless and playing house in his penthouse like they didn’t know it was going to burn.

She’d slipped it onto her finger, the way anyone would, the way a girl tries on an outfit she doesn’t think she’s earned. She remembered standing in the mirror. Turning her hand this way and that. Admiring it in the soft hallway light.

He’d seen it. He hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t even looked at her with anything resembling fondness. Just a slow, flat, “Put that back.” And she had. Because it hadn’t belonged to her. It was too heavy. Too real. It had memory in its shape, in the way it sat on her hand like judgment. Now, years later, she'd seen it again.

But this time—

On her. The girl. His girl. The girl who Lucy called a child. In her words 'You brought a child to my wedding.'

Lucy had felt it like a crack along her spine. The sick sort of click when reality shifts a little to the left and you realize you've been left behind without anyone needing to say it. She tried not to watch them walk out. Really, she tried.

John was saying something again—probably trying to fill the space, bridge the chasm that had opened the second Harry’s voice slid across the room like ice. Something about how they must be excited to be heading to Europe soon. Something about Harry’s “usual table” being available when they come back.

But Lucy didn’t care. Her eyes were on him.  On Harry. Through the glass, she could see them in profile—him holding the umbrella just slightly off-center, his right shoulder soaked. Always the shoulder. Always the goddamn coat. The same one she used to tease him about, said he looked like a detective in a French movie.

And her. She looked older now. Not aged, just... solid. Like she'd grown into her own skin. Same soft jawline. Same thoughtful mouth. The kind of beauty that didn’t need permission. Her dress clung to her in the rainlight. Her hand slipped naturally into the crook of Harry’s arm.

And the ring—That ring—caught in the glow of the streetlamp like a quiet fuck you. Lucy exhaled slowly. Her chest felt tight.

“Do you think it’s real?” she asked suddenly, cutting into John’s monologue.

He blinked. “What?”

“Them,” she said, voice softer now, like she was trying to convince herself she didn’t already know. “Their relationship. Their wedding. Do you think they are actually going to go through with it?”

John paused. Sipped his wine. Then, slowly, said, “It looks like it.”

Lucy nodded once. Didn’t look at him. She watched the umbrella close as Harry opened the car door for her. Watched her slip inside, glancing back just once with a grin. Not at the building. Not at the window. Just toward him. Her future husband.

Like she knew he was watching.

“You okay?” John asked, voice cautious now.

Lucy didn’t answer right away. She ran a finger along the condensation of her glass, drawing a small circle, then another. Finally, she said, “Do you remember the night of our wedding reception?”

He blinked again. “Which part?”

“When she showed up. With him.”

John sighed. “Yeah. Hard to forget.”

Lucy looked at him now. “Do you remember what I said to her?”

“You were upset.”

“No,” she said, sharper. “Do you remember what I said?”

John hesitated. Then nodded. “You called her a child.”

Lucy looked away. Back toward the window.

“They’re going to France,” she murmured. “That vineyard. The one he bought before the market crash.”

“How do you kno—?”

“Because I asked once,” she said. “Back then. When I thought maybe I could make a life with him. Asked if we’d ever get married somewhere quiet, somewhere real.”

“And he said?”

Lucy smiled tightly. “He said he didn’t believe in weddings.”

John didn’t speak. Because he knew. He knew it now too. That Harry Castillo had simply been waiting for the right person. Not a woman who understood appearances. Not a girl who grew up in a house that held grudges like trophies. Not someone like Lucy.

She watched as the car disappeared down the avenue, taillights slipping into the current of the city. The server came by with their entrees. She didn’t eat. Just sat there, napkin folded in her lap, staring at the ring on someone else’s finger burned into the backs of her eyes. Because she knew what that ring meant. And she knew that when Harry had looked at her, he had never been capable of the softness she saw when he looked at her.

That wasn’t regret. It wasn’t bitterness. It was something colder. Something closer to envy. Because Lucy, for all her knowing, all her proximity to wealth and power and privilege—

Had never been loved like that. And now she never would.

While Lucy, back at the restaurant was reeling at her table, the couple she was thinking about had just arrived at their loft

The rain had slowed to a whisper against the windows, the kind of hush that made the rest of the world feel like it had stepped back to give them space.

She toed off her shoes by the door, barely speaking. Harry didn’t, either. But the air had changed. Something tight lived in the silence now—something hungry. It shimmered between them, thickening every breath.

He locked the door behind them without looking away.Then—slowly, deliberately—he stepped toward her. One hand still damp from the umbrella, the other hanging loose at his side. His shirt was rumpled, clinging to him in places where the rain had soaked through. The cuff of his right sleeve was pushed up, exposing his forearm and the hairs at his wrist.

She watched him. Harry watched her back. Like a man who had held back for too long. He touched her first. Just a hand to the side of her neck, fingers curling under her jaw like he was steadying her. His thumb brushed the soft hollow beneath her ear, and she let out a breath like it had been trapped in her chest all evening.

Then he leaned in. Kissed her—not gently. Harry's mouth landed on hers like possession. Tongue parting her lips, thumb tilting her chin up to give him more. He kissed her like a man with patience but no more restraint. Like someone who had memorized the taste of her and still couldn’t get enough.

When he finally pulled back, their breath mingling in the space between them, he murmured, “You have no fucking idea what you do to me.”

She smiled, lips kiss-swollen. “Show me.”

His eyes darkened. He stepped forward—pressing her back until her spine hit the wall. Then he kissed her again. And again. And again. His hands moved now—everywhere. Cupping her face, then sliding down to her waist, then gripping her ass hard enough to pull her hips flush with his. She gasped when she felt him—hard against her stomach, straining through his slacks.

“Been like this all night,” he muttered into her neck. “Watching you walk around in that dress. Smile like that. Touch me like it’s nothing.”

“Harry—”

He grunted. Bit down softly on the edge of her shoulder. She whimpered.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing to me?” he growled. “You think I don’t know you’re wearing that fucking ring and looking at me like you want me to lose control?”

Her breath hitched. He pulled back just enough to see her face.

“You like it,” he said darkly.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He exhaled like that answer hurt. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

“Then die,” she whispered, “on top of me.”

That was it. He dropped to his knees. Right there. In the middle of the loft. No ceremony. No warning. Just his large, calloused hands curling around her thighs as he shoved her dress up past her hips.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed when he saw what was underneath. “No panties?”

“Didn’t want lines.”

“I fucking love you.”

He leaned in. Bit the inside of her thigh. She gasped.

“Hold onto the wall,” he said, voice guttural.

She did. Hands braced behind her. Eyes wide. Then—His mouth. His mouth. It met her with such greedy precision that she nearly collapsed. Tongue flat against her clit, then curling. Then flicking. Then sucking.

And he moaned into her. Like this was the meal he’d been starving for. His grip on her thighs was bruising in the best way—anchoring her to him as he feasted. And feasted. No mercy. No slowing. Just Harry—on his knees, devouring her like she was the only thing on this earth that could save him.

“Harry,” she whimpered, knees buckling.

He groaned. “Say my name again.”

“Harry—oh—fuck—”

He sucked harder. She came apart. Loud. Clutching his hair. Whole body trembling like she’d been struck by something divine.

He kept going until her thighs twitched. Until her breathing stuttered. Until she whimpered, “I can’t— please—”

Then he kissed the inside of her thigh, his lips slick, facial hair damp. He looked up. Eyes blown.

“You taste like heaven,” he rasped. “Like mine.”

She didn’t remember how they got to the bedroom. She remembered him carrying her. Holding her like she weighed nothing. Like she was something precious and burning and fragile all at once.

He set her on the bed. Didn’t follow immediately. Just stood there for a moment. Looking down at her.

Then he stripped her first. Slid her dress off over her head. Then he stripped himself. Button by button. She watched every piece fall. Watched the shirt drop from his shoulders—broad and solid, with arms that still made her ache. Watched the undershirt come off. Watched his stomach—soft, comforting, familiar—bared to her like a confession. He caught her looking. Paused. She sat up on her elbows. Reached out. Touched his stomach.

“I love this part of you,” she whispered.

He swallowed. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he said again.

Then pushed his pants off. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already leaking. She sat up fully now. Reached for him.

But he shook his head. “No. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need to be inside you. Now”

He knelt on the bed. Spread her legs gently. Like an offering. And then—

He slid in. Slow. Careful. But deep. She gasped. He grunted, jaw clenched, trying not to lose it.

“God, you feel good,” he breathed. “Every time. Every fucking time.”

She moaned. He began to move. Not fast. But with purpose. Like every thrust had a message. Like he was trying to say I love you with every inch of his body. He kissed her neck. Her jaw. Her shoulder. Her breast. Every part of her he could reach.

“You’re mine,” he growled into her skin. “You’re going to be my wife.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“You belong to me.”

“Yes.”

“And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving you made the right choice.”

He fucked her harder then. Rougher. But still careful. Still worshipful. His hand came between them, rubbing soft circles against her clit. His mouth never stopped moving. Kisses. Praise. Obscene promises.

“Gonna make you come again,” he whispered. “Gonna feel you squeeze my cock and lose your mind.”

She did. Hard. Arching up. Crying out. Clutching his back with nails that left marks. And he came with her. With a shout. A groan. A final thrust so deep it made her see stars. He collapsed on top of her.

Sweaty. Spent. Still inside. They didn’t move. Just stayed like that. His body heavy over hers. Her fingers combing through his hair.

She whispered, “I love you.”

And he—still breathless—murmured against her shoulder, “I’d burn the world down for you.”

She smiled. Pulled the sheet over them. Held him tighter. He didn’t fall asleep immediately. Just stayed inside her, even as his cock softened, holding her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth. Because maybe she was.

They should’ve been asleep. The sheets were tangled. The air warm with sex and sweat and something sacred. He was still inside her. Slowing. Softening. Breathing hard against her shoulder. The weight of him grounding her. Wrapping her in heat.

But Harry Castillo wasn’t done. Not even close. Because when she shifted—just slightly—he growled. Low. Animal.

“Again,” he rasped. “Need you again.”

She blinked up at him. Eyes still hazy, lips parted. “Harry—”

His hand slid down her thigh, lifting it over his hip. The movement pressed his cock deeper again—still there, still thick, still very much a presence. He kissed her jaw. Her mouth. Bit her bottom lip.

“Don’t care how tired you are,” he whispered, voice like smoke and sin. “You’re not getting up until I make you cry again.”

She whimpered.

He smirked. “Yeah. There she is.”

Then he pulled out—just enough to make her gasp—before slamming back in with a force that stole her breath.

“Oh my God—”

“Not God, baby,” he growled. “Just me.”

Her nails dug into his shoulders. He welcomed the sting.

“Harry—fuck—”

“You feel that?” he grunted, hips snapping into hers. “Feel how wet you still are for me? How your pussy won’t let me go?”

She nodded, moaning. “Y-yes—”

“Fuckin’ knew you were made for me.”

He leaned down. Kissed her throat. Her collarbone. Bit the edge of her breast until she arched into him.

“Your body’s so perfect,” he murmured. “So soft. So fuckin’ mine.”

Then rougher, “Look at you. Dripping on my cock like you want me to fuck a baby into you.”

Her eyes flew open but she moaned. Loud. “Harry—”

“Yeah,” he growled. “Bet you’d take it. Bet you’d let me fill you up and beg for more.”

She whimpered—louder now. And he lost it. He flipped her onto her stomach in one motion, like it was nothing. Grabbed her hips. Pulled her back. She barely had time to gasp before he was inside again—deeper now.

From behind. One hand on her lower back, the other in her hair. Her cheek pressed to the sheets. Her mouth fell open. And Harry fucked her. Harder. Rougher. Still in control. But wild. Every thrust was a statement. This is mine. You’re mine.

“Look at you,” he growled, panting. “Back arched. Ass bouncing. Taking this cock like you were fucking built for it.”

“Please—Harry—I’m gonna—”

“Do it. Fucking do it. Let me feel you fall apart on me again.”

She shattered. Came around him like she’d never come before. Screamed into the mattress. He grunted—loud—and slammed in once more, spilling inside her with a groan that sounded like something ancient, like something only she had earned. He stayed there. Deep. Still. Then he moved again. Slow. Shallow. Because he wasn’t done.

“You can come one more time,” he said low, filthy and sweet. “Gimme one more, baby. Just one more.”

She shook her head, crying now—not sad, just overwhelmed. And Harry kissed the back of her shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Then—again. His fingers slid between her legs.

“Shh,” he cooed. “One more for me. Be a good girl.”

And she did. God help her, she did. She came again—wrecked, sobbing into the pillow, body trembling, legs useless. He kissed her spine as she collapsed fully, lowering both of them to the bed without ever leaving her. He curled around her from behind, one arm tight around her middle, his cock still buried in her.

“You’re so fucking good to me,” he whispered.

She couldn’t answer. She just breathed. He kissed her shoulder. Her temple.

“You still with me?”

She nodded. Barely.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not letting go.”

Then—softer still—

“I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to let me love them like this.”

And she melted in his arms. Because Harry Castillo wasn’t just wild in bed. He was devoted. Feral. Tender. Vulgar. Romantic. Hers. Forever.

The room smelled like sex and sweat and skin. The sheets were soaked. The pillows half-off the bed. The lamp still glowed low, casting soft golden light across their tangled limbs. She laid boneless, breath shallow, eyes closed. Floating.

Harry didn’t move for a while. Just held her. One arm wrapped around her ribs, the other under her head, fingers stroking her hair like he was still grounding himself. He kissed the back of her neck. Then her shoulder. Then just breathed her in.

“You alive?” he asked softly, voice rough with exhaustion and something quieter.

She hummed. That was all she could manage. He smiled into her skin.

Then shifted, slowly, carefully, slipping out of her with a groan that felt more reverent than lustful. He sat up, rubbed his hands over his face, and let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“You destroyed me.”

She snorted, eyes still closed. “You did all the work.”

“I stand by what I said.”

He leaned down. Brushed her hair off her cheek. Kissed the corner of her mouth.

“Stay there,” he murmured. “Don’t move.”

She didn’t. Didn’t want to. But she heard him pad barefoot across the room. Heard the soft creak of the bathroom door. The rush of water. The gentle thud of the cabinet opening. When he came back, he was holding one of their thick white towels—her towel. The one she always stole from the linen shelf. The softest one.

He crouched by the bed. Wiped between her thighs first. Gentle. Slow. Not clinical. Loving. She flinched, still sensitive. “Sorry,” he said softly. “I know. I know, baby.”

His fingers were careful. Thorough. Once he was done, he tossed the towel into the hamper by the door and scooped her up like she weighed nothing. She made a sleepy sound of protest.

“You need a shower,” he whispered. “Just a quick one. Then you can collapse on me again.”

She let her head fall onto his shoulder. Nuzzled in.

“I’ll carry you the whole way if I have to.”

“You already are,” she mumbled.

He kissed her temple. “Spoiled brat.”

But he carried her into the bathroom anyway. The steam had already filled the space. The shower was on—warm, not too hot. The kind of perfect he knew she liked without asking. Always had. He stepped in with her still in his arms, only setting her down when the spray hit their skin. She gasped slightly. The water soaked her hair, slid down her back.

Harry reached for the shampoo first. He did this slowly. Like a ritual. Poured it into his palm, worked it through her hair with strong fingers, careful not to tug. He massaged her scalp. Tipped her head back under the water. Watched the suds slide away. Then the conditioner. Then the body wash. All without saying much. He just washed her. Took care of her. Worshipped her in the most mundane way possible.

“Arms up,” he said quietly.

She obeyed. He washed her underarms, her stomach, her thighs. When he knelt to do her legs, she touched his hair. Twisted a damp strand between her fingers.

“You don’t have to do all this,” she whispered.

“Yes I do,” he said simply.

Then kissed her knee. When she finally blinked, she realized he’d already washed himself, too. That he’d done it fast—efficient—because all his focus was on her.

They stepped out together. He wrapped her in a towel. Rubbed her dry. She giggled when he got to her hair.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “This part never goes well.”

“You’re better at it now.”

He smirked. “Practice.”

Once she was dry, he walked her into the bedroom again. The sheets were already changed—he must’ve done it in the two minutes she wasn’t looking.

“I was very efficient,” he said when she blinked at the bed.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re welcome.”

He helped her into pajamas—his shirt, of course. The one she loved. The old one with the faded lettering and a frayed collar. Then kissed the top of her head.

“Go sit,” he said. “I’m making tea.”

She padded barefoot into the kitchen. Curled onto the couch with a throw blanket. Frances blinked at her from the windowsill, unimpressed, then curled back into a ball. Harry moved around the kitchen like a man on autopilot. Filled the kettle. Pulled out her favorite mug. Tossed in a tea bag. Herbal. Soothing. He added honey. Carried it over without spilling. Then—because he always did—he sat beside her and waited for her to sip first before resting a hand on her thigh.

“Good?” he asked.

She nodded. “Perfect.”

He leaned back. Let out a slow breath. His body ached. She could tell. He shifted like a man twice his age but smiled like a teenager in love.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “My back hurts. My thighs are killing me. I might never walk right again.”

She snorted.

“But I’m so fucking happy.”

She looked at him. And believed it. The soft light from the kitchen made the gray in his beard shimmer. His eyes were softer now. Barefoot. In sweats. Damp curls pushed back. The kind of man no one saw like this except her. She curled into his side. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her into his chest. They didn’t talk for a while. They just breathed.

Until she said, “You didn’t have to change the sheets.”

“I couldn’t let you crawl into a crime scene.”

She laughed against his shoulder.

He kissed her forehead.

After a while, he stood again. Scooped her back into his arms with a groan. “One more trip.”

“To the bed?”

“To heaven.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re in love with it.”

