Lukewarm Take But I Personally Do Not Give A Shit If Poor People Cheat A System That Was Designed To

lukewarm take but i personally do not give a shit if poor people cheat a system that was designed to fail them anyways. i also coincidentally do not enjoy the taste of boot rubber

don't worry baby (8)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 18.k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, angst, emotional trauma, past interfamilial abuse and neglect, references to disordered eating, verbal harassment. not beta read, all mistakes are mine. didn’t reread, just needed to get it out.

It had been almost three months since Florence. Since the yacht. Since the article. Since Livia’s venom and the silent splash of a phone being tossed into dark water like penance.

It's the end of May now, almost June.

Sticky New York heat pressing against windows that refused to close all the way. Frances McDormand, the dark cat sprawled in front of a rotating fan like she paid rent. And Harry—Harry Castillo, once a name associated with corporate blood sport and too many $10,000 suits—now woke up in soft cotton shirts and made her coffee before speaking a word.

They lived in a loft now.

His penthouse had become unusable—paparazzi parked like permanent fixtures out front, cameras hidden in planters, strangers calling her name like it belonged to them. The final straw had come after a man—angry, middle-aged, face red with thirty years of grievance—broke into her and Maya’s apartment two days after they returned from Italy. He'd shouted about restitution, called her father a thief, and said she should pay the price.

He didn’t make it past the hallway. Danny handled the fallout. But that was it. She packed up everything that night. Maya too. The two of them sitting on the floor with takeout containers and three half-full boxes, looking at each other like the girls they’d been in that apartment didn’t exist anymore.

Now, Maya lived in a sunlit walkup with a balcony that faced a mural of Aretha Franklin and a bodega that sold homemade plantain chips in brown bags. Danny had found it. Helped her sign the lease. Pretended he didn’t care when she called him sweetheart and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

And her? She moved in with Harry. Into the loft. His loft. Exposed brick. Massive windows. Low leather furniture. A kitchen that smelled like citrus and wood and had knives sharper than her oldest fears. It was peaceful. In a way that felt rebellious. And more than that—more than safe, more than new—it felt private. There were no paparazzi. No late-night interviews. No articles. Just the creak of hardwood beneath bare feet and the click of Frances jumping onto the couch like she owned it.

The first morning, she woke up to the sound of birds outside the window and Harry brushing his teeth beside her. They shared the mirror now. She used the left side. He used the right.

She stood on her tiptoes to spit. He always offered her the water glass first. Sometimes they bumped elbows. Sometimes he kissed her cheek, mint on his breath, hand resting on the curve of her hip like it had always belonged there.

She wore his shirts to bed now. The soft ones. The ones with faint holes near the collar or sleeves stretched out from years of being rolled up. She didn’t wear shorts unless she had to. Just the shirts and her underwear and the faint scent of cedar that lingered in his drawer.

Harry Castillo, in his fifties, spent most mornings with one sock on, his glasses sliding down his nose, and a soft frown as he tried to navigate a French press while she sat on the kitchen counter eating a peach. Not just any peach. A perfect one. Heavy with juice. Skinned slightly from the pressure of her thumb.

“Don’t drip on the floor,” he’d mutter without looking.

She’d smirk. And let it run down her wrist.

“You’re a menace,” he said one morning.

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You worship it.”

That got him to glance up. His salt-and-pepper hair was messy, his shirt half-buttoned, his expression one of a man who had fought empires and now couldn’t stop watching juice trail down the soft inside of her wrist.

He walked over. Took the peach from her. Bit it. Then kissed her sticky mouth. Frances meowed like an old woman disgusted by affection. They both ignored her.

Some days were slow. Painfully, beautifully slow. They’d read on opposite sides of the couch, legs tangled, her feet resting on his thigh while he absentmindedly ran a hand over her ankle. Frances slept on the back cushion behind their heads, occasionally shifting just to prove she still hated sharing attention.

She burned toast almost every morning. And he let her. She insisted on folding laundry while watching old ‘70s thrillers with subtitles she didn't speak the language of. And he let her.

They bickered about dishes but never raised their voices. Harry always said she stacked the cups wrong. She told him he was old and picky. He kissed her anyway. On the temple. On the shoulder. On the mouth if she let him catch her.

He still got up before her most mornings. Still made coffee before she asked. Still whispered baby when he thought she was still asleep. Sometimes she wasn’t. Sometimes she just wanted to hear it.

One night in late May, they hosted Maya and Danny for dinner. Well—hosted was a generous term. Harry grilled on their rooftop garden that hadn't had any safety measures since the 70s. She made a salad that was mostly just leaves with balsamic and too much cheese. Maya brought wine. Danny brought flowers and pretended they weren’t for Maya until she rolled her eyes and kissed his cheek.

It was hot that night. The windows were open. Harry had sweat at his temple and she wore a sundress with tiny buttons that kept slipping open near the chest. He noticed. Of course he did.

“You do that on purpose,” he muttered when they were alone in the kitchen.

“Do what?”

“Wear that thing and pretend it’s an accident when the buttons pop.”

She turned. Leaned against the counter. “You’re the one who keeps buying me these.”

He stepped closer. Slid a finger beneath the strap. “You wear them too well.”

She didn’t respond. Just tipped her chin up and let him kiss her again. Soft. Slow. Like there was nowhere else in the world to be. Frances stared from the counter like she was about to report them to the building manager.

At night, they lay tangled. Fan humming. Sheets kicked halfway down the bed. She slept in his arms most of the time. Leg over his hip. Fingers tracing the line of hair at the center of his chest like it meant something. It did. He never said it, but it did.

Sometimes she read in bed while he answered emails. Sometimes he fell asleep before her and she just stared at him. At the lines in his face. At the way his hair curled behind his ear. At the scar on his nose he never explained.

He’d said “I love you” a dozen times since Florence.

Once during breakfast when she spilled coffee on his lap and apologized like it mattered. Once after a fight that wasn’t really a fight—just silence that lasted too long and ended with him saying, “I’m not mad. I just don’t know how to be soft sometimes. But I’m trying. Because I love you.” And once at 2AM, in the dark, after a nightmare left her shaking so hard she cracked a glass trying to get water. He’d pulled her to his chest and whispered it again and again until she stopped flinching.

She said it back every time. But it didn’t have to be said. Not really. Not when he rubbed her back absentmindedly while she watched a documentary about octopuses. Not when he kept a bottle of her shampoo next to his own even though he used bar soap. Not when he cleaned Frances’s litter box without being asked. Not when he looked at her like she was sunrise and sanctuary and the first thing in decades he hadn’t already planned for.

She woke up one morning to the sound of Harry swearing under his breath.

“Shit.”

She blinked awake, groggy. “What?”

He was at the bathroom sink, glasses askew, toothbrush in hand.

“Cut myself shaving,” he muttered.

She padded over barefoot, hair messy, shirt hanging off one shoulder.

“Let me see.”

He turned, jaw tilted slightly. There was a nick under his chin. She dabbed it gently with a tissue. Then kissed it. Then stepped back and said, “You look like an expensive history professor who flirts with married women.”

He squinted at her. “You’re unwell.”

“You’re hot.”

He rolled his eyes. But he smiled. And when she leaned up on her toes to brush beside him, shoulder to shoulder, foam in her mouth and their arms bumping, Harry Castillo—king of quiet rage, legend of business and ruin—looked down at the girl beside him and thought, This. This is the whole damn point. Harry didn’t say it out loud. Didn’t need to.

Just watched her as she brushed beside him, their reflections overlapping in the fogging mirror, toothpaste smudged at the corner of her mouth like war paint. She was humming something—off-key, tuneless, maybe not even a song. Just sound. A sound that only existed here, in this room, in the morning, with his old toothbrush vibrating quietly between his molars and her pink one clutched like a dagger.

She spit. So did he. She rinsed, wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, and kissed his shoulder before walking barefoot back into the bedroom. Her shirt was slipping again. He let it.

He rinsed last. Adjusted his glasses. Then reached for the tiny towel she always insisted on hanging on the hook he never used before she moved in. He wiped down the sink. It was a recent development. A routine, of sorts.

He didn’t used to wipe the sink. Now he did. Because she noticed when he didn’t. Because she kissed him on the cheek when he did. Because somehow, the wipe of a towel and the scent of her mint toothpaste and the sound of her humming nothing in particular had become the holiest part of his day.

The morning rolled on. There was no work meeting. No call. No reason to check his email but he did anyway—just out of muscle memory. He grunted at something on the screen. Said Jesus Christ at another. Then closed the laptop and tossed it onto the couch like it had personally offended him.

She was curled up in the armchair across the room with a bowl of cereal and a spoon too large for the bowl, watching a rerun of a British cooking show where every contestant cried when their meringue collapsed.

Harry walked over, grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the chair, and tucked it around her legs without asking. She didn’t say anything. Just looked up and smiled. Then fed him a bite of her cereal.

He made a face. “Is that...almond milk?”

She nodded. “We ran out of your kind.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She grinned. “You’ll live.”

At noon, she left to pick up flowers. It wasn’t for anything in particular. Just because she’d seen some wild peonies at the corner bodega and thought they’d look good next to the coffee machine. She came home with two bundles—pink and blood orange—and a package of sticky notes she didn’t need.

Harry was sitting on the floor when she got back, rearranging the books on the bottom shelf of the built-in like it was a life-or-death situation. He had his glasses on and a pen tucked behind his ear, even though he wasn’t writing anything.

“What are you doing?” she asked, amused.

“Someone moved Letters from a Stoic next to Norwegian Wood.”

“So?”

“It’s thematically violent.”

