A Beautiful Little Lie. [chapter 2] L Harry Castillo

A Year of You

part three of the life we grew series (part one ✧ part two)

summary : Jack experiences the life he never thought he could have—one small moment, one milestone, one quiet act of love at a time. Through first steps, long winter nights, and the ache of watching her grow too fast, he learns that family isn’t something you find. It’s something you make—and hold onto with everything you have.

word count : 11,658

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI! marriage intimacy including smut, emotional vulnerability, parenting milestones (first words, first steps, first birthday), marriage-coded affection, strong family themes, soft but explicit depiction of married sexual intimacy, very husband-coded and dad-coded Jack Abbot energy.

MONTH ONE

It’s the first night home from the hospital when Jack realizes no amount of emergency training prepares you for a seven-pound newborn screaming at 2:00 a.m.

You’re crying, too.

Soft, exhausted tears you wipe away with the heel of your hand while trying to figure out the damn swaddle that looked so easy in the maternity class.

Jack watches you for a second from the nursery doorway, heart caught somewhere in his throat. Then he steps in, limping slightly from the long day and the prosthetic pinching at the socket, and kneels awkwardly next to you on the carpet.

“Move over, honey,” he mutters, hands gentle as he scoops up the baby—your baby—his daughter—like she’s something sacred.

"You’re doing good," he says, voice low, rough around the edges. "We’re just outnumbered, that’s all."

You let out a low, breathless laugh and lean into his side, drawn in by instinct more than thought. Jack smells like the hospital—something sharp and sterile clinging to his skin—but beneath it, there's a rougher pull: warm skin, worn leather, the dark, carved scent of mahogany and teakwood.

“C’mon, little bean,” Jack murmurs, voice low and rough with exhaustion. “We’ve made it through worse nights than this.”

You snort under your breath.

“She’s five days old, Jack. What worse nights?”

He shifts the baby higher onto his shoulder, the motion easy, instinctive, like she’s already been part of him forever. Without missing a beat, he deadpans, “You ever been stuck inside a Black Hawk during a sandstorm?”

You smack his arm, half laughing, half crying again, the sound breaking loose before you can catch it. Jack just grunts, the barest curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rocks the baby gently, his palm splayed wide over her tiny back like he could shield her from the whole world if he tried hard enough.

“You’re not in a war anymore, Jack,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He doesn’t look at you. Just leans down, pressing a kiss to the soft, downy hair at the crown of your daughter’s head.

“No,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “But I’m still fighting for something.”

The first month is a mess.

The kind of beautiful mess Jack would throw fists for if anyone ever tried to take it from him.

You both live in pajamas now. The kitchen has surrendered first—an open graveyard of half-drunk coffee cups, takeout containers, and meals nuked just enough to be edible. Some nights, you collapse into bed with the baby between you, swearing you’ll move her to the bassinet as soon as you can feel your legs again.

Jack, somehow, turns out to be better at diaper changes than either of you expected.

“Field dressing a sucking chest wound’s harder,” he mutters at four a.m., hands steady as he peels back the tabs of a fresh diaper. You’re blinking back tears over the latest catastrophic blowout, but Jack just shrugs, casual, like he's back in the desert again. “You just gotta respect the shrapnel.”

You’re better at feeding her—at being soft, patient, warm, even when you’re dead on your feet.

Jack watches you from across the couch sometimes, nursing her with your sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and he thinks about how he almost didn’t get this.

How easily it could’ve gone the other way.

And he aches.

God, how he aches.

At her two-week checkup, Jack nearly decks a stranger.

You’re pushing open the door to the pediatrician’s office when it happens—some old guy with too much time and too little shame leers and says, “Bounced back fast after birth, huh?” His eyes drift lower, lingering where they have no business being.

You freeze, the words catching in your throat.

Jack doesn’t.

He moves without thinking, sliding in front of you with the kind of quiet, coiled force that doesn’t ask twice. It’s instinct, muscle memory, something deeper than thought. His frame blocks you from view, every line of his body taut with warning.

“Move along,” Jack says, low enough to rattle the floorboards.

The guy doesn’t argue. He takes one look at Jack—at the broad set of his shoulders, the dead-calm heat in his eyes—and stumbles off without another word.

Your fingers find Jack’s wrist, a light touch, grounding him before he slips somewhere darker.

He flexes his hand once, twice, the tension bleeding out slow. Then, wordlessly, he threads his fingers through yours, squeezing once.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

On the nights when the house feels too small and the baby won’t sleep unless she’s moving, Jack drives.

He straps her into the car seat so carefully you'd think she’s made of glass, adjusts the rearview mirror just to catch a glimpse of her, and drives the empty streets of Pittsburgh while you nap in the passenger seat, a ratty Allegheny General hoodie drowning you to the wrists.

Jack hums under his breath to fill the silence.

Old Johnny Cash songs. Some half-forgotten lullaby he doesn’t realize he knows.

You wake up once at a red light and find him staring at the baby in the mirror like she’s the first sunrise he’s ever seen.

You don’t say anything.

You just reach across the console and wrap your fingers around his wrist again.

Jack squeezes back.

Always back.

By the end of the first month, the house is wrecked, your work email has 235 unread messages, and Jack is one wrong word away from brawling with the guy at the grocery store who keeps asking if he needs "help carrying his bags" because of the limp.

Some nights you fall asleep on the couch with the baby breathing soft against your chest, too worn down to even shift her to the bassinet. Tonight’s one of those nights.

Jack walks in from the kitchen and stops when he sees you there—both of you curled into each other, the porch light casting a soft glow across the room.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself down. Not onto his knees—he plants himself into a sitting position, legs stretched out, leaning his good shoulder into the side of the couch so he’s right there, steady and close.

He brushes your hair back from your face with the backs of his fingers, so gently it almost doesn’t touch.

You stir at the contact, your voice thick with sleep.

"You’re tired too. Let me take her."

Jack shakes his head.

"No."

It’s soft. Absolute. Final.

He reaches up, sliding his hand over your shin, anchoring himself to you. His other hand comes to rest lightly on the baby's back, fingers spanning nearly her whole body.

"You’ve done enough today, baby," he murmurs, voice rough and low, barely stirring the air.

"You both have."

Jack tilts his head against the couch, eyes slipping closed. He doesn't need to say it—how much this moment means, how deeply it roots itself inside him.

The weight of it—the love, the exhaustion, the brutal, perfect ache of having something to lose again—presses deep into his bones, his chest, his blood.

And he lets it.

Finally, finally, he lets it.

MONTH TWO

The second month of her life feels quieter—but not easier.

The house settles into a strange rhythm: sleep in broken stretches, coffee going cold on the counter, laundry half-folded before someone cries (you, him, the baby—any of the above).

And Jack, god love him, tries to hold it all together like he's still back in combat—shouldering it, swallowing it, limping through it even when it's bleeding him dry.

You wake up around 3:00 a.m. to the soft, rhythmic creak of footsteps.

The baby’s crying had pierced your dream, but what keeps you awake is the sound of Jack pacing the living room—steady, stubborn, relentless.

You get out of bed and creep toward the hallway, heart aching at the sight you find:

Jack's shirt is rumpled, hanging loose over sweatpants. His hair's a wreck. He's moving with that stiff, exhausted limp he gets when he’s pretending everything’s fine. When it's been rubbing wrong all day and he hasn't said a word about it.

Your baby is pressed against his chest, tiny fingers clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt, and Jack’s rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles, murmuring nonsense under his breath.

You stand there for a second, heart splitting open inside your chest.

He’s trying so hard.

He’s carrying all of it.

And you’re not about to let him do it alone.

"Jack," you say softly.

He startles a little, blinking over at you with that war-tired look he gets sometimes, like he forgot he's allowed to have backup now.

You cross the room without hesitation.

"Hey," you murmur, gentle but firm, sliding your hands around his forearms. "Give her to me, baby."

Jack opens his mouth to argue—but you’re already untangling the baby from his arms, lifting her carefully against your chest.

He lets go with a shuddering breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

You bounce your daughter lightly, whispering soft, nonsense words into her ear while you use your free hand to tug Jack down onto the couch beside you.

"You’re limping bad," you say, thumb brushing over the line of tension at his brow. "You’re running yourself into the ground."

Jack huffs, looking away like he’s embarrassed, like admitting to needing anything is too much.

But you don’t let him.

You tilt his face back toward you with two fingers under his chin—gently, insistently.

"You don’t have to earn this, Jack," you whisper, so low it barely stirs the air. "You already have."

He closes his eyes like the words hurt—and heal—all at once.

You settle your daughter into the crook of one arm, and with the other, you start tracing slow, soothing circles against Jack’s wrist.

Just touching him.

Just reminding him you’re here.

That you’re not going anywhere.

Jack leans his head back against the couch, breathing you in. He doesn't say anything for a long time.

He just lets himself be touched.

Be loved.

And somewhere around the fourth circle you draw against his wrist, he shifts closer and drops his forehead to your shoulder with a heavy, broken little sigh.

You turn your face into his hair and close your eyes.

In the second month, the baby starts to smile for real.

Real, gummy, lit-up smiles that make Jack feel like some knife's getting twisted deeper and deeper in his chest every time he sees them.

She smiles biggest when Jack talks. It doesn't matter what he's saying. He could be reading off the damn grocery list, and she lights up like he’s singing Sinatra.

You catch him one afternoon standing in the kitchen, holding her in the crook of his arm like it’s second nature now, explaining in a deadly serious tone why the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to break his heart again this year.

“Listen, kid, it’s tradition. You root for them, they let you down. Builds character.”

You grab your phone and snap a picture before he can bark at you not to.

Jack scowls, but you see the faintest twitch of a smile he can’t fight back.

He wants to remember this.

You both do.

The second month also brings the first real fight since bringing her home.

It’s stupid.

It’s exhaustion and hormones and pride, the way all stupid fights are.

You leave the car seat in the wrong spot—tilted funny, not latched all the way into the base—and Jack’s voice cuts sharper than he means it to when he points it out.

“She’s tiny, for Christ’s sake, you can’t just—”

“I’m trying, Jack!” you snap back, tears already stinging because you’ve been running on fumes for weeks and you hate feeling like you’re screwing up.

“Yeah? So am I.”

You’re both breathing hard, the kind of thin, angry breaths that never come from real hatred—only from fear.

Only from love.

You turn away, chest heaving. Jack grips the counter, knuckles white, wrestling the instinct to bark something else, something mean just to end it.

Instead—he exhales hard, walks over to you, and wraps his arms around your shaking shoulders from behind.

You don’t fight him.

You crumble.

"I’m sorry," he says, rough against your ear. "You’re doin’ good. Better than good."

His mouth presses to your temple.

"I’m just... scared, honey." It guts him to say it out loud. It tears something wide open. But it’s the truth.

You turn in his arms, grab two fistfuls of his t-shirt, and bury your face against his chest.

Jack just holds you.

Breathes you in like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.

At her two-month appointment, the pediatrician grins and says she’s perfect.

You hold Jack’s hand in the sterile white room, squeezing so tight he must feel the bones grind together.

He doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes back.

Hard.

In the car afterward, Jack drives one-handed with his other hand curled protectively around your thigh, thumb tracing slow, steady lines into your jeans.

You lean into his shoulder at the stoplights, both of you blinking back tears that neither one of you says a word about.

That night, when the baby finally sleeps and the house goes still, you coax Jack into the shower first, insisting you’ll handle the night feed if she wakes.

He tries to protest.

You kiss the protest right off his mouth, slow and deep, until he’s dizzy from it. Until he forgets how to argue.

And when he comes back. you’re waiting for him in bed, the baby curled between you like the only piece of heaven either of you has ever touched.

Jack hesitates for half a second in the doorway, looking at you like a man seeing home for the first time.

Then he crawls in beside you, tucking you against his chest, wrapping his hand around both you and the baby like he can physically keep the whole world at bay.

"You’re my best thing," you whisper into his skin.

Jack's arms tighten around you instinctively.

You feel the rumble of his voice more than you hear it when he answers.

"You two are mine," he says hoarsely.

"My only thing."

And for the first time since she was born, all three of you sleep through the night.

Together.

Whole.

MONTH THREE

The first real laugh doesn’t come from you.

It doesn’t come from the hundreds of stupid faces you’ve been making, the toys you bought, the songs you sang off-key.

It comes from Jack.

Of course it does.

You’re sitting on the floor one slow Sunday afternoon, sorting laundry, when you hear it—a sharp, surprised little giggle that bubbles out of your daughter’s mouth like she’s just been given the whole damn world.

You snap your head up so fast you almost get whiplash.

Jack’s standing over the bassinet, freshly showered, shirt slung loose over his broad frame, cradling her under the arms and bouncing her so carefully.

She’s looking up at him with those big, bright eyes—utterly delighted just to exist in his arms.

And he’s looking at her like she’s gravity itself.

Jack bounces her again. She squeals, full-body, gummy-mouthed, hands flapping.

Jack grins—a real one, crooked and wide and rare—and chuckles under his breath.

"You like that, huh?" he mutters, voice going soft the way it only ever does for her. "Yeah, you would. Tough little thing."

You don't realize you’re crying until Jack glances over and sees you.

His grin fades, replaced by that worried furrow between his brows you know too well. "Hey. Hey, honey, what's wrong?"

You crawl over the laundry, heart a molten, useless mess, and surge up to kiss him—just grab the collar of his stupid, soft t-shirt and haul him down into a kiss so full of love it knocks both of you sideways.

He catches you with one arm, the baby cradled between you, and lets you sob into his mouth without complaint.

Lets you cling.

Because he knows.

Of course he knows.

"I love you," you breathe against his jaw when you finally surface.

"I love you so much I don't even know what to do with it."

Jack presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"You’re doin’ fine, baby," he says hoarsely.

"You’re doin’ perfect."

Jack starts pulling on his black scrubs again.

Not full-time.

Not yet.

Just a couple shifts. Just enough to feel like he’s still the guy who shows up when it counts.

You watch from the kitchen doorway, the baby warm against your hip, as he adjusts the fit of his prosthetic with practiced, impatient hands. The grimace flashes across his face for just a second before he smooths it away.

You shift the baby higher, heart aching.

"You don’t have to prove anything, Jack," you say softly, voice thick with sleep and worry."You’re already everything we need."

He exhales slowly through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, his movements stiff with exhaustion.

Then he shakes his head once — small, stubborn, final.

"I gotta do it for me," he says simply.

No drama. No explanation. Just truth.

You don’t argue.

You just step closer, barefoot across the tile, and reach up to cup the back of his neck — that vulnerable, familiar spot you’ve loved for years — pulling him down into a slow, steady kiss.

"Come back safe," you whisper against his mouth.

Jack leans into you for a second longer than he means to, his hand sliding instinctively over the baby's small back, grounding himself in you both.

"Always," he promises, voice rough.

You let him go — but not before slipping a small, folded scrap of paper into the chest pocket of his scrub top when you hug him goodbye.

A stupid, crumpled love note, already warm from your palm.

He doesn’t find it until hours later — after he’s stitched up a kid with a broken bottle wound, after he’s cleaned puke off his boots, after he’s barked orders across the trauma bay like muscle memory.

It’s almost 3 a.m. when he sinks down onto a bench in the stairwell, legs aching, head heavy.

Jack fishes the note out absentmindedly, thinking it’s a scrap of gauze.

But when he unfolds it, it’s your handwriting — messy and rushed, like you couldn't get the words down fast enough:

We miss you. We love you. Come home to us.

Jack stares at it for a long second, the breath catching thick in his chest.

He presses the heel of his hand against his face — hard — willing the burn behind his eyes to back off.

Then he folds the note carefully, tucks it back into the pocket over his heart, and pushes himself upright again.

One more patient.

One more hour.

One step closer to home.

The baby starts reaching this month. Grabbing everything. Blankets. Your hair. Jack’s dog tags, which he sometimes wears tucked under his shirt when he needs grounding.

The first time she grabs them—those worn, cold little pieces of steel swinging free when Jack leans over her bassinet—he freezes.

She wraps her tiny fist around the chain and pulls. Hard.

Jack just stands there, staring down at her like she’s cracked open his chest with one touch.

You come up behind him, pressing your hand to the small of his back, feeling the shudder that goes through him.

"You okay?" you murmur.

Jack swallows.

Nods.

"Yeah," he says roughly.

"Yeah, she’s just... strong."

You curl your arms around him from behind, forehead pressed to the sharp line of his spine.

"You’re allowed to be soft too, y'know," you whisper against him.

"She's allowed to make you soft."

Jack closes his eyes and lets the weight of your words settle into his bones.

Late one night, after a particularly brutal shift, Jack comes home bone-deep exhausted. You meet him at the door, baby asleep on your shoulder, wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks.

Jack stares at you like he’s forgotten how to speak.

You press the baby into his arms without a word.

Then you wrap your arms around his waist, lean your cheek against his chest, and stand there breathing him in—hospital soap, sweat, exhaustion, love—until he finally melts against you.

Until he finally lets himself be held. He presses a kiss into your hair, breathing out a laugh that sounds more like a sob.

"Missed you" he rasps.

MONTH FOUR

Jack notices it before you do.

The shift.

One morning, while you’re wrestling a footie onesie onto the baby and cursing under your breath about the tiny snaps "Who invented these? Satan?", Jack leans against the doorframe, rubbing a hand absently over the back of his neck.

“She’s different,” he says quietly.

You look up, exhaustion written all over your face, and squint at him.

“She’s four months old, Jack. She’s not gonna start driving a car yet.”

But he just shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving her.

“No. She's holdin’ herself different. Stronger.”

You look down—and sure enough, your daughter is sitting up better now, her spine wobbling but proud, little hands planted on her thighs like she’s ready to start throwing punches.

Jack steps forward like he can’t help himself.

He drops to a crouch—careful with the stiff pull of his prosthetic—and cups one big hand around her tiny side, steadying her without overwhelming her.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice breaking a little at the edges.

"Look how tough you are, bean."

You watch him, heart climbing into your throat. Because you see it too. Not just the way she’s changing—but the way he is.

Jack Abbot, who once stood half a step too close to a rooftop edge because the world was too heavy, is now kneeling barefoot on the carpet, whispering praise to their baby girl who thinks the sun rises and sets just for him.

You slip your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek against the crown of his head.

"I love you," you say simply.

Jack kisses the back of your hand.

"I know," he whispers. "And I love you back, honey. 'Til my last damn breath."

This is the month she starts teething.

You survive it through sheer grit, coffee, and the unspoken pact of taking turns walking endless circles around the house with a red-faced, furious, drooling baby in your arms.

Jack handles it the way he handles everything: quietly, stubbornly, with a fierce, aching kind of patience that makes you want to cry and kiss him all at once.

You find him one night at 2:00 a.m., swaying barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, the baby gnawing furiously on his knuckle while he hums some gravelly, broken tune into her hair.

You lean against the doorway and just watch him, blinking hard against the tears that well up.

Jack catches you watching. Doesn’t say anything—just crooks a finger at you without shifting the baby from his chest.

"Get over here, pretty girl," he rumbles.

You go willingly, sliding into his side, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in the warm, solid plane of his ribs. He smells like soap, exhaustion, and her. Your whole world tucked into one man.

"You’re the best thing that ever happened to us," you whisper into his skin.

By the end of Month Four, she’s rolling over.

You’re standing in the living room when you hear Jack’s startled bark of laughter from the floor.

You whip around to find him sprawled out on his side, laughing helplessly, while your daughter beams at him proudly from her belly, arms and legs kicking like she just won the goddamn Super Bowl.

Jack slaps a hand to his heart dramatically.

"Baby girl, you’re killin' me!" he groans. "You’re growin’ up too fast already. Slow it down, huh? Let your old man catch up."

You cross the room, scooping the baby up into your arms. "You hear that?" you coo into her hair. "You’re makin’ Daddy emotional."

Jack props himself up on an elbow, watching you two with the softest damn look you’ve ever seen on his face. The one he only ever shows you. The one no one at the Pitt would even believe exists.

You kneel down beside him, easing your daughter into his arms again. You watch the way his whole body softens around her without thinking. How his scarred hands are somehow the safest place in the world.

"She’s perfect," you say softly.

Jack leans down and kisses the baby’s forehead, then yours.

"Yeah," he murmurs.

"So’s her mom."

You spend the rest of the evening curled up together on the living room floor—baby between you, laundry forgotten, the whole messy, perfect world you built breathing around you.

And for the first time since she was born—you’re not scared of time passing. You’re just grateful for every second you get.

MONTH FIVE

It happens by accident.

The first time she says it.

Jack’s sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, hair mussed from sleep, still wearing the black t-shirt and flannel pants he stumbled into after pulling an overnight shift.

You’re curled up on the couch, fighting to keep your eyes open, watching the early spring sunlight spill across the floorboards.

Your daughter is sitting between Jack’s legs, gripping his dog tags in one tiny fist, drooling determinedly all over them while Jack pretends to be scandalized.

"Hey, those are government-issued, kid," he drawls, grinning like a fool. "You gonna pay for ‘em with your drool tax?"

And then—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—she looks up at him, eyes bright, and squeals:

“Dada!”

The word is messy. Slurred. Half-drooled through.

But it’s real.

Clear as day.

Jack freezes.

Completely still, like something in him just snapped loose.

You sit up fast. "Jack," you breathe.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

The baby bounces in place, fist still clutching the tags, crowing delightedly: “Dada!”

Jack finally exhales, a broken, wrecked sound like he just got the wind punched out of him. He scoops her into his arms so fast she squeals again, arms flailing, laughing.

He presses her tight against his chest, hands shaking.

"You talkin’ to me, bean?" he rasps, voice thick, kissing the top of her head over and over.

"That me?"

You slide off the couch, crawling across the floor to them, feeling your heart explode into a thousand shimmering pieces inside your chest.

You wrap yourself around both of them—Jack and the baby—your forehead resting against Jack’s stubbled jaw. He’s shaking. Full-body, unstoppable tremors. You just hold him tighter.

"You deserve it," you whisper into his skin.

"You deserve every single thing she sees in you."

Jack swallows hard, arms crushing both of you close.

"You’re my whole damn world," he chokes. "You and her—you’re it."

You kiss the corner of his mouth, the scar on his jaw, the salt of tears he didn’t mean to shed.

And when the baby says it again—“Dada!”—giggling and tugging on his shirt, Jack laughs through the wreckage of himself.

Laughs like he’s got a whole new heart built from the two of you.

This month, Jack comes home earlier when he can. Steals hours when the Pitt is short-staffed but Robby covers.

You make a ritual out of it without even meaning to:

Jack coming through the door, dropping his bag with a heavy thunk, immediately seeking you out first.

He always kisses you first.

Even if the baby’s squealing for him, even if she’s kicking her legs and reaching. He presses his mouth to yours first—hard, desperate, like he’s coming up for air.

Then he takes her from you, murmuring nonsense into her hair, like he can't bear to go another second without her.

You watch him sometimes from the kitchen, heart brimming so full it feels like your ribs can’t contain it.

You let the pasta overboil, the laundry pile up, the emails from your accounting firm stack unanswered.

Because nothing matters more than the way Jack Abbot holds his daughter like she’s sacred. Like she saved him.

Late one night, the baby finally goes down after an hour of slow rocking and whispered lullabies.

You tiptoe out of the nursery, heart thudding like you just disarmed a bomb, and find Jack waiting for you at the end of the hallway.

He’s leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. That tired, crooked half-smile lifts his mouth when he sees you.

"She out?" he murmurs.

You nod, grinning like an idiot. "For now. If we breathe too loud, she’ll start screaming again."

Jack chuckles low under his breath. Then he crooks two fingers at you—small, unmistakable—come here.

You pad over and melt against him without hesitation.