He set her down on the clean sheets. Climbed in beside her. Pulled the blanket up. Wrapped himself around her like armor.

When the light clicked off, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For all of it.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. And whispered, “I’d do it a thousand times.”

Then, “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

And she did. Always.

Two days passed the way all sweet, strange days do when something big is waiting on the other side of them—quiet, deceptively slow, marked by the kind of soft rituals that feel like a pause before a life shifts.

She had spent most of the time barefoot in their loft. Doing what, she couldn’t exactly say. Folding things that didn’t need folding. Opening drawers. Staring at her wedding dress bag and then walking away. Sometimes she just stood still in the middle of the kitchen like a clock trying to remember what its hands were supposed to do.

Harry had been...Harry. Brooding, purposeful, half-distracted but not with her. Never with her. If anything, he moved around her more like a shadow that kept checking in—running a hand down her back when he passed, kissing her temple without a word, standing behind her when she stared into the fridge like she’d find answers in the shelves.

The day before their flight, she caught him repacking one of the carry-on trunks. A serious crease between his brows. Like the positioning of the charger cables might determine the entire outcome of the wedding.

“You know it’s all going in the same jet,” she said, wrapping her arms around his middle from behind.

“Incorrect,” he murmured. “This is the jet with you in it. That means it has to be perfect.”

She pressed her cheek against his back. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You knew that when you said yes.”

She smiled into his shirt. “I did.”

He turned then. Tipped her chin up. “Everything’s going to be perfect.”

“I don’t care if it’s not.”

He kissed her, slow and soft.  The morning they left New York was gray in the way June sometimes is—low clouds that made the air feel suspended. The kind of overcast that made the world seem quieted, as if someone had turned down the volume knob.

Frances was already gone.That part had been surprisingly hard. Harry had insisted on delivering her himself to Danny’s sister on the Upper West Side. He’d said he didn’t trust anyone with their girl, not even the concierge they knew by name. Only Danny’s sister got the greenlight.

And even then, he’d grilled her on feeding times, her window perch, what she liked and didn’t like when it came to brushing. Frances hadn’t even looked back when they left.

“She didn’t even care,” he said in the car afterward, arms crossed, sulking like a man twice her size had just been personally rejected by a cat.

“She knows we’re coming back,” she had said. “She’s not mad.”

Harry didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Make me feel less stupid about caring.”

“You’re not stupid. You’re in love.”

He glanced at her then, eyes warm beneath the sharp set of his brow. “Yeah. I am.”

They arrived at the airfield just past noon. The sun had finally come out—split the clouds like something divine and golden had changed its mind about withholding.

Her dress was carried aboard by Harry himself, the garment bag over one arm, his other hand steady at the small of her back like he could shield her from gravity.

She hadn’t seen him sleep the night before. She had, once or twice—through the blur of her own nerves and the quiet hush of early morning—but he always seemed to be awake. Reading something. Checking his watch. Watching her like she was the steady thing keeping him from unraveling.

The jet smelled like leather and cedar. Her dress was hung with reverence in the back cabin. A hook installed just for it. 

“You packed everything?” she asked, curling into one of the leather chairs while the staff moved quietly behind them, prepping for takeoff.

“Everything,” he said. “Three times.”

“I still feel like we forgot something.”

Harry sat across from her, eyes steady. “We didn’t.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve waited my whole life for you. You think I’d let packing be the thing that ruins it?”

She felt her throat tighten. “You’re being sweet.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

“You might get an ulcer.”

He smirked. “I'd get anything for you.”

They buckled in as the engines kicked up, a low hum that turned quickly into a roar. Harry didn’t look away from her. Not once. She watched out the window as New York disappeared beneath the clouds. Slowly. Then all at once.

The flight to Avignon was smooth. Long, but quiet. She slept part of the way, curled under a soft gray blanket with her legs folded up beside her and her head on Harry’s thigh. He didn’t move. Just kept a hand on her arm, thumb stroking the skin absentmindedly. She could feel the heat of him even in her dreams.

When she woke up, he was reading. His glasses were low on his nose—only for the plane, only for her. The frames were dark, delicate, and completely at odds with the man who wore them. She reached up, gently pushed them up the bridge of his nose.

“Hi,” she murmured.

His hand found her hair. “You slept.”

“So did you.”

“Nope.”

She sat up slowly. “Harry—”

“I don’t sleep on flights.”

“You’ve been on flights your whole life.”

“Still don’t sleep.”

She frowned. He leaned in. Kissed her forehead. “I’ll sleep when you’re my wife.”

They arrived in the afternoon. The vineyard shimmered like something half-plucked from a dream. Olive trees lining the drive. Grape vines in perfect rows. A light breeze that caught the lavender just right and made the entire hillside smell like peace.

The house was old. Stone. Weathered in the way that made it beautiful. Her name had already been added to the door plaque beside his in the study. Harry had done it the week before. Quietly. Without asking. Just...made it true.

Their guests would arrive in staggered groups over the next two days. For now, it was just them. And the quiet. And the land.

And the kind of light that made time feel like it had slowed to the pace of breath.

She kicked her shoes off by the front door, again. Looked out at the land from their bedroom window. Harry stood behind her. Didn’t say a word. Just wrapped his arms around her middle and let the sun warm both their faces.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” he said back.

Later that night, they walked the grounds barefoot. She carried a wine glass. He carried a lantern.

The staff had lit candles in mason jars along the gravel path toward the altar. The view overlooked the valley—mountains in the distance, the sun setting like something spilling gold across the whole world.

He didn’t let go of her hand the whole walk. Not once. They stood where they’d say their vows. The chairs were empty. The flowers not yet placed. But it already felt full. Like something had bloomed there already, invisible but pulsing.

“You nervous?” he asked softly.

She shook her head.

“You?”

“No.”

She looked at him. He was staring at the valley. Then down at her.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

She touched his face. “Good.”

He leaned in. Kissed her once. Twice.

Then said, low, in that way that only she ever heard, “You’re it for me.”

She smiled. So did he. Then they walked back. Slowly. Past the grapes, past the lanterns, past the soft hum of France settling in for the night. And in the main house, as she curled into him under an old quilt, the world stilled again. It was happening. Finally. And it felt like everything had been building to this. To them.

The next morning began with the sound of crates being unloaded.

It was early—not so early that the sky was still dark, but early enough that the hills around the vineyard were cloaked in that quiet, silvery mist that always seemed like it should come with piano music.

She woke before Harry, not by much, and not for long. He followed shortly after, groaning at the stretch of his back as he stepped out of bed barefoot, in nothing but his boxers and the scowl of a man who slept five hours and drank half a bottle of wine the night before.

“Is there a reason someone’s banging around outside like it’s a construction site?” he muttered, raking a hand through his graying curls.

She was brushing her teeth already, barefoot in the bathroom, one of his T-shirts hanging off one shoulder. “Cake,” she said through a mouthful of mint foam.

“Cake?”

She spat, grinned. “Wedding cake.”

His expression didn’t shift, but she could see something soften in the set of his mouth. Something like amusement. He leaned on the doorway, arms crossed, watching her like a man who still couldn’t believe she existed.

“We’re really doing this,” he said quietly.

She wiped her mouth on a towel, turned, and walked to him. “You say that like I’m going to back out.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’d still chase you.”

“I know.”

They made their way downstairs slowly, the kind of slow that came with time. Their rhythm had fallen into something domestic, something patient and known—she pulled the French press from the counter while he opened the windows, muttering something about how the air smelled different here, like crushed rosemary and old rain.

Outside, a delivery van had parked near the side garden. The pastry chef and two assistants were unloading a multi-tiered, half-finished cake into the house kitchen, careful and focused. Another vehicle was idling further up the dirt road—full of crates, ingredients, imported oils, things she’d never remember the names of but that Harry had probably signed off on himself.

From the porch, she watched as a young chef—barely twenty-five—stepped out of the second van, wiping his hands on his apron like he’d just completed something sacred. He looked nervous. The kind of nervous that said he’d heard of Harry before.

Harry leaned against the doorway beside her, sipping his coffee. “That kid looks like he’s about to shit himself.”

“Be nice,” she said, bumping her hip into his. “Not everyone’s immune to your face.”

“My face is fine.”

“It’s the eyebrows.”

He snorted. “Here I was thinking you liked them.”

“I tolerate them. The nose makes up for it.”

He glanced at her sideways, smile just barely there. “That so?”

She kissed his jaw. “That’s so.”

By noon, the place was alive.

The vineyard staff moved around them like the quiet hum of honeybees—setting up wooden trellises, moving chairs and lanterns, arranging tables under the olive trees with casual expertise. The arch where they would stand had been wrapped with early greenery and a few starter blossoms, soft ivory and pale green. By the end of the day, the rest of the flowers would come in—wild roses, sweet peas, clematis, jasmine. It felt like something slowly unfurling.

Harry stayed close all morning, rarely more than a few feet away. Sometimes he gave orders in that clipped tone of his that made people obey without asking questions. Other times, he said nothing—just stood behind her with a hand in his pocket, watching her talk to the florist or adjust the seating chart again for the fifth time.

“You know it’s the same people no matter where you put them,” he said, glancing over her shoulder while she squinted at the paper.

“But the energy matters.”

He made a noncommittal sound. “Maya doesn’t care if she’s on the left or the right.”

“She might.”

“She won’t.”

She looked up at him. “Are you going to complain about me being meticulous now?”

He bent low. Kissed her cheek. “I’d rather you plan it than me.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He lingered behind her, arms slipping around her waist, face pressed to her shoulder. “You smell like coffee and lavender. I love it.”

“You smell like me.”

“You’re welcome.”

By the time five p.m. rolled around, she had already changed into a soft linen dress and pinned her hair up. She’d been in the sun all day, laughing with the staff, fussing with the tables, stealing sips of Harry’s wine when she thought he wasn’t looking.

Harry had swapped his shirt twice. He was in a dark linen button-down now, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sunglasses perched on top of his head, and a look on his face that said don’t talk to me unless you’re her.

But when the car that held Isidora and her family pulled up, something in him broke open.

It was subtle. No fanfare. Just a shift—like someone had reached into his chest and unknotted something that had been tangled too long. His back straightened, but not with tension—with something closer to hope.

She touched his arm gently. “She’s here.”

He nodded once.

Isidora stepped out of the car with her husband first—Luis, tall, clean-shaven, polite in a gentle, almost invisible way. Then the girls spilled out.

Yvette was the older one, maybe ten. Dark curls, sharp eyes, already unimpressed by the gravel drive and her baby sister’s endless chatter. Shiv was younger—seven, maybe eight. All limbs and laughter, skipping ahead like she’d already claimed the vineyard as her playground.

Harry stood still. She watched his face closely. He didn’t blink.

Isidora was the last one out. She wore a cream linen set and the kind of sunglasses only elegant younger sisters could pull off. She looked more Paris than Spain these days. But when she took them off and smiled at Harry, the years fell away.

“Hello, brother,” she said.

Harry cleared his throat. Looked down. Then stepped forward. It wasn’t dramatic. Just real. They hugged.

And it was awkward at first—like they’d both forgotten how—but then it changed. She saw it in the way his shoulders dropped. The way his hand pressed against his sister’s back. The way her eyes got glassy but she didn’t say anything.

Luis nodded politely to her. “You must be the woman who made this possible.”

“I guess I am,” she said, smiling.

Shiv ran straight up to Harry and tugged on his hand. “Are you the grumpy uncle?”

Harry blinked. Looked down. Then slowly crouched to her level.

“Who told you I was grumpy?”

“Mama said you never smile.”

He tilted his head. “You think that’s true?”

Shiv considered it. Then grinned. “You’re smiling now.”

He chuckled. Soft. Rare. Yvette stood at a distance, arms crossed. He looked at her. “You too cool to say hello?”

Yvette shrugged. “Maybe.”

He stood. Walked to her. Ruffled her hair with one large hand.

“You’ll warm up,” he said. “Everyone does.”

That night, the house felt full. She made tea. Harry lit the fire outside, even though the air didn’t really call for it. The girls sat on the stone steps eating little plates of cheese and olives. Luis helped one of the vineyard staff bring in a crate of wine. Isidora wandered the garden with her, talking about how strange it was to see her brother laugh.

“I forgot he could,” Isidora said, sipping her wine.

She glanced over at Harry. He was pouring juice for Shiv, sitting on the low stone wall like he’d always been someone’s tío.

“He’s different with you.”

“He’s still himself,” she said.

Isidora smiled. “That’s what I mean.”

When everyone had gone to their rooms, she found Harry alone in the study. Shirt unbuttoned at the throat, a glass of wine in his hand, one leg hooked lazily over the arm of a chair.

“You did good today,” she said.

He looked at her. “You brought them here.”

“You brought the wine.”

He set the glass down. Pulled her into his lap. She fit perfectly there. Always had. He pressed his face to her collarbone. Breathed deep.

“They’re good kids,” he murmured.

“They love you already.”

He didn’t respond. Just held her tighter.

After a while, he whispered, “Thank you for not letting me die alone.”

She blinked. Then pressed her lips to his forehead.

“You were never alone,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because his arms never loosened. And the house smelled like rosemary and wood smoke. And she was home.

Morning came on a soft breeze. She woke alone—Harry had gone out early, something about making sure the florist didn’t leave the arch lopsided—and the sheets were still warm where he’d been. His side smelled like him, a mix of cedar and old soap and something sharp that always lingered on his collars. She reached for it, just for a second, fingers curled into the pillow. Just holding the shape of him.

Outside, it was quieter than usual. The kind of quiet that wasn’t emptiness, but expectation.

She stood slowly, still wearing one of his T-shirts, and padded barefoot toward the window. The air outside had turned golden, honeyed and soft, the morning light spilling across the gravel drive and down the sloping rows of vines. She could already hear movement near the west lawn—footsteps, soft laughter, a crate being set down.

More flowers had arrived. Delphinium, roses, foxglove, narcissus. Creams, blushes, blood-wine purples. The staff carried them like offerings, careful hands delivering stem after stem to tables and corners and vases lining the stone walls.

She opened the window, breathing it in. Then heard a knock. When she turned, Harry was standing in the doorway, hair wet, fresh from the shower, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, that familiar grumpy furrow to his brow that usually meant something had gone not quite to his liking. But his eyes softened when he saw her.

"You didn't eat," he said, stepping inside. A small white plate in his hand—toast, sliced fruit, a folded napkin tucked beside it like he’d rehearsed the delivery.

“I was going to come down.”

“You didn’t.”

She smiled, taking it from him. “Thank you.”

He grunted, kissed her temple. “Eat all of it.”

“I will.”

“You say that, and then I find toast crusts hidden in your napkin.”

She grinned, dragging him down for a proper kiss. “I’ll eat all of it. I swear.”

He gave a satisfied nod but lingered at the edge of the bed, watching her eat like it was the most fascinating thing he’d seen all morning. “They should be landing soon. I told James to send a text once they’re on the road from the airstrip.”

She nodded, mouth full of melon.

He paced a little, adjusting the cuffs on his shirt.

Then, awkwardly, “I, uh…I talked to the jeweler.”

She looked up.

He cleared his throat. “For you. Since… y’know. I proposed with my mother’s. You deserve another ring for our ceremony.”

She set the plate down. “Harry—”

“I picked something simple. I thought about doing something bigger but…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re not a chandelier kind of girl.”

“No,” she said quietly, “I’m not.”

“So it’s just… plain. Platinum. Thin. But it’ll sit under hers like it’s been waiting.”

Her eyes stung.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said, with that steel certainty he always saved just for her. “You’re not marrying a man who half-asses the details.”

She smiled, stood, pressed her face to his chest. “I got you a ring, too.”

“You did?”

She nodded. “It’s hidden in my vitamin bag.”

He snorted. “Of course it is.”

The guests began to arrive one after the other, small groups of them stepping out of the long black cars Harry had arranged—private, simple, efficient. James and his wife first, polite and beaming. Then Sadie from PR, surprisingly flushed and holding the hand of a short-haired woman with wide eyes and perfect posture. Francesca and Luca followed, both look older now—Luca had grown into the kind of lanky that made the bride smile. Francesca had new bangs. They hugged her like family.

And then, finally, Danny and Maya. Still pretending they weren’t together, which was more transparent than ever now that Maya was wearing Danny’s sweatshirt tied around her waist and Danny kept touching her back in that absent, protective way men do when they’ve already decided she is mine.

Harry didn’t comment on it, of course.

Just shook Danny’s hand and gave Maya a rare smile that was almost fond. “You both made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Maya said, hugging her tightly.

Everyone scattered to their respective rooms—Harry had insisted everyone stay on the vineyard itself, a cluster of small stone guesthouses scattered like pearls across the slope. No one argued. It was impossible to want to be anywhere else.

She and Harry wandered through the grounds as more chairs were delivered, more linens unpacked, more glassware unwrapped.

At one point, she caught him adjusting a table setting himself, muttering under his breath about forks being off-center.

“You’re not allowed to be this controlling on your own wedding weekend,” she teased.

He glanced up. “This isn’t controlling. This is precision.”

She stepped closer. “You’re a menace.”

He let her loop her arms around his middle, despite the eyes of the staff nearby. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, let his hand linger on the back of her neck.

“You’re marrying this menace.”

“I know,” she said softly. “Gladly.”

The day passed in golden slowness. There were wine tastings with James’s wife, who had a secret palate and guessed each vintage without looking. There was a plate of thinly sliced jamón and marinated olives that she ate with Maya in the shade of a cypress. Harry disappeared once or twice to check on the chef’s preparations—“I don’t trust anyone with garlic but myself”—but always returned, like his body couldn’t go too long without orbiting hers.