She snorted.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Those flowers for me?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

“Partial truth.”

She set them in water while he made another espresso he didn’t need, and they stood in the kitchen for a while—not talking, just drinking, just existing. She looked over at him—socks, shirt half-tucked, a faint smear of pen on his hand from writing something earlier in his notebook—and thought, You’re so much softer than you know.

It was later—way later, when he was in the shower and Frances was curled up on his pillow like she’d claimed it—that she saw it. She was scrolling. Aimlessly. One of those early evening doomscrolls where the light was changing and the room smelled like lavender and Harry had just shouted something about how the shampoo was empty even though it was not. And there it was.

“Castillo Turns 55: A Look Back at the Billionaire’s Rise, Fall, and Silence.” —The New Yorker.

She blinked. Paused. Scrolled back up to the article. She didn’t click. She didn’t need to. The photo was recent. Harry in a dark coat. Expression unreadable. Hands in his pockets like always.

Her stomach fluttered. Fifty-five. He hadn’t said anything. Not once. And it was this week.

She glanced toward the bathroom. Steam fogged the crack beneath the door. His voice—low, raspy—was humming something old and terrible. Probably Elvis.

He hadn’t said a damn thing. Of course he hadn’t. Because Harry didn’t like attention. Didn’t like celebrations or singing or surprise parties or anything that made people look at him longer than they had to.

Which meant…she was absolutely planning something. The next morning, she started a list. She didn’t tell him.

Just opened a fresh page in her notes app and titled it: Operation: Old Man’s Birthday (Do Not Let Him See This)

Under it, she typed

Invite: Francesca, Luca (maybe), Maya, Danny

Location: Home (safe, intimate)

Cake? (He says he hates sweets but eats mine)

Gift?

Music?

Do I invite his sister?

She stared at that last line for a long time. Then added a space beneath it.

Pros:

She might be the only blood family he has

He’s mentioned her exactly three times, which is more than Lucy

Maybe he’d want her there, even if he doesn’t know it

Cons:

He hasn’t spoken to her in years

He might actually kill me

Might ruin the mood

Might make him shut down

Might make him remember something he doesn’t want to

She sighed. Backspaced the whole thing. Then re-typed it again.mShe didn’t delete the list. She didn’t move it. She just left it open in the background like a quiet question.

Over the next few days, she got sneaky. Not lying—not really. Just careful. She asked him things like “what kind of cake do you hate the least” while pretending to talk about a TV show. She bought candles but hid them in a drawer under her spare socks. She asked Maya to help distract him on the day-of, to make sure he didn’t randomly decide to cancel and go for a six-hour walk in Central Park like he did on bad press days.

Maya agreed with exactly three smiley faces and one grandpa emoji. Danny offered to buy a dozen chairs. She told him there would be six people total. He replied, Fine. I’ll still wear a suit.

That Thursday, Harry asked her why she kept rearranging the fridge magnets.

She blinked. “Just bored.”

“You spelled spleen.”

“I like the word.”

“You spelled it twice.”

She shrugged. “One for each of yours.”

He squinted. “Are you okay?”

“I’m excellent.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. Then leaned in, kissed her forehead, and mumbled, “You’re a weirdo.”

She googled his sister that night. Didn’t tell anyone. Just lay in bed beside Harry—his arm around her waist, his breathing deep and even—and searched her name in the dark.

Isidora Castillo. Married. Two kids. Lived upstate. Social media set to private. One blurry photo from a fundraiser five years ago. Nothing else.

She stared at the screen for a long time. Harry had only mentioned a few times. He hadn’t spoken her name. But he had smiled. And then stopped. And then changed the subject. She closed the screen. Stared at the ceiling. Didn’t sleep much that night.

The next day, he brought her coffee in bed. She was already half-awake, cheek pressed to his pillow, dreaming of something too warm to remember. He set the mug on the nightstand. Sat down beside her. Ran a hand down her back in slow, sleepy strokes.

“Baby,” he whispered.

She cracked one eye open. He was shirtless. Hair wild. A smear of toothpaste near his temple like battle paint. She laughed. He leaned down. Kissed her shoulder.

“You were twitching,” he murmured. “Thought you were dying.”

She groaned. “Just fighting my enemies in REM.”

He smiled. Then pulled her closer. And just like that—everything settled again.

She still hadn’t decided about Isidora. The party was only a few days away. The cake was ordered. The drinks planned. The music soft and curated and free of anything too happy. Francesca had offered to make a toast. Luca swore he wouldn’t. Maya said she’d bring flowers, and Danny promised to behave. But still—his sister. A name that lived in silence. A woman he hadn’t seen in over a decade.

That night, as they sat on the couch—her feet in his lap, Frances purring like judgment behind them—she asked quietly, “Do you think people can change without reaching out to the ones they hurt?”

Harry looked up from his book. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Just thinking.”

He stared at her for a moment. Then said, softly, “Sometimes reaching out feels like opening a wound you spent years trying to stitch shut.”

She nodded.

“Sometimes the people you hurt…don’t want to hear from you.”

She swallowed. He set the book down. Touched her ankle.

“I haven’t spoken to my sister in fifteen years.”

She looked at him. He wasn’t angry. Just tired.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “She just...didn’t understand. And I didn’t want to explain.”

She reached for his hand. Held it. Harry leaned in. Kissed her wrist. And whispered, “I should’ve told her I missed her.”

Her heart cracked. Not loudly. But deep. That night, she typed one final addition to the list: Invite Isidora? She didn’t decide. Not yet. But the fact that she was even asking? That was a beginning. And Harry—who held her closer that night, who whispered you twitch in your sleep like you’re fighting for us—

Well. He didn’t know it yet. But he was about to have a birthday. And for once in his life—

He wouldn’t have to fake the smile. Not this year. Not with her. Not with the days falling into each other like warm laundry, one after the next, quiet and domestic and full of small, glittering moments that didn’t make headlines but meant everything.

It was two days before his birthday. He didn’t know it. Of course he didn’t. He knew the date, technically. Knew it in the way Harry knew all things—gruffly, quietly, with a sigh. He didn’t care for birthdays. Didn’t want gifts. Didn’t want fuss. He said he’d already had too many. Said he’d rather ignore the number and drink his coffee in peace.

So she let him. Pretended right along with him. And secretly, she planned the whole thing anyway. The morning started the same as most. Frances yowled like a Victorian ghost outside the bedroom door because Harry forgot to feed her on time.

“I have to breathe before I serve you,” he muttered, half-asleep, dragging himself out of bed in boxer briefs and one sock.

She stayed curled beneath the covers, watching him shuffle down the hallway like a man twice his age and three times as dramatic. She heard the rustle of the treat drawer. The clang of her metal bowl. Harry’s voice, exasperated, already talking to the cat like she paid rent.

“You eat better than I do. You live better than I do. You’re not even grateful.”

Frances meowed in agreement.

He shuffled back five minutes later, hair sticking up, glasses crooked, coffee already in hand. She sat up, smiling.

“Your fanbase grows stronger every day.”

“I’m held hostage in my own home.”

“By a ten-pound feline.”

“She's fifteen pounds and fully demonic.”

She leaned over and kissed his temple.

“You like her.”

He didn’t respond. But he scratched behind Frances’s ear later when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Later that afternoon, she did it. Sent the email. An email she stole from Harry's list of contacts. Just a few short lines. Nothing fancy. No emojis. Just enough to say I'm planning something for Harry. I think he'd want you there, even if he doesn't know it yet.

To: isidora.castillo@email.com

Subject: Harry

Hi. I know this might be unexpected. I’m planning something for Harry's birthday. He doesn’t know. I thought maybe...if you were able to come. Quietly. No pressure. Just thought you should know.

She sat with it for a moment. Hovered. Then hit send. Then closed the laptop before she could regret it.

She didn’t tell Harry. Instead, she made pasta. The simple kind. Garlic. Olive oil. Too much chili flake. Harry walked in from the laundry room, where he was grumbling about mismatched socks like it was a moral failing, and stopped short at the smell.

“Are you seducing me with carbs?”

“Would it work?”

He paused. Then walked over. Looped his arms around her waist from behind. “I’d sell state secrets for a good penne.”

She smiled. He kissed her shoulder. And that was that.

The day after, she bought string lights. Also a lemon tree in a pot too big to carry by herself. She had to bribe the delivery guy with a twenty to lug it up to the rooftop. She texted Maya a photo of it from the stairs,

You: This might kill me but it’s cute

Maya: If you die under a lemon tree for this man I’m telling everyone it was on purpose

That afternoon, Harry spent three hours reorganizing his bookshelf because he was tired of seeing all the spines like a lineup of failures. She watched from the couch, flipping through a magazine, as he sat cross-legged on the rug muttering things like, “This belongs in this section,” and “Why do we have three copies of The Unbearable Lightness of Being?”

“You bought them.”

“Then I clearly have problems.”

She slid off the couch and crawled across the floor to him. Wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. “You’re turning into a weird old man.”

He leaned back into her.

“I’m already there.”

That night, she got an email back. From Isidora. It was short. Tentative. But warm.

I’d like to come. If you’re sure he’d want that. I can be in the city Saturday afternoon. I’ll stay nearby. I don’t want to intrude.

She stared at it for a long time. Then whispered with a smile, “Fuck.”

Harry looked up from the couch, where he was frowning at a puzzle she didn’t know he’d started.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You said something.”

“Talking to Frances.”

Frances, on the windowsill, flicked her tail in betrayal. Harry narrowed his eyes. “You’re scheming.”

She crawled over, kissed him once, and said, “I’m always scheming.”