Jack’s arms slide around you automatically, strong and sure, pulling you flush against the solid line of his body.

For a few minutes, you just stand there.

Swaying a little.

Breathing in sync.

Letting the world be small and soft for once.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking lazy circles into your hairline. "Miss you," he says roughly, voice low enough that it rumbles against your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him—really look. At the dark shadows under his eyes. The worn edges of him. And the way his whole face softens when he’s looking at you.

"I’m right here," you whisper, sliding your hands up under his old t-shirt to trace the warm skin of his back. "You always got me."

Jack huffs a soft, broken sound and leans down to kiss you.

Slow.

Lingering.

The kind of kiss that says a thousand things neither of you knows how to say out loud.

His fingers flex against your spine, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s still a little terrified that one day he’ll blink and you’ll be gone.

You deepen the kiss, tipping up onto your toes, tangling your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Jack groans quietly into your mouth and tightens his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground like it costs him nothing. (You know it does—you know he’s tired and sore—but he doesn’t care.)

He kisses you like you’re oxygen. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.

When he finally pulls back, breathing hard, he presses his forehead to yours and just stands there.

Silent.

Anchored.

You guide him gently down the hall, fingers laced through his. The two of you slip into your bedroom, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear the baby if she wakes.

He eases onto the bed. The prosthetic comes off with a practiced, tired motion — a routine so familiar it barely registers anymore — and he sets it aside without ceremony, like he can't stand the thought of one more thing strapped to him tonight.

You slide into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. Jack doesn’t hesitate—he hooks an arm around you and pulls you in close, pressing you against the steady, grounding thump of his heart.

With his free hand, he pulls the blanket up over both of you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders like he's sealing you in. Then he drops a slow, tired kiss into your hair, lingering there for a second longer than he means to, breathing you in like you're the only thing anchoring him to the world tonight.

You fall asleep like that—safe. Held. Loved. The two of you breathing slow and steady together, with your whole world sleeping peacefully in the next room

MONTH SIX

The thing about six months is—everything starts feeling bigger.

Her smiles.

Her babbling.

The way she kicks her legs like she’s training for the Olympics whenever Jack comes home from a shift.

And your love for her—your daughter—isn’t something neat and quiet anymore. It’s loud inside your chest. It’s messy.

It’s overwhelming in the best way.

You get the morning to yourself one rare Saturday.

Jack’s still knocked out in bed, sleeping off back-to-back night shifts, and the baby wakes early, squirming and babbling in her crib.

You scoop her up before she can start crying and carry her to the kitchen, heart already aching at how much bigger she feels in your arms.

She babbles nonsense at you while you fix a bottle one-handed, bouncing her on your hip.

You talk back, just as nonsensical, just as giddy.

"Yeah? You think so? I dunno, kiddo, the market’s not looking great for that kind of investment portfolio," you joke, nuzzling her soft cheek.

She giggles—full, wild baby giggles—and you feel it shake right through your ribs. You feed her at the table, tucked into the crook of your arm, sunlight pouring across both of you.

The house is still and warm and safe.

It’s just you and her.

When she finishes, you keep holding her, rocking gently. Her little fingers find your hair and tug, clumsy but affectionate. You laugh quietly and kiss the top of her head.

"You’re my best girl," you whisper.

"My whole heart."

You don’t even hear Jack come in. You just feel the change in the air—the way the world gets steadier when he’s close.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Sleep-tousled hair. T-shirt wrinkled. And looking at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

"Hey," you murmur.

"Hey," Jack echoes, voice low and rough with sleep.

He crosses the room without hesitation and drops a kiss onto your hair first, then the baby's. Then he sinks into the chair beside you, resting his forearms on the table, eyes drinking you both in like he’s starving for it.

"You’re beautiful, you know that?" he says softly.

It’s not performative.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s just the truth, plain and steady, the way Jack says everything that matters.

You feel your face flush, your chest tighten.

Even after everything—even after the sleepless nights, the spit-up stains, the exhaustion—you still feel beautiful when he says it.

You still believe it.

Because it’s Jack.

And Jack doesn’t waste words.

That afternoon, you all pile into the beat-up Jeep and drive out toward the river, just to get some fresh air.

The baby's strapped into her carrier against Jack's chest, her little arms poking out. He adjusts the straps with the easy, absent-minded care of a man who would walk through fire just to keep her comfortable.

You hold hands as you walk, your fingers laced tight, your body leaning naturally into his.

Jack lifts your joined hands sometimes just to kiss your knuckles, like he can't help it. Like the love is leaking out of him at the seams.

The baby finally goes down around 9:30. You stand frozen outside the nursery door. Across the hall, Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that sleepy, crooked smile that always gives him away.

The 'I’d burn the world down for you' smile.

The one he thinks you don’t catch.

You tiptoe toward him, socks sliding slightly on the hardwood, and he lifts his hand—palm up, waiting. You grin, fitting your fingers into his without hesitation.

He squeezes once, slow and firm.

"Mission accomplished," he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn't even ripple the heavy quiet of the house.

You snort quietly.

"One kid. One bedtime. And it almost killed us."

Jack tugs you gently toward the kitchen. "Almost," he says, mock serious. "But not quite. ‘Cause you married a damn machine, sweetheart."

You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something.

"A machine who just bribed a six-month-old with four rounds of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and half a pack of graham crackers?"

Jack smirks as he grabs two beers from the fridge—one for him, one he opens and hands to you like he’s presenting you with fine wine instead of a Sam Adams.

"A win’s a win, pretty girl. Don’t question the strategy."

You lean your elbows on the counter, taking a long pull from the bottle, watching him. Loose, hair messy. T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Grinning at you like he’s just happy you’re standing in the same room breathing.

He sets his beer down, then leans in until his forehead bumps yours lightly. "Still married to me," he murmurs, like it’s some grand, ridiculous miracle. "Still puttin’ up with my ass."

"Somebody’s gotta," you tease, nose brushing his. "Can't let you run around unsupervised. You’d live on black coffee and beef jerky."

Jack laughs, low and warm, and drops a quick kiss onto your mouth—chaste, easy. But you feel the zing of it anyway.

The way you always do with him.

Like the earth tilting a little under your feet.

You set your beer down blindly and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Jack goes willingly, hands sliding low around your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of your sleep shirt to find bare skin.

He grins against your mouth, voice rough with teasing. "Careful, honey. House is quiet. Baby’s asleep. Husband’s feelin’ reckless."

You tilt your head back a little, laughing softly.

"Oh yeah? What exactly is reckless gonna look like?"

Jack leans in again, bumping your nose with his. "Thinkin’ about throwin’ you over my shoulder. Maybe take you to the bedroom. Show you you’re still my girl first and her mom second."

You feel it—the way your heart slams against your ribs, the way heat flares under your skin.

God, you missed this.

Missed him like this—teasing and full of life and all that wrecking ball love aimed straight at you.

You tug his shirt higher, fingers skimming the hard plane of his back. "You’re all talk, Dr. Abbot," you whisper. "You forget—I know you."

Jack’s grin turns dangerous. "You sure about that, honey?"

Before you can answer, he sweeps you off your feet with one fast, practiced move—arms under your thighs, lifting you onto the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing.

You gasp, laughing breathlessly as your beer bottle clatters harmlessly.

Jack crowds into your space, standing between your knees, hands braced on either side of you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, burning dark under the dim kitchen light.

"You’re still my girl," he says, voice dropping.

"Always gonna be."

He kisses you then—and it’s nothing like polite.

It’s deep, dirty, teeth dragging gently against your lower lip before his mouth seals over yours in a kiss so consuming it makes you whimper low in your throat.

Jack groans in answer, sliding his hands up under your shirt, palms rough and reverent over your ribs, your back, the soft curve of your waist.

You clutch at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, your body arching into him on instinct.

The kiss goes on and on—long, slow, greedy—like he’s trying to make up for every second the two of you have been too tired, too busy, too wrapped up in being parents to just be husband and wife.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, faces flushed, chests heaving.

"Love you," he murmurs, so low and wrecked you almost cry. "More now than the day I married you. More every damn day."

You kiss him again, softer this time, and thread your fingers through his.

"Same, Jack," you whisper. "Same. Always."

Jack presses another kiss to your temple, then another to your cheekbone, then one to the corner of your mouth—because he’s a man who doesn’t know how to stop once he starts.

And you let him.

You let him kiss you like he’s starving, let him hold you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

Because you are.

You always have been.

MONTH SEVEN

The late afternoon light spills golden across the living room, catching on the scattered toys and half-folded laundry.

Jack’s flat on the carpet, army-crawling after your daughter, who’s shrieking with laughter as she belly-flops toward her stuffed dinosaur.

"And she’s on the move!" Jack calls, his voice exaggerated and playful, dragging himself forward with his arms, shifting his weight carefully off his prosthetic like it’s second nature now.

Your daughter lets out a victorious squeal as she clutches the dinosaur, kicking her legs against the carpet.

Jack grins up at you from the floor, flushed and a little breathless. "Looks like the rookie’s got me beat," he says, dragging himself into a full, lazy sprawl. "Think she’s got a better crawl time than I ever did."

You’re sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

"Maybe if you had a binky and a stuffed T-Rex in basic, you would’ve made it further," you tease.

Jack barks a laugh, slow and rumbling.

"You tryin’ to start something, honey?" he says, rolling onto his good knee and levering himself upright in that smooth, practiced motion he’s mastered without fanfare.

"You got the mouth for it."

You arch a brow, playful.

"You wouldn't dare."

Jack tilts his head, that cocky, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "Wanna bet?"

Before you can move, he lunges—slow enough for you to see it coming, fast enough that you shriek anyway, scrambling off the couch.

You dart for the hallway, laughing breathlessly. Jack’s heavy footfalls thud behind you—the lighter footstep mixing with the solid stomp—and you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe as he catches you around the waist.

You squeal, kicking your legs uselessly as he lifts you, hauling you easily against his chest.

"Gotcha," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, his voice a low, delighted growl.

You slump against him, laughing helplessly, your heart hammering in your chest.

His hands are warm on your hips, steady and strong. Jack chuckles low, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

"Raincheck," he murmurs against your skin. "Handle her first. Then you’re all mine."

It takes an hour to get her down.

A bottle.

Three lullabies.

Some quiet rocking with Jack swaying on his feet, his body moving instinctively to keep her settled. You watch him from the nursery door, heart aching so sweetly it hurts—the way he holds her, the way his whole body softens when she finally, finally gives in to sleep.

When he lays her gently in the crib and brushes a calloused knuckle over her cheek, you know you’re done for.

Jack straightens slowly, adjusting his balance before he turns back toward you. He’s flushed and tired and barefoot, in an old black t-shirt and sweats—and he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

You take his hand silently.

He lets you.

Lets you pull him down the hall, fingers laced tight into yours.

The second you’re both inside the bedroom, Jack tugs you to a stop.

"You sure?" he says, voice low, serious. "Honey... we don’t gotta rush. You’re tired, I know—"

You cut him off with a kiss.

Hard.

Needy.

Full of every word you can’t fit into your mouth fast enough.

Jack groans low in his chest and lifts you carefully, steadying you against him before easing you back onto the bed.

No rush.

No slam.

Just the kind of rough, reverent touch that only he knows how to give you.

He crawls over you slowly, moving like he’s already half-drunk on you. His weight shifts naturally off the prosthetic, instinctive after all these years—but this time, he pauses. Sits back on his heels, eyes never leaving yours.

Wordlessly, Jack reaches down and unclips the prosthetic, setting it aside with a soft thud against the floor.

He exhales through his nose, rough and steady, the kind of sound he only makes when he’s dropping the last of his defenses. When it’s just you and him and nothing else that matters.

Then he’s back over you, heavier now, hotter, real in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

Jack fits himself between your thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight, his hands bracing on either side of your head.

"You good, baby?" he mutters, voice gravel-thick, the words brushing warm against your mouth.

You nod, already arching up into him, already lost.

Jack smiles—slow, crooked, hungry—and kisses you like a man who’s got nowhere else to be. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers rough and reverent against your skin.

"You’re so goddamn beautiful," he mutters, voice wrecked.

"Been drivin' me crazy all day. Chasin’ you around the house like a damn fool."

You giggle breathlessly into his mouth, tugging his shirt off over his head.

Jack chuckles low, dragging your sleep shirt up inch by inch, kissing every new patch of skin he uncovers.

He’s warm and solid and stupidly good at this—kissing you until you’re panting, until you’re squirming under him, until you’re gasping his name.

"You’re mine," he murmurs against your skin. "Still my girl. Always."

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

Deep.

A rhythm he sets without thinking—steady, grounded, devastating.

You clutch at his shoulders, your nails scraping gently over the broad planes of his back. Jack buries his face in your neck, groaning low as he rocks into you, one hand sliding under your thigh to angle you closer, deeper, better.

"God, baby," he pants. "Feels so good—always you, only you—"

You arch into him, every nerve ending blazing, every breath catching.

He kisses you like it’s the first time.

Like it’s the last time.

Like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

You come apart first—soft, wrecked, clinging to him—and Jack follows with a groan that sounds like your name shattered across his lips.

He stays there, breathing hard against your skin, his body heavy and warm and so damn real on top of you.

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, stroking gently. Jack hums low, shifting carefully so he’s not crushing you, pulling you into his side, tucking your head under his chin.

"You’re my whole world," he whispers, voice cracking. "You and her. Always."

You kiss the center of his chest, right over his hammering heart.

"You’re ours too," you whisper back. "Always."

MONTH EIGHT

The house is so quiet in the early mornings now.

Jack is always the first one up. Not because he has to be—but because he wants to be.

You find him almost every morning sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, the baby in his lap.

Sometimes he’s got her pressed against his chest, one hand wrapped completely around her little body.

Sometimes he’s reading aloud from whatever’s nearby—sports page, medical journal, the back of a cereal box.

This morning, it’s the latter. Jack’s deep voice rumbles through a very serious dramatic reading of the Lucky Charms ingredients list.

You lean against the doorway, grinning like an idiot, just watching them. Watching the way he sips his coffee absently between sentences, the way the baby clutches a fistful of his t-shirt, drooling contentedly.

The way Jack drops a kiss onto her hair every couple minutes without even realizing he’s doing it.

This is what love looks like, you think. This is what home feels like.

It happens on a Sunday morning.

One of those soft, slow days where the house smells like coffee and pancakes and the baby’s shrieking happily in her bouncer.

Jack’s at the stove, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants and an old army t-shirt, trying to flip pancakes while holding a spatula and a coffee mug at the same time.

You’re sitting on the counter, swinging your legs, wearing Jack’s hoodie and absolutely no pants, grinning like an idiot.

"You're gonna burn those," you warn, sipping your coffee.

Jack glances over his shoulder, smirking.

"Negative, pretty girl. This is controlled chaos."

The second he turns back, the pancake flops halfway out of the pan, folding over itself in a sad, gooey mess.

You laugh so hard you almost spit out your coffee. Jack groans dramatically, setting down the spatula and mock-bowing to the baby.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he says solemnly. "Your breakfast has been compromised."

The baby claps her hands excitedly.

And then—clear as a bell—she looks straight at you and says, "Mama!"

You freeze.

Jack freezes.

The whole house freezes.

Your coffee cup slips out of your hands onto the counter with a thunk. Jack turns, eyes wide, mouth falling open in slow motion.

"Did she—?" he croaks.

"Did you—?"

You slide off the counter, rushing over, scooping her up in your arms, laughing and crying all at once.

"Say it again, baby," you whisper, beaming through your tears.

And sure enough, your daughter beams back at you, kicking her little legs, babbling happily: "Mama! Mama!"

Jack’s standing frozen by the stove, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, just staring at the two of you. His face is flushed, his eyes suspiciously bright.

You turn toward him, bouncing your daughter on your hip.

"Jack," you laugh, voice thick.

"She said it! She really said it—"

You don’t even finish. Jack’s across the room in three strides, careful not to trip on the rug, pulling you both into his arms.

He hugs you so tight you can barely breathe, his head dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

"I’m so goddamn proud of you," he mutters hoarsely, pressing a kiss into your hair, then one to your daughter’s head.

"So proud of my girls."

You blink up at him, overwhelmed with love, cupping his face in your hand. Jack leans into your touch shamelessly, his lashes lowering, his mouth soft and wrecked.

"Mama," the baby chirps again, and Jack laughs—low and broken and full of more joy than you’ve ever heard from him.

"Yeah, that’s right, bean," he whispers. "That’s your mama. Best damn one in the world."

You end up on the couch in a heap—Jack stretched out with you sprawled half on top of him, the baby curled between you, all three of you breathing each other in.

It’s messy.

It’s imperfect.

It’s everything.

The first real crisp Saturday, Jack piles you both into the Jeep.

No agenda. Just air. Leaves. Time.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to hold yours across the console.

The baby babbles in her car seat, kicking her little feet at the window, and Jack keeps glancing at her in the mirror with that soft, wrecked look you’ve come to recognize.

You end up at a small park—just woods and trails and a rickety playground. Jack lifts her out of the car seat with the same appreciation he uses for the most fragile patients.

Presses his forehead to hers.

"You ready to see the world, little bean?" he whispers.

You walk the trails together, Jack keeping her tucked close to his chest, narrating everything he sees: "This is a maple tree, sweetheart. Turns red in October. Looks like the whole damn world’s on fire when it hits right."

"These are squirrels. Little thieves. Don’t trust ‘em."

You laugh the whole time, half at him, half at the sheer overwhelming joy of watching the two people you love most in the world wrapped up in each other.

Jack pulls you into a kiss when you least expect it—deep, slow, hungry—with the baby giggling between you.

Like he can’t help it.

Like loving you is as natural to him as breathing.

MONTH NINE

Jack’s the one who insists on it.

You catch him late one night scrolling through his phone in bed, looking at local pumpkin patches like he’s planning a heist.

You smother a laugh into his shoulder.

"You serious about this, Abbot?"

Jack snorts.

"First Halloween. First pumpkin. Non-negotiable."

He books it two days later—drives you both out on a crisp Saturday, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over your knee the whole time. Your daughter’s bundled in a little fleece onesie with bear ears on the hood, clutching the strap of her car seat and babbling to herself.

When you get there, Jack’s all in.

Wheeling the wagon.

Letting her "choose" a pumpkin by the scientific method of whichever one she tries to eat first.

Crouching slow and careful so she can sit in a pile of leaves while he snaps a thousand photos on his phone like a proud dad on steroids.

At one point you turn around and find Jack sitting in the dirt, legs sprawled out, your daughter crawling all over him—tugging at his hoodie strings, trying to steal his hat.

He’s laughing, full and unguarded, his face lit up in a way that makes your heart physically ache.

It happens when you’re least expecting it. Which, you’re starting to realize, is how all the big moments happen.

You’re doing dishes in the kitchen. Jack’s sitting on the floor, flipping through a toy catalog someone left at the nurses' station, pretending to be very serious about Christmas gift planning.

The baby’s on her playmat, babbling to herself, surrounded by stuffed animals and teethers.

You walk into the living room—and freeze.

She’s got her tiny hands braced on the couch. Her legs wobble dangerously under her.

But somehow—God, somehow—she pulls herself upright.

Your mouth drops open.

"Jack—"

Jack’s eyes are wide, almost panicked.

Like if he blinks, he’ll miss it.

Like it’s the most fragile miracle in the world.

She wobbles, Jack lunges—and catches her gently before she tips.

"That’s my girl! You’re gonna take over the world!"

You sit down hard on the couch, heart pounding, grinning so wide your face hurts. Jack beams at you over her head, and you swear to God his eyes are shiny.

He won’t admit it.

But you know.

You both pretend it’s for her.

It’s not.

It’s for you and Jack.

Jack spends hours on the couch sketching costume ideas like he’s designing a battle plan.

Pirates?

Farmers?

Superheroes?

Jack suggests "trauma surgeons," but you veto it when he tries to strap a fake scalpel to the baby’s diaper bag.

You finally settle on a simple one: A little pumpkin suit for her.

You and Jack wear matching orange hoodies.

Jack grumbles, but secretly loves it—you can tell by the way he keeps brushing his knuckles against your side every time you get close.

At the neighbor’s block party, Jack holds her the whole time, proudly accepting compliments like he personally grew her in the backyard.

He lets her chew on his hoodie string.

Lets her grab fistfuls of his hair.

Lets her shriek in his ear without flinching.

Later, back home, you find him sitting on the floor in the nursery with her asleep on his chest—both of them still wearing their pumpkin outfits.

MONTH TEN

The front yard was Jack’s idea.

"You can’t stay cooped up in the house forever, bean," he tells her, propping the storm door open with his boot while he adjusts the old quilt he spread out over the browning fall grass.

"You gotta touch some dirt sometime. It's character-building."

You smile from the porch, arms folded loosely over your chest, heart full to the point of aching. It’s cold enough that you’re both bundled up—Jack in an old hoodie and jeans, your daughter in a too-puffy jacket that makes her arms stick out like a tiny scarecrow.

Jack crouches carefully. He sets her down on the quilt.

She sits there for a second, blinking up at him.

Then at you.

Then down at the crinkling, crunchy leaves scattered across the grass. Jack tosses her one—big and orange, almost bigger than her face. She squeals, clutching it in both hands, waving it around like a victory flag.

You laugh quietly.

Jack turns his head, grinning that slow, easy grin that still knocks the breath out of you.

And when he turns back—it happens.

She pushes herself upright.

Wobbly.

Determined.

Like the whole world’s just waiting for her to take it.

Jack freezes, one hand still half-extended like he was about to offer her another leaf.

You watch, breathless, from the porch—hands fisted in the sleeves of your sweatshirt, heart pounding.

And then—one step. Another.

Toward him.

Toward Jack.

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stays absolutely still, arms hanging loose at his sides, his whole body vibrating with the effort not to rush forward and grab her.

When she stumbles into him—three full steps later—he scoops her up so fast you barely see it happen.

Lifts her high into the air, spinning once under the porch light, laughing that full, broken, wrecked-little-boy laugh you only hear when he’s completely undone.

"That’s my tough girl," he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss into her pink cheeks. "God, you’re somethin’ else, baby bean."

He tips his head back toward you, still holding her high against his chest—and you see it.

The way his mouth is trembling.

The way his eyes are suspiciously bright, blinking hard.

Jack Abbot, who’s been shot at, seen death on rooftops and in ER trauma bays—wrecked into soft, helpless pieces by a pair of wobbly baby legs and three whole steps.

You jump down off the porch without even thinking, running toward them, wrapping yourself around them both.

Jack catches you one-armed, pressing his face into your hair, breathing hard.

"You see that?" he mutters against you, voice rough and low. "She chose me. Took her first steps to me."

You nod, laughing through tears.

"I saw it, Jack," you whisper back. "I saw everything."

The first real cold snap hits two weeks later.

Jack makes a production out of it—dragging down tubs of winter clothes from the attic, testing the space heater, checking the baby monitor batteries like you’re preparing for the Arctic.

You find him one evening sitting on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by a sea of tiny coats, mittens, hats, and boots.

The baby’s crawling around giggling, trying to chew on every hat she can get her hands on.

Jack’s holding up a toddler-sized snowsuit with a deeply skeptical expression.

"She’s gonna look like a marshmallow," he mutters. "Can she even breathe in this?"

You laugh, sitting down beside him. "You’re gonna be that dad, huh?" you tease, bumping his shoulder. "The one who brings her to preschool wearing a parka in 40 degrees?"

Jack lifts his chin stubbornly. "Better too warm than too cold."

He glances at the baby trying to fit an entire mitten in her mouth and grins. "Besides. She’s gotta survive Pittsburgh winter. It’s a rite of passage."

You didn’t plan on getting a tree that day.

Jack says it’s too early. You agree.