By late afternoon, the long outdoor table had been set for the pre-wedding dinner. A single taper candle at each seat. Vines coiled along the center. Plates so clean they caught the light like mirrors. It looked like something from an old painting—simple and reverent.

She turned back toward the house to change when she felt it. That familiar shift in the air. The way it always felt when he was behind her, without a sound. She didn’t turn around. He touched her wrist lightly.

“Come upstairs with me.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“I need to show you something.”

“Harry—”

He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear, voice quiet. “It’s not a trick. I promise.”

She followed. They climbed the stairs together slowly.

The sun had begun to dip. Shadows stretched long across the hall. One of the windows was open—grapes growing just outside, still ripening. The hallway smelled like warm linen and something sweeter, something herbal, probably from the candles she’d unpacked the day before.

His room was at the end of the corridor. One of the guest rooms no one had touched. She stepped inside first. Then stopped.

The bed was made—neatly, precisely. Her pillow was on one side. His on the other. Their usual comforter. A candle lit on the nightstand. The soft cotton robe she always wore folded at the end of the bed. On the dresser, a photo of her and Frances, taped to the mirror, slightly crooked. And there, next to the sink in the adjoining bath—her toothbrush, set beside his. Her skincare already on the counter.

She looked at him.

“I can’t sleep without you,” he said quietly.

Her chest ached.

“But we’re not supposed to see each other the night before.”

“I know.” He stepped in, gentle. “We won’t.”

She gave him a look.

“I mean it,” he said. “Lights off. You on your side. Me on mine.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I won’t even breathe too loud.”

“You’ll snore.”

“I’ll apologize in the morning.”

She stepped into his arms. He held her like the world was ending.

Like tomorrow was already here.

“You ready?” she whispered.

“I’ve been ready since the second I saw you on those steps.”

“You hated me that day.”

“I didn't hate you. I wanted you that day.”

She smiled into his chest. “Shut up.”

“Sue me.” He kissed her hair, breathing in. Then whispered into the top of her head, “We’ll turn off the lights. I just need to know you’re there.”

“Okay,” she said.

And it was.

The evening light slipped through the window like gold silk. The guests laughed faintly down below. The vineyard held its breath. And upstairs, in a room built just for one night—just for them—he kissed her one more time.

Then let her go. Just for now. Because tomorrow was the wedding. And she would be his. Forever.

The sun began to slope low across the vineyard, bathing everything in that kind of old gold light that made skin glow and stone blush. The tables had been set hours ago—linen napkins folded into soft half-moons, polished silverware gleaming under the trees. Vines wrapped the legs of the chairs. A single taper candle burned at every seat, the flame flickering against the soft hush of the countryside.

She stood barefoot at the edge of it all, a glass of white wine in one hand and a curl of her hair caught behind her ear. She hadn’t put on anything dramatic. Just a soft blue dress that hit mid-calf and clung gently to her back every time the breeze rolled in. The neckline scooped low, square and delicate. She’d let Maya braid the crown of her hair an hour ago, with two wildflowers stuck haphazardly in, as if plucked by accident.

Harry had watched the whole process in silence from the porch. Now, he was behind her.

“You look like a goddamn Botticelli painting,” he murmured, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back.

She turned her head slightly, just enough for her smile to find him."Big words for someone who claims they can't spell Baroque."

"I can spell it. I just can't stand it."

"You’ve got drama with Baroque now?"

He just shrugs.  She laughed quietly, letting her fingers brush the back of his hand. He wasn’t dressed up either—linen trousers, a white shirt open at the neck, sleeves cuffed up his forearms, the smallest hint of the bullseye tattoo on his hand visible when he reached for his wine. His hair was still damp from the shower, pushed back messily, with a single unruly curl falling toward his brow. The kind of disheveled that made her feel something between her legs.

His nose was sharp. His jaw shadowed with gray scruff. His mouth looked perpetually like it was thinking of something sharp to say, even when he wasn’t. She wanted to kiss him every time she looked at him.

“You keep staring,” he said under his breath, not looking at her.

She sipped her wine. “So do you.”

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “That’s because you’re mine.”

She didn’t say anything back. Didn’t have to.

Instead, she slid her fingers into his—warm, calloused, familiar—and walked with him to the table, where their people were already gathering like a soft orbit.

Maya had kicked off her sandals within five minutes of sitting down. She was nursing her second glass of rosé and kept adjusting the tiny wildflower tucked behind her ear like it personally offended her every time it drooped.

Danny, sitting beside her, had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and had the kind of farmer’s tan that came from refusing to wear sunscreen. He was slicing bread with the laser focus of someone trying not to say something emotional.

Across from them, Francesca and Luca were already bickering softly over whose turn it was to pass the olive oil. Francesca had braided her hair into a tight coil at the base of her neck and was wearing a silk slip dress that made her look like she belonged on an old Italian postcard. 

Sadie was seated near the end, arm draped casually around her girlfriend’s shoulders, the both of them in loose linen and dark nail polish. Sadie kept making quiet commentary about the table setting—“I’m going to steal these napkin rings”—and her girlfriend just hummed agreeably while popping cherry tomatoes into her mouth like popcorn.

James and his wife had taken the seats closest to the head of the table, both of them glowing with the kind of married contentment that came from years of knowing which wine went with which kind of cheese. His wife had brought a notebook with floral sketches in it. James had brought a bottle of port older than their hostess.

Isidora was seated at the other end, flanked by her two daughters—Yvette, who was asking the waiter whether there would be dessert, and Shiv, who was wearing one of Harry’s old baseball caps, was trying to convince everyone she was drinking champagne when it was apple juice.

Harry, predictably, didn’t sit until everyone else had. He made two rounds first—checking the wine, adjusting a seat cushion, muttering something to the waiter about the temperature of the plates. She didn’t interrupt him. Just watched. Quietly. The same way she always did when he slipped into that mode—that obsessive, precision-focused place where care and control bled into each other until he’d exhausted both.

When he finally dropped into the seat beside her, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day. She reached for his hand under the table. He squeezed once. Then twice. Then didn’t let go.

The first course was something light—melon and prosciutto with a drizzle of local honey and a crumble of something sharp. Harry picked at it with a faint frown, eyes narrowing every time he hit a bite that didn’t feel cold enough.

“You’re judging the food,” she whispered.

He didn’t deny it. “It’s pretense until the lamb arrives.”

She snorted.

“I’m serious.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You picked me.”

He turned his head and kissed her temple. Soft. Familiar. Like it was already habit.

Maya gave a toast somewhere between the bread course and the grilled vegetables. She hadn’t warned anyone. Just stood with her glass and cleared her throat dramatically.

Harry leaned over to her and muttered, “She’s going to make me cry.”

“You won’t cry.”

“I absolutely will.”

Maya raised her glass. “I wasn’t going to say anything tonight. I was going to save my speech for tomorrow. But then I realized I’d already cry too hard at the ceremony and possibly forget how to speak, so—here we are.”

Danny passed her a napkin without a word. She took it.

“I’ve known her since she was sixteen. She was angry and sharp and stubborn and half-feral, and I adored her immediately. I knew she was going to grow into something terrifyingly good.”

She shifted, glass trembling slightly.

“I didn’t know she’d find someone who deserved her.”

Harry blinked once. Stared hard at the table.

“But you do,” Maya said, voice softening. “You see her. And you let her be seen.”

She looked at her then. “You love him like it’s a fact of nature. Like gravity. Like breath.”

Then at Harry. “And you…you are still a terrifying man. But you’re kind to her. Gentle. Devoted. And I’ve never once doubted you would protect her.”

Harry raised his glass. Didn’t speak. Just nodded once. Just smiled. That was enough.

Everyone drank. Dinner stretched into the soft dark. The sun sank lower, and the candles began to glow brighter. The temperature dropped slightly. Luca ran inside to grab sweaters. Francesca wrapped herself in a shawl and pretended she wasn’t crying during Sadie’s accidental heartfelt comment about love being a quiet thing. Harry barely ate his potatoes. She stole them. He noticed. Didn’t comment. Just pushed the rest of his plate toward her.

“You’ll be too full for dessert,” he said.

“Not possible.”

“Bold statement.”

She smirked. “I’m marrying you. I have to be bold.”

That earned her a faint smile, crooked and warm.

He leaned in. “You’re gonna kill me in that dress tomorrow.”

“You haven’t seen it.”

“I don’t have to.”

She nudged his foot under the table. He nudged back. Gentle. Comfortable. By the time dessert arrived—tiny pear tarts with sugared herbs—Harry’s hand had wandered to her thigh under the table, casual, unmoving. His thumb drew slow circles just above her knee.

She turned to him at one point, whispered, “You good?”

His answer was quiet. “Best I’ve ever been.”

They lingered longer than they meant to. The wine bottles emptied. Shiv fell asleep in Isidora’s lap. Yvette asked if she could braid her aunt’s hair. Danny and James smoked cigars near the fountain while Francesca and Sadie argued about floral arrangements. Maya retold the story of the proposal twice—once for Luca, once for Sadie’s girlfriend, both times with more dramatic flair than was strictly necessary.

Harry stayed beside her through all of it. Never far. Always within reach. At one point, she leaned into his side, tucked her head under his jaw, and he exhaled into her hair like it had been his plan all along.

“You tired?” he murmured.

“A little.”

“Want to sneak away?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t press. Just kissed the top of her head. Eventually, the guests began to peel away—slowly, reluctantly, like children being called inside after playing too long in summer light. Francesca said goodnight with a low bow and a wink. Maya tackled her into a hug. Danny just looked at Harry and said, “She’s the best thing you’ve ever done.”

Harry nodded. “I know.”

And when they were finally alone—just the two of them, the candles low, the air thick with the scent of warm sugar and cut rosemary—Harry didn’t say anything at first. He just pulled her into his chest. Held her there. She let herself be held.

The sky was dark now. The stars blinked low over the hills. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once. Then again. Harry’s heartbeat thudded slow and steady beneath her ear. She didn’t want to let go. She didn’t have to. They walked back to the house in silence. His hand never left her back. And when they climbed the stairs together, passed the still-open window and the soft curl of incense from the hallway table, she stopped outside the room where she wasn’t supposed to sleep.

Harry opened the door first. Then turned. Held it for her.

“Lights off,” he said, voice low. “No funny business.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m the one who starts it?”

He smirked. “You are.”

“Bold.”

“True.”

She stepped inside. He followed. And that was it. The night before the wedding. Their last as fiancés. And it had been simple. Beautiful. Mundane. Just them. And their people. And the kind of love that didn’t need proving. It had already been lived. And tomorrow—It would be named.

And then the sun rose. It came in slow, spilling across the vineyard like honey over warm bread—thick, golden, unhurried. The kind of light that filled rooms before sound did. The kind that didn’t wake you with urgency, but with the quiet certainty that something mattered.

She felt it first against her cheek. The warmth of it. Then the weight behind her—the long, anchored line of Harry’s body still curled into hers, solid and warm, one arm draped heavily around her waist, the other tucked beneath her pillow like he’d buried part of himself under her just to be sure she wouldn’t vanish. His breathing was slow. Deep. The kind that only came with rare sleep.

She shifted slightly. The bed creaked. Harry made a low, half-conscious sound, somewhere between a hum and a growl, and pulled her closer. His nose brushed the back of her neck. He always did that. Always found the softest part of her and stayed there. She closed her eyes again.

Just for a second. Let her fingers slide over his forearm, the veins and hair and warmth of it. He smelled like skin and sun-dried cotton and the faintest hint of the cedar soap he insisted on traveling with because “other soaps makes me itch like a bastard.” She loved him and his sensitive skin.  God, she could stay here forever. But she wouldn’t get the chance.

Because that was when the door slammed open. “Motherfucker!”

She jolted. Harry didn’t. He just grunted. Then, lazily, “Close the door, Maya. You’re letting the bees in.”

“No,” Maya snapped, stomping across the room. “You’re letting tradition die in its sleep.”

“Maya,” she tried, barely able to speak through a sleepy laugh, “what the hell are you doing—”

“Dragging your romantic, traitorous ass out of this bed like a proper maid of honor, because you’re getting married in four hours and you slept with the groom.”

“She didn’t sleep with me,” Harry said, not opening his eyes. “She just slept.”

“Same bed,” Maya hissed. “That’s sacrilege.”

“Calm down, we didn’t elope.”

“She’s wearing your shirt.”

“It’s her shirt now.”

“I’m going to scream.”

Harry finally cracked one eye open. His voice was a husky murmur. “Do it outside.”

Maya pointed at him like he was a cat that had brought in a mouse. “You. Don’t move. Don’t even think about sneaking a kiss. If I see you near her before the ceremony, I’m cutting off your coffee supply for a year.”

Harry’s mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Just the slow, crooked pull of amusement he saved for the few times someone entertained him. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“You don’t.”

He stretched. Long. Deliberate. The sheets fell low on his hips.

Maya immediately turned around, groaning. “Disgusting.”

“Don’t look then.”

“Oh my God.”

His bride was laughing now. Fully upright, one hand in her hair, the other gripping the edge of the blanket like it might shield her from Maya’s wrath. Harry hadn’t moved to cover himself. He never did. But his fingers brushed hers beneath the sheet, one last anchor before the day really began.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear it.

“You better.”

Then Maya was yanking her out of bed like she was still nineteen and late for something she didn’t remember signing up for. She kissed Harry’s forehead quickly, then let Maya drag her down the hall barefoot, groggy, her legs still loose with sleep and the aftertaste of closeness. The room Maya brought her to was enormous. The biggest sun room she's ever seen. Old stone walls. Exposed beams. Soft French light. And everywhere—everywhere—was care.

The dress was hanging from a brass hook in the corner, the ivory fabric spilling like cream onto the fainting couch beneath it. Her shoes were lined up in a row on a woven mat, with backups beside them. Skincare was arranged by order of application. Her makeup bag—packed by Maya—was open and blooming with options. A mirror stood tall in the corner, flanked by two vases of fresh lavender. A tray sat near the chaise with three linen napkins, two pitchers of water, and an untouched espresso.

Maya crossed her arms, smug. “You’re welcome.”

She blinked. Swallowed. “You did all of this for me.”

“Of course I did.”

She turned slowly in the room, taking it all in. The candle Maya must’ve lit an hour ago. The playlist humming softly in the corner, instrumental, slow. The card on the nightstand that said you’ve already won in Maya’s handwriting.

“I love you,” she said.

“You better. You’ve turned me into a monster. I ordered a clothing steamer. A steamer. Do you even know how ugly those things are?”

“You’re my maid of honor.”

“Damn right I am.”

The next hour passed like water through fingers. She sat in a chair while Maya curled her hair and told her stories about a wedding she once attended when she was a child in California where the bride caught fire (not dramatically, just enough to lose her veil). They laughed through mascara. Drank espresso. Argued over lip liner colors.

Every now and then, she touched the sleeve of Harry’s shirt she was still wearing and smiled. She hadn’t taken it off yet. Couldn’t quite make herself do it. She kept looking at the dress. It didn’t feel like the dress. It felt like a door. And she wasn’t sure what would be on the other side once she stepped through it. A knock at the door breaks her thoughts. Harry’s voice, muffled.

“Can I come in?”

Maya froze.

“No! No!”

“I have her breakfast.”

“You can pass it through the door like you’re in some tower.”

“Christ.”

There was a pause. Then a tray appeared, gently nudged through the barely cracked door.

Maya snatched it like it might explode. “Thank you, goodbye, she’s mine now.”

“I could bench press you,” Harry muttered.

“I could poison the appetizers.”

Then she slammed the door again and turned to find her grinning.

“He’s ridiculous.”

“So are you,” Maya said, setting the tray down. “Eat. Or I’m feeding you like a baby goat.”

She lifted the lid. Toast. Eggs. Two slices of roasted tomato. A cup of tea with cream. And—folded neatly under the napkin—a note. She saw it immediately.

Maya raised a brow. “He’s nothing if not dramatic.”

“Give it.”

Maya handed it over to the bride. She unfolded it slowly, thumb brushing the edge of his handwriting—blunt, sharp, all angles and pressure. It wasn’t long. Just this:

You slept with your leg over mine all night.

You drooled on my chest.

You still looked like peace.

In a few hours, you’re going to walk toward me and I’ll stop breathing.

You are the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted.

Don’t be nervous.

You’re already mine.

—H.

Her throat closed. She folded it back. Pressed it to her chest.

Maya didn’t ask what it said. Just leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

“You okay?”

She nodded. But her hands shook. Not with fear. With knowing. This was really happening. She was marrying a man who would spend the rest of his life making her feel like a choice, not a default. A man who still watched her like she was something he didn’t think he deserved. Who whispered I’ve got you in the dark and meant it.

A man who never once flinched at the truth of her—That her father had ruined lives and called it ambition. That her brother had folded under the weight of it and never gotten back up. That her mother had boarded a plane in the middle of the night and never sent a letter. That her name came with apologies. That her survival came with guilt. Harry had never asked her to apologize for any of it.

Only said, once, in a whisper, “You didn’t cause the storm. But you’re the one who walked out of it.”

She breathed in. Looked at herself in the mirror. And slowly began to unbutton the shirt. The dress slid over her body like a promise. Ivory. Heavy. Beautiful. It didn’t sparkle. It didn’t shout. It whispered. Like the life she was stepping into. She turned slowly in the mirror, fingers brushing the soft silk. Her hair was curled down her back. The earrings glinted. Her hands were steady. Her heart wasn’t. Because it was full. And when Maya came to stand behind her, brushing imaginary lint off her shoulder, she saw it too.

“You look like the beginning of something.”

She met Maya’s eyes. Smiled.

“I feel like it.”