He grunted. But let it go.

Saturday morning came with soft rain. It drizzled over the windows in thin, quiet streaks. Harry was still in bed, shirtless, arm flung across her waist, one leg tangled between hers like gravity had a personal stake in her staying put. She checked the time. 7:48. Checked her phone.

Maya: I’m on snack duty right? I’m bringing the lemon chips.

Danny: Frances is banned from the cheese board. I will not be taking notes.

Francesca: Do we dress up or pretend it’s casual? Because you know me.

She smiled, tucked the phone away, and went back to pretending to be asleep. Harry shifted behind her. Grumbled, “Stop moving.”

She stayed still. By noon, the rain had passed. Harry was in his office, door open, on the phone with someone he referred to only as a vampire in Zurich. His voice was low, tight, full of clipped sarcasm and verbal knives.

She watched him from the hallway for a moment—glasses perched low, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in that don’t test me way that made most men wilt. He noticed her. Mouthed, Come here. She walked over. He pulled her down onto his lap, still on the call, and let his hand rest on her thigh while he said something about international compliance laws. She leaned her head against his.

And whispered, “You’re very sexy when you’re threatening people legally.”

He squeezed her knee. Didn’t miss a beat on the call. That evening, Harry went to the corner store for wine and oranges because he ate the fruit like it was going out of style.She used the time to sneak up to the rooftop.

The lemon tree was already there, still in its comically large pot, looking smug. She brought the string lights up next, one long loop at a time. Hung them from the rusted metal trellis with zip ties and silent prayers. The breeze smelled like fresh concrete and whatever plant was blooming down on the sidewalk.

She stood in the middle of the rooftop for a moment. Hands on hips. The sky was a soft purple now. The city buzzing beneath. She thought of Harry. Of the way he rubbed his eyes when he read for too long. The way he touched the small of her back when they crossed streets. The way he leaned into her hand when she brushed his hair back. Like a cat. Like a man who hadn’t let himself be held in years.

She thought of the cake downstairs in the fridge. Of the candles hidden in the sock drawer. Of Isidora, arriving tonight. Of how much Harry had changed—and hadn’t. Of how he loved her. Quietly. Deeply. In every wordless way.

She pressed her fingers to her lips. And whispered, “Happy almost birthday, old man.”

Then got to work. She finished stringing the last loop of lights just as the sky dipped fully into that soft, summery dusk—blue bleeding into lavender, the kind of light that forgave everything. Their rooftop garden had never looked better. The lemon tree sat proudly in the corner like it had always belonged, the string lights casting a honey glow over the mismatched chairs and the long wooden table she and Maya had thrifted last month.

There were little details everywhere. A bowl of clementines. Tiny gold place cards she wrote out in her best almost-cursive. Cloth napkins folded like someone who’d once watched a YouTube tutorial and mostly remembered it. The cake was downstairs in the fridge. Lemon again.

Because Harry had once said, in passing, “I'm a citrus man.”

It was almost seven when she heard Danny’s feet on the stairs.

Maya trailed behind him, both of them slightly breathless, carrying a case of wine, two bouquets, and a tiny tin of anchovies because Harry’s a freak and likes them on crackers. There's things that remind her that the man she's with is really decades older than her.

“Go!” she hissed from the rooftop entrance, waving them up. “He’s in his office. He doesn’t suspect anything.”

Danny grinned. “I’m honestly shocked. He usually suspects everything.”

“Because usually you act suspicious.”

“Rude.”

Maya stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “You look like a someone about to propose.”

She laughed. “I feel like one.”

“Where is he?”

“In his office. Still thinks it’s just dinner for the two of us.”

Danny was already uncorking a bottle. “You are not emotionally prepared for how smug he’ll be when he finds out you pulled this off.”

“Shut up and light the candles.”

About an hour later downstairs, Harry was finishing up an email with his glasses perched on the end of his nose and his mouth doing that thing it did when he was technically not grumpy, but close.

She leaned against the doorway. “Come upstairs. Five minutes.”

“Can't.”

“I'm finishing up an ema—”

“It’s warm out. The sky’s nice. Come on.”

He grunted. But got up anyway. Muttered something about “damn good weather and you not taking no for an answer” while following her up the stairs in socked feet and a soft navy button-down she’d ironed that morning.

“You look nice,” she said, glancing back.

He adjusted his glasses. “You ironed my shirt. I feel like I’m going to prom.”

“You kind of are.”

“Prom didn’t have wine.”

“Depends where you went.”

He stepped onto the roof. And stopped.

Danny was lighting the last of the tealights, Maya holding the lighter steady while balancing a glass of wine in her other hand. The table was glowing, the light pooling in soft circles, and the people waiting all looked up at once. Francesca, barefoot in a white linen dress, raised her glass. Luca smiled, already slightly flushed from wine. James—Harry’s driver—stood near the lemon tree, arm slung around his wife’s waist.

And at the far end of the table stood Isidora. She looked older than the last time he’d seen her. But only a little. Still the same eyes. Still the same posture. Still his sister.

Harry didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Silent. The kind of silence that sat heavy in the chest.

Then she stepped forward. Just two paces. Enough.

“Happy birthday, big brother.”

His jaw moved like he was going to say something sharp. But it never came. He walked over in three strides. And hugged her. One arm. Then both. Tight. The kind of hug you don’t realize you’ve been needing until your knees feel soft. He buried his face in her shoulder for a second.

She whispered something only he could hear. He nodded. Whispered something back. And the world, for a moment, shrank to just that.

Dinner was slow. Perfectly slow. Warm plates passed hand to hand. Cheese and anchovies and roasted vegetables. Pasta with lemon zest and basil. Slices of bread too crunchy and a little burnt because she got distracted talking to James’s wife about hummingbirds.

Luca told a story about someone falling off a boat in California. Francesca corrected every detail and still managed to make it funnier. Danny made a toast about Harry being “halfway to death and somehow still only at the start of being tolerable.” Harry flipped him off without looking. Everyone laughed.

Isidora slid her card across the table near the end of the meal. Didn’t make a big deal of it. Just a plain envelope. Harry opened it lazily. Then paused. Read it again. It just said,

YOU ARE STILL THE BEST THING I EVER SHARED A ROOF WITH. He folded it back up carefully. Slipped it into his breast pocket. Didn’t say anything. But she saw his eyes. Saw the way they shone.

Later, after dessert but before people started drifting to the edge of goodbye, Harry stood behind her while she refilled a pitcher of water. His hand slipped to the back of her waist.

He said it softly. “You did this?”

She smiled without turning. “I had help.”

“I don’t mean the candles and the food.”

She looked back at him. He was watching her the way he did sometimes—quietly, like it hurt.

“I mean the part where I forgot to hate my birthday.”

She reached for his hand. Laced their fingers. “You’re allowed to be loved.”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned down. Kissed her hair. And stood there with her a while longer.

Isidora found her a little later, down by the lemon tree, folding napkins that didn’t need folding.

“She really would’ve liked you,” Isidora said, unprompted.

“Who?”

“Our mom.”

She blinked. “You think?”

“I know.”

They stood in silence for a minute. Isidora handed her a piece of folded napkin that she’d somehow made worse. “I’ve missed him,” she said. “For years.”

She didn’t reply. Just set the napkin down and looked up at the sky. The stars were out. A few. Not enough. But more than none.

By the end of the night, Harry was barefoot from slipping off his socks and giving it to the girl beside him. Glass of something golden in hand. Frances asleep in a patch of moonlight. Maya and Danny curled on one of the couches in an argument about tax loopholes and types of toast. Luca singing something under his breath. Francesca singing with him, laughing.

Harry leaned against the railing, one hand braced, watching his people. Watching her. She walked over. Tucked her arm under his. He didn’t look at her. Just murmured, “Fifty-five isn’t so bad.”

She smiled. “Not when you look like this.”

He grunted. Then looked at her.

“You’re the best part.”

“What?”

“Of all of it.”

She pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe.”

“Say it again in the morning.”

“I will.”

And he did.

The morning after his birthday began the same way most mornings did now—soft light spilling through the loft’s massive windows, the ceiling fan creaking faintly overhead, and the weight of Harry’s arm draped over her waist like it had been there forever.

He smelled like linen and something faintly sweet—probably wine and citrus from the cake, or maybe just him. She stirred first. Only barely. Shifted enough to nudge her nose against his shoulder, already half-tangled in the sheets. One of his feet had kicked out during the night and was now hanging halfway off the bed like gravity didn’t apply to men over fifty.

She smiled. Didn’t open her eyes yet. Harry grumbled something unintelligible against her temple. Then, “M’not fifty-five.”

She laughed softly, eyes still closed. “Yes, you are.”

“Not until the cake’s gone.”

“That’s not how birthdays work.”

“Legal loophole.”

“You made that up.”

Harry groaned dramatically, then pulled her closer. His mouth found her shoulder. Kissed it once. “So when does the government come for me?”

“Probably today.”

“Bastards.”

She rolled over slowly. Faced him. He looked wrecked in the best way—hair flattened on one side, pillow creases on his cheek, stubble more salt than pepper this morning. His glasses were on the nightstand, next to the folded note from Isidora he hadn’t stopped rereading.

She brushed her thumb across his jaw. “How do you feel?”

Harry blinked, slow and thoughtful. “Full.”

“Of wine or emotion?”

“Both. But mostly you.”

She smiled. Leaned in. Kissed the corner of his mouth. They didn’t get out of bed until almost ten. Mostly because he refused to move. And partly because she let him bury his face between her shoulder blades and mumble things like you’re the reason I believe in retirement and if I die here it’ll be your fault and I’m okay with that.