But when you drive past the little lot tucked between the church and the fire station—when you see the tiny white lights strung overhead—you both say nothing.

Just look at each other.

And turn in without a word.

Jack lifts the baby out of her car seat, tucking her close against his chest inside his coat. You wander through the rows slowly, letting her grab fistfuls of pine needles, letting Jack argue seriously with the teenager working the lot about which tree "looks the most structurally sound."

You settle on a small, sturdy one.

Jack ties it to the roof of the Jeep himself, refusing help.

You know better than to argue—watching him knot the ropes with steady, competent hands, his mouth set in that focused line you love so much.

When you get home, he lifts the baby onto his shoulders and lets her "help" you string lights—her squealing laughter echoing off the walls.

Jack catches your hand as you walk past, tugging you into his side.

"We’re makin’ a good life, huh, pretty girl?" he murmurs.

"One hell of a good life."

MONTH ELEVEN

You didn't plan to make a big deal out of it.

First Christmas.

She's too young to remember.

That's what you kept telling yourselves.

But Jack...he can't help himself.

You find him at the kitchen table on Christmas Eve, hunched over a roll of wrapping paper, tongue poking out slightly as he wrestles with Scotch tape and a box that’s clearly too big for its contents.

The tree glows in the corner of the living room, soft and gold, the whole house smelling like pine and cinnamon.

Your daughter babbles from her playpen, chewing on a crinkly ribbon Jack forgot to hide. Jack just shakes his head fondly and lets her.

When he sees you standing there, arms crossed and smiling, he tries to scowl. Fails miserably.

"What?" he mutters, sticking another crooked piece of tape down. "Santa’s gotta show up somehow."

You cross the room, sliding your arms around his shoulders from behind, resting your chin on top of his head.

"You’re gonna ruin her for real Christmases when she’s older," you murmur against his hair. "Nothing’s ever gonna top this."

Jack hums low in his throat, one hand reaching up to squeeze your forearm where it crosses his chest. "Good," he says simply.

"I don’t want her ever thinkin' she’s gotta go lookin’ for somethin' better. She’s already got everything she needs."

It’s still dark when you feel him stir.

Jack’s body slides out of bed carefully, trying not to wake you. You crack one eye open and watch him pad silently to the nursery in sweatpants and a ratty old Steelers hoodie.

You follow a minute later, wrapping a blanket around yourself.

You catch the scene from the hallway: Jack crouched low by the crib, one big hand resting gently on the bars, his head bowed.

Not saying anything.

Just... being there.

Breathing her in.

He lifts her slowly, carefully, pressing his face into her hair, and you hear it—the soft, wrecked sound he makes when she cuddles into him without hesitation.

"Hey, bean," he whispers, voice cracking.

"Merry Christmas, baby girl."

You stand there, hand pressed to your mouth, heart splitting wide open.

Jack turns finally, cradling her tight against his chest. His eyes find yours in the half-light. And even though he doesn’t say anything, you hear it clear as day:

Thank you. Thank you for her. Thank you for this. Thank you for choosing him.

It starts snowing after breakfast. Big, lazy flakes drifting down outside the windows, blanketing the world in white.

Jack builds a fire in the living room fireplace, cursing gently under his breath when it smokes at first.

You bundle the baby in a ridiculous red-and-white onesie covered in tiny reindeer and sit her in the middle of the couch with a pile of pillows on either side like she's royalty.

Jack flops down beside her with a grunt, stretching out his long legs and tilting his head back to watch the snow.

The fire crackles low. The tree lights blink softly. Your daughter babbles, chewing happily on the sleeve of her onesie. You settle into Jack’s side, his arm automatically looping around your shoulders.

He kisses your temple without thinking. Without needing to.

"You warm enough, pretty girl?" he murmurs. "Got everything you need?"

You don’t answer.

You just nod, curling closer into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine and Jack. Because you do. You really, truly do.

The baby sleeps early, worn out by too many presents, too many relatives, too much excitement.

You and Jack stay up late.

Too late.

Sitting on the living room floor like teenagers, backs against the couch, drinking hot chocolate and eating the burnt-edge cookies you forgot to take out of the oven in time.

You talk about stupid things at first. Work. Sports. Whether the baby's going to end up a hockey player or a piano prodigy.

And then Jack gets quiet. Staring into the fire. "You ever think it’d be like this?" he asks finally, voice low and rough. "Back then?"

You know what he means.

Back when the world was a lot harder.

When he never thought he’d make it past thirty.

When you weren’t even sure you believed in happy endings.

You slide your hand into his, threading your fingers tight.

"No," you whisper. "Not like this." You turn your head, smiling soft against the firelight. "Better."

Jack squeezes your hand once, hard, and you feel him nod. Feel him breathe. Feel him let it in. The good. The love. The life he never thought he deserved.

MONTH TWELVE

The holidays are over. The tree’s gone. The stockings are packed away. The house feels a little empty without all the lights and glitter, but honestly?

You’re relieved.

You and Jack have been circling the same conversation for two weeks now: How big should her first birthday be?

Jack leans over the kitchen counter one evening, thumbing through a battered old notebook, his mouth pulled into that stubborn line he gets when he’s pretending to be casual but is actually spiraling.

"I mean..." he says, flipping a page. "We could just do somethin' small. Family. Cake. A couple of her toys. No big deal."

You lift an eyebrow at him.

"And by ‘small’ you mean...?"

Jack shrugs, grinning sheepishly.

"Maybe invite, like, Shen. Dana. Robby. Princess. Perlah. Ellis. Collins. Langdon. McKay. And maybe the rookies if they don't annoy me"

You snort, dropping into the chair across from him.

"So, basically... the entire Pitt."

Jack smirks. "You wanna tell Ellis she’s not invited to her honorary niece’s first birthday?" He taps his pen on the paper. "'Cause I’m not getting in the middle of that one, pretty girl."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

"You’re impossible."

Jack leans across the counter, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and knuckle, tilting your face up.

"You love me anyway."

The January sky is sharp and dark, heavy with the kind of cold that makes the world feel smaller.

You find Jack in the nursery after you put the baby down—sitting in the old rocking chair, one foot nudging the floor in a slow rhythm. He’s staring at the crib. Silent. Still.

You lean against the doorway, watching him. Watching the way the weight of the year—the weight of love—settles heavy over his broad shoulders.

Jack finally looks up, catching your eye. His voice is low, rough with something he hasn’t figured out how to say yet.

"You remember..." He clears his throat. "You remember when we brought her home?"

You nod, stepping quietly into the room. Press your hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there. The life humming under his skin.

"I didn’t know what the hell I was doin'," Jack mutters, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Didn’t know if I deserved her. If I deserved you."

You slide your fingers through his hair, soft and sure.

Jack leans into it like he can’t help himself.

"You do," you whisper. "You deserve all of it, Jack. You always have."

He pulls you into his lap then, wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his face into your neck. Holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

And maybe you are.

Maybe you always will be.

The day of her birthday dawns cold and gray, the streets dusted with a thin layer of January snow.

You wake up to Jack already downstairs, setting up balloons and streamers with the grim determination of a man trying to fix a leaky roof mid-thunderstorm.

You find him half-wrestling a giant "1" balloon into the living room, muttering curses under his breath when it refuses to cooperate.

"You good, champ?" you tease, sipping your coffee.

Jack glares at you over the top of the balloon, but there’s no heat in it. Only love. Only joy. Only him.

"You wanna fight the damn helium next?" he mutters, half-laughing as he pins the balloon to the back of a chair.

The party is perfect.

Small, chaotic, full of noise and warmth.

The Pitt crew shows up—Dana with an armful of presents, Robby with some ridiculous talking toy that immediately gets banned to the garage after ten minutes, Shen slipping Jack a flask when he thinks you’re not looking.

Jack never puts her down.

Not really.

He lets her toddle a little—lets her show off the new steps she’s so proud of—but he’s always within reach. Always there to catch her.

You cut the cake.

She smashes her tiny fists into the frosting with a triumphant shriek. Everyone cheers. Jack laughs so hard he almost drops the camera.

Later, when the guests trickle out and the house quiets, you find Jack standing in the kitchen, wiping down the counters like he can scrub the day into permanence.

He turns when he hears you, setting the rag down. Looks at you with that look—the one he only ever gives you. The one that says everything without a single word.

You cross the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest.

Jack hugs you back immediately, fiercely. Kisses your hair. "She’s gonna be so damn good, honey," he murmurs against your crown. "You’re makin’ sure of that."

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "You too, Jack," you whisper. "You’re the best thing she’ll ever know."

"Can’t believe we made it a year," he murmurs. "Can’t believe we get to keep doin’ this."

"Best thing we ever did." you whisper.

i want you, i need you, i love you (4)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 12.8k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

It had been three weeks.

Three weeks since the gallery night.

Since the bath. Since her in his robe. Since the moment she stepped into Harry Castillo’s penthouse and changed everything.

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite who he was, despite who she was—they hadn’t combusted.

They’d settled. Sort of. Not into a relationship. Not into anything that had labels or expectations.

And she wasn’t in any rush to be branded. But they were something—and whatever it was, it had slowly started bleeding into the rest of their lives.

He gave her a key on a Tuesday. He didn’t make a big deal out of it.

Just set it on the kitchen counter next to her takeout container, glanced up and said, “So you don’t freeze your ass off waiting for me if I’m not home.” That was it. No smile. No explanation.

Just Harry being cold and mean in the most absurdly tender way.

She didn’t say thank you out loud, but she kissed the corner of his mouth that night a little longer than usual. And he didn’t pull away.

They didn’t talk about what they were. They didn’t need to. But the rhythms were there.

He kept orange juice stocked in the fridge because she liked it. She started leaving hair ties on his bathroom counter. And a pink razor in his shower. He bought the cereal she liked. She figured out how to work his espresso machine before he did.

And they saw each other constantly. Not every day—he was still Harry Castillo—but almost.

He texted her at odd hours. Late nights when he couldn’t sleep. Early mornings when he was at the gym at an inhuman hour and saw something that reminded him of her. Articles. Memes.

Yes memes.

Photos of outrageously overpriced apartments that had bathtubs with built-in fireplaces and chandeliers.

He had sent one at 2:13 a.m.

Old man Harry ❤️👴: Would you complain if I bought this?

You: If you bought it and never invited me over, yes.

His response came five minutes later

Old man Harry ❤️👴: You have a key. I’d be forced to.

And that was that.

She didn’t stay over every night. But when she did, she found herself waking up warm. Not just physically—but emotionally. And that scared her more than anything else.

Because Harry Castillo wasn’t easy.

He was brooding. Quiet. Obsessive in ways that only became clear the longer she knew him. But he was consistent. And that? That mattered. He didn’t lie. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. And slowly—slowly—she started letting him in.

It wasn’t until the second week that he found out about her jobs. Plural.

She had just finished showering in his bathroom—wet hair down, wearing one of his button-downs, no pants—when her phone lit up on the bed.

Marco (Flowers): u good to deliver that midtown order today or should I send Gio?

Harry saw it. He blinked. Then stared at the screen like it had personally offended him.

When she stepped out, towel in hand, humming softly to herself, she stopped dead in her tracks.

His eyes were locked on her phone.

She froze. “What?”

Harry lifted it. “Who’s Marco.”

“…Someone I work for.”

“You work where.”

She sighed, already knowing this was going to be a thing. “A flower shop. I help with deliveries sometimes.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Since when.”

She arched a brow. “Since always?”

“You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

That made something flicker behind his eyes—sharp and cold and maybe a little unhinged. He set the phone down carefully, then reached for his own.

“Harry—”

“I’m not mad,” he muttered, typing something.

She squinted. “You’re typing like you’re mad.”

“I’m not—” he cut himself off. “I’m just trying not to throw my phone at the fucking window.”

She blinked. “Jesus. Okay, calm down.”

“How many jobs do you have.”

She hesitated. And that was his answer.

He looked up. “How many.”

“…Three.”

“Three?”

She nodded.

Harry exhaled sharply, standing up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. “You said you were a server.”

“I am.”

“And?”

“I bartend on weekends. And I do flower deliveries during the day sometimes. Under the table. It’s not a big deal—”

“It is a big deal.” His voice was low now. Controlled. Furious. “You work three jobs and walk home late at night and don’t tell me?”

Her brows lifted. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

“Don’t—” he snapped, pacing now. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn this into a thing. I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to understand why the hell you think it’s normal to exhaust yourself until you collapse.”

She stared at him. He looked like he wanted to punch a wall. She softened, just a little. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

He stopped pacing. Turned to her. “It matters,” he said, quietly now. “It matters to me.”

And that? That shut her up.

Because Harry Castillo didn’t say things like that. Not unless they were true. The next morning, he asked for the addresses. All of them. She refused at first.

“You’re not picking me up from work.”

“Why not.”

“Because you’re Harry fucking Castillo. You don’t drive. You don’t do Midtown traffic.”

He stared at her. Said nothing.

Then pulled out his phone and typed something. An hour later, she got a notification from Find My iPhone.

Old man Harry ❤️👴 has requested your location.

She stared at it. Then looked up. He smirked.

“Add me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll come find you anyway.”

“You don’t even know where my flower job is.”

“Not yet.”

She groaned, shoving his arm. “You’re insane.”

“I don’t want you walking home.”

“I have legs.”

“You have shit shoes.”

“I—”

Harry raised a brow. “Let me take care of you.”

That was it. Just a soft command from a cold man who didn’t beg.

She rolled her eyes. But she added him.

The first time he picked her up, it was raining.

Not the soft, aesthetic kind. No—it was New York level chaotic. Sideways sheets of water, umbrellas flipping inside out, cars honking like they were allergic to patience, subways getting flooded by the second.

She was soaked. Her hair plastered to her forehead, her phone dead, her hands freezing.

And then? A black BMW pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. And there he was. Driving.

She stopped in the rain and blinked. “You…drive.”

Harry stared at her, unimpressed. “Get in.”

“I thought you were allergic to steering wheels.”

He rolled his eyes. “I took a car from my old place. Get in before you drown.”

She slid in, dripping onto the leather seats. “This feels illegal.”

“Your shoes are illegal. What are those, socks with holes?”

“Don’t start.”

He tossed her a dry sweatshirt from the backseat—his, of course. “Put this on.”

She did. And the car smelled like him. From then on, it became a thing. Not official. Not daily. But often enough that she started waiting for it. Harry would show up outside her server shift around 11:15 p.m., texting her with a simple

Old man Harry ❤️👴: Here.

Or he’d pull up to the bar on Fridays, leaning against the hood like he hadn’t spent the day managing millions of dollars and threatening CEOs. Sometimes he brought coffee. Sometimes just a dry shirt and a scowl. But he always showed. And she never had to ask.

Their nights together stayed the same.

Mostly.

She’d enter the penthouse quietly. Leave her shoes by the door. Sometimes he was already home, waiting with dinner or a clean towel or just himself—half-dressed and reading on the couch wearing his glasses that make him look like an even bigger old man.

Sometimes he got home after her, muttering about meetings, his voice hoarse, jaw tense from hours of pretending he didn’t want to text her every five minutes.

But they always ended the night the same way. In bed. Tangled. Quiet. Bodies pressed close under too many sheets and not enough words.

He never said he missed her. But he texted her at 3:07 p.m. once after a brutal meeting with the board...

Old man Harry ❤️👴: This room is full of people who make me want to kill myself. You would’ve made it bearable.

She smiled when she read it. Didn’t respond right away. Let him sit in it. Later that night, when she curled up beside him, he didn’t say anything. Just wrapped an arm around her waist like a reflex.

On Sunday mornings, they got bagels. It started accidentally. She had mentioned a craving for egg and cheese one night in passing, barely awake, face pressed into his chest.

He said nothing.

Then the next morning? Bagel. Wrapped in foil. Sitting on the counter.

She blinked at it.

“Did you—”

“I didn’t want to hear you complain later,” he muttered.

So now it was a thing. Bagels on Sunday. No talking until coffee. Her in his oversized shirts. Him in sweatpants with his hair pushed back, watching her read something on her phone while chewing with her mouth open.

“You’re disgusting,” he’d say.

“You’re in love with me,” she’d fire back.

He never answered. Just stared. Like maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t wrong.

Three weeks in and they still weren’t a couple. Not in public. Not in labels. But in the way he made her tea when she lost her voice. In the way she slipped notes into his briefcase. In the way he bought her new socks and refused to acknowledge it.

They were something. Something real. Something building. And neither of them wanted to name it yet. But maybe they didn’t have to.

Because Harry wasn’t used to letting people stay.

And she?

She had the key.

And Harry knew he was fucked.

It was raining. Again.

Not the romantic kind, either. Not the bullshit people wrote about in novels. This was relentless New York rain. Cold, gray, street-soaking, ankle-wrecking rain. The kind that blurred the skyline and made everything feel too still and too loud at the same time.

His office windows, floor-to-ceiling and usually pristine, were streaked with water. He could barely see the city through them. Which was probably for the best. Because if he could see the Lower East Side right now, he might actually snap and send a helicopter.

He hadn’t heard from her since she’d texted around 9 p.m., after he dropped her off.

You: Frances is being dramatic tonight 🙄

That was it. No follow-up. No photo. Not even a meme. Just that. And now it was past 1 a.m.

Harry leaned back in his chair, phone resting facedown on the edge of his desk, his thumb twitching with the impulse to check it again.

He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He already had. Fifteen times.

“Frances,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening.

Across the room, Danny—half-asleep on the leather couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table like he owned the place—perked up.

“What?”

Harry didn’t look at him. Just ran a hand through his hair, glaring at the window like it had personally offended him.

“She texted me earlier. Said Frances was being dramatic.”

Danny blinked. Then grinned. “Ooooh.”

Harry sighed. “Don’t.”

“Do you know who Frances is?”

“I assume…someone in her building?” Harry said, like it was obvious. Like that didn’t already make his throat itch with jealousy.

Danny sat up, cracking his neck. “You assume Frances is a neighbor?”

“Yes.”

“You sure Frances isn’t her ex?”

Harry froze. Very still.

Danny raised a brow, voice far too casual. “I mean. Sounds like something you'd say about someone you know well. Like an ex.”

“Don’t,” Harry warned again, but it was too late. The image was there now.

Frances. Laughing on her couch. Feet on her coffee table. Touching things that didn’t belong to him. Sleeping in a bed that did.

Harry’s jaw ticked.

“Maybe she’s a woman,” he said, but it didn’t land. Not when the image had already nested behind his eyes. Not when the silence that followed made him feel like a kicked dog.

Danny yawned, stretching. “Well, if she comes back tomorrow limping, we’ll know.”

Harry looked up so fast the pen in his hand dropped.

Danny cackled.

“Kidding.”

“Get out.”

Danny didn’t. He just flopped back down, arms behind his head. “You’re unwell.”

Harry didn’t argue. Because he was. He was so far gone he could feel it in the base of his spine. He’d sent the whole team home hours ago—mid-pitch.

He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t finish the goddamn Italy paperwork. The Italy contract—the Italy contract—was sitting open in front of him. A landmark deal.

A decade in the making. Acquisition of a sustainable architecture firm based out of Florence. Tens of millions. Possibly more, if the valuation shifted after Q2.

He was supposed to fly out on Thursday. There was a dinner with the lead architect, a walking tour of the property grounds, some presentation on green luxury Harry couldn’t pretend to care about.

They’d blocked out four days. Harry had almost signed it. Almost. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her in Italy.

He wanted her in a sundress and sunglasses she bought at a corner shop. He wanted to take her to restaurants where no one knew who he was—where they’d drink wine that tasted like cherries and share plates of pasta so good she’d groan with her mouth full.

He wanted to watch her tan—really tan—on a hotel balcony in nothing but one of his button-downs and sunscreen.

He wanted her bare legs kicked up on the dashboard of a rented car while he drove with the windows down and her hand on his thigh. He wanted her bored at a vineyard tour.

Wanted her to lean in and whisper something filthy in his ear just to see if he’d blush.

He wanted to fuck her in a hotel shower with the windows open, the Tuscan hills in the distance and her moaning into his neck like it was a prayer.

He wanted to fall asleep with her in a bed that smelled like citrus and sex, the sound of her breathing syncing with the rain on the villa roof.

He wanted to live with her. Just for a week. Just enough to make it real. To prove it wasn’t some New York fantasy.

Danny cleared his throat.

“You’re still here.”

Harry didn’t look up. “So are you.”

“Because I’m trying to get you to finish the Florence paperwork.”

“I will.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

Danny stared at him. “You’re going to see her, aren’t you.”

Harry didn’t answer. He stood.

“Jesus,” Danny muttered, grabbing his jacket. “You’re in love.”

Harry grabbed his own coat. “Drop me off.”

Danny blinked. “It’s 1 a.m.”

“I know where she lives.”

Danny didn’t argue. He just followed. They always got in separate cars. Harry always took the backseat. But tonight, he climbed into the passenger seat of Danny's Mercedes.

Danny glanced over. “You nervous?”

Harry didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The rain kept coming down. The roads were slick. The city lights blurry. But when they pulled onto her street, Harry felt it—

That low thrum in his chest. That ache. Because he knew this block. Knew it like a scar. She wasn’t just a girl he saw now. She was a rhythm in his life. A piece of the architecture.

Danny pulled up to the curb. Parked. Then turned, lips twitching.

“Good luck,” he said. “Maybe Frances wore her out.”

Harry shot him a look that could’ve killed. Danny just sent him a smirk. And Harry stepped out into the rain.

The air was sharp with that metallic wetness unique to New York downpours. Streetlights flickered against puddles. A pizza box floated past the curb like a makeshift raft.

And still—Harry didn’t rush. He took his time walking.

Her street in Lower East Side, uneven pavement, corners that smelled like cigarettes and Chinatown egg rolls—was familiar now.

He knew the rhythm of her block. He knew that the laundromat two doors down always had one broken dryer. He knew which deli overcharged for grapes.

And he knew the exact slab of sidewalk where she told him she once tripped while texting him. It was cracked slightly, a jagged edge of concrete peeking up like a warning. She’d texted him from the pavement, too.

You: You made me fall, jackass. I was smiling too hard.

That text had stayed in his phone longer than it should have.

He passed the bodega next. The one she claimed had the best dried mangoes in the city. She’d once spent thirty minutes ranting about the owner’s theories on aliens and glitter. Yes glitter.

Now Harry found himself slowing in front of the doors. Peering in. Wondering if the guy knew her name. Wondering if he knew about him.

By the time he reached her building, his shoulders were soaked. His shirt clung to his chest, collar sticking. His suit jacket was definitely ruined. But he didn’t care. He needed to see her. He hit the buzzer.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Nothing.

Then—finally—crackled static.

“…Hello?” Her voice was sleepy.

“It’s me.”

A pause. Then—

“Harry?”

His jaw clenched. “Yes.”

More static. Then a muffled, rustling sound. “It’s—uh—4C. Come up.”

The buzzer rang. The door clicked. He took the stairs. She didn’t have an elevator. Of course she didn’t.

By the time he reached her floor, his heart was hammering for no reason. The hallway smelled like weed and soup dumplings. The walls were covered in scuff marks, and someone had drawn a crooked heart on one of the exit signs.

4C had a little sticker on the door. A cartoon ghost holding a margarita. He stared at it for a beat. Then knocked.

She opened the door in one of his shirts—his black one, faded from too many washes—hanging off one shoulder, loose like a dress. Her legs were bare except for cotton boxers with tiny strawberries on them. Her hair was pulled up messily. She looked flushed. And sleepy. And worried.

“You’re soaked,” she said immediately, pulling him inside by the lapel of his jacket. “Jesus, Harry.”

Her hands were already working to unbutton his coat. “Why didn’t you text? I thought you were working.”