The ceremony would begin soon. But for a few more minutes— She stood still. Let herself feel the quiet. Let herself hold that note to her chest, eyes closed, one hand on her heart. And in the distance—

Down the slope of grapevines and chairs and string lights—

Harry Castillo was waiting. And he was trying not to fidget. Which, now at fifty-six, with a reputation for stoicism that terrified executives and made junior associates piss themselves, was saying something.

He was already dressed. It wasn’t complicated. A dark suit—deep charcoal with a faint texture you could only see up close. No tie. Crisp collar. One button closed. Clean shave. Polished shoes. A watch on his wrist she’d gifted him on his birthday, the inscription hidden on the back: This is the only time I want you to keep track of. His hair was still damp from the shower. His sleeves were rolled to the wrist, not an inch higher. He’d redone the buttons twice. They were perfectly aligned now, of course, but he kept glancing down at them like something had shifted when he wasn’t looking.

James stood nearby, sipping a small glass of white wine that Harry hadn’t offered.

“You’re pacing,” James said mildly.

“I’m not pacing.”

“You’ve walked that length of stone floor seven times.”

“I counted eight.”

Danny leaned against the arched doorframe of the study. His tie was loose—he hadn’t bothered to fasten it yet—and he was chewing on the end of a toothpick like he’d been born in a Western.

“You nervous?” Danny asked.

“No.”

“You look nervous.”

Harry shot him a look. Danny shrugged, easy. “It’s good. Means you give a shit.”

Harry didn’t reply. Just exhaled through his nose and checked the small paper in his breast pocket—again. The final version of his vows, folded once, worn at the crease.

James wandered to the window. “The chairs are all set. Florist’s finishing the arch. I think Sadie yelled at the pastry chef.”

Harry blinked. “What about the garland for the chairs?”

“Done.”

“The wine labels?”

“Lined up.”

He turned. “The music cues?”

Sadie appeared then, slipping through the side door with the quiet assurance of someone who managed entire legacies in heels and silk blazers. “Handled. We even tested the speakers. Twice.”

Harry opened his mouth. Sadie held up a hand.

“Whatever it is—don’t. It’s done. All of it. If you so much as try to adjust a candle, I will drug you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You can’t speak to me that way.”

“I’m your publicist. I have to speak to you that way.”

Danny snorted. “She’s right.”

Harry looked at them all—Sadie, James, Danny—and for a moment, the weight of it hit him. This wasn’t a press event. This wasn’t a deal closing. This was his wedding. His.

And she was upstairs. In a room he wasn’t allowed to enter, surrounded by women who knew more about serum and chiffon than he ever would. She was probably scowling at a mascara wand. Or reading something to calm her nerves. Or laughing too loud. Or looking at herself in the mirror like she didn’t quite believe this was real. Like she didn’t know how much it cost him to ask her to believe it. He swallowed. Checked his watch. Then turned toward the door that led outside.

“Where you going?” James asked.

Harry grabbed a small folded envelope from the side table. “I’ll be back in five.”

The vineyard stretched wide. The vines were in full bloom, green and humming, the earth warm and soft underfoot. He walked slowly. Deliberately. The breeze tugged at the open collar of his shirt. The sun was warm but not oppressive. He took the long path. The one that curved behind the main rows, past the slope where the kitchen herbs were grown, toward a quieter, less manicured corner. The dirt was dry here, the stones old. The kind of place you didn’t landscape. You left it wild. Let it remember.

He stopped at the fence post that was painted blue last summer, for no reason other than she liked the way it looked. Then crouched beside the vines. And pulled out the letter. It wasn’t long. But it was his:

To my mother, 

You didn’t get to meet her.  You would’ve liked her.  You would’ve seen it. The way she looks at me. The way I look back. You once said I wasn’t made for quiet things. Turns out I just hadn’t earned one yet. 

I’m getting married today. She’s younger than me. She’s smarter than me. She drives me insane and makes me calm in the same breath. And she found that ring in a drawer I swore I’d never open again. I’m giving it to her. Because no one else ever should’ve worn it. 

You said I was born angry. But today, I’m not. Today, I’m grateful. You got me here. Even if you didn’t mean to. I hope you can rest now. I’m going to try.

—Harry 

He folded it again. Tucked it between the roots. Brushed his fingers over the soil like a benediction. Then paused. Because something else was already there. A scrap of paper, half tucked beneath the next row over. Smaller than his, paler. Folded once. He reached out slowly. The name stopped him.

Teddy.

He didn’t touch it. Not at first. Just stared at it. Let the wind move around him. Then, carefully, he opened it. Her handwriting. He knew it. Every curve. Every sharp edge. It wasn’t dated but you could tell it was written recently. Just this:

Hi. I don’t know if I believe in these kinds of things. But today, I needed you to know. I’m okay.

I’m marrying a man who doesn’t flinch when I tell the truth. I’m marrying someone who knows where I come from and stays anyway. I wish you could’ve met him. You’d like him.

You’d pretend not to. But you’d watch the way he makes coffee. The way he touches me like he’s afraid I’ll leave. The way he folds my laundry when he thinks I’m not looking.

He’s stubborn. And smart. And he sleeps on the left side even though he hates it.

I miss you every day. I wish you’d stayed. But I’m staying. For both of us.

—Your sister

Harry sat down. Right there in the dirt. Bent over, elbows on his knees, jaw tight, shoulders still. He didn’t cry. But his throat ached. He folded the note again. Put it back. Where she had. Two notes, side by side. His and hers. For ghosts.

He stayed there a long time. Not saying anything. Just breathing. Letting the wind move. Letting the silence settle. Letting the weight of it all—grief, love, history—press into the earth where it belonged. Then, finally—He stood. Straightened his jacket. Checked the time. And walked back. When he reached the edge of the main house, James was waiting.

“You good?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Just nodded once. James held out a boutonniere. Small. White. A little crooked. Clearly done by his bride.

“She’ll kill you if you forget it.”

Harry pinned it to his lapel without comment. Then glanced toward the path that led to the arch. He exhaled. Rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Let’s go.”

The chairs were full now. The guests were seated. The sun was beginning to shift behind the cypress trees, the light going soft and golden, the kind of light photographers prayed for and poets wrote about. The musicians began to play.

And Harry Castillo—Formerly the most unshakable man in New York, the one with the steel mouth and the colder eyes, the one who had once said love is for idiots—

Stood at the altar. And waited for the woman who changed everything. The sky held its breath. The vineyard had quieted, hushed under the weight of what was about to begin. The chairs were filled, but no one was speaking. The wind moved slow. The leaves barely rustled. Even the sun seemed gentler, like it was trying not to interrupt.

Harry stood still. At the top of the aisle, near the arch they’d built together with quiet hands and too many revisions, he stood in his dark suit, one hand curled loosely in front of him, the other brushing the edge of his watch. His brow was tense in that familiar way—creases drawn deep between his eyes, like he was already enduring something. But his mouth was soft. No scowl.  Softer than anyone had seen it in years.

The first to walk were his nieces. Yvette and Shiv. Small flower crowns, bare feet in the grass, baskets held too tight in their small hands. Yvette looked unimpressed, carefully sprinkling petals like they were tax documents. Shiv took the whole thing more seriously than anyone—biting her lip with concentration as she scattered pink and white blossoms across the aisle like breadcrumbs in a storybook.

Harry blinked hard.

Then harder when Shiv grinned at him as she passed and whispered, “You look nervous.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Maya followed. Chin up, eyes bright, holding a small bouquet like it owed her rent. She looked proud. Not of herself. Of the moment. Of her best friend. Of the history she’d lived through to get here. She nodded once at Harry as she passed, as if to say don’t fuck this up. Then Isidora. She moved like a woman who knew her brother had spent his whole life angry and finally wasn’t. She gave him a look that meant nothing and everything, then took her place beside Maya near the front isle..

And then. Then—Her. 

The dress wasn’t extravagant. Not like the ones you see on Bridezillas. It didn’t glitter. Didn’t pull the eye with beading or boning or a train meant to make a statement.

It was silk. Ivory. Slipped like water across her skin. Sleeves to the wrist. A subtle, impossible plunge at the front that made his chest seize. The back was low. Low enough to see the line of her spine. The dip of her waist. She walked with her ballet heels, hair pinned but loose at the edges, skin glowing like the moment belonged to her.

Which, of course, it did.

He exhaled once—too sharp. Tried to catch it. Failed. Then blinked. Then blinked again. His throat went tight. His jaw twitched. He hadn’t cried in thirty years. Not when his mother died. Not when his father left. Not when he’d made his first million or his first hundred. Not when he burned the business down and rebuilt it again from ash. But this? Watching her walk toward him—He broke. Quietly. Without fanfare. Just a single tear that slid down the sharp cut of his cheek. She saw it. Of course she did.

Because when she walked, she didn’t look around. Didn’t wave. Didn’t scan the chairs. She walked like she had a target. Like he was gravity. Like she didn’t believe in aisles or arches or ceremony but still—somehow—believed in him. And he watched her the way men watched miracles. She stopped just in front of him, bouquet clutched in both hands like it was anchoring her.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“Hi,” he rasped, voice broken glass and breath.

They didn’t touch. Not yet. But it was like their bodies leaned, instinctively, as if the air between them wasn’t enough anymore. The officiant cleared her throat—gently, politely, like she’d seen a thousand of these and still understood how sacred the beginning was.

“If you’re both ready,” she said, smiling.

They nodded. The ceremony wasn’t long. They’d agreed on that. Just what needed saying.

The officiant began with something simple. A few words about love, about timing, about the way people come into each other’s lives not to fix them but to hold them steady while they fix themselves. About how choosing someone every day is a decision made quietly and relentlessly.

Then it was vows. She’d insisted Harry go first. And he had. He pulled the paper from his pocket. Smoothed it once. Cleared his throat. Then looked at her. Not at the crowd. Not at the trees. Just at her.

“I wrote this so many times I forgot what the first version said. You remember. You found it.”

Laughter stirred behind them. She smiled, eyes glinting.

“But this one—I meant this one. Every word. Every pause. I don’t believe in soulmates. But I believe in choice. And I choose you. Every morning. Every minute. I choose the way you look at me like I’m not broken." Harry sniffles softly.

Another tear comes down his eye. She wipes his softly with the back of her hand. 

"I choose the way you burn toast and then claim it’s on purpose. I choose the way you let me be quiet. I choose the way you don’t let me stay there too long. I choose the night you found the ring. I choose the look on your face when you said yes. I choose the version of myself that only exists when you’re near."

She gets choked up with tears. If she hadn't decided to work that party at the Met, she wouldn't have met him. Her husband. 

"I choose you. I will always choose you. Even when I forget how to say it.”

He folded the paper. Hand shaking slightly. And stepped back. She was still staring at him like she was memorizing something. Then she reached into her bouquet. Pulled a small folded card from between the stems. And began.

“I wrote this in a journal. Then on a napkin. Then on the back of an old receipt. I didn’t think I’d ever get it right. But maybe that’s the point. There’s no right way to say, you saved me. You didn’t fix me. You didn’t try. You just made space."

Harry smiled tearfully.

"You made it okay to be someone who lost things. A father. A mother. A brother. You never asked me to stop carrying them. You just offered to carry some of the weight with me. You did it by refilling my coffee without asking. By letting me yell about spreadsheets. By tucking the blanket around my ankles without waking me. By brushing my hair back when I pretend to be asleep." 

So many nights where she would fall asleep on the couch and wake up in bed. Wrapped in his arms. 

"You did it by loving me like I’m something worth staying for. And I will stay. I will choose this. You. The morning breath. The quiet. The stubbornness. The loyalty. The attitude. I will take all of it. I will hold it in my palms and call it home."

Sniffles were heard throughout their limited guests. 

"Because that’s what you are. You are home.”

When she looked up—Harry had stopped blinking again. But he was still breathing. Barely. The officiant smiled. Wiped at her own cheek.

“By the power vested in me—”

Harry stepped forward. Hands at her face. Mouth against hers. They kissed. Not hard. Not hungry. But full. Anchored. Like something settled. Like a promise made without needing words. The crowd laughed. Soft. Startled.

The officiant raised a brow. “I wasn’t done.”

Harry pulled back just enough to murmur, “I was.”

She laughed. Shaky.

The officiant sighed, half-smiling. “Then let it be known—before I could say it—that you are husband and wife.”

Maya cheered. Francesca whooped. James clapped once, solemn and proud. Isidora didn’t cry, but her jaw trembled. Harry didn’t look at any of them. He looked at her. And only her. She pressed her forehead to his, fingers sliding up to his jaw.

“You cried,” she whispered.

“Shut up,” he murmured.

“I’m keeping that forever.”

“Put it in your vows next time.”

She kissed him again. Gentle. Final. Everyone stood. Chairs scraped softly. Champagne popped somewhere off to the side. The sun dipped behind the hill just slightly, brushing everything in a layer of light that looked painted.

And Harry Castillo—once the coldest man in any room—wrapped his arm around the woman he loved and walked down the aisle like the only thing that had ever made sense was her hand in his.

Because it was. And it always would be them.

Mr and Mrs. Castillo.

TAGLIST @foxfollowedmehome @glitterspark @sukivenue @hhallefuckinglujahh @wholesomeloneliness @bebop36 @maryfanson @aysilee2018 @msjarvis @snoopyreadstoday @woodxtock @lasocia69 @jakecockley @just-a-harmless-patato @romancherry @southernbe @canyoufallinlove @aomi-recs @ivoryandflame @peelieblue @mstubbs21 @eleganthottubfun @justgonewild @awqwhat @xoprettiestkat @prose-before-hoes @indiegirlunited @catnip987 @thottiewinemom @rainbowsock4 @weareonlygettingolderbabe @hotforpedro @petertingless @lemon-world1 @jasminedragoon @algressman16 @la-120 @totallynotshine @joelmillerpascal @inesbethari @peedrow @escapefromrealitylol @mrsbilicablog @lunpycatavenue

[wanniiieeee]

AAAAHHHHH, I'M LOVING THIS!!!! 🥹🥹🥹💛❤️💛❤️❤️💛

Chapter 6: The Pen Theory of Relativity

Masterlist

Story Masterlist

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Pedro Pascal x Fem!reader

Summary: Pre-med perfectionist [Your Name] thought her gap year internship at The Late Night Hour would be a fun, low-stakes break before med school. Then she literally runs into Pedro Pascal backstage—and somehow becomes his secret lifeline in the chaos of live TV. Between cue cards, coffee runs, and chemistry that won’t quit, she starts to wonder: is this just a summer detour… or something more?

Tag list: @pascal-mynightlyobsession @wanniiieeee @theendwhereibegin

The first thing you registered was the birds. Their chirping pierced through your sleep-fogged brain, too loud, too early for a Saturday. You groaned, dragging the pillow over your face—until the memories of last night crashed over you all at once.

The scrape of Pedro's stubble against your lips when you kissed his cheek sent a fresh wave of butterflies tumbling through your stomach. They multiplied as you remembered his warm palm at the small of your back, his fingers pressing just slightly through the fabric of your shirt as he helped you into the car. That look he gave you under the diner's neon lights—like he wanted to memorize you—made your ribs ache even now.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room.

You fumbled for it, squinting at the brutal 6:17 AM glaring back at you. Who texts at—

[Pedro, 1:19 AM]: Home. Found something of yours in my car.

(Photo: Your chewed-up ballpoint pen resting on his nightstand beside a half-drunk glass of water. Condensation ring staining the wood. A medical textbook peeked out from under a script.)

Him: You press so hard when you draw. Left grooves in the napkin. Tried to flatten it—now it looks like a crime scene.

[Pedro, 5:55 AM]: Walking into makeup. Wanted you to see this first.

(Photo: The same pen tucked in his shirt pocket, his reflection grinning in a mirror framed by glowing bulbs.)

You stared at the screen, your pulse fluttering wildly in your throat. He'd kept your pen. He'd put it in his pocket. The butterflies in your stomach turned into something more like hummingbirds.

You: You woke me up at dawn on a SATURDAY to show me my own pen?

Him: Technically the birds woke you. I just provided quality entertainment.

You: Your definition of 'quality' needs work.

Him: Says the woman who drew a nervous system like a drunk spider.

You bit your lip, trying not to smile.

You:It was anatomically accurate!

Him: It was terrifying. Coffee at 3? I'll even return your weapon of mass destruction.

You: Only if you promise not to text me before noon ever again.

Him: No promises. But I'll bring espresso as a peace offering.

You dropped your phone onto your chest, pressing your palms to your flushed cheeks. The hummingbirds were now doing full acrobatics, their wings beating in time with your racing heart. Somewhere across town, Pedro Pascal was walking onto a set with your pen in his pocket and your name on his lips.

And you—you were wide awake now, drowning in Saturday sunlight and the terrifying, wonderful realization that this thing between you was far from over.

You caught your reflection in the fogged mirror—lips bitten pink, eyes glittering, cheeks flushed from more than the shower's heat. The clock on your nightstand read 8:53 AM.

Six hours and seven minutes until 3 PM.

Your fingers hovered over your phone. Then you dialed Lena.

It rang seven times before a groggy voice answered, "This better involve fire or free food."

"Come over," you whispered, pacing your spotless kitchen. "I'll make pancakes. And it'll be worth it, I promise."

A beat of silence. Then sheets rustled violently. "You're scary competent at 9 AM on a Saturday. I'm intrigued."

Lena slammed your apartment door shut with her hip, her pajama pants inside out and one sock missing. She took in your styled hair, the blue button-down, and the way you kept touching your phone like it might combust.

"Okay, what," she demanded, tossing her purse onto your couch, "could possibly make you this dressed up before noon on a Saturday?"

You shoved a mimosa into her hands. "Swear you won't tell a soul."