When they did get up, she wore his boxers and the tee she’d slept in—black, worn thin, with the collar stretched just enough to show her collarbone. Harry padded into the kitchen shirtless, glasses on now, hair wild. He made coffee the way he always did, slow, methodical, complaining the whole time.

“You should throw out the beans when they’re this old,” he muttered.

“You bought them.”

“Didn't bring my glasses when I went to the store so got the wrong beans.”

He scooped two spoons of sugar into her mug without asking. Added cream. Stirred it with the butter knife because the spoons were in the dishwasher and he wasn’t unloading that damn thing today.

She perched on the counter. Watched him move around like the kitchen owed him money. He poured her coffee. Passed it over without a word. She smiled at him. He scowled at the butter knife. There was still lemon cake in the fridge. She took it out wordlessly. Set it on the table in its original cardboard box. Harry looked at it like it held secrets.

“We didn’t even do candles.”

“Didn't feel like doing candles.”

“I would’ve for you.”

She blinked. Heart stuttering a little.

“You kissed me instead,” she said.

He nodded. “Better wish.”

She cut two slices. Big ones. Put one in front of him. One for herself. Harry took a bite and let out the biggest sigh ever.

“You really did all that.”

She glanced up. “What?”

“The dinner. The lights. The lemon tree.”

She shrugged.

“Isidora,” he said quietly.

She looked at him now. Harry was staring at his plate. Then, slowly, he set his fork down. Sat back. “I hadn’t seen her in over a decade.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t know I needed to.”

She didn’t speak. Harry leaned forward again, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around his mug. He looked older today. Not in a bad way. Just in that very real, very human way that came after seeing someone who knew you when you were still becoming.

He looked at her. Really looked. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded once. And because it was him—and because she knew—she didn’t say you’re welcome.Just reached across the table and brushed a crumb from the corner of his mouth. Harry caught her hand. Kissed her knuckles. Held them there for a second too long. They finished the cake in silence.

Listened to Frances thump her way down the hallway and leap onto the windowsill like she’d done it ten thousand times and would do it ten thousand more. The loft felt full. Not loud. Just full. Like home. She was halfway through her second cup of coffee when she remembered.

Paused. Set the mug down slowly. Harry noticed immediately “What?”

She blinked.

“Lucy’s wedding.”

Harry’s face didn’t change. But something behind his eyes shifted. She saw it. She always saw it.

“It's very soon,” she added. “We forgot.”

He took a breath. Leaned back. Ran a hand over his mouth. Then said, flatly, “I didn’t.”

She tilted her head.

“I ignored it,” he clarified. “That’s different.”

She nodded. Neither of them spoke for a beat. She stared down at the cake box. He looked out the window. She was the first to break.

“I only found out because Lorenzo mentioned it in Florence.”

Harry’s jaw ticked. “I know.”

“Wasn’t even subtle. Said he assumed we were going. That our names were on the list.”

Harry snorted. “We never RSVP’d.”

“Still invited us though.”

His eyes cut to hers. Sharp. Protective. “Of course she did.”

“She probably didn’t think we'd come.”

“She probably hoped you would.”

She paused. Sipped her coffee. Let the taste ground her. Harry was still staring at her. Still unreadable. Still too still. She said it quietly.

“I think we should go.”

He blinked. Then, slowly, “Why?”

She looked up. Met his eyes. And said, simply, “Because I want her to see I’m real. Not just a quote she gave.”

His expression didn’t change. But something broke open anyway, “You don’t owe her anything.”

“I know.”

“She doesn’t deserve to know you.”

“I know.”

Harry set his fork down. Hard. “She’s not kind,” he said. “She’s not even curious. She just wants to catalog you. Reduce you. Turn you into a moment she can outgrow.”

Her lips parted. But she didn’t interrupt.

“And I can’t—” he shook his head once, jaw tight, “—I can’t stomach the idea of you in a room full of people who look at you and only see me.”

His voice cracked a little. Just at the edges. “She doesn’t get to do that.”

“I know.”

She reached for him. Slow. Took his hand. He let her. She squeezed once.

“I just want to go,” she said, “because what we have won’t be erased.”

He looked at her. Breathed through his nose.And said, low and tired and still full of love, “You are the only real thing I’ve got.”

She leaned forward. Kissed his hand. Then his cheek. Then sat beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. They sat there like that for a long time. Letting the morning settle. Letting the idea of it take root. Letting the tension dissolve into the quiet.

Later, he folded laundry while she organized the kitchen drawer he kept calling “the Bermuda Triangle of expired coupons and batteries that don’t work.”

She found a receipt from 2020. They argued over whether or not to keep a set of napkin rings shaped like tiny gold monkeys. He made her tea without asking. She massaged his shoulder when it started to cramp.

He laid down for a ten-minute nap that turned into forty-five. She tucked a pillow under his head. Frances laid on his chest like a judgmental paperweight. When he woke up, she was watching a documentary about a tree that had survived four natural disasters.

He sat beside her. Didn’t say anything. Just took her hand. Held it. Pressed a kiss to her wrist. They didn’t talk about the wedding again that day. But it lived in the background—like a suitcase by the door. Not packed yet. Not opened. Just there. Waiting.

Harry kissed her twice before bed. Once on the mouth, like always. And once, more softly, on the scar behind her ear. She didn’t ask how he knew it was there. He didn’t offer. But he pulled her into his chest that night tighter than usual. Held her longer. Breathed slower.

And when she murmured, “We don’t have to go,” he just said, quietly,

“I’ll go anywhere with you.”

And he meant it. Which is why, two mornings later, Harry stood in the doorway of their bedroom with his reading glasses perched low on his nose, holding up a pair of his own socks like they had personally betrayed him.

“Tell me again why we’re flying commercial.”

She was cross-legged on the bed, hair still damp from the shower, folding her underwear with a kind of chaotic focus that could only come from mild packing stress. Frances sat beside her, very much in the way, laying directly on top of one of Harry’s folded sweaters like she paid taxes.

“Because,” she said, without looking up, “it’s an adventure.”

“I have a jet.”

“I know.”

“It’s not an ego thing.”

She looked up. “I didn’t say it was.”

“It’s for convenience. Comfort. Logistics.”

“You mean silent boarding, your own espresso machine, and no middle seat panic attacks?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, then tossed the socks dramatically into the suitcase, not answering. She grinned. He scowled. Frances yawned and stretched across his dress shirt like she, too, was choosing chaos.

Danny found out two hours later. Harry had him on speakerphone in the office, the call mostly about a trade negotiation that had gone south until Harry muttered something like “we’ll circle back after I’m back from the Cape.”

The pause was long enough to echo. Danny’s voice cracked through the speaker like it was personally offended.

“Back from where?”

Harry sighed. “Cape Cod.”

Danny’s voice shot up an octave. “You’re going?”

“Yes.”

“To Lucy's wedding?”

“Apparently.”

“You told me you were ignoring it.”

“She changed my mind.”

“Who?”

Harry tilted his head toward the bedroom where she was currently trying to Tetris three kinds of travel sized serums and a jade roller into a toiletry bag like it was a survival kit.

“My girlfriend,” he said dryly.

Danny groaned. “Oh my God, Harry. You’re going to be on the cover of People magazine before the weekend ends. They’ll call it ‘Revenge Romance’ or something equally disgusting.”

Harry didn’t flinch. She, however, popped her head into the office, holding up two dresses. “Which one?”

Harry pointed at the darker one without hesitation.

Danny kept talking. “Lucy's going to lose her mind when she sees you two together.”

“She’ll survive.”

“You’re underestimating her.”

Harry turned the speaker off with one tap. Not out of rudeness. Just out of peace. Then looked up at her. “I like the neckline on that one.”

She smiled. “Then it’s going in.”

Packing took longer than expected. Mostly because she kept second-guessing everything she pulled from her closet.

“This looks too…serious.”

“That’s a black turtleneck.”

“Exactly. I look like I’m coming to audit the vows.”

Harry was stretched out on the bed by this point, one arm behind his head, watching her in the same quiet way he read long articles about economic policy—with slow, deliberate attention and the occasional smirk.

“Just wear something you feel good in.”

She pulled another hanger out. “I don’t feel good in anything. Or look good in anything.”

“That’s not true.”

She paused. Looked at him. He was staring at her in that way he always did when she wasn’t looking.

“You always look good in my shirts,” he said.

She smiled. “Not wearing your shirt to the wedding.”

He stood. Crossed the room. Stopped behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder. “You’d look better than every bride in history.”

She scoffed. “Okay, now you’re just lying.”

Harry kissed the back of her neck. “You’re the only truth I’ve got.”

She rolled her eyes. But the blush gave her away. He took her shopping the next afternoon.

She hadn’t planned on it—had told him not to worry, that she’d figure something out—but Harry, in his infinite stubbornness, had watched her spiral for two straight nights and finally said, “Get dressed. You need air and options.”

So they went. Not to anywhere flashy. Just a boutique a few blocks away, one she’d only ever walked past, the kind of place that didn’t have mannequins, just racks of linen and silk and things that looked better in candlelight.

Harry held the door for her. Didn’t hover. Just sat in the corner with his reading glasses on, answering emails with a phone in one hand and holding her tea in the other, occasionally looking up just to see how she moved in something.

“Too tight?” he asked once.

She twisted in the mirror. “Too Catholic school.”

“Too short?”

“Too prom.”

He looked up from his phone, slid the glasses off, and said, “Show me.”