“I couldn’t focus,” he said, watching her.

“You’re going to get sick,” she muttered, peeling the jacket off his shoulders, tugging at the sleeves. “Come here—hold still—”

He let her work, silent. She was warm hands and furrowed brows and concern in motion.

Once the jacket was off, she yanked at his tie. “This too.”

He raised a brow. “Undressing me already?”

“You showed up looking like the stock market,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

He smirked.

She disappeared for a second, then tossed him a pair of old gray sweatpants.

He caught them. Eyebrow raised. “You keep men’s sweats on hand?”

She groaned. “They’re Maya’s ex’s. Don’t get excited.”

He stepped into the living room fully now. And froze. Because for the first time, he was seeing where she lived.

Where she lived when she wasn’t with him.

The apartment was small. Lived in. Cluttered—but in a way that made it feel warm, not chaotic. Like every single thing inside of it had a story.

The living room was split between two mismatched couches—one thrifted velvet, the other beige corduroy with a sag in the middle. There were throw blankets in every texture imaginable—fleece, knit, faux fur.

The coffee table was covered in books, old takeout menus, half burnt candles in jars labeled sandalwood, fig, vanilla.

The walls were cluttered with art—some of it clearly Maya’s, some vintage posters, The Virgin Suicides, Before Sunrise, Blade Runner, Patti Smith’s Horses album, and a random framed photo of a pigeon wearing sunglasses.

The fridge in the kitchen was a museum of magnets and notes. There was even a shopping list written in red marker on the fridge door. It read

oat milk

cheez-its

limes

incense

Maya’s weird vegan yogurt

tampons

trash bags

candles (sex ones, not funeral ones)

wine

frozen waffles

cat food

Harry blinked at the last item.

“You have a cat?”

She paused. “...Yes?”

His jaw tensed. “Frances?”

She frowned. “What?”

He turned to her, eyes sharp. “You said Frances is being dramatic tonight.”

She blinked. Then laughed. Actually laughed. And pointed behind him.

Harry turned. And saw a large, grumpy-looking tabby cat perched on the windowsill. Staring at him with narrowed eyes like it knew he’d imagined something inappropriate.

“That’s Frances,” she said, snorting. “She’s named after Frances McDormand. She’s 16 and hates everything exept my heating pad.”

Harry stared at the cat. Then back at her. Then at the cat again.

“You thought Frances was a man?” she said, grinning.

“I thought Frances was your ex.”

She covered her mouth to keep from laughing louder. “You showed up in the rain to confront me about an elderly cat?”

Harry sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Shut up.”

She kissed his cheek. “You’re a mess.”

He looked around again. At her world. At the chipped mugs on the dish rack—each one different. One said World’s Okayest Bartender, another had a faded drawing of a walrus. The scarf hanging from a coat hook was purple velvet, half-unraveled at one end.

There were keys on a lanyard that read BOSTON UNIVERSITY, and a half-full tote bag with a produce sticker still stuck to the bottom corner.

The shelf by the entryway overflowed with mail, cracked sunglasses, a tiny hand-painted dish full of bobby pins, and a single, slightly burnt birthday candle shoved into a chunk of ceramic shaped like a frog. The coffee table had three coasters but none of them matched. There were stickers slapped across the side of the fridge—Protect Roe, Biden Harris 2020, Elvis is Alive and So Am I.

In the bathroom, he passed by the open door and caught the faint scent of her perfume mixed with rosewater toner and humidity. The mirror had streaks of lipstick.

Tampons sat on the counter beside an open tin of bobby pins. Dry shampoo. A chipped compact. An old mascara wand lying next to her makeup bag that looked like it had seen war. A pack of pink razors balanced on the edge of the sink like it might leap to freedom any minute.

The hallway wall had a row of hooks, all cluttered—coats, purses, canvas totes, one very fluffy pink bathrobe, and what looked like a dog leash even though she didn’t own a dog. The floor creaked in the middle.

And her bedroom—

Her bedroom was even more intimate. Twinkly lights looped around the ceiling like a soft halo. One strand flickered near the corner. The walls were covered—Cléo from 5 to 7, Velvet Underground, a retro ballet poster, another that read Prince's Purple Rain.

Dried lavender hung upside down beside a Polaroid photo strip taped above her dresser mirror. The dresser was cluttered with rings in tiny dishes, perfume bottles in varying levels of emptiness, tangled necklaces, and an open book of poetry facedown like she’d been reading and got distracted halfway through.

The bed wasn’t made. Worn sheets. Muted floral comforter rumpled down to the foot. A stuffed lamb with one ear bent sat on the pillow beside a pile of soft, mismatched throw blankets. There was a hoodie—his—draped over the headboard.

Her nightstand was pure chaos. A cracked phone charger plugged into an extension cord wrapped in colorful washing tape. A half-eaten cookie. Lip balm. A lighter. A box of allergy medicine. A stack of receipts, one with eggs, incense, LaCroix, cat treats, cherry cough drops scribbled on the back. An empty glass, a hair clip, and a worn paperback with the corner folded as a bookmark—The Secret History.

There was an incense holder shaped like a tiny hand. And beside that, a photo of her and a little girl in matching sunglasses, both sticking out their tongues. It was soft. Lived-in. Completely her.

And absolutely the opposite of Lucy’s old apartment. Lucy’s world had been cold glass vases with eucalyptus branches, arranged like she Googled elegant minimalism. White couches no one could sit on. Art that cost thousands but said nothing. A color-coded closet and a bathroom that looked like a Glossier pop-up—sterile, spotless, unloved.

This? This was chaos and warmth and late night pizza crumbs and nail polish spilled on tile. This was home.

And for reasons Harry couldn’t articulate—didn’t dare admit even to himself—he wanted to be a part of it. Even if it scared the hell out of him.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said finally.

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “You didn’t. I mean, you did. But I’m glad.”

He buried his nose in her hair, breathing her in. Lavender shampoo. Something floral. Her. Frances meowed loudly, interrupting the moment.

She pulled back. “She wants food. Hold on.”

As she went into the kitchen, Harry stood in the middle of her room, still dripping slightly, holding borrowed sweatpants in one hand and the ghost of something warmer than he knew what to do with in the other.

He was fucked. So, so fucked. And he didn’t want to leave. So that night Harry stayed. The rain hadn’t let up.

It fell in steady sheets against her bedroom window—so constant it was starting to sound like static. Or breath. Or the thud of a heartbeat pressed against his ear.

She was in boxers and one of his shirts.

He was in borrowed sweatpants from a man who didn’t matter.

And they were brushing their teeth together in a bathroom that smelled like rosewater and lavender. She bumped into him twice. Once on purpose. Once not. He didn’t care.

He’d forgotten what this felt like. Being near someone. Really near.

Not polished. Not curated. Not part of some long game. Just… here. In a too small bathroom. In her world. She leaned into the mirror to swipe a lip mask on her lips.

He watched her. Like she was art.

When she turned, he was still staring.

“What,” she asked, mouth soft.

“Nothing,” he said, voice lower than he meant. “I just like looking at... you.”

They left the light on. Left the door cracked. The apartment was dark except for that glow and the warm flicker of the TV.

Her bed wasn’t big. A full, maybe. But it held them both. Barely.

She threw the comforter over them, then curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Her eyes were heavy, but she wasn’t ready to sleep. He shifted beside her, body pressed along the curve of hers. Not touching yet. Just close enough that the space between them buzzed.

And then she clicked on the remote. The TV was an old one—boxy, with a DVD player built into the side. It hummed softly as the disc spun.

He blinked. “Is that Sex and the City?”

She nodded. “Season four.”

He glanced down at her, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You have the DVDs?”

“I’m not a heathen.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I haven’t seen a DVD player in a decade.”

She shrugged. “You’re missing out.”

The episode began. Carrie was monologuing. Samantha was best dressed. Charlotte was earnestly hopeful. Miranda was eating Chinese food in bed.

She rested her head on his chest, her hand splayed over his ribs. He felt it everywhere. The rain thudded gently on the window. Frances padded into the room and began eating delicately from her tiny floral bowl in the corner.

Harry reached up and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “She always eats this late?”

“She’s nocturnal. Like me.”

He hummed. “You’re soft at night.”

She smiled against his skin. “You’re not.”

“No,” he agreed, brushing her arm with his fingers. “But I want to be.”

She turned to look at him. “Why?”

“Because you are.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Her body shifted, draping over his. One leg between his. One hand under his shirt, splayed against his stomach. She wasn’t trying to start anything. She just wanted to feel him.

And Harry? He let her.

He rested his cheek against the top of her head. Closed his eyes. Let the scent of her hair—lavender and something distinctly her—anchor him.

He wanted to tell her right then. About Italy. About the dinner. The villa. The way he imagined her laughing while wine sloshed in her glass. The way he pictured her sunburnt and barefoot, dancing in a linen dress she’d haggled for at a street market.

He wanted to tell her he’d already asked Danny to add a plus one. Wanted to beg her to come. To wake up with him somewhere coastal and quiet, where he could watch her dip into cold water and wrap herself in a towel and ask him what they were going to eat next.

But instead—

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Soft. Careful.

She sighed.

“Your heartbeat’s fast,” she murmured.

“You’re laying on my chest,” he said. “Of course it is.”

She smiled. “Mine too.”

Frances jumped up onto the bed and circled twice before curling against the back of Harry’s legs. Her fur was soft. Her breathing slow.

The rain pressed harder against the windows. The radiator clinked. The light from the TV flickered over the posters on the wall.

Onscreen, Carrie was questioning whether men were biologically capable of monogamy.

Harry whispered, “Jesus.”

She snorted. “Don’t take it personally.”

“I take everything personally.”

Her hand slid over his stomach again. A slow drag of her fingers, like she could calm something inside him. And maybe she did.

Because that night—

Harry Castillo slept in a tiny bed with a woman who wore his clothes and brushed her teeth with glitter-handled toothbrushes. He slept through the storm. He slept through Carrie’s voice.

He slept through the ache of every part of him that used to hurt.

Because in her world—this small, messy, beautiful world—he didn’t have to be the version of himself that scared people. He just had to be hers. And that was enough.

The morning soon came and of course he woke up first. 

She was still asleep when Harry stirred. Pressed against his chest like she belonged there.

Which—by now—maybe she did.

The light coming in through the bedroom window was soft and overcast, the kind of gray that made you want to stay under the covers forever. The rain had stopped sometime in the night, but the air still smelled like it—clean, cool, quiet.

Harry was warm. Ridiculously warm.

Frances was curled up on his feet again, the cat’s soft purring vibrating faintly against his ankle.

And her—

She was wrapped around him. One leg tossed over his hip. One hand curled beneath his shirt—her shirt—she decided to throw on him last minute before bed. Face pressed to his neck, breath ghosting over his pulse.

He hadn’t moved for hours. Didn’t want to. The bed was small, but it had held them both. Just barely. There was something absurdly perfect about that. About how they fit.

He let his eyes drift open, blinking up at the ceiling plastered with glow in the dark stars. He hadn’t noticed them last night. She’d stuck them up there, probably years ago, probably drunk, maybe high. They weren’t aligned properly—some clustered too close, others spread out too wide—but it made Harry smile.

It was so her.

Then—

The door creaked.

His eyes shot to it, his arm tightening around her instinctively. And there she was.

Maya.

In sweats, hoodie up, a tote bag slung over one shoulder and half a bagel in her mouth. She froze in the doorway, chewing slowly as she saw them both.

Harry blinked. She blinked back.

And then—

She smiled.

“Morning,” she said, voice casual, still chewing. “I got bagels.”

His brows lifted. “Maya?”

“Mmhm.” She stepped fully into the room, walked past the bed like this wasn’t completely surreal, and set a brown paper bag on the desk. “One’s egg and cheese, one’s veggie, one’s plain. I got a discount so I went wild. You're not vegan, right?”

“I’m not.” 

Maya nodded. “Cool.”

He opened his mouth to respond but then she stirred beside him.

She blinked. Then groaned. “Maya?”

“Hey, you.” Maya turned, already backing out. “Don’t get up. I’m leaving again. Nate broke one of the frames while carrying it up the stairs and I have to go reconstruct it before the opening or I’ll die. Eat your bagel.”

“Maya—”

“Love you, mean it.”

And then she was gone.

The door clicked shut behind her. Harry turned slowly. 

She rubbed her eyes. “That’s Maya.”

“She seems…unfazed.”

“She walked in on me giving my high school boyfriend a blowjob in this same bed,” she mumbled. “This is practically G-rated.”

Harry choked. “Jesus Christ.”

She grinned, finally stretching. “Sorry.”

He shook his head, still blinking at the door. “She left you a bagel.”

“She’s thoughtful like that.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The air was warm. The room smelled like her shampoo and toasted everything bagels.

She sat up, reaching for the bag. “You want half?”

“I want the whole thing,” he muttered, watching the way her sleep shirt—his shirt—slipped off her shoulder as she handed it to him.

She raised a brow. “Of the bagel or me?”

Harry took a slow bite of the sandwich, chewed, and swallowed before answering.

“Yes.”

She laughed—quiet and groggy—and curled back into the blankets beside him while he finished eating.

The disc in her old TV menu-looped quietly in the background. And that was when Harry realized—

He didn’t want to leave. Not this apartment. Not her bed. Not this mess of a morning that felt like something he hadn’t let himself hope for. He looked down at her, at the way she was nibbling the corner of a veggie bagel and letting cream cheese smear across her knuckle without noticing.

And that was it. That was the moment. He didn’t plan it. Didn’t rehearse. Didn’t run it through his head a hundred times the way he usually did with big decisions. Because this wasn’t business.

This was her.

“Come to Italy with me.”

She blinked. Mid-bite. Mid-smear of cream cheese.

“What?”

He set his half-finished bagel on the napkin beside them.

“I want you to come to Italy with me,” he said again, softer now. “I leave in three days.”

Her lips parted slightly, eyes searching his face like she was trying to find the joke. But there wasn’t one. Harry was deadly serious.

She swallowed. “You’re inviting me on a trip. To Italy.”

“It’s not a trip,” he said. “It’s a…thing. For work. Big contract. Private villa, vineyard dinner, all that bullshit. I need to be there to finalize some logistics.”

She blinked again.

“You want me to tag along to a work trip in another country?”

“I want you to be there.”

A pause.

“I want to see you sunkissed,” he murmured, voice dipping. “I want to watch you eat pasta with your fingers and lick sauce off your wrist. I want to soak with you in some overpriced marble tub with your legs wrapped around me, pretending we’re not real people.”

Her breath caught.

“I want you to hang off my arm and point at things in little shops and tell me they’re ugly and buy them anyway. I want you to fall asleep in my lap on a train. I want to hear what you sound like in another language.”

She didn’t speak.

Just stared at him.

“And yes,” he added, reaching out to brush a smudge of cream cheese from the corner of her mouth. “I want you there at the dinner. I want you in a dress with your hair up and that little necklace you always wear. I want to introduce you as someone who makes the rest of this shit feel worth it.”

She swallowed hard. Tried to laugh. Failed.

“You’re really pulling out the big guns, huh?”

He nodded. “I’m old. I don’t have time for subtlety.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then said, “Frances can’t come.”

He blinked. “The cat?”

“She’s bad on planes.”

He laughed—genuine and warm—and reached for her hand beneath the sheets.

“You don't need to pay for a flight,” he said. “I have a jet. I want you there.”

She looked down at their hands. His thumb tracing slow circles against her knuckles.

“Three days?”

He nodded.

“Do I have to wear heels?”

“Only if you want to kill me.”

She smiled. Bit her lip. Thought.

“Okay.”

Harry’s heart thudded in his chest.

“Okay?”

She nodded again, smaller this time. “Okay. I’ll come to Italy with you, old man.”

He didn’t grin. Didn’t smirk. He just leaned forward and kissed her hand. Soft. Simple. Grateful.

Frances leapt up onto the bed, meowing loudly.

“Guess she wants to come too,” she said, scratching behind the cat’s ears.

“She’s not allowed.”

“She’ll sue.”

“She can try.”

They laid back down—Harry still half-clothed, her shirt riding up at the hem—and just breathed for a moment. Rain tapped lightly against the windows again. The smell of warm bagels lingered in the air.

And Harry Castillo? For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about deadlines or numbers or failing. He was thinking about sunlit train rides. About her in linen. About the taste of wine off her mouth in a country that didn’t know who they were.

He was thinking about falling in love.

And maybe—

Just maybe—

She was too.

They didn’t move for a while after that. Just laid there in the warmth of her small, chaotic bedroom—bagel crumbs on the sheets, Frances purring between them, her bare leg draped over his thigh like it belonged there.

Eventually though, real life crept back in. It started with a stretch. Then a yawn.

Then her mumbling, “I should shower.”

To which Harry responded, “I’ll die if you move right now.”

But she did. Of course she did.

She slipped out of bed with that effortless, half-asleep grace, hair tangled, his shirt riding up over her thighs. She padded barefoot across the hardwood and vanished into the bathroom without another word.

Harry stayed in bed for another five minutes. Just… thinking. About Italy. About her. About the fact that she said yes. Then—he got up. Went to the kitchen to get water. That’s when he opened her fridge.

And paused.

It wasn’t empty, exactly.

Jars of random sauces. A half-used block of feta. Mismatched Tupperware with exactly two bites of leftovers. A dozen eggs, one cracked. A bag of spinach that looked like it had been forgotten in a war zone. Five different types of hot sauce. A single mini vodka.

There were ingredients. But no actual food.

And Harry?

Harry had spent the last decade with a private chef and a housekeeper. His pantry looked like an organic catalog.

This? This was something else.

She padded back into the kitchen, hair damp, teeth brushed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. “What?”

He turned from the fridge, holding up a sad little container of pickled onions. “This is your dinner?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Sometimes I make pasta.”

“Out of hot sauce and… half a lemon?”

“Adds flavor.”

Harry looked at her like she was a war orphan. She grinned.

He shut the fridge. “We’re going to the store.”

“Harry—”

“I’m not letting you live like this.”

She leaned against the counter, playful. “You trying to domesticate me?”

He walked past her, smacked a kiss on her temple, and muttered, “Put on real shoes.”

They stopped at his penthouse first.

“I’m not going to the store in a suit,” he explained as they stepped off the elevator.

She looked him up and down. He had put his suit back on after she left it hanging up to dry overnight.

“You look like you’re about to close on a skyscraper.”

He loosened his collar. “Exactly. I want to buy produce, not acquire a hedge fund.”

She made herself comfortable while he changed. Shoes off. Feet up. Sitting sideways on his pristine leather couch with Frances curled beside her in her tote bag like a queen.

When Harry emerged again, everything shifted. He was in a navy fleece. Dark jeans. Clean sneakers. His hair was pushed back carelessly, and he looked—God, he looked like a boyfriend. Like a rich, brooding, ridiculously hot boyfriend who didn’t like other men looking at his girl.

Which he proved five minutes later.

The market was close. Not some chaotic Manhattan chain store.

This place was a little upscale. A little overpriced. The kind with hand-written chalk signs and fancy cheese displays and a barista in the corner who actually knew what cortado meant.

He parked on the street and opened the door for her.

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“So why do you?”

“Because if I don’t, some other asshole will.”

She blinked then laughed. “Jesus.”

Harry took her hand as they walked inside.

Casual. Like it was just a thing he did. But when two guys standing near the tomato stand turned to stare at her—eyes lingering a second too long—Harry’s entire body tensed.

She didn’t notice. But he did. Every glance. Every flick of attention. Every half-smirk and second look.

It wasn’t just because she was beautiful. It was the way she walked. The way she moved. The way she laughed when she picked up a can of whipped cream and shook it at him.

“You ever had this on strawberries?”

He blinked. “...No.”

She grinned. “Tragic.”

He didn’t respond. Just added two pints of strawberries and the whipped cream to their basket. She pushed the cart. He added things quietly as they passed them.

Olive oil. Sea salt. Fancy cereal she probably didn’t even like but the box looked pretty. Pasta made by a brand with an unpronounceable name. Parmesan wrapped in wax paper. Fresh basil.

He let her pick the bread. Watched her fingers dance over the loaves before finally choosing one with sesame seeds. He’d never cared what bread tasted like before. But now?

He wanted to watch her butter that slice and eat it on his couch with her knees tucked under her, wearing one of his shirts again.

They turned down the wine aisle.

She held up a bottle. “This one?”

He checked the label. “You like reds?”

“I like this red.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s twenty-one dollars.”

Harry raised a brow. “That’s not wine. That’s regret in a bottle.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and added it to the cart anyway.

He followed behind her, watching the way her fingers curled over the cart handle, the way she tapped her nails when she was thinking.

A guy walked past. Looked directly at her ass.

Harry moved instantly—slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek like it was nothing.

The guy looked away. Quickly.

She leaned in, amused. “Was that possessive or horny?”

“Yes,” Harry murmured.

At checkout, she pulled out her wallet. Harry didn’t even blink. Just slid his card into the reader before she could open it.

“Harry—”

“You’re heading to a whole other county with me.”

“So?”

“So let me buy you fucking groceries.”

She sighed. “You’re annoying.”

“You love it.”

She didn’t respond.

Just kissed his jaw and whispered, “Thank you.”

They carried the bags back to the car, her arms full, the air still damp from the rain.

Frances meowed softly from her tote, swatting at the handle of the bread bag.

“Frances, if you break my focaccia, you’re not going to Italy.”

“She’s not going to Italy.”

“She’s gonna file a complaint.”

“She’s gonna stay with Maya.”

They both laughed.

Back at her place, they unpacked side by side. She tossed him a bag of spinach.

He raised a brow. “You’re gonna use this?”

“Maybe.”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t judge me.”

“I am judging you.”

She elbowed him.

He stole a piece of her cheese.

Frances curled up on the window sill.

The kitchen smelled like basil and citrus and something that could have been the beginning of a life.

Harry leaned back against the counter. Watched her move. Watched the way her fingers brushed crumbs off the cutting board.

And he thought—

This. This was what he’d been missing. Not the girl. Not just her body. But the mundanity of it.

The way she stood barefoot while she put the yogurt in the fridge. The way she hummed to herself while sorting the pantry. The way her hand brushed his like it meant nothing—and everything.

He couldn’t remember what it was like not to want this. And maybe he didn’t want to.

It was the day before they left for Italy.

And Harry was folding her socks.

That alone would’ve been enough to send Danny into early retirement if he’d seen it.

Moments like this, when Harry Castillo, billionaire, former tabloid cryptid, was sitting on a floor of a cramped Lower East Side apartment, cross-legged, carefully rolling tiny pairs of white ankle socks into little cotton donuts and lining them up in the corner of a borrowed suitcase in her bedroom—made her feel happy.

So fucking happy.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she mumbled from the bed, half-asleep, cheek pressed into the duvet.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re rolling them like they’re cigars.”

“They’re supposed to be tight.”

“They’ll stretch out.”

Harry didn’t look up. “They’re socks.”

“Yeah, and you’re acting like you’re assembling high-grade explosives.”

He smirked faintly, tucking another rolled pair into the suitcase. “I take packing seriously.”

She opened one eye. “You once told me you haven’t packed your own bag in five years.”

“That was before you made me human again.”

She blinked. He kept rolling socks. Like he hadn’t just said the most quietly devastating thing of all time.

Packing had taken hours.

Partly because she kept getting distracted and forgetting what she’d already folded.

Partly because Harry had brought over a suitcase from his place—one of those sleek matte black things with TSA locks and wheels that didn’t squeak—and she kept insisting it looked like a tiny armored vehicle.

“I can’t believe I’m borrowing your suitcase,” she’d muttered earlier that day, trying to cram a bathing suit and two sundresses into it at once.

“You didn’t have one.”

“I have a duffel bag.”