Lena's eyes narrowed. "Is it something illegal?"

"Promise me."

She crossed her heart solemnly. "Fine. I'll take it to my grave. Now talk."

You handed her your phone.

Lena's face transformed as she scrolled through the texts - first wrinkling in confusion at the photo of your pen on an unfamiliar nightstand, then narrowing her eyes suspiciously at the criminally-grooved napkin. When she reached Pedro's shirt-pocket selfie, her mouth fell open in dawning horror.

She looked up slowly. "You went out with Pedro Pascal."

You bit your lip.

"And he kept your pen. Like some... some..." She waved her hands wildly. "Romantic serial killer trophy!"

"Lena—"

She pointed at you. "Tell me everything. Don't you dare miss a single detail."

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Pedro: How's your Saturday shaping up?

Lena made a sound like a deflating balloon. "Oh my god he's texting you right now."

You: My best friend is currently dissecting my life choices.

Lena snatched the phone. "Add a winky face!"

You retrieved phone “No!”

Pedro: Should I send backup? (Also—wrapped early. 2:00 instead?)

Lena's scream rattled the windows.

You: Backup? How much backup are we talking?

Pedro: Only the essentials: coffee, pastries, and me. You don't need anything else.

You almost dropped your phone.

You: I can't decide if you're being ridiculously charming or annoyingly forward.

Pedro: Maybe both?

Lena leaned over, reading the texts over your shoulder. She let out a low whistle. "Okay, I need to know—what are you gonna do with him?"

You pulled your phone away, a nervous laugh slipping out. "I don't know yet. Honestly? I don't even know if this is a date or not. I mean, he's Pedro Pascal."

Lena grinned devilishly. "That's exactly why you need to say yes. Because... he's Pedro Pascal."

You sighed, running a hand through your damp hair. You hadn't expected any of this. One night of late-night diner food and awkward conversation, and here you were, playing text ping-pong with a man who made entire fandoms melt.

You: Alright, 2:00 works. I'll meet you there.

You hit send, then stared at your phone, heart pounding in your chest. The reality of the situation settled in. Pedro Pascal. You had no idea what he wanted, or what you wanted for that matter.

But you were about to find out.

Lena watched you intently. "You're doing this. I can feel it."

Pedro: I'll be there at 2. Don't make me wait.

You: I'll try my best. See you soon, Pedro.

You set the phone down and looked at Lena, who was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Well," you said, trying to keep your voice even, "I guess I'm getting coffee with Pedro Pascal today."

Lena raised her mimosa glass, eyes gleaming with excitement. "You're doing more than that. You're going to savor it."

And with that, you could only nod, knowing that nothing would ever feel quite the same after today.

You took a deep breath, suddenly aware of the butterflies fluttering in your stomach again. You tried to focus on the task at hand—pancakes, coffee, keeping your cool—but every thought kept drifting back to Pedro. He was actually coming. For coffee. With you.

Lena was watching you closely, her grin never faltering. "I'm going to need details after," she said, pointing a finger at you. "Every. Single. Detail."

You rolled your eyes. "I'm sure you'll get them."

There was no point trying to act nonchalant. You'd texted Pedro Pascal, agreed to meet him, and now your entire body felt like it was running on pure adrenaline. What was happening?

Your phone buzzed, making you jump.

Pedro: I'm on my way. See you soon, beautiful.

You stared at the screen for a moment, heat flooding your cheeks. Beautiful?

Lena snatched your phone out of your hands, her eyes sparkling. "Okay, now I'm jealous. You're officially on your way to some rom-com fantasy."

You tugged the phone back, your pulse hammering in your neck. "I'm freaking out," you confessed, rubbing your hands on your jeans. "What if I say something stupid?"

"Then you'll say something stupid," Lena said with a shrug. "But at least you'll be saying it to Pedro Pascal. He's basically a walking apology for every stupid thing you've ever done."

You laughed nervously, glancing at the clock. 1:35 PM. Less than thirty minutes until you're going to see him again.

The next few moments felt like a blur. You managed to pull yourself together, fixing your hair, checking your outfit for the third time—like that would actually matter when he walked in. The truth was, no amount of prep could help with the overwhelming realization that the man who had just texted you about pastries and coffee would be standing in front of you soon.

Lena clapped her hands in your face. "Focus. We need to get you out the door with your dignity intact."

You shot her a grateful smile, trying to ignore the jittery feeling in your chest. "Thanks. I think."

As you grabbed your jacket, your phone buzzed one more time.

Pedro: I'll be the guy with the coffee and the smirk.

You blinked at the message, a smile tugging at your lips. The smirk? You could already picture it.

Lena winked at you. "Go. Savor it, remember?"

With one last deep breath, you made your way out the door, your heart pounding louder than the traffic on the street.

You stepped outside, feeling the cool air wrap around you like a welcome distraction from the nervous energy buzzing through your body. The walk to the coffee shop wasn't long—just a few blocks, but your mind felt like it was racing through every possible scenario. What was it going to be like? Was it going to feel like a casual meet-up, or was there going to be some unspoken tension? Would he think you were crazy? You had no idea, but you were about to find out.

The streets were quieter than usual for a Saturday afternoon, and the sound of your boots clicking on the pavement seemed unnervingly loud. Your fingers gripped your phone tightly, the texts with Pedro still fresh in your mind. The way he'd called you beautiful... it made your heart stutter every time you thought about it.

Lena's words echoed in your head. "You're doing more than that. You're going to savor it."

You stopped for a second, your heart skipping as you looked up at the coffee shop in the distance. It was a cozy little spot, tucked between two older buildings, with outdoor seating that looked out over the busy street. A couple of people were lingering outside, enjoying the rare sunny moment of the day.

And then you saw him.

Pedro was leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, his usual effortless charm radiating from every inch of him. His dark hair was slightly tousled, a few stray curls falling into his forehead in that perfect, casual way. He hadn't noticed you yet, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to take him in—the way the sunlight hit him, the slight smile playing on his lips even as he checked his phone.

You took a deep breath and started walking toward him, trying to quell the butterflies that felt like they were about to take flight.

He looked up just as you reached him, his face lighting up in that way you'd seen in the photos and interviews—like he was genuinely happy to see you.

"Hey," he said, his voice warm, deep, and just a little rough from the morning's work. "I'm glad you came."

You smiled, trying to keep your voice steady. "How could I turn down coffee with Pedro Pascal?"

He chuckled, stepping forward just enough to give you space but also to make you feel his presence. "I'm glad you said yes," he said softly, looking you up and down with a hint of appreciation in his eyes that made your stomach do another flip. "And you look incredible, by the way."

You blushed, trying to brush off the compliment. "I mean, it's just coffee." You shrugged, not sure if you wanted to downplay it or just ease the nerves that were still coursing through you.

Pedro shook his head, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Nah, this feels like more than just coffee."

The way he said it sent a ripple of something through you—something that could've been excitement, or maybe the beginnings of anticipation. He opened the door for you, the bell above it ringing softly as you stepped inside.

The scent of fresh coffee and pastries filled your senses, grounding you in the moment. It was just you and him. No cameras. No fans. Just two people meeting in the quiet comfort of a coffee shop on a Saturday afternoon.

He gestured to the table by the window. "I already got us a spot," he said, leading you over to a small table. The window offered a view of the street, the bustling city scene framed by the peaceful little corner of the coffee shop.

You sat down across from him, still unsure of what this was—was this a date? Was it just casual? You couldn't tell. But there was something about being this close to him, his energy so easy and relaxed, that made the world outside feel distant.

"So," Pedro started, resting his hands on the table and giving you a mischievous look. "Tell me the most embarrassing thing you've ever done that I can't find on the internet."

You couldn't help but laugh, the tension in your chest easing just a little. "Oh, that's a dangerous question." You raised an eyebrow, playing along. "But I'll answer if you promise not to google me afterward."

He grinned, leaning in slightly. "Deal."

You let out a sigh, then, feeling a bit more relaxed, launched into the story you'd been holding back from even your closest friends. It was a lighthearted topic, the perfect way to ease into this strange, new territory.

Silence settled between you, filled only by the hiss of the espresso machine and the soft jazz playing overhead. Pedro traced the handle of his mug—black coffee, no sugar—his calloused fingers leaving faint smudges on the ceramic.

"So." He nudged your pen across the table. The one he'd kept all night. "You really do chew these when you're nervous."

You snatched it back, the teeth marks glaringly obvious. "Only during exams. And apparently when famous actors drag me to sketchy diners."

Pedro threw his head back laughing, the sound warm and unrestrained. The barista glanced over with a smile, as if this was a side of him she'd never seen.

"Tell me something real," he said suddenly, leaning forward. The morning light caught the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "Not the polite first-date answer. What's something you geek out about?"

The question startled you. This wasn't the practiced charm of red carpet Pedro—this was the man who'd Googled medical terms at 3 AM to understand your doodles.

"Terrible horror movie practical effects," you admitted. "The faker the blood, the better."

His grin turned wolfish. "I knew I liked you."

When his knee brushed yours under the table—first by accident, then deliberately—you didn't pull away.

[wanniiieeee]

OMG I LOVE THIS SO FREAKING MUCH!!! 👀👀😍😍😍😍😍

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 (part two)

Pedro Pascal x singer!reader

series masterlist & series playlist

summary: you're a hot singer that has hot older men falling at her feet. pedro becomes one of them. (literally my cyg hughxreader fic but for pedro)

warnings: age gap (23/49), use of y/n, swearing, sexual themes, afab reader, she/her pronouns, verbal fighting, pedro is a smoker, cheating, Hugh Jackman is your ex (oops), he also pops up a few times and is mentioned, grammar is fake to me srry <3

warnings may change as the story progresses. all descriptions of real people in this story are fake! I don't know these people and this all for funsies. let me know if I missed anything!

author's note: hi everyone! since part one and two are a little shorter, I wanted to go ahead and give you part two. i'm trying to figure out a posting schedule so once that's put together, i'll update the masterlist with the dates! Alsooo, there's an extras section on the masterlist where you can find random things such as a picture of the dress that was mentioned in this chapter!! okie enough yapping, enjoy!!

part two: sparkle in your eyes

London was beautiful. You’d always dreamed of coming here, seeing the historical sights you grew up looking at through photos and hearing the accents you’ve always wanted. The overcast reminded you of home. Of when a sudden storm would roll in, hiding the summer sun in an instant. You found it funny how the Earth was so big yet felt so small, similarities in different cities, countries, continents showing the truth behind what it means to be human. The thought grounded you when the fame felt too suffocating.

Fame

It was a word you were still getting used to, a word you weren’t sure if you loathed or loved. It made you feel distant and disconnected from the world around you, creating a barrier between yourself and every ‘normal’ person. The word was true though, you were indeed famous. You were known around the world for your music and people gave you a job through their endless support. Moments like yesterday were a reminder of just how different your life was now. Moments where Pedro Pascal came to see you after only meeting you once before, like he was a friend and not some insanely famous actor. He hadn’t left your mind since the interaction. It was honestly pissing you off. 

When you told Stacy that you wanted to take a break from men, you weren’t lying. You wanted nothing more than to focus on yourself and your career…but those dark brown eyes that sparkled when he smiled made it so hard to care about anything else. They were a hypnotizing color, a striking contrast from the bright blue eyes you looked into just a few months prior. Pedro was everything you found attractive in a man: tall, dark, handsome with a godly personality. His emotional intelligence was a trait you picked up on the moment you met him and it was refreshing to hear a man be so willingly open on important matters. 

“Helloooo…earth to y/n.” Stacy says as she snaps her acrylic adorned fingers in your face. “Are you gonna tell me what has you all spaced out or can I take a guess? Because I’m pretty sure his name starts with a P.” Her gum pops as she closes her glossed lips, a smirk sat smugly on her face. 

“Shh. Could you be any louder!?” The two of you were sitting in a cafe that was packed with people with wandering ears. You would have spilled every thought racing your mind if you weren’t so worried about someone listening to your every word. It was another aspect of fame you had to get used to. It wasn’t always bad. For instance, sometimes you could sit in a cafe with your best friend and other times you can’t even walk down the street without having a horde of people rush towards you. 

“Plus, I'm not thinking of him.” You say defensively. 

“Whatever you say girl.” The same smirk still sits pretty on her face before gently falling into a smile. “Anyways, I got tickets for the London Eye at 2pm. Then, I thought it would be nice to go grab lunch somewhere. I have a few places picked out-” You’re looking at her, nodding every once and a while to allude that you’re listening to her but you aren’t. Your mind is occupied by those stupid brown eyes again. 

—

The two of you didn’t end up getting on the London Eye at 2pm. There was a delay, causing a wait of an extra 45 minutes and Stacy was pissed. Other than the fact she was your assistant, she was also a lot more organized than you. She plans each trip you’ve been on, including itineraries for days you don’t have to work. She also has bad time anxiety. The smallest change in time has her stressed out, even if it’s off by a minute. Once the anxiety wears off, the anger creeps in. She complained at the latter end of the wait and would have had the king on the line if you hadn’t confiscated her phone until she cooled off a bit. Her mood was unchanged by the time you stepped into the private car. 

“If I tell you something boy related will it make you calm down and enjoy the ride?” You ask softly as you look down at the water, the wheel slowly moving the bubble higher. 

“What happened to swearing off men? I told you that you wouldn’t last that long.” She scoffs with a slight irritation in her voice but you can tell she’s itching to know more. 

“I know but Pedro had really bad timing so it’s not really my fault.” She’s quick to respond. 

“AHA! So you were thinking of him earlier.” The smirk from earlier makes a return and you’re pretty sure it would become a permanent part of her face from now on.

“It’s kind of hard not to when he came down a few floors down just to see me again.” You dramatically lean back and throw your forearm over your forehead. The poor attempt at acting like a damsel in distress earns a cackle from Stacy. 

“You’re insane.” She leans against the rail and looks at the view. “How’d you two even meet anyways? I feel like I would have been there.” Her brow lifts in confusion. 

“It was when you were sick and Hugh insisted on accompanying me to the sag awards when my song was in that one show.” Her eyes light up. 

“Ohhh yea. I do remember you telling me that. Didn’t you say he was drunk or something? I’m surprised he remembered you.” It’s your turn to scoff. 

“Drunk or not, who could forget a face like this.” Your hands shoot up to frame your face as you dramatically blink your eyes. Stacy rolls her eyes at the gesture. “But yea he was pretty drunk. He called Hugh my old man, which caught me off guard. I do remember him looking hot as fuck though. His stylist did him good with that look.” You nod, thinking about the white button up that was thankfully not buttoned up all the way, giving you a great view of his upper chest. 

“You’re such a slut.” She lets out a light laugh. 

“Am not.” You turn away from her to look at the view, the bubble finally reaching the top of the wheel. 

“You so are. You literally checked out Pedro when your boyfriend was right next to you and now that you’re broken up, you’re openly admitting that he’s hot. That kinda fits the definition of slut.” You know she’s joking but it stings nonetheless. 

“Whatever. I probably won’t even see him anytime soon so there’s no use in doting on the fact that he’s the hottest man I’ve ever laid my eyes on.” Stacy hums. 

“I think he might like you.” You glare at her.

“Stacy please don’t feed into my delusion right now.” She laughs.

“I’m not trying to but he was giving you major goo goo eyes yesterday. It was kinda gross.” She shakes her head. “And he followed you on instagram. I don’t know, but it seems like he might like you.” 

—

Turns out one of the places Stacy had picked out for dinner was one of the most prestigious and hard to get into restaurants in London. The reservation list was years long and impossible to get on. When Stacy told you about it, you ensured her that there were plenty of other places you two could go eat at that didn’t require a fight just for a seat. She wouldn’t listen though and insisted that she would make sure the two of you would get in. When she told you she got a table, you never asked how but now that she was calling the front of house to let them know ‘ms.y/l/n would be arriving soon’, you wish you would have. You hated having the status of your name to get you things.

You were sprawled out across your hotel bed as you waited for Stacy to finish getting ready. You weren’t very fashion forward and often opted for a simple look. You threw on a black a-line dress that had ruffled tulle down the middle. It was something your stylist helped pick out when you first started going to events and it quickly became one of your favorites. You opted for a bit of dark purple shimmer on your eyes and a small winged liner. After doing a quick touch up on your brows and throwing on a layer of mascara you were done, shying away from the full beat that Stacy was currently applying to herself. 

You were scrolling through instagram when your mind wandered to Pedro again. Before you could even think twice about it, your fingers were flying to the search bar and typing in his user name. Last night after you saw his comment, you were tempted to take a peek at his page but you knew it would keep you up all night. You didn’t have to scroll far into his page for your heart to start racing. There was a short gif-like video of him in his costume for Gladiator, twirling a sword around. You’re not sure how long you were staring at it, watching it, but you snapped out of your daze due to a loud noise that came from the bathroom. You feel something trickle down your chin and move your hand up to wipe it. Drool. You close the app and lock your phone in shame. You can’t believe you were actually drooling over an eight second video of Pedro. God you were pathetic. 

“Sorry about that, I dropped my blush and it went all over the place.” Stacy says as she exits the bathroom wearing a floor length dark red gown. “You ready to head out?” She asks, slipping on a pair of black heels. You nod and do the same. You both take a moment to look at yourselves in the large mirror that covers most of the hallway wall. 

“Mhm, we look good as fuck.” She licks her finger and makes a sizzle sound as she places the wet finger on the curve of her butt. You giggle and grab your phone from the entryway table. “Let’s take a pic for insta.” You say excitedly. You both pick a pose and you snap the picture, posting it on your story with a simple caption: ‘dinner time 😋’. 