She stepped out from behind the curtain in a dark green slip dress, simple and soft with a low back and thin straps. Harry blinked. Slowly set his phone down. Didn’t speak.

“Too much?” she asked, fingers brushing the fabric.

He stood. Walked over. Circled her once. Ran a hand lightly over her waist.

Then whispered, “Too perfect.”

She blushed so hard the dressing room mirror fogged.

Harry chose an old suit. He told her this over toast.

“I’m not buying anything new.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not giving that woman another dollar’s worth of silk.”

She laughed. Harry didn’t.

“I wore this suit when I negotiated my first billion-dollar deal,” he said.

She raised a brow. “That supposed to impress me?”

“It was.”

She shook her head, smiling into her coffee. The night before the flight, Harry did a full “old man prep sweep” of the apartment. Locked every window. Checked the oven three times. Told Frances he loved her like she was about to join the Marines. Then folded their passports and tucked them in a leather envelope she didn’t even know he owned.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, watching him zip her suitcase with more care than he gave quarterly earnings.

Harry looked up. “Many times.”

She blinked.

“Which means I do it right.”

“You think I’m going to forget my ID or something?”

“I think if someone tries to mess with you at security, I’m going to flip a table.”

She laughed. “Harry—”

“I’m serious. I know you said it’s supposed to be an adventure, but if some twelve-year-old TSA agent pulls you aside for a random check, I will make headlines.”

She crossed the room. Wrapped her arms around his waist. Looked up. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I’m not worried about me.”

“I know.”

She kissed him. Slow. Soft. He kissed her back like it was the only thing he’d packed. Their flight left the next morning.

Frances was left in the care of Maya, who came by at 6am with two bags full of bagels and two books Harry had recommended a month ago.

“Take care of her,” Harry said, petting the cat like he was going off to war.

Maya rolled her eyes. “She’s not dying.”

“She’s sensitive.”

“I'll take good care of her.”

“Good luck.”

Then he hugged Maya—quickly, like he still wasn’t quite sure how to handle being fond of people under thirty. They took a car to the airport. It was quiet.

Harry kept one hand on her thigh the entire time. Not possessive. Just present. At the gate, he watched people board like they were enemies. Thank god this flight was less than two hours.

She nudged him gently. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The people-hating thing.”

“I’m observing.”

“You’re scowling.”

He didn’t deny it. She slipped her hand into his.

“Just think,” she said. “In two hours, we’ll be in Cape Cod, probably eating something we can’t pronounce.”

Harry smiled. Then kissed her temple.

“God, I love you.”

She smiled too. “Good.”

They boarded together. Found their first-class seats. Harry adjusted her blanket before his own. She fell asleep on his shoulder before the plane even left the runway. Stating she needs to rest her eyes.

He stayed awake. Not because he was nervous anymore. But because he wanted to be the first thing she saw when she woke up. And when she did—about twenty minutes into the flight, eyes bleary, smile soft—he handed her a warm towel from the tray and said,

“Adventure’s going well so far.”

She laughed. Pressed a kiss to his jaw. And settled in again. Still flying. Still with him. Still in love. Frances would’ve been horrified. But they didn’t care. The plane landed just after noon. A short flight. Barely long enough for a second nap. Still, Harry stood first, shielding her with one arm and retrieving her bag with the other like turbulence had personally offended him.

“You didn’t even sleep,” she said, watching him shove his own carry-on down from the overhead bin.

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t need to.”

“You just stared at me the whole flight?”

“I stare at you all the time.”

“You’re such a creep.”

He handed her the bag with one hand and kissed the side of her head with the other. “You like it.”

She did. Of course she did. He grabbed everything. Obviously. Her tote, his own bag, the two rolling suitcases. The air outside the plane was crisp. Clean. Different from Manhattan’s density. Cape Cod smelled like salt, pine, and money that had been washed a few times to look like old summer charm.

The airport was small—tiny, really. More like a lobby with a landing strip. No crowd, no paparazzi, just a few other travelers and one girl standing near the restroom sign, jaw halfway to the floor.

She didn’t notice the girl staring right away. Too distracted by the way Harry adjusted her tote on his shoulder, muttering something about the straps being cheap as hell and you need a new one, I’ll get it. But when she did glance up—only for a second—she clocked the girl staring. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

And for a brief moment, she wondered if it was a Harry Castillo thing. It happened sometimes. Especially in Manhattan. Especially when he wore those jeans that sat a little too well on his hips. Once, a woman in Whole Foods dropped an entire rotisserie chicken when Harry bent over to grab organic lentils. So she just smiled politely. Turned away. Let it go.

She didn’t know that the girl was one of Lucy’s bridesmaids. Didn’t know that she’d just recognized him—the man Lucy used to cry about after wine, the one she said ruined her for love, the one they never thought would actually show. And she definitely didn’t know that as they walked toward the exit, Harry’s suit bag trailing behind him and her hand casually resting at the base of his back, the girl raised her phone.

Snapped a photo. And sent it. To Lucy.

Lucy was in a robe. Feet in warm water.

One hand holding a mimosa. The other extended for a manicure. Her bridesmaids were buzzing around the spa suite—some taking selfies, others coordinating the evening's rehearsal schedule.

She hadn’t looked at her phone in twenty minutes. Then it buzzed. One photo. One message.

He’s here. With her.

Lucy stared at the screen. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

Her nail tech paused, mid-polish. “Everything okay?”

Lucy forced a smile. “Yeah. Just…a surprise.”

Back at the airport, her and Harry were standing on the curb, waiting for the car James had sent.

Harry had his sunglasses on. The soft, rounded pair he only wore on vacations. She had tucked herself into his side like a vine curling around a stone column.

She reached into her bag. “I have gum.”

Harry raised a brow. “You think I want gum?”

“You keep grinding your teeth.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “So do most billionaires.”

“Not like you.”

He plucked the gum from her hand. “Still taking it.”

“Uh huh.”

The breeze picked up. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Harry did the other side for her, knuckles brushing her cheek.

“You cold?” he asked.

“No.”

“You will be.”

“I’m not—”

He slipped off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders anyway. It was soft. Black. Worn to hell. It smelled like him. She rolled her eyes but didn’t protest.

Harry leaned close. “Always cold when you travel.”

“Not true.”

“Your hands were freezing on the plane.”

“Oh were they?”

“Exactly.”

He smirked. Then leaned in. Kissed her temple once. Soft. Solid. Like he wasn’t thinking about anyone else. And he wasn’t. The car arrived ten minutes later. It wasn’t James—just a driver he’d trained, sent out from New York two days earlier. The man greeted them with a nervous smile, took Harry’s bag with shaking hands, and said, “It’s an honor, sir. Big fan of your—um—your…”

“Don’t,” Harry said, sliding into the backseat with her already curled beside him.

“Right,” the driver nodded, closing the door carefully. “Just driving. Got it.”

Harry didn’t talk on the ride. Didn’t look at his phone. Just stared out the window, one hand resting on her thigh, thumb brushing absent-minded circles. She watched the coastline pass. Noticed the clapboard houses. The white fences. The kids on bikes. It was all too calm. Too perfect. Harry noticed it too.

“This place is fake,” he muttered.

She laughed. “It’s summer money, Harry. It’s supposed to look like a magazine ad.”

He scoffed. “I see a single distressed wooden sign that says ‘live laugh love’ and I’m burning it down.”

Their rental was a cottage on a quiet street, chosen by her and Harry. They found it scrolling late one night.

“You have taste,” Harry admitted as he walked through the door, setting the bags down and immediately checking the locks.

“I know.”

“Where do you think the wine is?”

“Fridge. Hopefully .”

“Your taste just improved.”

She wandered toward the kitchen while Harry made a full perimeter sweep, checking windows and blinds and muttering under his breath about open-concept homes being unsafe.

She poured him a glass. He accepted it with a kiss to her temple. They didn’t unpack. Just left everything where it was, kicked off their shoes, and collapsed onto the too-soft couch in the living room with her legs thrown over his lap and Frances’s absence suddenly very noticeable.

“I miss her,” she said, scrolling through the photo Maya had sent earlier of the cat watching Jeopardy like she understood it.

“She doesn’t miss us.”

“She misses me.”

“She’s probably napping on my shirts.”

“You left one out for her on purpose.”

Harry didn’t reply. Just sipped his wine. Pulled her closer. They didn’t mention Lucy. Not yet. Not on the first night. Not when the air smelled like sea salt and the windows were open and Harry’s hand stayed on her hip like a reassurance.

He kissed her shoulder when she brushed her teeth. Folded her pajamas before she wore them. Let her fall asleep first. Then laid there for a long time. Staring at the ceiling. Thinking. But not about Lucy. About her. And how much he hated the thought of anyone like Lucy looking at someone like her with even a fraction of judgment.

The wedding was tomorrow. But for now—

She was in his arms. The air was clean. And he was still hers. Disgustingly, completely, hers. Even in Cape Cod. Even in enemy territory. And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

They woke slowly the next day. The kind of morning where time didn’t press. Where the sunlight came in gentle and golden through gauzy curtains, brushing across the hardwood like a whisper. The breeze smelled like sea salt. Somewhere outside, a bird was having a very loud opinion. Harry’s arm was draped across her waist, his face still tucked into the curve of her neck, breath warm and steady. She shifted slightly.

And without opening his eyes, he said, “Stay.”

She smiled. “I have to pee.”

“Pee fast. Come back.”

She slid out from beneath the covers, padded barefoot to the bathroom. When she returned, Harry was lying on his back now, eyes open, hair a complete mess. One arm behind his head. The other reaching for her without looking.

She climbed back in, curled beside him. They laid there like that for a while. Neither of them speaking.