Harry looked horrified. “That’s not a suitcase. That’s a threat.”

She threw a sock at him.

He ducked, grinning.

She hadn’t traveled internationally in years. Her passport was expired until recently—she only renewed it because Maya begged her to.

The last stamp it had? Toronto. Age 20. Two broke girls, a shared Airbnb, one near-death experience on a rented bike, and a night of crying on a beach with champagne from CVS.

Now she was going to Italy.

With Harry fucking Castillo. On his private jet.

And somehow, he still got excited watching her zip up a suitcase.

They barely slept the night before the flight. Too many nerves. Too many lists.

She kept checking her phone to make sure her passport was actually in her bag.

Harry watched her, amused. Said nothing.

Instead, he busied himself in her kitchen, making tea they didn’t drink and cutting fruit they didn’t eat.

He couldn’t sit still.

Not because of the trip.

Because of the envelope.

It had come two days ago.

A thin ivory card tucked inside pale pink stationary, his name written in looping gold script across the front

Mr. Harry Castillo + Guest You are cordially invited to the wedding of Lucy & John  Saturday, June 8th, 2025 2:30 PM Chatham Bars Inn Cape Cod, Massachusetts

There was a note scribbled at the bottom in faint pen.

In Lucy's writing. 

No pressure if you can’t come. We’d still love to see you.

Harry had stared at it for ten full minutes before tucking it under a file on his desk and pretending it hadn’t arrived.

He hadn’t told her.

Not because he was hiding anything. Not really. But because he didn’t want to bring Lucy into this. Into them.

Not when she was standing barefoot in his shirt, trying to find her phone charger and muttering about whether three pairs of jeans were “too many.”

Not when she called out, “Did I pack underwear already?” and he responded,

“Twelve pairs.”

Not when she looked at him across the room like he was something safe.

He would tell her eventually. Just…not yet.

The morning of the flight came quietly. It was still dark when the alarm buzzed.

She groaned. “What time is it?”

“2:30.”

“In the morning?”

“You agreed to this.”

“I was in love with you when I agreed. I’ve changed my mind.”

Harry smirked and sat up, sliding a hand through his hair. Frances jumped onto the bed and meowed directly into his face.

“She’s saying don’t leave me,” she mumbled into the pillow.

“She’s saying feed me.”

She rolled over and stared at him. “Do you always look like that when you wake up?”

Harry blinked. “Like what?”

“Like someone just photoshopped exhaustion and sex appeal.”

He threw a pillow at her.

By 3 a.m., Danny was downstairs in the car, already texting.

Danny: I’m not saying we’re late, but we’re late.

Danny: I have coffee. And donuts. And two kinds of Dramamine.

Harry grabbed the suitcase, double-checked her passport, triple-checked the address with Danny, and then took one last look around her apartment.

She was saying goodbye to Frances, promising her the neighbor would stop by and that Maya would be back by sunrise.

Harry just… watched her.

The way she knelt down to scratch behind the cat’s ears.

The way she whispered, “Don’t pee on my rug just to spite me, you little demon.”

He smiled to himself.

The car ride was quiet. Rain tapped against the windows.

She curled up in the back seat with his sweatshirt tucked under her chin. Harry held her hand.

Danny sat in the passenger seat, wisely keeping his mouth shut except to say, “It’s a beautiful jet, by the way. You’re gonna be insufferable about it.”

She looked up sleepily. “Is it big?”

Harry kissed her fingers. “It’s private.”

She grinned. “I feel like a Bond girl.”

The jet was waiting. Sleek. Immaculate. Tucked away on the private runway like something out of a movie.

She blinked when they pulled up. “That’s… ours?”

Harry nodded.

Danny sighed. “Yours. I still fly commercial.”

Inside, the cabin was pristine.

Cream leather seats. Soft lighting. A tiny bar in the corner already stocked with orange juice and sparkling water and espresso pods.

Harry showed her how to buckle the seatbelt. How to adjust the window shade. Where the snacks were.

She laughed. “Are you my flight attendant now?”

“Only on this airline,” he muttered.

Once they took off, she pressed her face to the window, watching the skyline disappear.

He sat beside her, legs stretched out, arm slung over the back of her seat.

Danny popped in once. Dropped off croissants. Said something about Italian cell service and their hotel driver. Then vanished again.

They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.

He watched her fall asleep mid-sentence, lips parted slightly, hair tucked under her hoodie.

He didn’t move. Didn’t work. Didn’t check his phone.

Just… stayed beside her.

And for the first time since that ivory envelope arrived—

He didn’t think about Lucy.

Didn’t think about what might’ve been.

Didn’t think about anything but the fact that in a few short hours, they’d land in a city made of light and wine and ancient stone.

And he’d get to see her walk through it.

Get to hear her gasp at things he’d seen a thousand times.

Get to hold her hand while she ate gelato and pointed at pigeons and got overwhelmed in a market stall and accidentally bought a tablecloth because she thought the vendor was complimenting her hair.

He didn’t want anyone else there.

Just her. And maybe that was enough.

Maybe it had always been.

They landed at exactly 5:32 PM local time.

The air was different. Warmer, even in early evening. The light had a honeyed edge to it—soft gold and long shadows draped across the tarmac like something out of a postcard. The jet slowly came to a stop as she blinked blearily at the window, hoodie bunched around her waist, tank top loose and clinging. No bra. 

Harry glanced over at her, the edge of his mouth twitching.

"You’re going to give someone a heart attack the second we step off this plane."

She yawned. "Good. Let them die seeing something beautiful."

He almost smiled.

As soon as the door opened, the energy shifted.

Three black cars waited on the runway. Two assistants in pressed suits stood beside them, flanked by a driver and what looked like a security consultant in a tailored gray jacket. The woman in front stepped forward immediately, beaming like Harry personally discovered electricity.

One sign read: CASTILLO PARTY – VILLA LUMEN.

"Mr. Castillo! Welcome back. We’re honored. Truly."

Harry gave a brief nod, hand resting on the small of her back.

The woman turned to her next. "Mrs. Castillo, we hope the flight was comfortable. We’ve arranged everything at the villa. Please let us know if there’s anything else you need."

She froze. Blinked. But Harry didn’t correct her.

Neither did she.

He just squeezed her hip gently and muttered, "Let them think whatever they want."

The drive was smooth, luxurious, absurd.

The countryside blurred past—green vineyards, cypress trees, stone walls bathed in sunset. Their driver offered wine and chilled sparkling water in crystal-cut glasses. The seats reclined. The windows were tinted so deeply she could’ve fallen asleep again without anyone noticing.

But she stayed awake. Watching Harry.

Watching the way he relaxed by degrees, slowly, as the city disappeared behind them.

When they pulled up to the villa, she nearly forgot how to speak.

It was unreal.

Terracotta walls. Ivy-covered balconies. Lavender blooming along the path leading up to the entrance. White roses climbing up the columns. A view that stretched over the hills for what looked like miles.

Inside, everything smelled like lemon and clean linen. Marble floors, arched windows, a winding staircase made of stone.

Their hosts didn’t linger.

Just offered soft words, a bow, and a smile before vanishing with the promise, “Dinner will be served at eight. You are encouraged to rest until then.”

She just stared, slowly spinning in a circle, looking at every detail of the place.

"They put us in the west wing," Harry muttered, fingers lightly brushing her back as they were led upstairs.

"We have wings now?"

He looked at her. "We have whatever the fuck we want."

The bedroom made her stop walking.

A carved wooden bed stood in the middle, sheets white and impossibly soft. The balcony doors were open, a breeze dancing in. Beyond them—vineyards. Hills. A sky slowly turning the color of ripe apricots. 

There were flowers on the nightstand.

A bottle of wine already uncorked.

Macarons in a glass bowl.

She lets out a sigh, closing her eyes as she makes her way out onto the balcony. 

"Is this a honeymoon suite?" she whispered.

Harry didn’t answer.

He stepped behind her instead. Hands on her waist. Lips grazing her neck.

"Come here."

She turned in his arms, breath catching. His eyes were darker than usual, jaw tight. There was something restless behind it. Something feral.

"You’re quiet," she murmured.

He studied her face. His hands slid under her tank top.

"You smell like a fucking dream."

She arched a brow. "That’s not an answer."

"I haven’t touched you in days."

Her stomach clenched.

"I noticed."

He kissed her.

Hard.

Like he was angry at himself for waiting. Like he’d been hungry for weeks. Like her mouth was the only thing that could make him human again.

Her back hit the stone and he lifted her onto the bench, hands gripping her thighs, dragging her tank top down, mouth never leaving hers. She gasped when the cold air hit her chest—bare, sensitive—and he groaned deep in his throat.

"Fuck," he muttered, pulling back to look at her. His eyes were locked on her breasts, his thumbs brushing over them like he was memorizing. "You’re so fucking pretty. You don’t even know."

She bit her lip. "Then show me."

And he did.

He kissed down her throat, down the center of her chest, sucking, licking, dragging his teeth along soft skin until she was squirming. Until her thighs squeezed around his hips. Until she said his name like it meant something.

Then—

He dropped to his knees.

Right there.

On the balcony.

The breeze blew gently around them, the smell of lavender and wine in the air. Her tank top was shoved up, her shorts already pushed down her thighs. She slowly slid down the bench.

And Harry looked up at her like she was something sacred.

"Keep your eyes on me."

She did.

She watched him lick a stripe up her slit, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting something rare. She cried out, legs shaking, hands grasping for the stone railing behind her.

He groaned again. "You taste like everything I’ve ever wanted."

His tongue was relentless—circling, flicking, sucking. His grip on her thighs was bruising, grounding her, holding her open like he couldn’t get enough.

She tried to speak. Failed.

He slid two fingers inside her—slow at first, curling perfectly—then fast, then deeper, fucking her open while his mouth devoured her.

"You gonna come for me, baby?"

She whimpered.

He sucked harder.

"Say my name."

She did.

Over and over.

Until she shattered.

Until her legs gave out and he had to catch her.

He stood, scooping her up like she weighed nothing, carrying her to the bed and laying her down gently.

Then he kissed her again—messy, hungry, licking her taste off his lips and moaning like he was drunk.

"I can’t stop," he muttered. "You do something to me. You ruin me."

She pulled at his shirt. He let her.

Let her undress him like she owned him.

And when he pushed inside her, slow and deep and all at once—

It wasn’t just fucking.

It was worship.

It was raw, reverent, almost painful in its intensity. He braced one hand against the mattress and the other curled around the back of her neck, holding her gaze like he couldn’t bear to look away. Like he needed to see every twitch of her mouth, every blink, every gasp that left her lips as he thrust into her again and again, steady and deep and so achingly deliberate.

She breathed his name like a prayer, fingers tangled in his hair, lips parted with pleasure. Her body arched to meet every movement, desperate to be closer, to swallow him whole.

Harry moved like he was etching something permanent into her—like he wanted to mark her from the inside. His mouth brushed her cheek, her jaw, her lips between every breathless exhale.

"You feel like heaven," he rasped. "You feel like mine."

She whimpered at that—at the way he said it like a truth carved into stone.

He kissed her again. Slower this time. Tongue teasing her mouth open as his hips rolled in a rhythm that was almost cruel in how good it felt. Like he knew exactly how to undo her.

One of her hands slipped down, tracing over his side, his back, clutching at him as if to make sure he stayed there. As if she couldn’t take the chance he’d pull away.

And he didn’t.

He never faltered. Never let her go. Just kept moving—fucking her with care, with need, with that terrifying depth he never shared with anyone else.

She tightened around him, legs trembling, her voice breaking as she said his name, pleaded, begged.

He whispered into her mouth, "I’ve got you. Come for me. Right now. That’s it—fuck—just like that."

Her body arched, then shattered beneath him.

And he followed.

A low groan ripped from his throat as he spilled into her, thrusts faltering, his whole body shaking from the force of it. His forehead pressed to hers. Their breath tangled. Their pulses frantic.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Didn’t say anything.

Just held her.

One hand cupping the side of her face, the other stroking her waist in lazy, absentminded circles.

Eventually, he pulled back just far enough to look at her—eyes heavy, mouth soft, expression unreadable.

Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered, "Thank you."

She blinked. "For what?"

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He just kissed her shoulder, slow and reverent, and stayed there.

Outside, the Tuscan night whispered around them—

Soft. Endless. Real.

The air inside the villa was thick with the ghost of everything they’d just done. Her skin still tingled. Her chest rose and fell in slow, steady waves. She was sprawled across the sheets, hair a mess, limbs boneless, skin flushed with afterglow and the faintest imprint of the linen texture pressed into her back.

The room still smelled like sex and sunlight.

Harry was quiet beside her.

Not cold. Not distant.

Just...quiet. Like the kind of silence that comes only after something tectonic. Like he was letting the earth settle. Like something had cracked open and they were both just standing in the new air, breathing it in.

His thumb moved absently along her waist, tracing lazy circles. He was still half-hard, still close, but not demanding more.

Not yet. He just needed to be here. In it. With her.

She rolled over onto her side, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. His skin was warm and smelled like wine and her perfume and faint lavender from the villa sheets. Familiar and new at the same time.

Neither of them said anything for a while.

She let her fingers trail along the curve of his chest, nails faint, almost ticklish. She counted the moles across his sternum. He hummed at that, deep in his throat, then exhaled slowly, one big hand sliding up to rest on the back of her head.

“You’re going to be late,” she mumbled against his collarbone.

“No, I’m not.”

“You have a dinner.”

“I said what I said.”

She laughed quietly. “Harry.”

“I don’t care if we show up looking like we just fucked.”

“We did just fuck.”

“Exactly.”

She nudged his rib with her knee. “You have to shower, old man.”

He groaned. “You’re the reason I’m sweaty.”

“You’re the reason you’re grumpy.”

He cracked one eye open. “You wanna say that again?”

She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Shower. Now.”

Eventually, they moved.

Reluctantly.

Limbs tangled as they rolled off the bed. Her thighs ached. She was sore in the most decadent way. Her body felt loose and tender and entirely his. He offered a hand as she stepped down from the mattress—mock-gentlemanly, fake regal—and she accepted it with a smirk and a dramatic curtsey.

The bathroom was all marble and glass. Golden light spilled in from the balcony, painting the countertops in warm hues. The shower was massive—big enough for two, maybe three. Probably four if they stacked right.

She turned the water on.

He watched her.

Always watching.

When the steam curled around their bodies, she stepped in first. Hot water sluiced down her back, her shoulders, her spine.

She sighed as it hit her skin. A low sound. Almost grateful. Almost reverent.

Harry followed.

No words. Just hands.

Big hands. Careful hands. Hands that had held her like she might vanish, that had gripped her thighs and touched the softest parts of her like they were sacred. Like she was.

He grabbed the soap first.

Rubbed it between his palms, lathered slowly. Then—gently, reverently—dragged his hands over her back.

Her shoulders. Her arms. Her stomach. Her hips. Down to the back of her knees.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He washed her like she was precious. Like she was something ancient and delicate and holy. He kissed the top of her spine. The curve behind her ear. Rinsed her hair with long, slow strokes. Massaged her scalp until she leaned back into him, humming.

She returned the favor.

Lathered his chest. His arms. Dragged the soap down the deep lines of his stomach with slow, teasing fingers. She worked the shampoo into his hair, watching his eyes flutter closed. When she got to his thighs, he groaned.

“Behave.”

She didn’t.

He pulled her close, water cascading over their bodies, their skin slick and clean and flushed with something almost unbearable.

She reached for a cloth and gently wiped behind his ears.

“I’m not your child.”

“You’re acting like one.”

He grabbed her waist and yanked her flush against him.

They stayed like that until their fingers pruned.

Then—finally—they dried off.

She wrapped herself in one of the impossibly soft robes from the villa.

Harry did the same, though his looked comically small on him. She giggled when it barely covered his thighs.

“Say a word and I’ll throw you into the courtyard.”

“Promise?”

He rolled his eyes. “I have international security clearance. No one would know.”

Back in the bedroom, the air had shifted. Still warm. Still gold-lit. But now it felt like transition. Like preparation. Like a pause before the world returned.

The suitcase sat open on the bench at the foot of the bed. A half-folded silk dress draped over the edge. His suit jacket hung on a chair.

“Unpack?” she asked.

He nodded.

They worked together.

Unpacking side by side.

She folded his shirts. He folded her underwear.

Her fingers danced over his cologne bottle, the one she always associated with him. She set it gently on the nightstand beside a small glass of water. He didn’t say anything, but he glanced over. Noted it.

He placed her hairbrush beside the bathroom sink, untangling a few of her strands caught in the bristles.

She rolled her socks and tucked them into the drawer. Folded her pajamas. Lined her skin care in a neat row.

He lined his ties on the shelf like a ritual. Stacked his cufflinks in the tray she passed him.

They shared the space. Merged into it. No questions asked. No territory claimed.

She hung up her dresses into the villa wardrobe. He adjusted the hangers. Steamed the back of her dress when she wasn’t looking.

She noticed his charger cable was frayed. She pulled one from her tote and handed it over without a word.

He opened a small velvet box and revealed a delicate necklace he’d packed for her without telling her.

“Wear this,” he said simply.

She blinked. “You packed jewelry?”

“You didn’t.”

Her lips curved.

The moment lingered.

Then—getting ready.

She stood at the vanity, pulling a comb through her damp hair. He stood beside her, shaving. Both in their robes. Moving in tandem. Like they’d done this a hundred times before. The kind of rhythm you can’t fake.

She did her makeup slowly, lip balm first, then liner, then a whisper of mascara. A little blush.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt beside her, fingers methodical. Buttoned his cuffs. Straightened his sleeves.

She reached for perfume. He paused, watching.

“You use that every day huh.”

“I do.”

He leaned down. Smelled her neck. “Still there.”

Then he asked if she could spray some on him.

She smiled.

He walked into the closet to grab his belt. She watched the way his robe opened slightly as he moved, the lines of his body still lingering with the softness of their morning.

Then—clothes.

She slipped the silk dress over her shoulders. It was pale. Bare-backed. Barely structured. The kind of dress you wore in Italy when you weren’t sure if you were someone’s date or someone’s downfall.

Harry froze when he saw her in it.

She turned.

“Too much?”

His jaw flexed. “You’re not changing.”

She smirked.

He moved closer. Adjusted the straps like they were made of glass. Tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Let his thumb brush her collarbone.

“You’re going to make this very hard for me.”

“You invited me.”

“I didn’t know what I was inviting.”

“Yes, you did.”

He said nothing.

Just buttoned his shirt.

Put on his watch.

Slid into the jacket like he was donning armor. Sharp and deliberate.

She watched from the bed.

Hair pinned up now. Lipstick barely there. One heel dangling from her foot. Legs crossed like temptation.

“You look mean,” she said.

“I am mean.”

She grinned. “But you smell nice.”

He offered a hand. She took it.

They stood in front of the mirror together.

Perfect opposites.

Dark suit. Soft silk. Sharp jaw. Warm smile. Something dangerous, something beautiful.

Together.

They didn’t say much after that.

Just breathed.

The dinner.

Work.

But for now—

It was just them.

But not for long.

Because at exactly 8:17 p.m.—fashionably, just barely, late—the knock came.

Three soft raps on the thick villa door, followed by a polite, accented voice calling, "Mr. Castillo? Your guests are seated. The drinks are being served."

Harry exhaled slowly. A breath through his nose. One final glance at her.

She looked unreal.

Silk dress. Loose updo. That faint smudge of color on her lips that made his mouth twitch every time he looked too long. Her necklace—the one he picked—rested delicately on her collarbone like it belonged there.

He didn’t say anything.

Just offered his arm.

She took it.

And down they went.

Dinner was being served under a pergola lit by strands of woven golden lights. The villa’s courtyard stretched out before them like something out of a dream—white linen table, wine glasses already half-full, the sound of crickets humming in the background.

Candlelight danced across bottles of olive oil and bowls of olives, and the scent of rosemary and garlic wafted from a nearby kitchen. Cicadas buzzed low in the distance, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the rustic stone tiles.

There were twelve seats.

Ten already filled.

Harry’s partners were an intimidating mix—Italian, British, and New York-bred tycoons with slick smiles and suspiciously quiet watches. Their wives, dressed in silk and linen and quiet diamonds, turned when Harry and she arrived—eager, observant, their eyes already cataloging every detail.

Like predators sizing up a rare animal at the watering hole.

Lorenzo and Marcella sat closest to the head. Lorenzo was tall, leonine, late fifties, with thick white hair and a voice like a cello. Marcella wore a linen suit and pearls, her Italian accent soft and theatrical. She was always watching.

Next to them—Livia and Paolo. Livia had a sharp chin, a sharper voice, and a body that looked sculpted from Florence marble. Paolo wore a navy suit that screamed Milan, his cufflinks catching the candlelight.

And at the far end, Francesca and Luca.

Francesca looked like a Donna Tartt character. Blunt bob, smudged eyeliner, a cigarette nearly lit. She wore a sheer black blouse over a vintage slip and held her wine glass like it was an accessory. Her smile was the kind that knew secrets.

Luca barely spoke. Just watched. Calculating.

And then there was Danny. 

"Harry!" Marcella called, standing with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "We were starting to think you’d eloped."

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’d know. It’d be on the news within the hour.”

There were polite laughs. The kind that had more teeth than warmth.

He pulled out her chair before taking his own. It was a subtle motion. Protective. Possessive. Deliberate. A quiet claim staked in linen and candlelight.

Francesca’s eyes sparkled.

Marcella tilted her head. “And this is…?”

Harry rested one hand on the back of her chair. "My girlfriend."

Silence.

Then—

Marcella blinked. "Girlfriend?"

Livia raised a brow. “That’s new.”

Paolo chuckled. “She’s beautiful. Young, too. You’ve been holding out on us, Castillo.”

Harry didn’t smile. Just picked up his wine.

“She’s not a secret. She’s just not your business.”

Marcella laughed, waving her hand. “You know us. We’re nosy. Besides, the wives are all dying to know. We have a betting pool.”

“Jesus,” Harry muttered, under his breath.

Francesca leaned over to her. “Don’t mind them. They’re all bored and drunk on red wine and old money.”

She smiled.

“I’m Francesca,” the woman said. “And you—are fascinating.”

The meal began.

Plates of antipasti. Olive tapenade, roasted tomatoes, shaved fennel, slices of prosciutto that melted on the tongue. Tiny burrata drizzled with balsamic. Warm focaccia with rosemary. Bowls of almonds and figs.

It was decadent without trying to be. Effortless luxury.

Harry stayed quiet for most of it. Sharp-eyed, tense-shouldered. Only relaxing slightly when she brushed her leg against his under the table. She could feel the energy buzzing off him—wary, protective, always watching.

She found herself in conversation with Francesca quickly.

Books.

They talked about books.

“I just reread The Secret History,” Francesca said, swirling her wine. “Still makes me want to commit academic murder.”

She grinned. “I always wanted to be Bunny. Not in spirit. In wardrobe.”

“Tragic prep chic.”

“Exactly.”

Harry glanced over at that. Quiet approval in his gaze.

Francesca lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around her in elegant swirls. “Who are your favorites?”

She shrugged. “Zadie Smith. Donna Tartt. Ottessa Moshfegh, but only when I’m feeling unwell. Lately I’ve been reading a lot of Didion.”

Francesca beamed. “You and I are going to get along dangerously well.”

Livia leaned in across the table. “How did you two meet?”

Harry stiffened.

She opened her mouth.

He beat her to it.

“Page Six is going to run that story in a week. Ask them.”

More laughter. More glances. More eyes like spotlights.

Marcella pressed on. “It’s just surprising, Harry. You’re not… known for romance.”

He smirked. “I’m not known for a lot of things I am.”

Paolo raised his glass. “Is she moving in?”