One of the things you adored about Stacy is that she didn’t care about your status in the world outside of her job. She let you enjoy the simple things in life when it was possible. When you wanted to uber or take a taxi, she never complained. You got tired of always taking private cars when it wasn’t necessary, you craved normality. The uber ride to the restaurant was a quiet one, each of you staring out of your respected window, soaking in the reality of being in London. 

The restaurant was gorgeous with high painted ceilings resembling the ones found in the Sistine Chapel and you now understood why this place was so booked. Outside of the beautiful interior, the service and drinks were phenomenal. As the waiter was walking away from taking your food order, you sipped on a perfectly sweet martini. Stacy and yourself were making light conversation about a meeting you had with a brand when her eyes caught onto something behind you. 

“You’re not gonna believe who is walking over here right now.” Stacy says with a hint of mischief in her eyes. Before you can question her, there’s a familiar voice behind you. 

“Good Evening ladies.” There’s a warm hand on your bare shoulder and when you look up, Pedro is already looking down at you. 

“Hi Pedro, it’s funny running into you again.. or rather you running into me, I should say.” You joke and move a hand to meet him on your shoulder for a moment before both hands return to their person. “Oh! Pedro, this is Stacy, my assistant slash best friend.” You look over to Stacy for a moment. 

“Hi. It’s so nice to meet you, I’ve heard a lot about you recently.” Stacy says while shaking Pedro’s hand. If looks could kill, the one you were giving Stacy would have made her explode. 

“Oh, have you now?” Pedro glances down at you and lets out a small chuckle. “It’s nice meeting you as well.” There’s a brief pause in conversation. 

“You know, I’m kinda offended that you just now followed me on instagram and not when we first met.” You regret your words as soon as you say them but your mouth always works faster than your brain. It earns a small laugh. 

“Hm, I should have then. Guess I just didn’t wanna step on anyone’s toes darlin’.” You want to ask him what he means but he’s already speaking again before you get the chance to. “Well, I should get out of your hair. I recognized your dress and wanted to come say hi. It was really nice seeing you again…again.” He laughs after adding the second again, joking about the fact he said the exact same thing to you just over 24 hours ago. You blush. 

“It was nice seeing you again…again as well.” You add, letting your own laugh slip out. He gives Stacy and yourself a small ‘bye’ before returning to his table. Once he’s out of earshot, Stacy is quick to burst out laughing. 

“He’s so fucking into you. God…I mean he said he memorized your dress from your 15 second long story for fucks sake.” The tables close by give her a few rude looks from her outburst but you could care less, the realization of Stacy’s words settling in. 

The rest of the dinner was very tame, the food was good and you felt woozy from the martinis you’d been downing. Stacy let you know half way through the dinner that she had a perfect view of Pedro from her seat and that he kept glancing over every few minutes. It made you giddy to think that he might have been looking at you and if you begged Stacy to trade seats, that’s nobody's business. 

When you got back to the hotel, you immediately stripped from your heels and dress. Laying in bed, you opened instagram one more time and scrolled through all the likes on the story. As you scrolled nothing really caught your eye until you saw that username and the words from earlier rang in your ear. 

“I recognized your dress and wanted to come say hi.”

You got up and went across the hallways towards Stacy’s room door in your shared hotel suite. You knock softly. 

“Hey Stacy…” Your voice is shy, feeling bad about disturbing her so late. 

“What’s up babe?” She’s leaning back on a mountain of pillows as she scrolls on her phone and eats a bag of chips. You lean into the doorframe. 

“What do you think Pedro meant when he said he didn’t follow me because he didn’t wanna step on anyone’s toes?” You had a feeling you knew what he meant but you needed a second opinion before you spiraled. Stacy smiles and laughs a bit. 

“Hugh, babe. He didn’t follow you because of Hugh. He didn’t wanna feel like a threat to your relationship.”

thank you for reading! feel free to leave feedback in a comment, private message, or in my ask box!

🏷️ : @moonangxl @brittmb115 @starsmoonn @mmkkzz @angellreads @daydreamzsworld @goldfish-987 @peacefangirl @leclerc13 @llsister @loveryoushouldcomeoverr @needz1nk @olympe-lottie @mielsonrisa @sexyvixen7 @thezoddfather @joelmillerpascal @mega-kittyglitter-1 @bluetimeombre @stvrl1ghtt123

*pls comment on series masterlist comment section to be added to taglist. comments on this post will not be added!*

[wanniiieeee]

[wanniiieeee]

Oh my god!! 😭😭😭💔💔💔💔

"Blind faith" | part viii

priest!Joel Miller x dancer!reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: Joel's name in your mind hurts. Everything inside you hurts. But seeing him again leaves both of you with hearts broken. w.c: 8.5k

warnings: age gap (Joel's is in his late 40s and reader late 20s early 30s), heavy angst, violence against reader, choking, mentions of panic attacks, grief, mentions of mental health, forbidden love. Mentions of politics, mentions of exile. Remmeber english is not my first language and blablabla. Reader is Latina. (She worrying about joel shows how good she is).

a/n: Oh man, I cried a bit while writing this one. There is a lot of pain on reader's heart and mind. I wish I can have next chapter ready for next week but I will busy busy during the next four weeks, so i hope you can enjoy this one a bit. Yes, it's angsty but still. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. If you read and don't leave a comment I will cry.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Since the beginning of time, bad men had existed. You knew that — not in theory, not from bedtime stories or whispered warnings at the dinner table, but in the marrow of your bones. You’d grown up with those same phrases every mother in your country had murmured to their children like prayers: Don’t take candy from strangers. Don’t follow a stranger. Don’t believe their kind words, their empty promises.

But the truth was, you didn’t need the warnings. You came from a place where monsters didn’t bother hiding under beds or behind masks. They wore uniforms. They smiled in broad daylight. And in those years of blood-soaked streets and curfews that fell like iron gates over the city, you learned to be cautious. You learned early what it meant to keep your head down, to lower your gaze when soldiers passed, to hold your tongue and your breath when your father argued with the radio in the kitchen.

Under a dictatorship, there wasn’t a place for soft hearts. You’d watched neighbors disappear. Friends. Family. One by one. Gone in the night or dragged from their homes in daylight with no apology, no explanation. The smell of fear hung thick in the air back then. And you — you had a fire in you that should’ve gotten you killed.

You were young. Brave in the way only the reckless and desperate could be. An activist. A rebel. Smuggling leaflets in your backpack, standing in protests that got washed away in tear gas and batons. And you’d survived. God, you’d survived so much.

You didn’t trust easy. Couldn’t afford to. People smiled and shook your hand with one while holding a knife behind their back with the other. It was just how it was. And yet — Gabriel happened.

Gabriel with his easy grin and the way he lied about freedom like it wasn’t some unreachable star. Gabriel who made you laugh in places laughter wasn’t supposed to exist. He slipped past your walls. You fell in love with him the way you fall asleep after too many sleepless nights, fast, desperate, and without meaning to.

You trusted him. God, you trusted him.

And it cost you everything.

In the days leading up to what happened, you’d felt the old warning bells clanging somewhere deep in your chest, but you silenced them. You told yourself you were being paranoid. You believed him when he said you were safe. That he loved you.

But men like him… they don’t love. They own. They devour.

And now, here you were. In a hospital room, bruised and broken. The pain wasn’t just in your body, it was in your soul. In the realization that even after everything you’d survived, it was him — the one you let in — who almost killed you.

The room was too clean. Too quiet. You could almost hear your own voices screaming your name, pleading for a tiny bit of strong, a one more minute of fighting.

You could feel the way your eyes stung by tears that you didn’t allow to stream down your face. You tried to look everywhere but the man who was too close to you.

The pale blue walls, a thin paper sheet stretched over a narrow exam bed. The tray of instruments on the counter, catching the overhead light in tiny sharp flashes. You sat on the edge of the bed, your legs dangling, But the weight of Gabriel’s stare pressed against your skin like his own hand around your throat.

You couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.

The nurse, a woman in her mid-thirties with kind, tired features, was trying to get you comfortable, fussing with the pillows behind you, adjusting the flimsy hospital gown over your shoulder.

“Sweetheart, you okay?” she asked gently, crouching a little to meet your gaze.

You opened your mouth, a flicker of something like your voice catching in your throat—

“She’s fine,” Gabriel cut in smoothly, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a predator lounging in the open. “Just a busted finger. She’s not much of a talker.”

The nurse’s eyes darted between the two of you, catching the tension thick in the air. The bruises. The way your body flinched when he spoke.

“I wasn’t asking you,” the nurse said softly, her voice careful but edged.

Your throat tightened, eyes burning. You wanted to say it. Help me. Don’t leave me alone with him. Get him out. But it was like your tongue had been cut out somewhere along these last five days.

And you hated yourself for it.

Gabriel smiled then, slow and cold. “Ain’t no need for drama. We just wanna get this over with. Don’t we, cariño?”

Your eyes met the nurse’s for a split second — a flicker, a desperate pulse of please. And whether she saw it or not, she gave a small nod and stood.

“I’ll get the doctor,” she said quickly, shooting one last glance at Gabriel before leaving the room.

The door clicked shut.

You could feel him behind you without looking. Could feel his eyes on your face. Could feel the ghost of his hand tightening on your broken finger days ago.

“You always were good at getting people to care,” he murmured, taking a slow step closer. “But it doesn’t matter. You won’t leave me again to drown on my own. Not this time.”

And something in you, even as your body trembled, screamed against it.

“Estoy harta de ti,” (I’m sick of you) you gritted, voice low but shaking with the weight of every second you’d swallowed your rage.

Gabriel froze mid-step.

But you didn’t stop.

“Estoy harta que estés en cada lugar que veo.” (I’m sick of you being everywhere I look at) Your chest rose and fell with the effort it took to speak, to push the words past your fear. “No soporto tu cara. Quiero que te vayas y me dejes.” (I’m sick of your face. I want you gone. I want you to leave me.)

For a moment, it was silent.

No smirk. Not a clever remark from him.

Just the raw, stunned stillness of a man who thought he still had control, watching it slip between his fingers like smoke.

His eyes narrowed, lips parting like he might say something cruel, something to reestablish the grip he’d had on you for five long, hellish days — but you didn’t give him the chance.

You stood, even if your knees trembled, even if your heart was a hammer in your chest. You stood because you could. Because defiance, even in whispers, was still power. “Look at me.” you added, this time in English. “You could have killed my friends, my family and you could kill me at this very same moment, but that won’t erase your pathetic little life because that’s what you are. A fucking nobody, you will die and be forgotten.”

The words tasted like blood and salt on your tongue, but you didn’t stop.

“Look at me.” Your voice was raw, a scrape of glass against the quiet room. “You could’ve killed my friends. You could’ve killed my family. You could kill me right here, right now — but it won’t mean a thing. It won’t fix you. It won’t make you matter.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched, a darkening flicker in his eyes — but no clever words came. No sharp reply. Because you’d carved through whatever twisted power, he thought he still held.

“That’s what you are,” you whispered, your voice trembling but sure enough, “A fucking nobody. A bitter, useless coward clinging to the scraps of a life no one’s ever going to remember and if somebody does, you will remember as fucking murderer just as the rest of them.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, fists curling at his sides, his breathing uneven.

And for the first time, you saw him breaking.

You were tearing down, “Your uniform wasn’t worth it. Hell, even your family must despise you. I do despise you, and I will do it until the day I die.”

Gabriel’s face twisted, something feral and cracked in his eyes as you spoke, as you stripped him down to the nothing he’d always feared he was.

“You shut your fucking mouth—”

“Or what?!” you challenged him, after all there was nothing else for you to lose.

And then his hand was on your throat. Fast. Brutal. Crushing.

The air vanished from your lungs in an instant. Your hands clawed at his wrist, nails digging, your broken finger screamed in pain but it didn’t matter. You could feel yourself slipping, the edges of the world blurring, your heartbeat pounding louder and louder in your ears until it wasn’t a sound anymore but a dull, distant thrum.

And you saw it — not rage. Not hate in his eyes but fear.

He was scared. Frightened of you. Of the truth you could see. Of the fact you weren’t even afraid of him anymore.

But your vision dimmed, your body going slack—Memories of your life, of the happy short moments…

Until a pair of hands wrenched him off you.

“Get your hands off her!” Your recognized Carmen’s voice tearing through the suffocating haze, hoarse and furious.

The world spun as you collapsed to the floor, gulping air like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to your own body. You heard shouting. The doctor’s voice. The nurse. And then boots, heavy.

Two police officers pinned Gabriel against the wall, one of them snarling warnings you could barely register over the hammering in your skull.

“Cuff him! Now!”

Carmen was on her knees in front of you, hands trembling as she cupped your face, brushing the hair from your sweat-soaked skin. Her eyes were glassy, filled with so much rage and grief it nearly undid you.

“I’m here, mi estrellita,” she choked. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Your chest heaved, throat raw, tears breaking free as the air finally reached your lungs.

“I—” you tried to speak, to tell her you thought you were going to die, that you were so fucking tired, but no words came. Only a wrecked, broken sob.

Carmen pulled you into her arms, holding you like she could put your pieces back together just by sheer force of will.

“Shh, you’re safe. He’s done. He’s done.”

And somewhere in the storm of it, you realized Gabriel’s voice was gone.

And you breathe because he would never touch you again.

You buried your face in Carmen’s shoulder, the scent of her hair, a mix cigarettes and lavender lotion — hitting you like a memory you didn’t know you still had room for. The moment her arms wrapped tighter around you, the damn broke.

The sobs came hard. Ugly. Shaking your whole body. The kind of crying that came from somewhere so deep inside, you weren’t sure you’d ever really stop. You clung to her like she was the only thing anchoring you to this world, your hands fisting in the fabric of her jacket.

“I thought—” you gasped between ragged breaths, voice cracking, “I thought I was gonna die… Carmen, I—I couldn’t—”

“I know, Estrellita.” she whispered, rocking you gently like you were a child again. “I know. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Her hand smoothed over your hair, her own tears falling into the crook of your neck. The world around you — the bright lights, the shouting officers— faded to the background. It was just her and the sound of your crying.

Your throat was raw, every breath a jagged thing, but you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop clinging to Carmen like if you let go, you’d disappear, like the weight of the last five days would swallow you whole. Her fingers trembled as they ran through your hair, as she whispered soft, broken words in your ear.

 I’ve got you, you’re safe now, you’re safe, you’re safe.

But somewhere beneath the wreckage of your heart, past the terror and grief and bone-deep ache, another name clawed its way to the surface.

You pulled back just enough to speak, your voice barely a whisper, a raw rasp of air and desperation.

“Joel,” you choked out, eyes bleary, still pouring tears. “Carmen—where’s Joel? Is he… is he okay?”

The words hurt to say, like speaking them might shatter what little was left of you if the answer wasn’t the one you needed.

Carmen’s face crumpled, her lips pressing together, fresh tears shining in her lashes. She cupped your cheek, brushing the damp hair from your face. She couldn’t believe that after he had done, you still had the heart to worry about him.

“He’s okay,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “He is well and alive.”

A new, ragged sob burst out of you, part grief, part relief, part everything you hadn’t been allowed to feel. You collapsed into her arms again, your fingers tightening in her jacket, the world spinning and tilting.

“I need—” you stammered, barely able to breathe. “I need…. please, Carmen, I need to—”

“I know, sweetheart,” she whispered, kissing your temple, holding you like she’d never let go out of her sight again.

Your body wouldn’t stop shaking. Even as Carmen whispered to you, even as her hands cradled your face and her lips pressed against your hairline like she could will the terror out of you — your sobs kept coming, violent, sharp, breaking your chest open with every ragged breath.

Your vision blurred, your head spinning, the world tilting as the sobs took you under. The panic clawed higher, your heart racing so fast it felt like it might burst, and you clung to her like you were drowning in a deep ocean.

“I know, Estrellita, I know—” Carmen’s voice cracked, tears running down her own face as she tried to hold you together, but even she could feel it — that your body was giving out, your mind fraying at the edges. “Somebody help her! Please!”

The medics were there in seconds. The nurse from before, her face drawn tight with worry, a syringe trembling in her gloved hand.

“We need to calm her down—” one of them said urgently.

“No—” you gasped, shaking your head, your voice nearly gone. “Please, don’t—I need—”

“I promise, estrellita,” Carmen cupped your face again, forehead against yours. “I won’t leave you. I’ll stay right here. And when you wake up, we’ll go to him, I swear.”

Your body gave one last shudder as the needle pricked your arm, a cool wash of sedation flooding your veins. The sobs dulled into uneven hiccups, your muscles going limp in her arms. The chaos of the hospital room blurred, colors bleeding together.

But even as your vision dimmed, your lips still formed his name.

“Joel…”

The quiet of the hospital at night was a different kind of heavy. The hum of fluorescent lights, the steady beep of heart monitors in distant rooms — it all felt like it existed in some other world, one you weren’t fully tethered to anymore.

Carmen sat alone in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs outside your room, her hands wrung raw, her eyes rimmed red. She hadn’t left. Not once. She hadn’t gone down the hall to see Joel, hadn’t let herself face what state he might be in. Not when you were like this. Not when the memory of Gabriel’s hands around your throat still ghosted against your skin.

When the elevator doors opened, she didn’t look up at first. But she knew those boots. That voice.

“Carmen,” Billy’s voice was low, urgent, his face lined and pale beneath the harsh hospital lights.

She stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly against the tile. “Thank God,” she breathed, and before she could stop herself, she was in his arms.

Billy held her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head, his chest solid and familiar. “I came as soon as you called,” he murmured into her hair.

“I didn’t know who else—” her voice cracked. “I didn’t know what to do, Billy.”

“It’s okay, you did good,” he said, pulling back to look at her face. “Where is she?”