Until—

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice still low and raspy with sleep.

“That’s always dangerous.”

He ignored her. His thumb was tracing a slow, idle line along the inside of her forearm.

“If I asked you to marry me,” he murmured, “would you say yes?”

She turned her head. Blinking. Heart doing a small, ridiculous stutter. He wasn’t even looking at her. Just watching the ceiling like it might hold the answer for him.

“Harry.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re asking me that on the morning we’re going to your ex’s wedding?”

“Timing’s terrible, yeah.”

“But?”

“But I need to know.”

She stared at him. Tried to read whatever storm was happening behind his eyes. He was always like this—softest when he was trying not to be. Asking the hardest questions like they were offhand comments. She reached for his hand. Laced their fingers. Squeezed once.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I’d say yes.”

Harry turned his head. Looked at her. Not surprised. Just…relieved. And stupidly, disgustingly in love. He leaned in. Kissed her once, just barely.

“I wouldn’t make you wear white,” he murmured. “Unless you wanted to.”

She laughed. “You think I’d let you have a say in what I wear?”

He grunted. “True.”

She laid her head on his chest. “Maybe I’ll wear red,” she said.

“Whatever you wear, I’ll fucking pass out.”

“Oh you're into it.”

“I’m into you.” That earned a grin. And then—

The shower. Which, to be clear, had not been intended to be that kind of shower. But Harry was a menace. He turned on the water first. Made sure it wasn’t scalding. Set her towel on the warmer like a man who had been raised to expect nothing and now gave everything. When she stepped in—already flushed from the warmth and still a little dazed from what he’d asked in bed—he pulled her close under the spray, arms sliding around her waist.

“I’m nervous,” she whispered.

Harry kissed her temple. “I know.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I will.”

Harry didn’t reply. Just reached for the shampoo and started massaging it into her hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. She relaxed under his touch.

“You’ll stay with me the whole time?”

His fingers moved down the back of her neck. “I’ll be glued to your hip.”

“I mean it, Harry.”

“So do I.”

They washed slowly. Towels traded. Water beading down his back. Her fingers brushing the scar on his nose, the one he still refused to explain. She sat on the bathroom counter in a robe while he shaved.

He grumbled when he nicked himself. Again. She offered a Hello Kitty bandaid from her travel pouch. He said no. She stuck it on him anyway.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“It’s dignity loss.”

Harry glared. But he didn’t take it off.

She got dressed first. Dark green silk. Simple. Clean. Slit at the side that hit just high enough to feel daring, low enough to stay elegant. Thin straps. Slightly open back. Harry just stared when she stepped out of the bedroom. Didn’t say anything at first. Just let his eyes move over her like prayer. Then—

“You’re not real.”

She adjusted one of the straps. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s a crime.”

“You’ve seen it before.”

“Not like this.”

She turned.

“Zipper?”

He stepped forward. Pulled it up slowly. Then leaned down. Kissed the back of her neck.

“You sure about this?” he murmured.

She met his eyes in the mirror.

“As long as you’re next to me.”

Harry changed next. Black suit. Old. Worn in the elbows. A little snug across the shoulders now. He buttoned it slowly. Pulled on the white silk tie she’d picked out. She watched from the armchair, chin on her hand.

“You look handsome.”

“I look like a man going to an ex’s wedding.”

“You look like a man with the best girl in the room.”

That got a twitch at his mouth. He checked his watch. “Car should be here soon.”

She stood. Smoothed the front of his jacket. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“You’re enough.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re being sappy.”

“I’m allowed to be.”

“Since when?”

“Since you said yes.”

She didn’t reply. Just pressed her forehead to his chest. And for a minute, they stayed like that. No wedding. No Lucy. No noise. Just them. And the quiet. At exactly 3:55, the car pulled up. Harry held the door open for her. She slipped in. Then he followed. Settled beside her. Took her hand. Laced their fingers. Neither of them spoke.

But in that silence— In that breathless, careful quiet— There was everything. Even the parts they hadn’t said yet. Even the storm that might wait ahead. Because it didn’t matter. They were already here. Together. And nothing—absolutely nothing—was going to take that away. Not even today.

The car rolled to a stop at the edge of a manicured gravel drive. It was a backyard venue—tasteful, coastal, charming in that I have generational wealth kind of way. Harry stepped out first. Buttoned his old dark coat. Reached back in for her hand.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said. “But let’s go.”

He held her hand tightly. And together, they stepped into enemy territory. The first thing she noticed was the breeze. Soft. Warm. Salt-laced. It danced along the hem of her dark green dress and tugged at the edges of Harry’s collar.

The second thing she noticed was how quiet it got the second they walked in. Conversation dulled. Laughter paused. Like someone had pressed mute.Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even glance at the people who were suddenly pretending not to stare. He simply tucked her hand tighter into the crook of his arm and walked like he owned the place. She matched his stride. Head high. Shoulders back. Even if her stomach was buzzing like a hornet’s nest.

The rows of white folding chairs were slowly filling. There was an open bar tucked under a pergola and floral arrangements shaped like they cost someone’s salary. A small quartet played something indistinct and romantic in the distance.

Her heels sank slightly into the grass as they crossed toward the seating area, passing a man who looked like he recognized Harry but wasn’t sure whether to say it out loud.

Then—

“Holy shit,” someone whispered.

She didn’t look. Harry did. Just once. Just enough for whoever said it to shrink back into their seat. They settled into the third row. Close enough to make a point. Far enough to keep some distance. Harry sat beside her like a bodyguard in a suit that didn’t quite fit anymore, jaw tight, sunglasses still on.

“Do I need to start punching groomsmen?” he murmured.

She shook her head. Then leaned in and whispered, “This might’ve been a mistake.”

Harry turned. Brushed a thumb against her wrist. “It wasn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’d rather be here—with you—than wondering what would’ve happened if we’d stayed home.”

She stared at him. Let the words settle. Then nodded once. Still unsure. But less alone.

Then— She saw her. Livia. Hair too shiny. Dress too pink. Expression flickering from smug to what the actual fuck the second her eyes landed on them. She nudged Paolo. Paolo blinked like he’d seen a ghost.

Harry’s hand slid across her lap. Rested firmly on her thigh.

“Ignore them,” he said.

“They’re annoying.”

“They’re pathetic.”

She smiled faintly. Noticed Livia turning sharply away when Harry finally glanced in her direction like a man debating whether to call in an airstrike. They looked absurd. The kind of rich people who got caught cheating and just threw more parties to distract from it. Paolo looked like he’d aged five years. Livia’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Good.

“Harry?”

A familiar voice. She turned. Francesca. In a light blue dress, hair piled up messily, holding a program and blinking like she couldn’t believe it. Beside her, Luca looked equally stunned.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Francesca whispered.

Harry stood. Kissed her cheek. “Changed my mind.”

Francesca glanced at her. Then at Harry. Then back again. Her face softened.

“You both look incredible,” Francesca said.

She smiled. “We’re trying to survive.”

Luca snorted. “Welcome to the party.”

They all took their seats together. Four in a row.

Harry kept his hand on her leg the entire time. Not possessively. Just…there. Like a grounding wire. Then—

Lucy’s father walked past. Tall. Lean. Hair slicked back. He gave Harry a long, pointed glare. She caught it. So did Harry. But he didn’t blink. Didn’t rise. Didn’t acknowledge him. Just stared back until the man looked away. Lucy’s mother followed seconds later. And—surprisingly—smiled.

“Harry,” she said softly, stopping beside their row. “I didn’t think we’d see you.”

“You have,” Harry said flatly.

She waited. Braced. But Lucy’s mother turned to her. Offered a hand.

“You must be her.”

She blinked.

“Welcome.”

Then she leaned in slightly, her voice low. “You’ve given him softness. I can see it from here.”

Then she walked away. Harry blinked once.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I need a drink,” he muttered.

The ceremony was starting. People quieted. The quartet shifted to something sweet and slow. A woman stepped up to the front with a microphone.

“Please rise.”

Everyone stood. She adjusted her dress. Held her breath. The groomsmen started to file out. One by one. She watched with vague interest until—

Her heart stopped. The groom. Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes. A jaw she hadn’t seen in almost ten years. And she knew him. Every part. It was John. Her John. Not hers, obviously. Not now. Not ever.

But—

The same John who used to carry trays at her father's charity events. The same John who slipped cupcakes into her room after dinner when her mother said she was “getting pudgy.” The same John who once found her crying in the garden after a party and told her that “some people survive by being cruel—and some survive by hiding.”

The same John who had looked at her like she was breakable. Now— He was walking down the aisle. Looking confident. Looking happy. Looking like he’d been reborn. She didn’t breathe. Harry leaned down.

“You okay?”

She nodded too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

She didn’t say anything else. Didn’t say I know the groom. Didn’t say he used to know every version of me I’ve tried to forget. Because she didn’t know what it meant yet. Didn’t know what it changed. But her hands were shaking.

And Harry noticed. Of course he did. He reached for them. Covered hers with both of his. Held them. Didn’t ask again. Then came the bridesmaids. Tall. Polished. Looking like Instagram filters. She recognized one. Maybe from the airport. Didn’t matter.

Then— Lucy. On her father’s arm. In a dress that looked like it had a publicist. Chin high. Smile soft. Confident. Like she knew what she was walking toward. Like this was the ending she’d always wanted.

The guests all turned. Photos snapped. The moment paused. Lucy’s eyes swept the rows. And landed on Harry. And her.

Lucy faltered. Just slightly. One step. But it was enough. She caught it. So did Harry next to her. His grip on her hand tightened. She squeezed back.