Harry stays silent, starting to scowl at Paolo.

“Soon?” He pushes. He keeps on fucking pushing.

Harry didn’t answer. But his hand brushed hers under the table.

Francesca spoke instead. “Let them be. Love doesn’t have a lease agreement.”

Marcella sipped her wine. “But surely it’s serious. You brought her to Italy.”

Livia leaned in again. "And what’s the age gap, if you don’t mind me asking?"

Harry’s jaw ticked.

“I do mind.”

Marcella laughed, shaking her head. “We’re just curious. You know how it is. Older men and beautiful women. It’s a tale as old as time.”

“She’s not a tale,” Harry said flatly. “She’s a person.”

That shut them up.

For a beat.

Then—

Lorenzo, quiet until now, finally spoke. “And what about Lucy?”

The table paused.

Her stomach dropped.

Harry didn’t blink. “What about her.”

Lorenzo shrugged. “Just surprised to see you here with this girl, that’s all. I'd thought you'd be reeling from shock over Lucy sending you an invitation to her wedding.”

How did he know.

How the fuck did he know?

She froze next to him.

Her hand stopped rubbing his out of comfort. 

Harry’s jaw ticked. “We haven’t RSVPed.”

Marcella’s eyebrows rose. “Wait. You were invited?”

“Apparently.”

“Wow,” Livia said. “That’s bold. Isn’t she marrying that waiter?”

“John,” Paolo supplied.

“Oh, right. The bohemian.”

“She's not my girlfriend anymore, so stop bringing her up.” Harry said. Cold. Even.

Livia raised a brow. “But she was.”

Silence.

He stared down at Livia. “She isn’t now.”

She didn’t say anything.

But her body went still.

Francesca noticed. She shifted slightly, nudging her foot against hers under the table. A quiet, unspoken solidarity.

The conversation moved on.

Sort of.

She laughed at something Francesca said about poetry readings and obscure authors who only write in lowercase.

But inside—

Something tightened.

He hadn’t told her.

About the wedding.

About the invite.

About any of it.

She smiled. She clinked her wine glass. She even leaned into his arm when dessert was served—some kind of lemon tart with burnt sugar and pistachio.

But something shifted.

Just slightly.

A hairline crack in the evening.

Not enough to break it.

Just enough to notice.

Francesca asked her if she’d read Bluets.

She nodded. “Three times.”

They talked about heartbreak. About writing through pain. About how nobody writes yearning like Nina LaCour.

Harry kept his hand on her lower back. Gentle. Present.

But she wasn’t fully there anymore.

When Harry looked down at her later—when the stars came out and the wine dulled most of the tension in the room—he noticed it too.

Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He wanted to ask.

But didn’t.

Because he already knew why.

love love love the idea of being at a dinner party and sitting next to your lover. he whispers gossip into your ear while everyone is deep in conversation. kisses your neck and bites you ever so lightly. inhales your scent and kisses your cheek afterwards. holds your hand once the plates have been cleared from the table and kisses your knuckles every five minutes. wraps his arm around your waist as you’re saying goodbye

so you're telling me that in FIVE YEARS no one in Jackson got with him???? HELL NAH i don't believe it

Sleepover

(ID: sequential art image 1: close up of eggs cooking image 2: Jack Abbot cooking shirtless in his kitchen image 3: Robby and Samira asleep together in bed in Abbot’s apartment end ID)

first thing

jack abbot x female reader

summary: lazy mornings with jack are few and far between, but they always exceed your expectations or jack topping you from the bottom while you ride him first thing in the morning!

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, literally nothing but smut, established relationship of some sort (let your imaginations run wild), p in v sex, dirty talk bc of course, excessive use of the nickname baby, jack being a veryyy lowkey pleasure dom

word count: 1.1k

author’s note: i’m a firm believer that our dear dr. abbot has a filthy mouth, so of course i had to write something nasty for him. the lack of smut for that smug son of a bitch is criminal. also i am convinced that he would call you baby in bed, but only in bed. i dont think he’d be one for pet names, but something about him being all pussy drunk and calling you baby through low raspy groans. yeah. that is all… enjoy!

“You havin’ fun up there?” Jack’s voice was peppered with self-righteous teasing. His words melted into the air through a lazy drawl as you straddled his lap, his dick buried deep between your legs.

Fifteen minutes ago, you were both fast asleep, bodies intertwined under his linen sheets.

You stirred awake in each other's arms, a tangled mess of limbs in the soft yellow hues of morning light that fought through the blinds. Slow sensual touches on bare skin led to your body on top of his. Feeling the familiar stretch as you sunk down on him, you took your time rolling your hips and coaxing quiet grunts from the man below you before either of you could even think about getting out of bed for the day.

It was rare for you to have an upper hand in the bedroom. When it came to Jack, dominance was his territory, the power associated with it fed his ego. It was uncommon to catch him in a moment of vulnerability, but sometimes you found him trading his strong willed attitude for a more docile demeanor. It often appeared when he was preoccupied or overcome with the need for relief, giving into the soft comfort of your hands on his body. He had to be just needy enough to willingly let take the lead, and even then, he could never fully submit.

He used his words in retaliation.

Maybe his rigid frame would melt under your touch, or his inhibitions would fall to the side at the sound of your pathetic little moans, but he would always rely on his words to remind you who was really in charge. 

“Nice and slow just like that.” The deep rasp of his voice echoed between your bodies; his instruction still laced with sleep. 

A smirk peeked through his slumber worn expression, fingertips resting at the flesh of your waist as your body pressed into his.

His head fell back into the pillow, eyes threatening to close, and you could feel his fingers hug harder into your skin with each rock of your hips.  

“There you go.” He held you, trying his best to let you set the pace, but desperately wanting to tighten his grip and drag you along his body— rough and impulsive. 

Your fucked-out stare scanning him from above was the only thing keeping him in check.

Your pleading eyes begged for control. They practically oozed with desperation as you rode him. It was enough to make his grasp soften as he surrendered to your desire, watching as you used him to please yourself. Used him. His dick pulsed at the notion. 

Jack was addicted to you, mind numbingly obsessed with the soft gasps that fell from your lips every time you came. He swore those sounds alone could give him a buzz unlike any drug. Some nights, he’d make you finish on his fingers so many times he’d lose count. He needed to make you feel good— wanted to watch the way your body reacted to his touch. It held a different kind of control, witnessing you give yourself over to him with your back arched and your head thrown back.

“Show me how you want it baby.” His voice was attentive as he fed into your delusion of power. 

You were grinding into him. Your movements bordering on pitiful with your palm flat against his chest as you held yourself upright. Little whimpers of surrender made their way from your chest with each pass of your hips over his, angling yourself just right so that his tip brushed against the perfect spot with every movement. 

Fluttering shut in the inevitable anticipation of release; your eyes left his. You were basking in the warmth of his hands on your bare body; one of them trailing up your torso, the pads of his fingertips tracing into your skin, higher and higher until,

“Eyes on me.” Delicately, he held the nape of your neck, forcing your stare back on his as he pulled you closer to him. 

You dumbly nodded your head. Handing him back an ounce of authority as you followed his command through a hooded gaze.

“Look at you. So goddamn pretty for me.” 

Your jaw went slack at his words, mouth slightly open and brows knit together as the pressure building in your abdomen threatened its release. 

He could feel each greedy response of your body— could sense your impending orgasm with every clench of your thighs, and he was done letting you take the reins.

His hips snapped up to meet yours. Thrusts moving in tandem with each grind of your hips.

“Shit- you feel too fuckin’ good.” Profanities spilled from his throat at the satisfaction of having full control.

He was holding onto your hips and fucking into you from below. The tensing of your body and the sweet moans dripping from your tongue only adding to his pleasure. You were his. He needed it— craved the promise of your devotion in the breathless praise of his name on your lips.

“Come on baby let me have it.” Growling out in a low moan, he all but begged you to finish for him— finish on him. Pushing you right over the edge with just a few simple words and the persuasive quality of his voice. 

Your walls hugged tight in obedience, a string of whines leaving your throat as you came undone around him.

“There she is.” His statement of recognition seeped with affection while his grip on your hips remained unrelenting.

The high of your release persisted as Jack’s thrusts kept purpose, his hands on your body holding you steady. 

“Got another one for me?” A sadistic warmth took over his voice, and he drove into you harder. The question obviously rhetorical as he made sure to hit the spot that made you clench around him.

The day began around you as gentle sunlight filled the room, but neither of you had a single thought of getting out of bed anytime soon.

WHEN I TELL YOU I WAS SHOCKED FROM START TO FINISH HONEYYYYHHHHHHH

I NEEEEEED PART TWO

Safety Net: Part I | ~13.8k wc | Co-Written with @ovaryacted | Series Masterlist

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Motivated by boredom, Marcus goes on a sugar dating app and lands himself a date with you, the only person that captured his attention.

CHAPTER TAGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. Modern AU. Sugar daddy Marcus Acacius/Sugar baby reader. Age gap [Marcus is 50/reader is 25+]. SMUT. Plot with porn. Kissing/Makeout session. Dry humping. Premature ejaculation. Oral (f! receiving). Multiple orgasms. Overstimulation. MARCUS THE MUNCH! Sexual tension. Flirting & banter. First date chronicles. Lots of plot & world building beforehand. Takes place in Chicago. Marcus uses a sugar dating app. Reader is explicitly described as a curvy woman of color: darker skin tone, curly hair texture, etc. Reader has feminine characteristics - wears dresses, heels, jewelry, & makeup. Reader is afab and able bodied. Marcus is recently divorced. Marcus comes from old money and is a businessman. Chivalry isn't dead.

A/N: This has been in the works for far too long but finally, we managed to lock in and cook up some straight heat! This is what happens when you put two yapping hoes on a doc, so we hope everyone who feens for Marcus Acacius as much as we do enjoys the fruits of our labor lol. Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated. Support your BIPOC writers 🖤

Another lone dinner, nothing but the gritty sound of the song echoing from his record player to accompany him.

Tonight was meant to be a small victory. Marcus had enrolled in a cooking class to keep busy after the divorce, and this meal was supposed to put those new skills to use. But as he chopped, cooked, ate and cleaned, the expected satisfaction never came. Instead, a quiet boredom crept in—maybe even isolation.

It was like his body was moving on autopilot, simply going through the motions.

He brings the rim of his glass up to his lips, eyes falling down to the city below. From his penthouse, the skyline sometimes blurs beneath a soft haze of clouds, making the world below look like a dream. The wealth, the view, the opulence—it’s everything people imagine happiness to be. And yet… loneliness seeps into his bones, slowly debilitating his already precarious joy.

He assumed that divorcing from his now ex-wife would help pull him out of this stupor. They were both in agreeance that their marriage had been nothing but one out of convenience—the best thing for the both of them at that time. No romance, no passion, just a practical arrangement that worked. At least, until it didn’t.

Marcus hadn’t expected her to fight for the marriage, but he also hadn’t expected her to fixate on the prenup. One night, in the midst of her moving out, he’d overheard her gossiping on the phone with one of her friends. It would’ve gotten a lot nastier if I hadn’t gotten what I was owed.

The words hit harder than he expected. On some level, he had loved her. Not in the way a husband should love a wife, but in a way that still meant something to him. There had been care, respect, even a kind of tenderness—out of duty, maybe, but real nonetheless. He even enjoyed being a stepfather to her teenage son.

No resentment was held, not when they were about to part ways.

She was entitled to a payout, and he made sure she got it, wiring the full amount before the lawyers could sink their teeth into the process. No use in dragging things out or turning something empty into something bitter. 

So they ended it quietly and swiftly. One last dinner as husband and wife, a toast to a chapter closing, and then the signing of papers that made it official.

It has been months since then, and Marcus is right where he’s always been. The same life, the same routine—just without the pretense of a marriage. He’s outgrown the bachelor lifestyle and has no interest in jumping back to it. He’s in fifties with a divorce under his belt, family business in his care, and more money than he knows what to do with. 

Most men in his position would see this as a rebirth, an excuse to run wild. He’s seen it plenty—divorcees burning through their wealth to impress women half their age, indulging in recklessness until, eventually, they wonder how the fuck they lost it all.

The thought makes him scoff slightly, shaking his head as he continues to lose himself in his own mind, still gazing over the city.

Ever since word got out that he was single again, the men in his social circle have been relentless. They want him to “get back out there,” find some young thing to do more than stroke his ego and remind him he’s still got it. Their concern isn’t for his happiness—it’s for their own validation. They want him to fall in line, to indulge like they do, to prove they’re all still kings of their own little worlds.

The idea of dating brings a faint migraine thumping at his temples. No way in hell. He doesn’t have it in him to go through first date purgatory of asking the same grueling questions, only to have nothing in common with the person at the end of the night. And his work acquaintances aren’t suggesting anything so conventional, anyway. 

He’s lost count of how many times they’ve invited him to strip clubs or proposed outrageous tropical getaways filled with booze and paid company. They aren’t subtle about their misogyny, either. They brag about the escorts they’ve hired, the women they’ve bought for the night, offering him contact information like they’re handing out business cards. In case you get tired of using your fist all the time, they joke.

The detachment of sex is what he finds peculiar. It’s not about pleasure, it’s about seeking validation from other men while putting another notch at their bedpost. It’s why he rarely accepts their invitations. Avoiding their outings, distancing himself as much as he can… but only to a certain degree. Unfortunately, these men are his business partners, and in his world, he wasn’t exactly given the luxury of full separation.

The act of paying for sex isn’t the problem. He doesn’t care how they get their satisfaction, really, it only grates on him when their vulgarity spills into business meetings, when corporate lunches turn into competitions over who had the best night with the most expensive woman.

Take today, for example, when a longtime partner had sidled up to him as he was headed home for the day, practically shoving the phone into Marcus’s hands.

“Met this chick on that app I was telling you about and scored myself a date tonight. She’s hot.”

Marcus resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the way this grown man was waving the information around as if it were something to boast about. He barely glanced at the screen—a woman in a tight dress posing in front of a bar. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? Congratulations?

Before he had to give an answer, the elevator doors opened. A perfect escape. He handed the phone back and muttered a quick, “Have a good weekend,” stepping out and letting the doors shut on yet another conversation he wanted no part of.

Now he’s here, two and a half glasses of whiskey deep with a curiosity that feeds off his boredom. He retreats from his reprieve at the window, walking into the living room and settling on the couch. Flipping mindlessly through TV channels, nothing seems to hold his attention.

His fingers drum against the side of the glass cup before intrigue gives way, slipping a hand into the pocket of his sweatpants. He pulls out his phone, unlocking it with a swipe of his thumb, his whiskey resting loosely in his other hand. 

With furrowed brows, Marcus navigates through his phone at an infuriatingly slow pace. He squints slightly, trying to read the small text, and his large thumbs fumble across the keyboard, leaving a string of typos that have him muttering curses under his breath. He misspells the damn thing twice until finally, the name of the ridiculous app pops up in the search results.

The little loading circle spins, downloading the application to his phone. When the prompt to open it appears, he hovers, as if contemplating if this is even worth it. A few seconds pass before the liquor in his system decides for him, opening the app with a tap.

The first thing it asks is if he’s the benefactor or the beneficiary. He huffs, taking a sip of his drink, choosing his role as the sugar daddy before ultimately filling in the blanks needed for an account set up. It all feels ridiculous, but what does he have to lose?

Then he reaches the About Me section and stops. The blinking cursor taunts him, he can’t help but scowl at it, whiskey swirling in his glass as he thinks. What do you say about yourself when you don’t even know what you want?

Marcus A. 50+. Chicago. Business Owner. Not sure what to say here. First time trying something like this. I prefer a strong drink over small talk, but I appreciate good conversation with someone who has something to say.

Not his best work, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He skips through the rest of the trivial questions—religion, favorite movies, hobbies. The longer the list grows, the more tedious it feels.

Then comes the photo prompt. Somehow, this feels like the hardest part.

Marcus scrolls through his camera roll and realizes most of his photos aren’t of him at all—just landscapes from his travels, on-site projects, plenty from his trips back home to Italy, but few that actually put him in the frame.

He settles on a lone one from an important dinner a few years back. It’s stiff, formal, but at least it’s something. 

When he’s done, he studies the profile. Sparse. Impersonal. He’s not exactly proud of it, but he’s not here to impress anyone. He’s here to look—nothing more.

The next hurdle? Preferences. 

He frowns slightly, finishing off his drink before setting the glass on the coffee table. He sinks further into the couch, glaring at the screen.

He sets the minimum to twenty-five. Mature enough to have lived a little, young enough that he isn’t limiting himself too much. Local, of course. No sense in complicating things.

With that, he’s finally done.

Marcus isn’t sure what he expected, but the more he scrolls, the less interested he becomes.

The app is filled with beautiful women—plenty of soft smiles, sultry gazes, perfectly angled selfies. Glossy, curated versions of themselves, posed just right, filters smoothing away any perceived imperfection. He sees them in designer bikinis lounging on yachts, captions that all seem to blur together. No hookups. Fluent in sarcasm. Just here for the pay pigs.

That last one gets a quiet chuckle out of him.

Nevertheless, it’s all the same. It bores the hell out of him. He swipes left again and again and again…

He’s about to call the whole thing immature bullshit when he comes across your profile.

No forced captions, no excessive filters, no painfully obvious attempts to curate some idealized version of yourself. You have a natural confidence, an ease in the way you present yourself. The way you talk about your interests—travel, food, new experiences—it doesn’t feel like a list of things meant to impress. 

And then there are your pictures.

Your hair is thick, wild with curls, framing your face in a way that makes you look like you belong in the kind of old-world paintings he admires when he’s abroad. Your brown skin, kissed with warmth, glows under the soft light of a restaurant where you’re pictured, hands wrapped around a glass of wine, a knowing, almost amused look in your eyes. There’s another shot of you at a market, caught mid-laugh as you react to something just out of frame. 

Marcus exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

Damn.

He doesn’t message you. Not yet. 

He told himself that this app was just for curiosity, just to look and pass the time. He hadn’t expected to actually come across someone that made him consider.

The whole damn thing feels ridiculous. He’s a grown man, successful, established. And here he is, sitting alone in his penthouse, scrolling through an app designed to find a sugar baby of all things. What the hell is he even doing?

Without thinking about it, he taps the Super Like and immediately closes out the application.

You probably have a dozen other prospects already lining up in your messages, throwing out their best lines, trying to capture your attention. He’s just another name in the mix, another notification you might just skim over before moving on. 

So be it, he got it out of his system—whatever that was. Some passing curiosity, a distraction fueled by whiskey and boredom. By tomorrow, he’ll be preoccupied with work, meetings, actual obligations, and the whole thing will be nothing more than a brief lapse of judgment. Maybe he should save himself the trouble and just delete the damn app now, wipe his profile along with it before he even has the chance to regret it.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sighs, pushing himself up from the couch, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders before making his way toward the bedroom. His night routine is as methodical as everything else.

Yet, as he settles into bed, he finds himself thinking about you and how for a moment, he had felt something he hadn’t in a long time—intrigue. 

The next day flies by quickly for Marcus, swamped with the countless meetings lined up for him at the architectural firm. Overseeing a new development in the city took whatever time he might’ve thought he had, his poor assistants making multiple trips to the coffee shops nearby as the day progressed. He was already greatly familiar with the boost of caffeine running through his veins, growing more on edge with every file that lands on his desk.

By the time he got home, he was damn near slumping against his front door, tossing his keys in the trinket tray by the foyer, tugging off his blazer and throwing it over the edge of the couch while dragging his tired feet to the kitchen. Yanking on his tie and popping it off with one swift pull, he removes his cufflinks and folds the sleeves of his button down up to his forearms, plucking a few of the buttons from his collar to finally allow himself to breathe.

Reaching over to one of the cabinets, he grabs himself a glass, dropping in some ice cubes and taking his favorite brand of whiskey, filling it halfway. The headache building at his temples ebbs away as he gulps down the amber liquid, palms resting on the granite countertop under him. He merely stares at the stone, eyes blank and now deep in thought. A frustrated exhale leaves his aquiline nose, running a hand through his graying curls as the stress of the day radiates through every cell in his body.

He knows he should probably just order something for dinner tonight over cooking, his mind too fried to put together an ingredient list, and the thought of washing dishes was enough to force the decision for him.

Marcus refills his glass and takes his phone to the living room, turning on the TV and leaving the news to play for some background noise as he sorts through his options of what he might be able to stomach.

What was he even in the mood for? Italian? Korean? Chinese? Some lo-mein sounds good, maybe with an egg-roll or two? Yeah, that sounds about fine.

He calls his order in, finding some spare cash and picks it up from the lobby. He didn’t bother to remove his leather shoes when he took the elevator 50 floors down for the handoff, coming back up the same way until he was munching into an egg-roll covered in duck sauce on the couch.

Food long gone and the glass coffee table now cleared of his takeout, the gold watch on Marcus’ wrist reads 10:30 pm when he finds himself weary of the late night news turned mediocre comedy segment. Grabbing his phone and pinning a few emails for him to read over in the morning, he swipes to his apps menu, spotting the new dating application he had completely forgotten about since setting up his profile the night before.

Fuck it, what the hell.

With no thought, Marcus opens the app for a second time, watching the icon load on the screen before he lands on the main page. Swiping to the chats section, his screen explodes with the 99+ Super Likes he had gotten over the past 24 hours. Yet, he could care less of the other profiles he has to sort through. The only match that loads on his screen is from your account, an unread message he had gotten no notification of despite it sitting idly in his inbox for a day. Nervously, he taps at the message box, your icon popping up on the screen along with what you had sent last night.

“So you’re just going to super like my account and not say anything?”

The corner of his lip twitches when he reads that over, his eyes scanning over the sentence more than once with a raised eyebrow. His brain short-circuits as he tries to find a suitable response that doesn’t make a fool of himself. He’s positive he already looks like an idiot by having an account in the first place, but he’s gotten this far, might as well stick around.

After a few minutes of typing and deleting a singular sentence, he triple checks his spelling until he’s satisfied with what he came up with before hitting send.

Marcus A.: “Must’ve missed the chat option when I hit your profile. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, I’m new to this whole thing.”

His screen updates with the dot under your profile turning green, a sign that you were active again. You definitely saw his message, and the three little dots he notices at the bottom make his pulse spike, anxiously waiting for what else you had to say to him.

“That’s okay. Figured you had other things going on. You look like a guy that has a lot on their plate, Mr. Businessman.”

Now he was smirking.

Marcus A.: “You have no idea.” He typed the reply and sent it, and you responded just as quickly. 

“Try me.”

Should he talk about what he has to deal with on a daily basis with his work? Bore you with how he oversees the blueprints of different construction plans throughout the city and has extensive meetings that last all day? So much for a lasting first impression.

Marcus A.: “I wouldn’t want to bother you with work stuff. It’s not all that interesting.”

“I don’t mind really. I’m a little curious to know what takes up all of your time. Must be something serious if you’re all stressed out.”

No harm in being honest right?

Marcus A.: “Well, usually I have a lot of meetings and paperwork to handle while conducting new building developments in the city. But today was particularly hectic, I was swamped all day, probably drank way more coffee today than I had all year.”

Was that good enough? Not too much, not too little. Didn’t come off as petulant or like he wanted pity. This isn’t too bad, at least Marcus thinks so considering you were working on your reply.

“Sounds like a lot of intense work, lots of brain power. At least you have a team to help you out, takes a bit of the strain off your back. Hope you’re relaxing a bit now.”

Marcus A.: “Yeah, got home late but had some dinner. Just watching the news before I repeat the cycle tomorrow. How was your day?”

Bingo. Perfect bait and switch.

“Boring, honestly. Work was alright for the most part, finished a bit early. Ate a few hours ago, and was reading something before bed when I saw your message.”