“In there. They sedated her… she wouldn’t stop crying. She was… she was barely breathing, Billy. I thought—” Carmen swallowed hard, shaking her head. “I thought we were gonna lose her.” She stopped for a moment, “That asshole was chocking her.”

Billy gasped at the thought of you, “How did you know she was here?”

“I didn’t. I promised Joel I was going to go back later and I saw her talking to a nurse…”

“Joel?”

“Come on, calling him father seems really unholy.”

Billy let out a sharp, disbelieving breath, half a huff of a laugh despite the weight in his chest. “Jesus, Carm…” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “Of all the goddamn hospitals.”

She gave a broken, crooked smile. “I know.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hallway stretched out quiet around them, only the distant beeping of monitors and the occasional murmur of nurses passing by. The kind of stillness where too much had already happened, and more was still waiting.

“She was asking for him, you know,” Carmen said softly, eyes shining again, staring down the hall like she could see through the walls, to Joel’s room. “Even when she couldn’t breathe… even when her face was turning blue… she was still worried about him.”

Billy’s throat tightened at that, his gut twisting. He looked through the window into your room — your small, still form against too-white sheets. “We should’ve protected her better,” he muttered. “We should’ve—”

“Stop,” Carmen cut him off gently but firmly, reaching out to grab his wrist. “We didn’t know he was going to do that.”

He swallowed hard, and after a beat, nodded. “I’ll sit with her,” he said quietly. “I’ll be here if she wakes up soon”

Carmen gave him a grateful, weary look and squeezed his arm. “Okay, the doctor said she would sleep for hours though, but I don’t want her alone.” she whispered, turning to go.

She made it two steps before stopping again, Billy’s voice low but fierce. “Tell Joel she is here. But tell him she didn’t need him to save herself.”

She nodded, and with that, Carmen turned and finally made herself walk down that long hallway toward Joel’s room, her pulse a storm in her throat, a hundred what-ifs chasing her with every step.

The door to Joel’s room creaked as Carmen pushed it open, the soft glow of a bedside lamp washing over his face. He was half-sitting against the pillows, an IV line in his arm, his skin pale and drawn but his eyes, those tired, familiar, stubborn eyes, were open.

He looked up when the door opened, and the moment his gaze landed on her, something in his face shifted. A flicker of relief, of dread, of some unspoken, as if he deep-down knew you were okay.

“Carmen,” he rasped, his voice raw like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

She closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a second like she needed the support. Her throat tightened, and it took everything she had to stay steady.

“She’s here, Joel,” Carmen whispered, her voice breaking on the words.

His eyes went wide. The breath left his lungs like a punch.

“Where?” His voice cracked.

Carmen’s lips trembled, and she crossed the room in three steps, siting in a chair beside his bed, “She’s down the hall. Room fourteen. The bastard got her during these past five days… she was with him. And she—” Carmen had to stop, swallowing back the sob. “She fought him. She was asking for you. Couldn’t even breathe but she still asked for you, can you believe it?”

Joel’s head dropped back against the pillow, a tear slipping down his cheek. His hand gripped the sheets so tight it hurt. “Is she… is she okay?”

“They sedated her,” Carmen whispered. “She wouldn’t stop crying. She… was a mess.”

Joel’s face crumpled then, his whole body shuddering with a silent sob. “Goddamn it,” he choked out.

Joel’s breath came in short, uneven bursts, chest rising and falling as though the weight of those five days had just crushed down on him in full. His knuckles went white where they gripped the sheets, his throat working around the thick lump there.

“I gotta see her,” he managed, voice rough and breaking. “Carmen — I need to see her.”

But Carmen’s hand shot out, pressing firmly to his chest, keeping him where he was. Her eyes were sharp now, her jaw clenched. The grief was still there, but fury — clean and bright — licked at the edges of her words.

“Not yet,” she snapped. “I’ve been really goddamn nice to you because of her. But don’t get it twisted, Joel. All this… this hell she’s been through, it happened because of you.”

His face twisted, stricken. “Carmen, I didn’t—”

“Maybe you didn’t mean to,” she cut him off, voice tight, trembling. “But you left the fucking door open. You let that piece of take her, and you didn’t see it coming. And now she’s passed out in a hospital bed because of it. You don’t get to just go in there like some goddamn savior and make it right.”

Joel closed his eyes, a tear tracking down the side of his face.

“You will stay here,” Carmen said, steel in every word. “And you will wait. Until I say it’s time. Because we still don’t know what the hell happened during those five days, and I won’t let you hurt her again — even if you don’t mean to.”

She watched him for a moment, waiting for him to fight back, to argue like he always did. But he didn’t. He just nodded, broken, his voice barely a whisper when he asked,

“Is she alone?”

Carmen’s jaw flexed, softening a little.

“No,” she said quietly. “Billy’s with her.”

Joel gave a faint, shuddering breath, like some part of him unclenched at the thought.

“Good,” he murmured. “Good… she shouldn’t be alone.”

Carmen’s throat bobbed as she stood from the chair. “I’ll let you know when you can see her,” she said, softer now, though the edge of warning hadn’t left her voice. “And Joel… you better pray she makes it out of this whole.”

He didn’t look up as she left, but the tears wouldn’t stop falling.

All of this was because he had let his jealousy break the best thing he had ever come to see in his life.

The room was dim, the harsh glare of hospital lights softened by the hour. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound for a while, save for the quiet, tired murmur of Carmen and Billy talking in low voices by the window.

You stirred — just barely — a soft, broken sound leaving your lips as your lashes fluttered. The weight of your own body felt foreign. Heavy. Like gravity had tripled its hold on you. Every breath scraped your throat raw. Your chest ached, your hands ached, your goddamn soul ached.

Carmen was on you in a second.

“Hey, hey—” she whispered, her voice already breaking. “Baby, you’re okay. You’re safe. I swear to God, you’re safe.”

Billy was there too, his face pale and drawn, but his hand reached for yours like he’d been waiting for the smallest sign of life.

The moment your eyes cracked open, blurry and stinging; a tear slid down your temple. Then another. And another. It was like your body remembered before your mind did — remembered the hands at your throat, the words, the terror that felt like it would never end.

Your breath came in short, shallow bursts, your whole-body trembling. “I—” you tried, but your throat felt like sandpaper, every word scraping on the way out. “Hurts…”

“I know,” Carmen whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing sweaty hair back from your forehead. Her hand trembled against your skin. “I know, baby. God, I’m so sorry.”

Billy squeezed your hand, his jaw clenched tight, eyes glassy. “You’re safe now, sweetheart. We got you.”

But nothing about you felt safe. Not your skin, not your bones, not your memories. It felt like you’d left pieces of yourself behind in that room and nothing would ever quite fit right again.

Your body shook harder, a sob hitching in your chest, and Carmen gathered you up against her carefully, mindful of the IV line. She cradled you like you were a small little girl waking up from a nightmare.

"My family is dead" you confessed in a whisper, trying to get used to the idea you would never be with them again.

Carmen’s breath hitched in her throat at your words — a soft, broken confession spoken like a child admitting a secret no one else could fix. You felt her arms tighten around you, her palm smoothing down your hair, a tremor running through her hand.

“Oh, mi Estrellita” she whispered, voice cracking like glass underweight.

Billy turned away, one hand covering his mouth, his shoulders stiff with the effort to keep it together. The room felt smaller, heavier. The air thick with grief too big to name, the kind that clung to your skin and made your chest feel like it was caving in.

You swallowed, your throat raw and aching, your face pressed against Carmen’s shoulder. “They’re gone….and I wasn’t there. I didn’t… I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

A sob ripped from your chest before you could stop it, and Carmen held you tighter like she could keep you from shattering. “They knew you loved them,” she murmured fiercely into your hair. “They knew. And if there’s a goddamn heaven, they’re watching’ over you right now, baby. I swear it.”

But the hole inside you stayed. A dark, gnawing thing that no words could fill.

Your voice came again, small and wrecked. “They were killed because they carried my last name and I don’t know how to live with that weight on me.”

Carmen’s whole body tensed around you, like your words cut through her, sharp and merciless. She pulled back just enough to cup your face in both trembling hands, forcing you — gently— to meet her eyes, even as your tears blurred everything between you.

“No,” she said, voice thick, breaking on the word. “No, baby, listen to me. This isn’t your weight to carry. Do you hear me? This wasn’t your fault. Those pieces of shit made a choice — their choice. Not yours. Not theirs.”

Your lips quivered, your breath shuddering as you struggled to hold onto her gaze, the raw grief in your chest threatening to drown you. “If I wasn’t— if I hadn’t been born into this family, they’d still be—”

“Stop.” Carmen’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and soft at once. “You are not a curse. You are not a burden. You didn’t pull the trigger. You didn’t give the order. You are not to blame for a monster’s sins.”

Billy swallowed hard; his voice rough when he finally spoke. “If anythin’, you’re the reason many people are alive. If you weren’t there, if you hadn’t fought as you did, there would be more people dead—Don’t you dare think for a second this blood is on you.”

You felt your whole-body collapse inward then, a broken sob leaving you as Carmen pressed your forehead to hers, her thumbs brushing your wet cheeks.

“Gabriel?” you asked Carmen.

“He is in custody” Carmen went on, her voice shaking but controlled, “left bruising on your throat… and God knows what else those five days did to you. But he’s done. He’s not getting near you again. I swear it.”

You saw it then, the fire behind her eyes. The barely leashed fury. Carmen had always been a force of nature when it came to protecting the people she loved, and right now you were all that mattered to her.

“He’s going away for the rest of his miserable fucking life,” she added, her thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “He will be in prison soon and he will face charges.”

Billy gave a rough nod beside her. “I already made a few calls,” he said hoarsely.

“Good.” You said, simply as if you still couldn’t believe it. “But prison but time will be enough for him to pay for everything he had done.”

You tried to swallow, the pain in your throat a sharp reminder of the hands that had been there, of the helplessness. Of what it meant to survive it. Your chest ached, not just from the bruises and the brokenness of your body, but from the weight of the grief still coiled inside you.

“You need to rest. You don’t owe him a goddamn thing until you’re ready, you hear me?”

Billy squeezed your hand. “We’ll stay right here. As long as it takes.”

The pain meds from the hospital, the exhaustion of five days spent in terror, and the sheer grief weighing down your bones — it had all pulled you under like a tide. The last thing you remembered was the nurse gently resetting your finger, the cold of the hospital room, and Gabriel’s sharp voice on the phone outside.

You hadn’t known Joel was there. Carmen neither Billy had told you that.

And Joel’s leg screamed with every step — the stitches pulling, the bone-deep ache of healing wounds making his vision swim. But none of it mattered. Not the pain, not Carmen’s warnings, not the fury in her eyes when she’d told him to stay away.

Because you were here. And he needed to see you like he needed air in his lungs.

He leaned heavily on the wall as he made his way down the hall, sweat slick on his brow, heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to break free. The world blurred at the edges, the sterile hospital lights too bright, the antiseptic stench thick in the back of his throat.

When he reached your door — Room Fourteen — his hand trembled on the handle. He didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate. He opened the door.

The sight of you hit him like a goddamn freight train.

You were asleep, small and broken in the hospital bed. The bruising on your throat stark against your skin, your face pale, a faint frown still etched in your sleep. His chest constricted, a sob catching in his throat before he could stop it.

Carmen was sitting in the chair beside you, her head leaning back against the wall, exhaustion etched deep in her face. The second she saw him, her expression crumpled — like something she’d been holding together for too long finally cracked wide open.

“Joel,” she breathed, her voice barely a sound.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t offer an apology she wouldn’t accept or a promise he knew would fall short. He just stood there for a moment, swallowing against the tight, burning ache in his throat, watching your chest rise and fall.

Carmen shot to her feet then, her body tense, a thousand words written in her tear-filled eyes.

“You weren’t supposed to come in here,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I told you to wait. You don’t get to just —”

“I need to see her,” Joel rasped, his voice thick, ruined. “I need… I need to know she is fine.”

Carmen’s jaw clenched, tears welling. She looked at you, so small in that bed, and her shoulders dropped, her face breaking again. She hated him for what had happened. For what his mistakes had set in motion. But even now, she knew you. She knew how deep he ran in your blood and bones.

“She doesn’t need more pain, Joel,” Carmen whispered, her voice hoarse. “If you’re gonna do anything — anything at all —

His hand hovered above yours for a second before pulling back.

“Can I have a moment alone with her?”

Carmen hesitated for a moment, but the heart in her gave up and she ended up nodding, “Okay. I will be outside. If you make her cry I will punch in the face, do you hear me father?”

Joel simply nodded, waiting for her to get out of the room. And when she did his heart was in his throat as he saw you there, so small in that hospital bed, your face turned toward the window. The bruises on your skin, the way your fingers trembled in sleep, it gutted him. He hated himself in a way he hadn’t known was possible. Hated every moment he’d wasted, every jealous word, every time he didn’t tell you the truth.

He didn’t ask for permission.

Didn’t speak.

He just leaned down, breath unsteady, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. His lips lingered longer than they should’ve, pouring every apology, every ounce of love he hadn’t known how to say into that one small, desperate act.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your skin. “I’m so goddamn sorry, baby.”

And then, your eyes opened.

Soft, dazed, but clear. You looked up and there he was — so close your noses almost brushed, your breaths tangled between you. Those brown eyes weren’t filled with fire anymore. No anger. No resentment. Just aching tenderness and the raw, broken kind of love you could barely survive.

For a second neither of you spoke. The world shrunk to just your faces, your breaths, your eyes searching one another like you both needed to be sure this wasn’t a dream.

“Joel,” you breathed. A word, a plea, a prayer.

His throat worked around a sound, one he choked down because if he spoke now, he’d fall apart.

But his hand cupped your cheek, trembling and rough, and for the first time in five days, you weren’t afraid.

Not of him. Not of anything.

And outside, down the hall, the storm still waited. But for now — for just this moment — you were both here.

Your breath hitched, a sharp, fragile sound in the space between you. Joel’s thumb brushed your cheekbone, careful like you might break under his touch — though you’d been breaking for days, hadn’t you? And still, somehow, you were here.

“You came,” you whispered, voice cracking, disbelief and something dangerously close to hope flickering in your words.

Joel’s eyes shut for a moment, as if the sound of your voice hurt. “Course I did,” he rasped, voice thick and low. “I should’ve sooner. I—I fucked up.”

The tremble in his words split something open in you, a sob caught halfway in your throat. You swallowed hard, trying to speak around the ache. “I thought you hated me.”

His head shook before you even finished the words. “Never. God, no.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, his hand cradling your face like you were something sacred and fragile at once. “I was stupid. I let… I let that jealousy and anger get between us. I let my head lie to me. But I never stopped… I never stopped loving you, not for a second.”

Your lips parted, a tear sliding down your temple. Joel caught it with his thumb.

“I thought you were going to die,” you admitted, voice barely a whisper, breaking in the middle. “And you weren’t… you weren’t there and I thought I was alone, Joel. I thought I was dying out there.”

His jaw clenched so hard you felt it against your cheek. “I know, baby. I know. And I’m gonna fix it. I swear to God; I’ll make it right. Whatever it takes. I’ll tear the whole town apart if I have to, you hear me?”

You closed your eyes against the wave of emotion, feeling his breath against your lips. “I’m so scared.”

“Not anymore,” Joel promised. His hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads pressed together. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you again. Not him. Not anybody. You’re mine, sweetheart. Always have been.”

And God help you, despite everything, despite the fear still clawing at your ribs, you believed him because you wanted to let yourself believe you weren’t alone.

The sob that tore from your chest was helpless, raw, like something dug up from a place too deep to ever fully heal. It shook your whole body, and Joel pulled you into him before you could fall apart completely.

His arms wrapped around you like armor, one hand at the back of your head, the other around your waist, holding you so tightly it felt like maybe he could piece you back together just by being close enough.

"I've got you," he murmured into your hair, over and over like a prayer. "You’re safe now. You hear me? You’re safe."

You buried your face against his chest, soaking in the feel of him, the way his shirt smelled like him — sweat, earth, something warm and steady. It was like coming in from the cold after being lost in a storm for days.

"It hurts," you choked out. "Everything hurts, Joel."

His voice cracked. "I know, darlin’. I know it does." He rocked you gently, like you were something breakable in his arms, something worth protecting. His fingers slid softly through your hair, his lips pressing into your temple.

"You don’t have to be strong anymore," he whispered. "Not with me. You can fall apart. I’ll catch every piece."

You clung to him like a lifeline, fists curled into his shirt.

And Joel didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. He held you through all of it, silent tears slipping down his own face, his breath shaking.

"I should’ve been there," he whispered once, broken and furious with himself. "I’ll never let anything touch you again."

And in his arms, no matter how much pain still lingered inside you, you were allowing yourself to believe what you knew it was a lie.

Because the kind of love you both shared was the type of love that couldn’t survived the wreckage.

You must’ve fallen asleep in his arms, exhaustion dragging you under like a tide you couldn’t fight. Joel never left, not for a second, holding you until your breathing evened out, his hand resting protectively against the curve of your back as if he let go, you’d disappear.

But morning came anyway.

The weak gray light slipped through the hospital blinds, spilling across the small room, and with it came the ache.

Your eyes opened slow, crusted with salt from the night before. You felt it before you even fully woke — the dampness on your cheeks, the warm trail of tears slipping down to your ears. Your chest clenched, that ugly, hollow ache rising up all over again.

And then you saw him.

Joel was there, sitting in the chair beside your bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees even when one of them was healing from the shot, his eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at. The guilt on his face was bone-deep, and it should’ve meant something. It should’ve comforted you.

But it didn’t.