Lucy recovered. Kept walking. They all sat. The officiant cleared their throat. And the ceremony began.

But she— She couldn’t stop staring at John. Couldn’t stop remembering. Couldn’t stop thinking—

This is the man who saw me before I had to become someone else. And he’s marrying Lucy. And I am sitting here beside Harry fucking Castillo. And none of this feels real.

She didn’t say anything during the ceremony. Didn’t speak. Didn’t whisper. Just sat still. Silent. Thinking. And Harry didn’t press. He just kept holding her hand. Steady. Warm. Like a vow.

And when she leaned into him slightly— When she let her head rest on his shoulder for just a moment— He pressed a kiss to her temple. Didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He didn’t know the whole story. Not yet. But he could feel it. Something had shifted.

And whatever it was— He would protect her from it. Even if he had to do it without knowing the name. Because she was his. And that was the only thing that mattered. Even here. Even now. Even at his ex’s wedding. With the past walking down the aisle. And still— He wouldn’t have traded it. Not for anything.

The officiant cleared his throat with the kind of authority that suggested he’d been officiating weddings for thirty years and had a story about every one of them.

“Dearly beloved,” he began, the sun catching on his glasses as the wind shifted just slightly, rustling the linen of Lucy’s dress and the program in everyone's laps. “We are gathered here today to witness the union of two souls.”

She exhaled slowly through her nose. Harry still had one hand over both of hers. Thumb brushing the side of her palm absentmindedly, like he wasn’t really thinking about it. Like it was just… instinct now. Natural.

She didn’t dare look at Lucy yet. She was still reeling from John. From the wave of old memory that had crashed like a slap across the front of her brain.

John. The man who used to pass her cookies wrapped in napkins when she wasn’t allowed dessert. The man who once lent her a sweater when her mother made her wear a dress two sizes too small. The man who had seen her at her loneliest, at her skinniest, at her most afraid—and never once judged her for it.

And now— He was holding Lucy’s hands. She tried to focus on the priest.

“In love, we find not perfection,” the man was saying, “but acceptance. Grace. Patience. A partner not to complete us—but to recognize what is already complete.”

Harry shifted beside her. Not uncomfortably. Not restlessly. Just enough to slide his arm across the back of her chair. His thumb brushed the bare skin of her shoulder. He didn’t look at Lucy. Not once.

But Lucy…

Lucy kept looking at him. It wasn’t obvious. Not overt. But she saw it.

The way Lucy's eyes flicked past the guests while the priest talked. The way her fingers tightened around John’s just slightly, like she’d remembered something. Like Lucy remembered him.

It made her stomach coil. Not with jealousy. Not even with anger. Just that old, sinking ache of being seen—but not seen back. Like Lucy still didn’t quite register that Harry wasn’t hers anymore. That he hadn’t been for a long time. That even when he had been, he’d never been hers like this.

Because now—he was sitting beside someone who knew what kind of coffee he liked when he was stressed. Who knew he rubbed his temples when he was thinking about old memories. Who knew he talked in his sleep when he was dreaming about his mother.

Lucy had known a version of Harry. The polished one. The corporate myth. The one with cufflinks and PR statements and a tongue sharp enough to bankrupt cities.

But her? The woman sitting next to him knew the one who forgot his towel after a shower. The one who sang along to Sinatra when he thought no one was listening. The one who made her lemon toast at midnight and read novels over her shoulder just to be close.

The priest continued. “Now, Lucy and John have chosen to write their own vows,” he said. “Lucy?”

Lucy smiled. A soft, composed smile. Took the mic from him with a little thank you and turned to face John. She braced. Lucy began.

“I don’t know if I believe in soulmates,” she said, voice clear, echoing faintly beneath the pergola strung with white roses. “I don’t know if I believe in fate. But I do believe in timing. In second chances. In the way people can walk into your life twice—and the second time, you’re ready.”

Lucy paused. Smiled again. She felt Harry’s hand twitch slightly. Not much. Just… enough.

“I’ve known a lot of versions of myself,” Lucy continued. “Some I loved. Some I didn’t. But you, John… you saw all of them. And you didn’t flinch. You waited for me. You held space. You didn’t rush me toward who you wanted me to be. You just let me arrive.”

She blinked slowly. She felt it before she saw it. That glance. Quick. Surgical. Right in their direction. Lucy didn’t say Harry’s name. Of course not. But her eyes found him. Mid-sentence. And stayed there for a second too long.

“I used to think love was a game of leverage,” Lucy said, still looking straight through the crowd. “Power. Strategy. But it’s not. It’s knowing that even when someone sees your ugliest, they’ll stay.”

John squeezed her hand. Lucy looked back at him. And she didn’t miss the way John followed Lucy's gaze. How his brow furrowed. Just barely. How his eyes flicked—quick, sharp—to the third row. Where Harry sat like a statue, expression unreadable, lips pressed into a single line.

Harry hadn’t looked at Lucy once. John noticed. She could see him noticing.

Lucy finished her vows with a smile, her voice gentler now. “You make me feel like I don’t have to perform anymore. And that’s the greatest gift I’ve ever received.”

Polite applause followed. A few sniffles. The priest smiled.

Then—“John?”

He took the mic with a nod. Looked at Lucy. And for a second—Just a second—She saw it. The calculation. The question.

Like John was still replaying that glance she’d made. Like he was realizing that maybe—just maybe—his bride was still haunted and not his. He recovered quickly.

“Lucy,” he said. “You are—chaos.”

The crowd laughed. Lucy rolled her eyes. But John smiled warmly.

“You are also order. You are too many thoughts at once. You are late-night texts about documentaries. You are Sunday walks that last six hours. You are questions no one else asks, and the woman who taught me that love isn’t about feeling safe—it’s about choosing to stay.”

She exhaled. Because this was real. John loved her. You could tell. Even if Lucy hadn’t looked at him the whole time. Even if Lucy still hadn’t quite let go.

The girl next to Harry turned slightly. Looked at him. And there he was. Watching her. Not the vows. Not the bride. Just—her. His eyes met hers. And she smiled. Tired. Amused. Something darker beneath it.

Harry leaned down. Brushed his lips over her ear.

“She could be marrying God,” he whispered, “and I’d still want you.”

Her chest stuttered. She turned to him.

“Harry—”

“No,” he said. “I mean it. There’s no version of this where I look back.”

She swallowed. Then nodded. And faced forward again.

Just in time for the rings. The rest of the ceremony passed in soft waves. The officiant blessed the union. The wind picked up. A bridesmaid’s dress blew sideways and someone’s baby started crying. But the couple didn’t notice.

They kissed. Everyone clapped. And the music started. But she—she didn’t feel relieved. She felt like a door had just opened somewhere behind her. And whatever was waiting on the other side? Was walking toward her now. Quiet. Patient. Familiar. And wearing a tux. The moment the music began, the spell broke.

Chairs scraped against the deck. Shoes shifted. People stood, stretched, whispered. The sky overhead was soft and gold, the kind of sunset only coastal towns could pull off, and yet no one seemed to notice it.

They were too busy watching them. Too busy pretending not to watch them. Harry and the girl he came with. The woman who wasn’t Lucy.

Francesca leaned over as she rose, adjusting the straps of her pale green dress and whispering, “Well, that was subtle.”

She blinked. “What?”

Francesca nodded in Lucy’s direction. “The longing gazes. The not-so-covert micromanaging of your proximity to her ex. Classic wedding pettiness.”

She sighed softly.

Luca, straightening his suit jacket on Francesca's other side, added, “At least you got a front-row seat to the performance of the year. She almost had me with the ‘I don’t believe in soulmates’ bit.”

Harry didn’t comment. He stood up slowly, buttoned his suit jacket, and then—without looking at Lucy—offered his hand to his girl. She took it without hesitation.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, low and quiet, for her ears only.

She nodded. “Yeah. Let’s.”

Francesca and Luca exchanged glances, already reading the room, “We’ll see you at the reception?” Francesca asked, her tone laced with something knowing, something gentle.

Harry gave a single, quiet nod. “Of course.”

They parted ways at the edge of the deck, Harry guiding her toward the small gravel lot where their sleek black car waited—a rental, but decent. The driver, ever thoughtful, had made sure the air conditioning was already on.

Harry opened the door for her first. As always. She slid in quietly. Waited until he joined her and closed the door before letting herself breathe. The car pulled away slowly. Soft jazz played through the speakers.

She stared at her lap. Harry watched her for a second. Then said, “You were quiet back there.”

She nodded once. Still didn’t look at him. His hand found hers. Thumb brushing the top of it. Steady. Warm. Present.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked, voice quiet. Patient.

She nodded again. Then—finally—turned to him.

“I know John.”

Harry didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just kept holding her hand.

“I mean—” she continued, voice soft, a little hoarse, “I knew him. When I was a kid. He used to work the events at our house. Before everything... before my dad got caught. Before the headlines. The bankruptcy. Teddy—”

She stopped. Swallowed. Harry shifted toward her slightly, his body angled, eyes locked on hers. She exhaled, steadying herself.

“I was, like, fifteen? Sixteen? My mom… she didn’t let me eat. Not really. Not carbs. Not sugar. Not anything that would make me ‘pudgy.’ She was obsessed with how I looked, how we looked as a family. And John—he worked the kitchen during these fundraisers. He’d sneak me food. Muffins. Sandwiches. Once, a piece of birthday cake.

Harry said nothing. But his hand tightened around hers. She didn’t cry. She didn’t need to. She’d done all her crying years ago.