Oh? Another avid reader?

Marcus A.: “What do you like to read?”

“A mix of things. Non-Fiction, Sci-Fi, History, Romance. It depends on my mood really, but right now it’s Circe by Madeline Miller.”

Marcus A.: “I read that a while back, it’s a pretty good book. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“It definitely has my interest. I hit the halfway mark, so maybe I'll keep you updated once I finish it. :)”

Somehow, he wasn’t opposed to the idea.

Marcus A.: “I wouldn’t mind listening to your thoughts about it.”

The three little dots appear for a second before vanishing. Marcus stares at the screen for a beat longer, hoping it wasn’t just a fluke. Maybe he scared you off? Said the wrong thing, or something finally gave away just how out of touch he was to all of this. At this rate, he might as well get 50 & Divorced tattooed on his forehead in bright red ink.

There was no point in stressing out about this anymore, it’s late anyway, close to midnight and past his conscious bedtime. Switching the TV and lights off in the living room, he quickly showers and rinses the day off. Changing into some fleece pants and a baggy gray shirt, he brushes his teeth and spits out his mouthwash, flicking off the light as he steps into his bedroom.

As he slips into his too-big king sized bed, he untucks the cream sheets and rests his head on one of the many pillows, glaring up at the ceiling with a huff. Turning over to his side, he catches the lights of the downtown area reflecting by the window, trying his best not to think about how cold and empty the other side of his bed remained. With a sigh, he eases into slumber, hoping that whatever tomorrow brings will be significantly better than today.

The next day in his week was thankfully less hectic, but instead of document packets, his phone had been going off all day speaking to clients, other business partners, and suppliers. And that was only counting Chicago. He got other additional calls from properties in New York, Los Angeles, and now some new construction he’s attempting to get signed off in Miami. He was so preoccupied with his business phone that his personal device was left untouched for the majority of the day.

It was 8:00 pm when Marcus walks through the front doors of his penthouse, repeating the same mundane pattern of tending to his needs and finding something to keep himself occupied until he fell asleep. In the back of his head, he remembers the brief conversation he had with you last night, curiosity getting the best of him as he wonders if you left him something to read over this morning. 

Tensely, he opens up the dating app, heading straight to his inbox to click on your unread message from 18 hours ago.

“Maybe I’ll send you a full book review. Put it in an episode of a podcast. I think it would do numbers.”

The circle on your icon is green now, and he rapidly types something so he doesn’t lose this momentum.

Marcus A.: “Forgive me for the terrible response time, I had another busy day in the office, dealing with non stop phone calls this time.”

The three little dots turn up again, and Marcus sighs in relief.

“No worries. You have things to handle, just part of being a working adult.”

If he wants to take his shot, he knows his best chance is to do it now.

Marcus A: “Actually, I’d like to get your number, if that’s alright. Me and this app don’t mix well. I wouldn’t want to give you the wrong idea and make you think you were being ignored.”

You begin typing before you disappear, the green circle now turning gray. He scared you off, maybe even gave you the ick when that was the last thing he wanted. Marcus was just doomed from the start, and getting on this app was a mistake. What would you even really want to do with an old man like him? It’s pitiful really.

Anxiously, he shuts his phone off and storms off into his bedroom, throwing some water on his face and getting into bed once more. He probably should’ve just went to sleep and left you alone, but his hands itch to see if you answered him. Twisting to get his phone from his bedside table and reopening the app, the empty space in his chest flutters when he sees you had left him a very clear yes with your entire phone number, right there for him to take it.

Copying and pasting your number into his phone, he sent you a quick text letting you know it was him, and you reassured him this was no problem, that you hated the app with a burning passion.

“I’m guessing it’s close to your bedtime now?”

Marcus A: “Unfortunately, I’m an old man remember? But, my phone will be on me tomorrow, so I’ll be around if you want to chat some more.”

“Sure thing, I’ll be around too. Don’t want to keep you up so I’ll let you go. Goodnight Marcus.”

He likes the way you say his name, type it out like it’s yours to say. With one last “goodnight”, his phone is off and his face is digging into the pillow underneath. For once, he is looking forward to tomorrow, and secretly hopes that you’d still be interested in talking some more. Maybe, he might just end up lucky.

Marcus quickly realizes he enjoys talking with you; at least when you both had the time to converse with each other, it was better than scrolling aimlessly on his phone. Texting is convenient for the most part when he can, sending little questions about you here and there, and you feed him breadcrumbs, still holding some control over how you want him to perceive you. He doesn’t mind, he’s mostly on your time, and if you want to play the cat and mouse game, he’ll play.

It was actually you that asked to call him the first time, a laconic talk just to hear his voice, to get a feel of him. Marcus didn’t know what to think of how you reacted to the way he spoke, but he knows hearing your voice might’ve been the catalyst to his growing interest in you. The conversation was short-lived, but it was good to hear you on the other end.

He has enough confidence to call you again later on in the week after work, a more extensive recap of both of your days. In the midst of laughing at a stupid joke he’s made, he’s thinking of the best way to formally ask you out. He’d been mulling over it for the past few days as you both tiptoed on getting to know one another, and he knows if he wants to take his shot, it has to be now.

“Out of curiosity, are you free Friday night?” He inquires, holding his phone close to his ear, anticipating every word you say.

“I might be, unless I just happened to forget my plans. Why?”

Shooter’s shot. 

“I wanted to take you out to dinner. There’s this steakhouse downtown by Kinzie Street, really nice food, intimate setting, expensive wine or cocktails if that’s your thing. Think it would be a good time.”

“You had me at cocktails.” You both chuckled at that notion. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Does 7 work for you?”

“Make it 7:30. A girl needs time to get ready, Marcus. First impressions matter y’know?” It was his turn to laugh despite his hands sweating.

“Then I’ll come by at 7:30 and pick you up. Unless you want to go on your own, I can arrange a ride for you.”

You hummed on the other end of the line, contemplating your choices. Probably assessing what was the smartest way of getting out of the situation if things were to go horribly wrong.

“A ride to the place might be better. You don’t need to see me full of anxiety so early in the night.”

“Well, I want to see you either way. I’ll have my driver pick you up, alright? How does that sound?”

“Sounds perfect. It’s a date then.” There was no question or doubt from you, and he’s glad you were the one that determined what the occasion was.

“It’s a date. I’ll see you Friday night.”

The call ends, and Marcus missed how intense his heart had been beating in his ribcage the entire time. Setting a reminder to call the restaurant tomorrow to place the reservation, he spots the time on his phone screen blinking 11:45 pm on a Wednesday. Two more days until he gets to meet you face to face, and the thought alone brings an eerie sense of restlessness to his stomach.

He’s made it this far, there’s no way he could fuck this up, right?

Friday night rolls around, and the anxiety that’s been bubbling in Marcus’ gut since he asked you out to dinner rears its ugly head. He spent a significantly longer time getting ready, making sure to fit a haircut in during his lunch break and left some room for a beard trim after his extensive shower. Hyper focused on making the most ideal first impression, he dabbles some scented aftershave on his neck and mixes it in with a few spritz of his signature cologne, double checking to ensure it isn’t too overwhelming.

Sorting through the multitude of suits hanging in his closet, Marcus decides that sticking to what he knows would be the best thing for him. He pulls out a classic black suit set and matching dress shoes, foregoing a tie and leaving the first button undone, the skin of his neck slightly visible from the opening. Clicking his golden cufflinks into their designated slots, he finishes his look for the night with his golden watch on his left wrist and slipping on the emerald signet ring on his right pinkie. Before stepping out the door, he takes the bouquet of long stemmed roses he picked out for you, giving his styled curly hair a look over and walking out the front door.

Regardless of how put together he appears, he is anything but composed. Finding himself way out of his comfort zone, his lack of experience in the dating department catches up with him on his drive downtown. His phone rings with a message from you letting him know you’ve been picked up and will be meeting him soon. It was 7:15 pm when you sent that text, and the lump in his throat worsens his breathing the closer 7:30 pm comes.

He’s been mentally preparing for your arrival for the past ten minutes, repeatedly staring down at his watch or his phone to see if you’ve said anything else to him since your last message. Waiting out front, roses in hand, his mind resets to his default settings of methodical overthinking once it hits 7:35 pm.

Did you stand him up? No, maybe something happened on the commute. Must be sudden traffic, it is a Friday night after all. Or you finally came to your senses and your cold feet convinced you to turn his car around and head in the opposite direction.

By 7:40 pm, the familiar view of one of his Escalades rolling into the driveway quiets his mind, brown eyes focusing solely on the figure that steps out from the vehicle.

He is immediately struck.

The dress you’ve chosen is sinful in its simplicity—long-sleeved, form-fitting black fabric hugging every curve, sculpting you like it was made for your body alone. The light jacket you wear does little to hide your figure underneath it; the dress flows over your hips and clings to your waist, cuts off right above your knee leaving your calves bare for him to admire, not to mention the neckline teases just low enough to show the swells of your breasts.

Your curls are pulled back in a half-up style that showcases your beautiful features accentuated by your makeup, leaving the delicate slope of your neck bare—an invitation, a temptation. The golden accents—your earrings, your rings, and the necklace that rests against your collarbone—catch in the evening light, making your warm brown skin glow like you’re drenched in sunlight.

He swallows hard, his grip tightening around the bouquet in his hand as he watches you step forward, poised and self-assured, utterly unaware of the effect you have on him.

He’s staring. He knows he is, yet he can’t help it.

Because right now, with the city lights flickering behind you and that unreadable expression on your face as you scan the area for him, you look like something ethereal. Like a star that shot down from the sky and landed right in front of him, impossibly real, impossibly his for the night.

He stands frozen in awe of you until your glossy lips move, talking to him in the flesh.

“Marcus, right?” you ask, holding on to your purse with one hand. “I’m so sorry for being late, the traffic was more active than usual. I hope I didn’t ruin anything?”

He finally finds his voice in the next couple of blinks.

“No, it’s alright. It’s a Friday night, I forget everyone else has plans set.” That gets you to laugh, and he exhales at the break in tension. “You look beautiful.” It’s sincere as he says it, and from the way you smile at his words, he thinks he’s doing something right.

“You don’t clean up too bad yourself.” You were a witty one, at least from the tone of your voice and demeanor, he can tell this wasn’t your first rodeo. “You didn’t have to get me flowers.”

“I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I came empty handed. A little birdie told me that first impressions matter, remember?” The corner of your mouth curls up at the way he echoes your words from two nights ago, a light chuckle escaping you. He extends his arm to hand you the bouquet, observing your reaction as he did so.

“They’re lovely, thank you,” your voice softens as you speak to him, a faint warmth settling on your cheeks under your makeup.

“Of course. Ready to go inside?” He suggests, and with a nod you take a step forward to the restaurant’s entrance.

As the hostess ushers you through the restaurant, Marcus keeps the steady weight of his palm on your lower back, just the right amount of pressure to not seem too forceful. You are brought to a more quiet section of the place, a few other dining patrons nearby but limited in number. The setting is intended to be intimate with the dim warm-toned lighting, a mixture of stone and archived pictures of an industrialized Chicago decorating the walls around you.

The hostess steps away once you reach your table, and Marcus swiftly helps you remove your thin jacket, placing it on the edge of your chair and pulling it out for you to take a seat, pushing you in afterward. Now situated in your designated place, the older man steps around you, watching him as he undoes the front button of his suit jacket before sitting down, looking in your direction and offering a gentle smile. Mimicking his expression, you drop the flowers at the center of the table, feeling the delicate tablecloth in front of you.

“Have you been here before?” He queries once you are both settled, a waiter coming by to fill your glasses with water.

“No, I’ve been trying to score a reservation here for months but I heard it’s been booked out way in advance. Not entirely surprised you found a way to grab a table so quickly, but color me shocked.”

“I’m a man of many talents. It’s a good thing you found me when you did.” The same waiter from before returns to pass the menu, prepared to give the tailored list of the chef’s specials for the night. “Feel free to indulge. Get whatever you like.”

As tempting as the invitation is, you are more than conscious of what you order off the menu. Playing it safe with a classic salad, a hearty steak, and two glasses of wine that leave you satisfied in terms of appetite. Marcus surprisingly does a good job of keeping you engaged throughout the night with simple conversation, easing into the comfortably of letting his curiosity speak for itself with the questions he asks. Though, he quickly comes to realize you’re charismatic with your responses, almost trained to know what to expect, how to answer and the tone you should be using.

It’s by the time the entree hits your table and you finish your first glass of wine that you loosen up, flipping his questions back to him, finding out more about his career, who he is, his likes and dislikes. Your grin widens more with every sip of your drink, pacing yourself to be sensible in your consumption while you eat.

Now almost finished with your second glass of expensive red, you swirl the last drops that pool at the bottom of the glass. You glance at him from across the table, eyeing him closely with a hint of mischief. He mirrors your expression, his cheek dimpling as he looks at you from the other end.

“You’re an awfully observant man, Marcus.” You remark, a slight edge to your voice, glossy lips staining the rim of your glass as you finish off your drink.

“When something is deserving of my attention, I have a habit of not cheapening out.” He playfully shrugs, his glass running empty a while ago, declining a refill as he’s taking it easy tonight. “Are you in the mood for dessert?”

Whether he meant the next course or something else, that was for him to know and for you to find out. Though, as enticing the prospect is to take it there, you don’t want to misread the situation beyond what it is.

“I actually don’t think I have room for anything else, the steak did a number on me.” An upbeat giggle pours out of you, and he laughs along with you.

“Then unless you want another glass of wine, I can ask for the check. Or…” his voice drifts off, the suspense grabbing your attention.

“Or?” That’s when he sees it, a spark of intrigue that fills him with a boldness he’s been harboring since sitting down at this table.

“Or you can join me for a drink, back at my place, if you’d like of course. If not, I can drop you off at home before heading back to mine.” Marcus is asking you to go back home with him, at least that’s what he thinks. Yet, it almost seems like it’s more than a suggestion, but a subdued command. Not that you’re complaining, you were hoping he’d ask at some point.

“Sure, I wouldn’t mind another drink.”

He tries to hide his surprise at your answer, but after seeing the faint gleam in your eye, his cheek dimples once more.

With a quick gesture of his hand, Marcus whips out his black card and covers the tab, his palm taking its place on our tailbone as you both walk out of the restaurant together. His tinted Escalade rolls onto the street, and he steps to the side to let you in first, closing the door behind him and setting his address as the next destination. Throughout the ride, there is a comfortable distance between you, stuck on opposite ends in the backseat, throwing each other side glances when looking away from the window, a smile here and there. Still, he keeps his hands to himself, thick fingers thrumming on his lap and you hold your bag in yours, the anticipation of seeing where the older man lived incrementing inside you.

Twenty minutes later and a brief dinner recap, he extends his hand to help you out of the car, faintly squeezing your fingers as he does. He remains steadfast in keeping his touch on your lower back as he guides you through the lobby hall, the doorman greeting you both whilst passing him.

Entering the elevator, he taps part of his key on the scanner and presses the PH button at the very top of the selection, what you assume to be the penthouse. He gives you a knowing look, a gleam in his eyes as you’re sent up higher in this modernized building.

Crossing through the hallway that awaits you once the elevator doors open, you are brought to a pair of double doors. Allowing Marcus to formally unlock the door, you step into his space for the first time, and you can’t help the gasp that slips out of you.

Guided through the foyer of his apartment, you find high rise ceilings and earthy tones surrounding you, hints of creams and metallic accents left everywhere to find. The kitchen is fully decked out with modern stainless steel appliances and light wooden cabinets, a marble island taking the empty space in the middle. The open concept layout allows you to see the living room, sunken into the floor at a lower level, spotting a plush dark brown L shaped couch with smaller cream cushions behind a deep wooden coffee table, paired with a twin set of auburn armchairs and an overarching lamp between them. A fireplace is built into the accent wall, a plasma screen TV seamlessly hanging in contrast to the wooden panels that cover that portion of the room.

You can tell there is probably more for you to discover, another hallway that would allow you passage to an office or his bedroom, but that will be left for another day. What really catches your eye is the wall of books to the farthest side of the room, close to the frosted windows and balcony that grant a perfect view of the Chicago Loop area at night. The shelving carries a catered collection of works that were found over the years, and your curiosity piques to see what titles he might have in there.

The space is gorgeous, surprisingly warm and inviting, simultaneously masculine and calming. A harmonization of colors and textiles all in one space. You envy him just a tad for having such a nice apartment, though you might consider this one to be the best interior you’ve seen so far.

“What do you think? Hopefully it’s not too much,” you hear Marcus utter from behind you, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it off to the side. He offers to take off your overcoat, allowing his hands to lightly caress over your shoulders as he tugs the layer off, hanging it next to his. He also grasps the bouquet you’re holding, setting it down on the table closest to the door to grab later on your way out.

“I think you’re a man of fine taste for both exteriors and interiors.” You continue to marvel at your current backdrop. “Did you design all of this too?”

“Partially. Worked with an interior designer to figure out the dimensions of things, what exactly I needed to achieve my vision. But for the most part, the colors, textures and where everything goes was all me. The sunken living room was definitely my idea, did not sit well with the building managers but they came around.”

“I’m amazed you managed to get away with that.”

“You pick up a few things here and there the more you learn about the industry.” He looks at your side profile for a second before he speaks again. “Do you still want that drink?”

“That depends. What do you have?” You turn on your heel to face him, a coy smile on your pretty face.

“Anything really. Wine, whiskey, I can mix a drink for you if you’d prefer that.” For some reason, the potential of seeing Marcus make a drink tugs at your chest. Taking a second to think of a solid option, you settle on a reasonable cocktail.

“You know how to make a whiskey sour?” You watch the way his face quirks up at your choice of drink.

“Sure do. Make yourself at home.”

Marcus wanders off to the kitchen where he has what looks to be a whole bar built into a portion of the sectioned off room. You walk around the space he’s tailored to be his, running your fingertips over the edge of the couch and admiring the paintings hanging on the wall by the bookshelves. Scanning over the varying book titles, you note the multiple accounting and real estate books, some shelves primarily only having that with the rest filled with classics you recall him mentioning to you in passing.

The sound of ice shaking forces your attention back to Marcus whose focus was primarily in making your drink. From the corner of your eye, you see he has his sleeves rolled up his forearm, his bicep flexing as he holds the shaker in his broad hand, moving it with efficiency, a curl falling over his forehead from the effort. You look away when he pops the top off of the shaker, hoping he didn’t see you ogling him longer than you should have.

Playing clueless, your eyes land on a certain part of his book collection, titles relating to history and the world catching your eye, global wars and conquests amongst other things. You were too busy scanning the spines of the different books to notice Marcus observing you as he walked in your direction with a glass in each of his hands. Turning once you feel his presence by your side, you whisper a thank you and take your drink, tentatively sipping through the small straw he offered you, to taste the perfect mix of lime and aged rye.

“How is it? I eased up on the whiskey, figured you wouldn’t want something too strong.”

“You should’ve done bartending instead of real estate. Bet you would be a hit with the ladies, make a hell of a lot of tips.” Marcus chuckles, a pleasant sound that emits through him.

“Guess the mixing classes are paying off.”

A coltish smirk lands on your face in amusement, tilting your head to the bookshelf to grab his attention. “Wouldn’t take you as a history buff.”

“What can I say? I like learning about the world, the past shaping the present and influencing the future. Plus, it keeps me well rounded as one would say, pairs well with traveling.” You hum with a nod, pointing to a specific title you notice.

“SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome by Mary Beard. I was obsessed with Ancient Rome when I was a kid, well that and mythology. Sort of ironic considering you’re from there, you’d fit in.”

“It’s a special interest of mine, but I’m curious about the history of the general area, besides what’s been passed down by family members.” He states casually, letting you wander around a bit more before heading to the couch in his living room, his hand instantly holding yours as you step down into the sunken floor along the way.

With every sip of your cocktail, you find yourself more entranced by Marcus, your eyes drawn to the muscles in his arm contracting when he takes a gulp of his whiskey. Time flies by as you converse more with him, the ice melting in your glass as you sit your empty cup on the coffee table. Your heels are now somewhere scattered on the floor, legs folded over one another as you lean into the couch on your side, facing your date. He stays seated on the corner of the couch, body angled towards the fireplace and his legs spread with his hands on his leg as he listens to you talk.

“You never mentioned it, you know, why you’re on the app to begin with. You don’t seem like the kind of man to bother with this whole sort of thing.”

“And why do you think that?” He twists his head to look at you, curious in your reasoning.

“You’re too smart to be bullshitting around with anything, and I think relationships are the same. Something happened along the way, no?”

Ah, there it is, the feared question. Why was he on that app? Originally it was a joke, he wasn’t taking it seriously, and yet here he is, sitting on the couch with someone from a sugar daddy app of all places. He could lie to you, say he just wanted some company for the night just to save his own ass. But one look at your face and he knew the last thing he wanted to do was use the usual facade that fed the void in his chest. 

He pauses for a beat before finding his words.

“I was married for a few years. The divorce was finalized a few months ago, but feels like it happened way before that.”

“I’m sorry, Marcus.” Your palm flies to his knee in a supporting pat, the action not lost to him as warmth springs from your touch for a moment before taking it back.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. Things just didn’t work out, it wasn’t in the cards.” He fidgets with the ring on his right hand, a nervous tick he’s adopted over time as the air thickens in the room. Moving the spotlight from himself, he flips the question to you. “And what about you? Why were you on the app?”

“Honestly, I forgot I still had an account after doing this a few times, never really worked out in the past. I was about to deactivate my profile when I saw your super like. Didn’t want to pass up the opportunity, so I answered. Besides, I was curious about you.”

“You must’ve had hundreds of profile matches at that point.” You chortle under your breath.

“Oh, please. You open the app and it’s just all up in your face. It’s so…overwhelming. But if it’s any comfort, you were the only account I liked back.”

Marcus’ neck pivots to peer at you, sincere in your confession to him. He fights the urge to have his lips curve upwards, instead he shifts his gaze back down to the floor with a shake of his head.

“You flatter me.”

“I’m serious,” you jest, straightening your back and jokingly slapping his bicep. “You’re sitting here acting like you didn't have hundreds of likes coming out of the woodworks.”

“Seeing that high number took me off guard, I’m surprised my phone didn’t glitch from it and I was spared from getting a headache. But I didn’t really care much for the rest. I liked your account and turned my phone off, called it a day.”

Your eyes bore on to Marcus’ face, staring at him incredulously. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Lots of beautiful women on there, don’t get me wrong. However, I’m more particular about what I like.” He ogles at you, as if he needed to make it any more obvious he found you attractive. The thought brings heat to your cheeks, the alcohol doing wonders to lower your inhibitions.

Your sight detours to his hand where his thumb runs over the emerald signet ring on his pinkie, your curiosity getting the best of you.

“What’s with the ring?” You jut your chin out to point to the shiny piece of jewelry.

“Family heirloom. Been in my family since my grandfather, went to my father, and now passed down to me. Just something I mess with often.”

“Can I see it?” You move your hand towards him, suggesting that you want to see the emerald piece up close.

Marcus offers you his hand, your fingers grazing his palm as you look at the ring. He tries his best not to think too much about the way your touch feels, how your soft fingers sweep his calloused ones as you examine the way the ring circles around his thick digit, running your thumb over the emerald stone at the center.

To his disbelief, you bring his hand to your cheek, his knuckles caressing over your jaw and ear before guiding it towards your neck. The knuckle of his pointer finger rasps the front of your throat and the divot of your collarbone, your fingers circling his wrist and slowly bringing his touch down the middle of your chest. His heart pounds in his ribs when you drag his hand over your midriff before placing it on your waist, comfortably laying on your hip and he gives you a nervous squeeze.