The memory hit like a blow to the gut.

 him giving you back to Gabriel.

Not with a word, but with silence. With jealousy. With cowardice. You remembered the way you’d begged him with your eyes, how you’d prayed for him to fight for you, and how he hadn’t.

You flinched without meaning to, your body tensing, curling inward like a wounded animal.

"Hey, hey," Joel murmured, reaching out — but you shook your head violently, the tears coming harder now, your breath hitching in short, painful sobs.

"Don’t," you croaked, voice barely there.

His face crumpled, a broken, desperate thing. "I know," he said softly, hand retreating, but not leaving. "I know what I did." His voice was so low it was almost a whisper. "I was a fool. I was weak. And you paid for it."

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The grief and betrayal tangled so thick inside you it felt like you were drowning in it.

"I don’t deserve to be here," he admitted, his throat thick. "But I’ll stay. I’ll stay until you tell me to go."

And God, some broken, stubborn part of you still wanted to reach for him. Still wanted to believe in him. But the hurt was too fresh, too deep.

You turned your face away, more tears sliding down, and Joel just sat there in silence, letting you grieve. Because he knew this wasn’t something an apology could fix.

The minutes stretched long and quiet, broken only by the soft, uneven sound of your breathing. You didn’t have the strength to fight anymore — not him, not yourself, not the memories clawing their way up from the dark. The tears kept coming, hot and relentless, soaking the pillow beneath your head.

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t try to pull you close. Didn’t reach for your hand.

He just stayed there, sitting in that hard hospital chair like it was his penance, eyes red-rimmed and hollow, watching over you like a man guarding a grave.

"You are right to hate me," he rasped, his voice rough from a night without sleep. "I should’ve never let him take you. Should’ve never turned away. I—" his voice cracked, and he dragged a hand over his face like it hurt to keep talking. "I thought I was doing the right thing by allowing him to get close to you. I didn’t know he was a bad person.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t want his words, didn’t want his regret. You wanted your family back. You wanted your old life. You wanted what Gabriel had stolen from you.

And maybe… a tiny, broken part of you still wanted Joel.

You clenched your eyes shut, hating yourself for it.

"You don’t have to forgive me," Joel said quietly, leaning forward so his forearms rested on his knees. "Hell, you shouldn’t. I don’t deserve it. But I swear to you — nobody’s gonna lay a hand on you again. Not while I’m still breathing."

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

But the trembling in your shoulders slowed a little. The weight of those words sinking in, despite everything.

And after a long while, when the exhaustion dragged you under again, you didn’t flinch when Joel pulled the scratchy hospital blanket up over your shoulders. You didn’t turn away when the rough calloused tips of his fingers brushed your hair back from your face.

He stayed.

The next time you woke, the room was quieter than you remembered. No distant footsteps, no beeping monitors, just the steady, familiar sound of Joel’s breathing beside you. He hadn’t left. He was still there, one hand loosely holding yours, his thumb tracing absent, broken circles over your skin.

You swallowed hard, your throat raw, your body aching everywhere in ways you didn’t have names for. The weight on your chest felt unbearable, and for the first time in days, maybe longer, the words rose up before you could stop them.

"He told me…" you rasped, voice barely audible. Joel’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto yours like he wasn’t sure if you were really speaking.

"Gabriel… he told me he was gonna kill me," you continued, staring at the ceiling because you couldn’t quite look at Joel yet. "That I’d outlived my usefulness… that no one was coming for me. Said I was already dead, just didn’t know it yet."

Your voice broke on the last word, and Joel flinched like it physically hit him.

"And my family…" the word felt like glass in your mouth. "They're gone, Joel. He told me what happened. I’ve got no one left. No one in this whole goddamn world."

Your voice gave out then, the tears rising so fast they blurred your vision. You felt them fall sideways down to your ears as you lay there, and this time you couldn’t stop the sound that came from you — a quiet, heartbroken sob that cracked something open in the room.

Joel leaned forward, his face wrecked, eyes glistening. "You got me," he choked out, voice hoarse and uneven. "I know it ain’t worth a damn right now… but you got me. And you always will. I swear to God."

You finally looked at him then, and it wasn’t the Joel you remembered — the one who used to smirk and tease and steal glances like he didn’t mean to. This was a man broken open, raw and aching, carrying every ounce of guilt like a stone in his chest.

You didn’t know if it made you weak or foolish, but some desperate part of you believed him. Because you had nothing else left to believe in.

But reality broke harder.

Your throat burned as another sob clawed its way out of you, your whole-body trembling under the weight of everything you’d carried — everything you were still carrying. You met his eyes, those shattered, pleading eyes, and for a moment, you saw the man you loved in them.

And then you remembered the silence. The betrayal. The way five days had gone by. How jealousy, pride, and his own demons had left you alone in a room with a monster.

“I don’t believe you,” you choked, your voice raw and breaking. The words tasted like blood.

His face crumpled like you’d hit him, his jaw quivering, but you didn’t stop.

“You say I got you? Where the hell were you when I needed you the most? When I was… when he—” your voice cracked, and you covered your face with shaking hands as sobs wrecked you. “I begged for you. I called for you until I couldn’t speak but all this was because of you.”

“I know,” Joel rasped, a tear slipping down his cheek. “God, baby, I know. And I ain’t ever gonna forgive myself for it.”

You dropped your hands just enough to meet his gaze again, your eyes burning.

“I want you out of my life, Joel.” The words felt like a knife in your own chest, but you forced them out.

Joel’s face crumbled, he leaned to touch you, carefully. His touch was soft, trembling, when he brushed the hair from your face. His lips grazed your temple, and you felt it like a brand, like it might scorch what little was left of you.

And you shattered.

“No,” you choked, a sob bursting from your throat. “No—don’t you fucking touch me, Joel.”

Your voice cracked and broke, your chest heaving as you shoved weakly at him. He didn’t pull back, not yet, his forehead pressing to yours like he could will you back to him if he stayed close enough.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice thick and broken.

“Don’t say that,” you hissed, your hands trembling where they gripped the blanket. Your throat ached, your whole body trembling so hard it hurt. “Don’t you fucking say that to me.”

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes wet and wrecked. “I love you.”

That was it. That was the last thread, the last brittle, frayed string holding your heart together.

“I don’t want you,” you sobbed, shaking your head, the words tearing through you like glass. “I don’t want you in my life, Joel.”

His face crumpled. A tear slipped down his cheek.

“You say you love me?” your voice rose, thick with grief and rage, your hands fisting in the sheets. “You showed me what warm felt like. You made me believe in daylight. And then you left me in the darkest place I’ve ever been. You… you broke me.”

He staggered like you’d struck him. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“Loving you hurts, Joel,” you whispered, a sob hitching in your chest. “It hurts so bad I can’t fucking stand it. I can’t breathe with it. And I won’t carry it anymore.”

Joel leaned in one last time, his lips barely brushing your temple. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so goddamn sorry.”

“Get out,” you begged, voice small and wrecked and shaking. “Please, Joel… just go.”

But he still lingered there. His hand lingered a second longer over your face because he knew the moment he pulled away from you he would break.

“I don’t want you!” you sobbed, shaking so hard it rattled the bed. “I don’t fucking want you in my life, Joel. I don’t want to see your face, I don’t want your name in my head—I want you gone. Do you hear me?”

And still, still, he leaned down and pressed another kiss to your temple, one trembling hand holding your face like you were something fragile. “I’ll love you ‘til my last breath,” he murmured against your skin.

“Leave!” you screamed, sobbing so violently the heart monitor started to beep faster. “Get the fuck out of here! Get out!”

Joel's breath hitched, his hand still cradling your face as you sobbed beneath him. He was breaking — shattering right there in front of you, in the dim flicker of the hospital room light.

“I’ll go,” he rasped, voice torn and low. “I’ll go, baby. But listen to me, just this once… one more thing.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, the tears burning so hot they felt like they might scar. “Don’t—” you begged, but he pressed his forehead to yours, and you were too weak to fight it.

“I’ll love you until the stars burn out in the sky, until this world forgets our names, until the sun quits the sky,” Joel whispered, his voice breaking around every word, his thumb trembling against your cheek. “And if it’s the last goddamn thing I do in this life… I’ll find a way to fix what I broke in you.”

Your sob caught, a sharp, painful sound in your throat, because no matter how much you told yourself you didn’t want him, some part of you still did — some part of you always would. And that made it worse. So much worse.

“Please, Joel,” you whispered, your voice splintered glass. “I can’t… I can’t survive loving you.”

He swallowed hard, eyes shining. “I know,” he whispered. “But you’re gonna survive without me. You’re stronger than this hurt. And I swear to you… you’ll find your way back to the light.”

Then, so gently it felt cruel, he pressed one last kiss to your hairline, breathing you in like a dying man.

And he left.

The click of the door behind him felt like a gunshot. And just like that, your heart cracked open all over again.

And then he was out the door.

Carmen stepped back inside the room and gathered you up in seconds, holding you against her as your body heaved with sobs so violent it felt like your heart might stop.

“I’m here,” she whispered, over and over. “I’ve got you. I swear to God, I’ve got you.”

But you couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop hearing his voice. Couldn’t stop feeling those ghost touches on your skin.

And somewhere deep down, where the blood and the marrow lived, you knew it would never be the same again.

“I will leave this town, Carmen.”

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[wanniiieeee]

OH MY GOD!!!! I LOVE IT!! 🥹🥹🥹♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

Chapter 5: Casual Abduction

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Pedro Pascal x Fem!reader

Summary: Pre-med perfectionist [Your Name] thought her gap year internship at The Late Night Hour would be a fun, low-stakes break before med school. Then she literally runs into Pedro Pascal backstage—and somehow becomes his secret lifeline in the chaos of live TV. Between cue cards, coffee runs, and chemistry that won’t quit, she starts to wonder: is this just a summer detour… or something more?

Tag list: @pascal-mynightlyobsession @wanniiieeee @theendwhereibegin

The city sounds muffled as if someone had pressed pause—car horns fading, voices dissolving into static, even your own heartbeat slowing as you took in the sight of Pedro Pascal leaning against his car. The streetlight haloed his hair, catching the silver strands near his temples, and his hands were shoved deep in his pockets like he wasn't sure what to do with them.

"Hi," you managed, your voice embarrassingly thin.

"Hi." His smile was softer than you'd ever seen on-screen, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. A beat passed. Then, almost shyly: "Hungry?"

The simplicity of the question disarmed you. No red-carpet charm, no scripted wit—just a man asking if you wanted dinner.

You nodded.

He opened the passenger door with slightly too much focus, his fingers lingering on the handle a second longer than necessary. "It's, uh. Not kidnapping. Promise." The nervous edge in his joke made your chest tighten. He's just as off-balance as you are.

The moment the door closed, the world narrowed to the space between you—the warmth of the leather seats seeping through your jeans, the faint citrus-and-sandalwood scent of his cologne mingling with the stale coffee lingering in the cup holders. Your fingers curled around the seatbelt strap, the textured fabric rough against your palm as you fumbled to click it in place.

Pedro's hands flexed on the wheel, the dashboard lights catching the silver of his watch as he adjusted the vents. The AC hummed to life, carrying with it the scent of sun-warmed plastic and something subtly expensive—like the car had been detailed recently but not enough to erase the evidence of real life. A half-empty water bottle rolled in the door pocket with each turn, the condensation on its sides glinting in the passing streetlights.

Your phone buzzed against your thigh, the vibration sharp through the denim.

Ryan: wow just LEAVE ME then see if I save you from the teleprompter tomorrow

Pedro's knee jerked, bumping the gearshift. "Shit—sorry."

"Just Ryan," you said, tilting the screen toward him. The glow illuminated the faint stubble along his jaw. "Human golden retriever."

Pedro's shoulders relaxed, his grip on the wheel easing. "Tell him the pretzels were life-changing."

You: sacrificing myself to taste-test the sad pretzels. be brave without me

Ryan: [photo of him flipping off the snack table]

Pedro laughed—a real, startled sound—and suddenly the air between you warmed.

The diner's neon sign flickered, casting a pink glow over the cracked vinyl booths. The air smelled like grease and maple syrup, the clatter of dishes echoing from the kitchen. A teen cashier with purple-streaked hair blinked at Pedro, her gum snapping.

"You look familiar," she said, squinting. "Are you famous or something?"

Pedro's shoulder bumped yours as he leaned forward. "Only at my local grocery store," he deadpanned. "Employee of the Month, three years running."

You snorted into your sleeve as the teen rolled her eyes.

"Whatever. Number 47, your onion rings'll be cold because Dave forgot to ring them in."

Pedro turned to you as you slid into a booth, his eyes bright with mischief. "I think she's my biggest fan."

"Should I be jealous?" The words slipped out before you could stop them.

His knee knocked against yours under the table. "Only of my impressive produce-bagging skills."

The burger was a greasy masterpiece, the cheese oozing onto the wrapper. Pedro devoured his in four bites, ketchup smudging his thumb. You stared.

"What?" He licked the spot clean. "I was nervous earlier. Now I'm starving."

The admission hung between you—he was nervous—and then you saw it:

The way his fingers, still shiny with grease, fumbled for another fry. The way his knee kept bouncing with giddy energy. The way his shirt collar sat crooked, like he'd dressed in a hurry.

This wasn't the smooth celebrity from interviews. This was just... a man. A ridiculously handsome one who got ketchup on his sleeve.

And you—

You were in so much trouble.

Pedro poked at his fries, his gaze fixed on yours, but there was a softness there, something raw and unguarded. "You're different from most people on sets."

"Because I actually know how to work the coffee machine?"

He smiled, but his eyes were serious now. "Because when things go wrong—" He tapped the table softly. "—you laugh like it's part of the fun."

It caught you off guard, his observation so precise, so real. You swirled your soda cup, the condensation on its surface cold against your fingertips. "Survival skill. My life's been one long disaster since I decided to take the MCAT while working full-time.”

His fry froze in mid-air, the tip hovering above the plate. "You're in med school?"

You shrugged, feeling the weight of your words as they hung between you. "Not yet." You mimed a noose with your hands. "Four more months of purgatory."

Pedro chuckled, but there was something else in his laugh, a trace of admiration. "And here I was whining about memorizing monologues."

"Try the brachial plexus." You grabbed a napkin, sketching the nerves with your ballpoint pen, your finger tracing the paper in slow, deliberate movements. "It's like a subway map designed by a sadist."

Pedro leaned in, his shoulder brushing against yours. His warmth seeped into your skin, the contact lingering just long enough to make your heart beat faster. "Looks like a deflated octopus."

The cashier groaned as your laughter spilled into the space between you, echoing through the diner, mixing with the clink of dishes in the kitchen.

The check came, and Pedro snatched it before you could even reach for your wallet. "Nope. My treat."

Your fingers lingered in the air where the paper had been. "You don't have to—"

"I know." His smile was soft but certain, the kind that made your pulse stutter. "I want to."

Outside, the night air was cool against your skin, the neon lights painting the sidewalk in streaks of pink and blue. Pedro lingered by the car, keys jingling in his hand.

"Let me drive you home," he said, voice rough at the edges.

You bit back a smile. "Tempting. But my car's still at the studio."

"Ah." He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. "Right. Forgot I kidnapped you."

"Allegedly kidnapped me." The words came out breathier than you'd intended.

Pedro's grin turned wicked as he opened your door. His hand hovered at the small of your back as you slid in—not quite touching, but close enough that you felt the heat of him through your clothes.

...a ghost of a touch, there and gone in an instant, but enough to make your breath catch. You slid into the seat, watching as he rounded the car with an easy, rolling stride.

The drive back was quieter than before, the comfortable silence of two people trying not to acknowledge the electricity between them. The city flickered past in neon smudges, headlights reflecting off wet pavement. You stole a glance at Pedro, his face lit by the soft glow of the dashboard, fingers tapping idly against the steering wheel.

And just before he pulled up to the studio lot, just before this strange, unexpected night came to an end, he murmured, almost to himself, "I'm really glad you said yes."

Trouble, indeed.

When your car came into view under the flickering streetlamp, neither of you moved to unbuckle.

"I had a really good time," Pedro said suddenly, fingers tapping the steering wheel.

"Me too." The admission rushed out too fast. Before you could overthink it, you leaned across the console—inhaling his citrus-and-coffee scent—and pressed a kiss to his stubbled cheek.

Fire erupted across your face the second your lips made contact. You jerked back so hard your seatbelt locked. "Thanksagaingoodnight!" The words fused together as you fumbled for the door handle.

Pedro's warm fingers caught your wrist. "Hey." His thumb brushed your racing pulse. "Text me when you get home? Just so I know you're safe."

All you could manage was a frantic nod, your free hand pressed to your burning cheek. You practically fell out of the car in your escape.

The entire drive home, your hands never stopped shaking on the wheel. You white-knuckled it through every stoplight, replaying that stubble-rough kiss against your lips, the way his thumb had stroked your wrist. The elevator ride to your apartment took three lifetimes.

Only when your front door clicked shut behind you did you finally break. Back pressed against the wood, you slid to the floor and screamed into your hands, legs kicking like an overexcited kid. Your phone buzzed in your pocket—probably Ryan asking where you'd disappeared to—but you couldn't stop the giggles bubbling up as you remembered:

Pedro Pascal was waiting for your text. Pedro Pascal had tasted like salt and smelled like heaven. Pedro Pascal had watched you drive away like he wanted to memorize your taillights. You pulled out your phone with trembling fingers, biting your lip so hard it hurt. The screen blurred as you typed: You: Home safe. Thanks again for tonight :) Three dots appeared before you could even set the phone down. Pedro: tell me the truth. was the kidnapping at least a 4-star experience? You were still laughing when your second scream startled the cat off the windowsill.