Swiftly, you shift your position on the couch, bending on your knees to crawl towards his lap. Marcus watches you the entire time, leaning backwards and letting you get situated with zero protest. The end of your dress rides up your thighs slowly, your hands on his chest, sensing the tension radiating off of him in waves. He keeps both of his hands on your waist, his head angled back to hold your gaze, concealing the groan that threatens to escape from feeling your body over his.

“Is this okay?” You ask, seeing him nod. “Marcus…” you entice him with a whisper, leaning towards him, the tips of your noses edging together. “I really want to kiss you.”

Marcus’ eyebrows shoot up to his forehead as he gawks at you, slightly tipsy from your earlier drink coursing through your veins. He’s considerate enough to keep his hands on your waist, holding you steady as you stare at him with stars in your vision.

“Can I kiss you? Please?” You press yourself against him, one hand on his chest as your words captivate him. His focus lingers in your hazy eyes, then drifts to your lips, watching how they part subconsciously with every breath. Succumbing to his desires, he nods again, and you tip forward to slot your mouth over his.

It’s the lightest of pecks, brief and sweet enough to not overwhelm either of you, a test of boundaries. You briskly pull away, carefully watching Marcus’ reaction, reading his body language to see whether or not he wants to pause or keep going. He squeezes your waist, and that is all the initiative you need to kiss him again.

With a faint grin, you offer him another peck, then another, and another. After every kiss, the gloss on your lips fades and transfers to his mouth, and by the fourth peck, he pinches your chin and brings you forward to kiss you with more intention. Your body ignites with the prolonged feel of his mouth against yours, the curve in your spine deepens and your hands move on their own.

Marcus lets you lead him into the kiss, following your pace and sighing in content when your fingers thread through the hair on his nape, tugging the strands a little to angle his head differently. A groan rumbles in his chest from your touch, taking advantage of this position and teasing your tongue over his bottom lip, signaling you want to taste more of him.

Granting you passage, his mouth opens to welcome your tongue, curling around his own and keeping your grip on him. Slanting your head to the side to get the right angle, your body inches nearer as your hips press over his. Without much thought, his hands move up your back, the feel of his palms a comfort against your heated skin, trailing lower to cup your ass. The action forces you to gasp, pulling away to find darkened brown eyes staring at you carefully and bringing his hands back to your waist, the start of an apology dying on his lips before you interrupted him. “It’s okay, Marcus. You can touch me.” You coax his hand down to your lower back, fingers intertwined with his and urging him to squeeze your tender flesh. “I want you to touch me.”

He doesn’t need any more convincing, the desire he’s been carrying all night dominates the rest of his self-doubt. Palming your ass with one hand and keeping the other on your side, he swoops in for another passionate kiss, more comfortable in initiating this time around. You simply let him have it, the edge of your dress riding up your thighs as your hips settle over his, the center of you pulsing after another greedy squeeze.

The need for his attention grows more ravenous as you sit prettily over his lap, carding your fingers through his graying strands. Discreetly, your hips hesitantly shift over his hips, feeling the evident bulge developing under your thigh. Marcus bites your bottom lip at your slight movement, pushing his hips closer to yours as his cock hardens in his slacks.

Plucking your lips away from his, you litter kisses over his cheek and the side of his jaw, nipping at the juncture where his jaw meets his neck. He grunts when you finally reach his neck, gliding your tongue over the vein that pulses along with the rest of him. Head thrown back on the edge of the couch, he lets you touch him however you want, kneading your rear with his thick fingers, skimming over more of your bare skin as your dress moves higher up your body. 

It all feels too good, the realization of just how touch deprived he is hits him like a ton of bricks. Here you are sitting on his lap, grinding against him in such a way he can feel your heat through his clothes, your scent wafting under his nose with your close proximity. It’s almost too much for him to take.

And he doesn’t want you to stop.

Controlling your movements over him, you adopt a steady rhythm gyrating your body against his thighs, his hands encouraging you with every push and pull. Your panties begin to stick to you, the gluttony enrapturing you growing to new heights as the erection hidden under expensive material twitches the harder you grind. Decorum out of the window, Marcus fantasizes what it must feel like to be between your legs; imagines if you taste just as sweet as you smell, or if your cunt would tighten and clench around him when he brought you to the edge over and over again until the only thing you remembered was his name.

His own imagination paired with your incessant humping forces his body to hit his peak prematurely, shuddering under you with a rasped groan. You’re stunned as his body betrays him, the bump in his pants deflating once the wave of pleasure is done washing over him, his grip tightening around your hips.

The air around you crackles despite the silence, stiff as you observe the man underneath you trying to catch his breath. You can tell he wasn’t expecting this to happen, much less to feel so much he ended up spilling in his briefs from a little bit of kissing and movement. His bearded cheeks are shaded with hints of pink and his eyes distantly off to the side, avoiding your observant gaze.

“Fuck, I am so sorry,” Marcus starts, the self deprecating thoughts running rampant in his head from his mediocre performance.

He curses himself, thinking he should’ve been better prepared for this, maybe jerked off before the date to begin with in hopes he would last longer. This certainly is a first for him, coming prematurely like a fucking teenager was not something he’s known for, and should be reason enough to bury him six feet under from the embarrassment.

“Don’t be. Honestly, it’s kind of flattering,” you affirm bashfully as the last bits of your arousal settle in your gut. “I think it’s hot.”

“Really?” Marcus flexes his eyebrows, seeking your reassurance.

“Feeling so good you just couldn’t help yourself? It’s sexy. I’ll take it as a compliment,” you express, kissing him sweeter than you had for the past thirty minutes. “I can clean you up if you want…”

Your hushed words make his cock twitch again despite already making a mess in his briefs. His mind is going into overdrive, envisioning you on your knees, pretty mouth wrapped around his length and your manicured nails handling the rest.

Next time.

“No, it’s alright. I’d rather repay the favor.” Sure, it might’ve appeared to be a form of damage control, but the reality is he’s developed a craving that only you could satisfy.

“You don’t have to Marcus, it’s fine really. I don’t mind.”

“I’m not the kind of man to leave a woman unsatisfied. Not in my character.” He kisses you again, reviving the same familiar pulse from between your legs. “Let me make you feel good.”

A whimper threatens to slip past your lips, but you swallow it down. From the way he kissed your lipstick off, you wondered what it would feel like to have his mouth on another part of you, granting you something you desperately needed since getting in the car from the restaurant. Reason had already left your mind a while ago, and your body spoke of your intentions before you confirmed them yourself, muttering an airy okay with a nod.

You barely register how smoothly he maneuvers you, the shift so seamless it feels like second nature. You’re sinking into the couch, your back meeting the plush cushions as he takes control.

Marcus doesn’t rush. He never does. Not in business, not in conversation, and certainly not in bed.

But right now, with you spread out on his couch, looking at him like you’re daring him to take whatever he wants, he feels something hungry unravel inside him.

He moves with intention, mouth against yours in a deep, passionate kiss. Your spine arches, breasts pressed up against his chest, fingers ghosting over his shoulders, clenching when he drags his lips from yours to your jaw, then down your neck.

You smell divine.

He lingers at your neck as he inhales against your skin, your perfume an aphrodisiac that disorients him, fogging his mind. It makes a groan vibrate deep in his chest, the sound sending goosebumps over your skin, your nipples hardening beneath the fabric of your dress.

Marcus cups your tits in his large hands, relishing the weight of them, the way they fill his palms so perfectly. He squeezes, kneading the satin-covered flesh, his thumbs dragging over stiffened peaks.

His deep exhale fans over your plump breasts before he continues downward, dragging slow, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. His facial hair grazes your skin, a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips.

He licks the swells of your chest, teeth nipping at the supple skin, making you yelp playfully and you can feel the small smirk that pulls at his lips before he moves lower, veiled brown eyes flitting up to your flustered face as his tongue mouths your nipple over the dress, biting down on it softly.

“You like that?” He asks, already knowing the damn answer, the satin dampening beneath his tongue as he flicks and sucks at the hardened bud.

“Yes, Marcus…” The breathy sigh of his name is like music to his ears, neck tilting back as your eyes flutter close when he repeats the action on your other breast, kneading its twin in his large hand.

“You are so gorgeous.”

He shifts again, going lower, pushing the skirt of your pretty dress up until it’s bunched at your waist. His palms are warm and firm as he trails kisses above your mound, teasing you with his descent. Your thighs twitch under his touch, anticipation buzzing through you like an electric current.

He spreads your legs wide, pushing them up to your chest and keeping you in the position he wants by pressing his hands to the back of your thighs near where your knees bend.

The sight of your barely covered sex is more erotic than if you had forgone the undergarment all together. Short, dark curls tease him over the flimsy hem of your panties and his cock stirs at the sight despite the mess he’s already made in his slacks.

“She’s real pretty.” His voice drops an octave, the rasp in it making the compliment sound wanton. Your hips move on their own ever so slightly, a natural reaction your pussy is having to his tone, chasing the sound.

Marcus hums, a quiet sound of appreciation, feeding off every little tic of yours. His lips part slightly, tongue rolling over them as his attention remains on your thong.

Thin black lace, skimpy. Practically useless.

His fingers toy with the waistband, slipping beneath it, testing the stretch. Then, with a little too much enthusiasm, he pulls and it gives, the sound of the fabric tearing setting you off even more.

He almost scoffs. The material of it feels expensive beneath his touch yet it rips so easily. He could easily buy you a hundred of these. Better.

Your eyes lazily find his and for a moment, there’s nothing but a silent exchange between you—a subtle tilt of your head, the slight arch of your brow, questioning. Are you really going to do it?

His smirk is slow, knowing. A dimple dents his cheek.

Yes.

And with that, he grips the lace and rips the damn thing off, throwing it over his shoulder. The ruined panties fall onto the coffee table behind him, forgotten.

Now you’re completely bare, the lips of your pussy spread from how he’s got your legs parted, sex aching and glistening beneath the dim opulent lighting. A perfect, needy mess just for him.

The soft trail of hair that leads down to your pretty cunt has Marcus leaning in, nuzzling his strong nose against you, inhaling the musky scent that lingers there, letting it invade his senses and seep into his bloodstream like an intoxicant. 

His tongue follows next, broad and slow, dragging up the length of the strip, savoring the contrast of coarse curls against the slick warmth of his mouth. The taste of you spreads across his tongue, earthy and sweet. You let out a drawn out moan, palms sinking into the couch as you attempt to ground yourself amidst the sensation.

“Shit,” the curse word is muttered, barely audible as you feel delirious from feeling him so close to where you need him. You don’t remember how long it’s been since you craved the touch of a man like this, and it doesn’t help that the alcohol you’ve been consuming all night is amplifying your lust.

Your pussy flutters involuntarily, a fresh trickle of sweet arousal slipping lower, trailing down to the curve of your ass.

Marcus is enraptured, taking in your exposed, creamy flesh, how your smell infiltrates his nose and it’s like his eyes gloss over with a carnal desire to devour you, eat you until you’re crying and begging him to stop.

He needs to reel it in, remind himself that it’s only the first night. He can’t overwhelm you too quickly, scare you away before he’s able to show you what he’s truly capable of. Of how good he can actually make you feel.

“So wet,” he mutters as he maps wet, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs. His fingers sink into the soft, pliant flesh, squeezing, kneading—reverent in his touch. He drags his lips closer, his breath ghosting over your messy cunt, teasing but never quite giving.

“Hard to hold back when you’re spread out like this,” he murmurs, nosing against the sensitive crease where your thigh meets your core. “But fuck, sweetheart… I don’t think I want to.”

“Didn’t get the impression that you could hold back.” The timbre of your tone makes him pause, pulling away slightly to look at you properly.

“If I really let you have it…you’d already be begging me to let you breathe.”

The glint of amusement that flickers through your gaze is gone in a blink, replaced by unguarded desire.

“I can handle it.”

His smoldering stare rises to meet yours, narrowing just slightly, a silent challenge passing between you. His thumbs press into your skin as if testing the truth of your statement.

You’re bracing yourself beneath his touch, muscles tensing in anticipation, as if proving to him that your words aren’t just bravado. You mean them. You want this. You want him.

Good. He wants you to need this as badly as he does.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow, savoring, as if he’s tasting something forbidden, something he’s been denied for too long. But patience? That doesn’t last. It shatters the second he gets his first real taste, and the groan that rumbles deep in his chest is downright filthy.

Marcus is gone.

He buries himself into your pussy, tongue dragging flat up your slit before going taut and flicking up to your clit, testing what makes you gasp and elicit more of those sweet noises that fill his ears.

“Oh Marcus, just like that.” It’s as if he flips a switch that has your words pouring out. “You’re doing so good.”

Your praise melts into him, impassioning him. He’s been craving this kind of lust for years. It’s been too fucking long since he let himself indulge in his roaring sexual appetite.

He swirls your sensitive nub around with his tongue, sealing his lips around the pert flesh. He suckles on it, making out with your pussy, having you wail out like an aching woman.

Marcus thrives off the way your hips rock toward his mouth, groaning like he’s savoring a meal far more decadent than the dinner from earlier tonight.

Your heady and potent taste drowns his taste buds, clit pulsing against his tongue—all of it is enough to make him lightheaded. His big hands curl around your thighs, pulling you somehow closer, the friction of his nose and beard rubbing against your pussy making you keen and further lose yourself in the pleasure he is giving you.

“Fuck don’t stop, oh my god.” Your sounds turn pornographic, tugging at his hair while your other hand moves up to palm your own breast, the fabric of your dress slipping until your chest is exposed, nipples sensitive to the cool air.

The hand at your left thigh traverses up, nudging your hand out of the way and you let him grab a handful of your tit. The growl he emits vibrates against your sex as his fingers begin to roll and pull at the perky bud.

Marcus’ tongue then slips inside your fluttering entrance, fucking into you as his aquiline nose rubs your slick pearl.

The obscene sounds of his mouth working you over fill the room—sucking, slurping, the guttural groans that rumble from his chest every time he dives back in like he can’t get enough. Because he can’t. He’s drunk on you, addicted after only minutes, and the more you writhe beneath him, the more he loses himself in it.

Marcus. Marcus. Marcus. His name becomes a hymn as your orgasm looms, taunting you, threatening to end this beautiful, salacious act despite you wanting to live in this pocket of pleasure for the rest of the night.

You did not expect him to be this good or fucking eager. Most men treat a woman’s pleasure like an afterthought, something to be checked off a list before they roll over and chase their own release. But not him. He’s eating like he’s never going to get the chance again, showing you with every flick of his tongue, every messy, open-mouthed kiss to your cunt, exactly how much he enjoys this.

Your hand moves on instinct, covering his where it grips your breast, your nails raking over his knuckles and the sleek face of his expensive watch, dragging down until you can feel the veins running beneath his skin. His tongue doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter, even as you babble through a desperate plea.

“I’m right there, mmm don’t stop, please.”

You gyrate against his handsome face, claiming him in the messiest, most unceremonious way, coating his chin, his nose, those full lips that have been driving you insane all night. 

He can feel your desperation in how your fingers clench his hair or how your other hand moves to grip the back of the couch, back arching high off the cushions. You’re unraveling for him, and fuck, that just makes him want to push you further.

Marcus doesn’t need his fingers to make you come. Just his mouth. Just his tongue plunging into you, curling, lapping up everything you give him, working you until you’re trembling—until those soft gasps turn into ragged, broken moans.

And when you finally finish, when you sob his name like it’s the only thing you know, Marcus still does not stop.

He takes your orgasm, drinks it down, tongue still lapping at your sex as your thighs snap shut around his head, as if you’re trying to pull him deeper, to keep him there. And he lets you smother him, lets himself drown in you.

It’s overwhelming. Your vision blurs, lashes wet with tears, streaks of mascara and eyeliner running down your cheeks. You’re coming apart under the relentless assault of his mouth again, your second orgasm stretching, rolling, growing into something bigger than yourself.

“I—I—” The words tangle in your throat, lost in the heat of it all, stolen by the wicked, practiced flicks of his wet muscle. When he pulls back, it’s only to drag his tongue over his bottom lip, hollowing his cheeks and spitting filthily onto your throbbing cunt.

“Thought you could handle it?” He taunts before diving back in, both hands returning to keep you firmly against his face.

You can’t think straight, thoughts slipping through your grasp like water. “T-Too much, oh—” you attempt to pull your hips away, body writhing as if you were a possessed woman, the overstimulation of it all feeling like you’re burning from the inside out in the best way possible.

But Marcus keeps you locked down tightly, staring intensely up at you, letting the edges of his teeth graze along your sensitive clit. A white-hot jolt of sensation rockets up your spine and makes you scream so high-pitched, you’re sure the windows of his penthouse rattle from the force of it.

Your back bows violently, stiffening as the pleasure crashes over you, unexpected and devastating. Your release gushes out in a messy, sinful rush, soaking the lower half of his face. Marcus groans deeply, slurping it, shaking his head against your cunt to smear it all over, the primal feel of it all only intensifying with each drop of yours that he tastes. 

Only when you finally slump against the couch, spent and trembling, does he ease up, pressing lingering kisses to your clit, enjoying how your pussy twitches from coming so hard. A thin string of your essence clings to his lips as he finally—reluctantly—pulls back, breathing heavily, dragging the back of his hand across his slick beard.

The blissfully wrecked look on your face is one that’s going to be burned into the back of his eyelids for eternity. It’s in this moment; as he takes in your swollen lips, ruined makeup, and your ravished body, that something in him clicks. It makes Marcus recognize that whatever this is sprouting between you two is something he wants to continue to chase.

He flashes you a lopsided smirk, one that deepens when the single curl falls onto his forehead. Kisses are placed on each quivering inner thigh in an attempt to soothe the tremors still running through your body, before he begins his ascent, reversing the path that led him to the heaven between your legs.

The skirt of your dress is smoothed down with careful hands, his large fingers tugging the fabric into place, covering you as if he’s tucking away something precious. Then, with the same tenderness, he draws the neckline back over your chest. But his lips don’t stop their journey. They find your neck, trailing up to your jawline, the corner of your mouth—teasing—before finally claiming your lips.

The smell of your pussy clings to him as he kisses you passionately, making you taste yourself. It makes the kiss filthier, his mouth moving against yours with the same fervor he’d shown between your thighs. You whimper into him, feeling the lazy roll of his tongue as he takes his time with you. Neither of you wants to break the moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, still kneeling between your legs, his hand coming up to cradle your face, thumb grazing your cheek before tugging at one of the curls that’s slipped loose from your updo. “Taste so good, too.”

Your smile comes naturally—not coy, not calculated, but soft, bubbling over, breathless. There’s a twinkle in your eyes, and Marcus feels himself get lost in it, entranced by the way you look at him. If this is what he’s rewarded with every time he makes you come, then he’ll gladly do it over and over again.

“Thank you for not holding back,” you finally manage, your voice still wrecked, but carrying that teasing lilt. Your fingers weave into his curls, tugging lightly as you take him in—his dark, blown-out gaze, the shine of your slick still glistening on his beard. “Even if it looked like I was tapping out there for a second. You’ve got real magic in that mouth of yours.”

Marcus huffs out a laugh. “Thanks.” His brown eyes soften while he wipes the streaks of your makeup away with his thumb. You could stay like this all night, just looking, feeling, letting the attraction simmer until it boils over and you’re tangled in his sheets with his name on the tip of your tongue.

But you both know better. This is something to savor and let breathe, allowing chemistry to take the lead.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

“More than I anticipated.” 

The answer strokes something deep in his chest, an ego he rarely lets get the better of him. But with you? He allows it, just a little.

“I’d like to keep seeing you. If it wasn’t obvious.”

You sigh, still reeling from his ministrations, tilting your head, unable to stop drinking him in. “Same here. You are a very intriguing man, Marcus.”

“And you are a very fascinating woman.” He gently takes the wrist of the hand in his hair, bringing it to his lips, placing a kiss on your palm. It makes your heart stutter. “I’ll call the driver to take you home if you want to go freshen up.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing, “Oh? You’re kicking me out?”

“If you want to stay, be my guest.”

The invitation lingers in the air between you, heavy with temptation. And it is tempting, yet despite the fact that he had his mouth buried between your thighs not even five minutes ago, you don’t want to lay all your cards on the table just yet.

“I’ll get out of your hair. My bed beckons me.” 

Marcus stands, offering his hand as he helps you to your feet, pointing you to the direction of the master bathroom. You feel the intensity of his gaze as you walk away, aware of how his eyes track the intentional sway of your hips. You can’t help but smirk.

Only when you disappear behind the door does he exhale, rubbing a hand down his jaw, feeling the sticky remnants of you still clinging to him. He glances at the ruined scrap of lace on the coffee table, sporting a smug smile of his own, grabbing his phone to call the driver.

Once your ride is handled, he moves around the space to gather your things, adjusting himself in his pants, cringing at the reminder of the mess that’s there. 

You emerge a few minutes later, face wiped clean, hair slightly more composed yet just as gorgeous, your legs carrying the delicious remnants of euphoria in every shaky step.

“Mailing you my doctor bill if this problem doesn’t go away anytime soon,” you joke, sinking onto the couch to slip your heels back on.

Marcus smirks, shaking his head as he watches you, holding your gathered belongings in his hands. “Think of it as a souvenir. Something to remember me by until we see each other again.”

“Yeah? And when will that be?”

“You tell me.”

You hum, pretending to consider as you rise to your feet, your body brushing just close enough to tempt. “I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you.”

You reach for the delicate scrap of lace left abandoned on his coffee table. “You owe me a new pair, by the way.”

He chuckles, helping you slip into your jacket, then handing over your things. “That thing was on its last thread. Surprised it didn’t just dissolve off you with how soaked you got it.”

You roll your eyes, biting down on your lip as warmth creeps up your neck at the memory. He watches the way you react, the way your body still responds to him even now, and it only cements his need to see you again.

Guiding you out of the penthouse, he keeps conversation light, the easy chemistry between you both lingering like an unspoken promise. But the moment you step into the lobby, you feel the burn of the doorman’s knowing stare, his amusement barely concealed as he tips his head in greeting.

“Have a good night, miss,” he says, and you fight the urge to duck your head in embarrassment, thanking him quietly.

Outside, the cool Chicago night air wraps around you as a sleek black Escalade idles in the porte-cochère, waiting. Marcus, ever the gentleman, steps ahead to open the car door for you.

You stop just before getting in, looking up at him, your voice soft. “Thank you for tonight. I had a wonderful time—you’re great company.”

He grins. “Likewise, beautiful. I’m glad you didn’t deactivate your account when you did.”

Your heart flutters at that, and before you can second-guess it, you lean up on your toes, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses to his lips. He hums against your mouth, his hand naturally finding its place on your waist, the metal of his ring grazing the fabric of your dress.

“Let me know when you make it home, alright?” he murmurs against your lips.

“I will.”

One last kiss, then you pull away, climbing into the backseat. You share a final, lingering glance through the open door.

“Good night, Marcus.”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

You smile, and with that, he shuts the door. The SUV pulls away, disappearing into the city streets, swallowed by the skyline. Marcus watches until you’re gone, your touch still burning against his skin, your scent still clinging to his shirt.

He exhales heavily, running his fingers through his hair before turning back toward the building.

“Have a good evening, sir?”

Marcus smirks, the memory of your body, your taste, your voice still fresh in his mind.

“The best I’ve had in a long time.”

love when fictional men are so devoted to their partner it makes them dangerous and insane. very slutty behavior keep it up king

Colman Domingo, Met Gala Co-Chair, attends the 2025 Met Gala Celebrating "Superfine: Tailoring Black Style" at Metropolitan Museum of Art on May 05, 2025 in New York City. (Photo by Dia Dipasupil/Getty Images) if you want to support this blog consider donating to: ko-fi.com/fashionrunways