“He was kind,” she whispered. “I didn’t think about him for years. Not until I saw him. In that tux. Walking down the aisle. Holding Lucy’s hand like he’d never done anything else.”

Harry was still watching her. Unmoving. So she continued.

“I didn’t want to tell you before,” she said, “because it didn’t feel important. But now... I don’t know. I think maybe it is. Not because I feel anything for him. I don’t. But because it felt... full circle, in a way. Like I’d walked into someone else’s story by accident.”

Harry reached for her other hand. Held both now. His gaze was steady.

“Can I tell you something?” he said, his voice low and slow in the dim car light.

She nodded. Harry took a breath. “I love you.”

She blinked.

“I know that’s not an answer,” he said. “But it’s the root of every one I could give you. I love you. Not in the convenient way. Not in the performative way. I love you in the you-could-set-this-car-on-fire-and-I’d-still-crawl-through-glass-to-get-to-you way.”

Her chest stuttered.

“I don’t care who he is,” Harry said. “I don’t care what he did for you back then. I’m grateful someone was kind to you when you needed it. But that’s all it is. That’s all it’ll ever be. A footnote.”

She swallowed. “You’re not mad?”

His brows lifted. “Why the fuck would I be mad? Because the man marrying my ex was decent to the woman I love when she was a child?”

Her lips curved, just slightly. “I don’t know. You get a little murdery sometimes.”

Harry smirked.

“That’s true.”

He leaned forward. Kissed the top of her hand.

Then added, “But not this time.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

He was in an old suit. The one he wore when they first met, she realized. The one with the faint thread pulled near the seam and the button that was slightly chipped. He hadn’t bought anything new. He wouldn’t have—not for this. Not for Lucy. But somehow, the suit looked better now. Softer. Lived-in. He looked better now. Because he was hers.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

“For listening.”

Harry brushed his thumb across the inside of her wrist. “For always.”

They drove in silence after that. Not heavy silence. Just the kind that lingered gently between people who understood each other without needing to fill the air with more than presence.

When they reached the venue—an ocean-side estate with gauze-draped tents and a horizon that looked painted—they sat in the car for another moment before getting out.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. Then opened the door. And stepped out into the kind of dusk that felt biblical. Harry followed. Buttoned his jacket. Then looked at her.

“You’re the only good thing in my life” he said softly.

She smiled. Took his hand. And together, they walked up the steps toward the reception. Ready. Unshaken. Untouchable. Even here. Especially here.

The reception was tucked behind the main house—string lights draped between trees, linen-covered tables arranged in soft curves around a makeshift dance floor that had clearly been installed just for the event. The ocean was just visible over the ridge, the breeze warm and salt-sweet, the kind of night someone might dream up just to pretend their life had always been beautiful.

Francesca and Luca were already there, Francesca barefoot with her heels hanging from two fingers, her curls pinned back but barely, sipping something white and cold. Luca stood beside her in a linen suit that looked like it had been stolen off the set of The Talented Mr. Ripley, sunglasses still tucked into the neck of his shirt like it was midday.

When they spotted her and Harry, Francesca lit up and waved them over like she’d been waiting for this moment all night.

“There you are,” she said, looping an arm around her waist and kissing her cheek. “You survived. You both survived. I’m honestly impressed.”

Harry offered Luca a nod and the two did the customary handshake-hug combo, the kind men used when they liked each other more than they admitted.

“Drinks?” Luca asked.

Harry nodded once. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

He touched her hip briefly, murmured, “Be right back,” before following Luca toward the bar. He didn’t look back, but his hand lingered on her waist just a second longer than necessary before he let go. He didn't want to let go.

Francesca sighed, looping her arm through her's as they made their way to their assigned table near the center, not too far from the dance floor but tucked enough to keep a little distance.

“Everyone’s talking about you,” Francesca said breezily, not cruelly, just as fact. “But only because you look better than anyone else here.”

She snorted softly. “They’re talking because I’m here with him.”

“Well,” Francesca said, settling into her chair and crossing her legs with a dramatic flourish, “that too. But honestly? They should be so lucky.”

She looked around subtly. And sure enough—eyes. Not a lot. Not direct. But there. Women in pastel. Men with thinning hair and sharp shoes. Bridesmaids whispering like they hadn’t been caught red-handed giving side-eyes during the ceremony.

Francesca sipped her drink. “You’re making them all spiral. You know that, right?”

“I don’t want to make anyone spiral.”

“Of course you don’t. But that’s why it’s working.”

Before she could respond, Luca and Harry returned, each with two glasses balanced between their fingers like it was a routine. Harry handed her one without a word. Cold. Pale. Sparkling. Probably something expensive he already clocked on the menu.

He sat beside her, suit jacket already open, tie a little looser than earlier. “Sauvignon Blanc. You’ll like it.”

She took a sip. He was right. Francesca and Luca fell into a quiet conversation on the other side of the table, their chairs angled toward each other in that familiar, unhurried way of people who’ve known each other through too many different lives.

Harry leaned close. “You good?”

She nodded. “You?”

His eyes flicked over her face, cataloging.

“I will be,” he said, then added softly, “as long as you’re here.”

It didn’t matter that people were watching. It didn’t matter that they were at the wedding of his ex. He only looked at her.

The party truly began when Lucy and John made their official entrance. The music shifted. The lights dimmed just slightly. People stood. Glasses raised. And through the wide garden doors, Lucy appeared again—no longer in her formal wedding gown, but now in a slinkier, champagne-colored dress that shimmered as she walked. Her hair had been let down. Her shoes were different too—lower, simpler, probably because her feet were blistered. John followed behind her, suit jacket off, shirt open at the collar, hand casually resting on her lower back.

She felt Harry’s body go subtly still beside her. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t tense. But he watched her. Only her. Barley glanced at Lucy. And Lucy? Well, Lucy had clearly been waiting for the moment to see who was watching her walk in as someone’s wife. Her gaze swept the room. Too casually. And then it landed on Harry. And it stuck.

Long enough that Francesca muttered under her breath, “Jesus Christ, this is gonna be messy.”

But her? She didn’t flinch. Because Harry—her Harry, only hers—wasn’t looking back. Not the way Lucy wanted. He saw her. Of course he did. But his hand stayed on her thigh, thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles through the silk of her dress. And when Lucy’s stare lingered too long, he turned slightly—to her, only to her—and asked, low and dry,

“You want the steak or the sea bass?”

She smiled. “Bass.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m not letting you eat beef at a wedding where she’s in charge of the menu.”

Lucy and John made their rounds. Toasts were offered. Champagne was refilled. The DJ—clearly someone’s cousin—announced the first dance and couples began to drift toward the open floor.

She stayed in her seat, eyes following the soft blur of movement and fabric. Harry didn’t press her to dance. He never would unless she asked. He just sat close, hand on her leg, his other curled around his glass, leaning slightly so no one else could see him looking at her.

“You know,” he murmured, lips barely brushing the edge of her ear, “if I didn’t love you already, I’d fall in love with you just for surviving this.”

She laughed softly. “And if I wasn’t already obsessed with you, I’d be falling in love with you for bringing me to your ex’s wedding and still managing to make me feel like I’m the only one here.”

“You are the only one here.”

“You say that like you mean it.”

“I do.”

He tilted her chin gently, just enough so she had to look him in the eye.

“You have no idea,” he said, “how much I mean it.”

And maybe it was the wine. Or the ocean breeze. Or the way his voice dropped an octave when he got sincere. But something in her heart did a little flutter. A quiet, private flutter no one else could see. Because even now—even here—he made her feel untouched. Untouchable.

Luca nudged them a few minutes later, grinning. “Dance with us. Come on. Francesca says she refuses to be the only woman out there with a man who steps on her feet.” Francesca shot him a glare but offered her hand anyway.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You want to?”

She looked at him. Then nodded. “Only if you don’t step on mine.”

“I’m old, not uncoordinated.”

He stood and helped her up, hand firm in hers, his other settling instinctively at the small of her back like it always did. They moved together easily. Naturally. Even without music, she’d follow him anywhere. Especially here. And Harry? Harry held her close on that dance floor, surrounded by whispers and stares and the ghosts of relationships that never made it. Because in the end, none of it mattered. She was in his arms. And the rest of the world could burn.

The reception had bled into its second hour like it had somewhere better to be. The string lights overhead twinkled in warm gold as dusk finally gave up and slipped into night. The air was thick with salt and champagne, every table crowded with plates half-finished and stories half-true. Someone's cousin had already kicked off her heels and was dancing barefoot near the bar, and the playlist had shifted from jazz to something that sounded suspiciously like early-2000s pop.

She was seated again with Harry at the far end of the garden reception, their table nestled into a curve of candles and wildflowers. Francesca and Luca were next to them, Luca now with his jacket off, sleeves rolled up, talking animatedly with Harry about the logistics of moving a vineyard from Italy to upstate New York.

Francesca was on her second glass of white and already giving her looks that said “are you good?” every time someone at another table shot them a glance too long.

Because they were being watched. Of course they were. Soft, covert glances. Half-turns. Murmured questions behind manicured hands. Not loud enough to call attention, but clear enough to send a chill up her spine. Harry noticed too. He always did.

So he shifted slightly in his seat, his arm sliding along the back of her chair until his fingers hooked over her shoulder, thumb rubbing slow circles at the edge of her collarbone. A quiet kind of claim.

“You good, baby?” he murmured, head angled just enough so only she could hear it.

She nodded once, giving him a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking I should've worn something more intimidating.”

Harry leaned in, brushing his lips to the side of her head. “You’re terrifying as is.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”

“I’ve got billionaires afraid of me, but you—” He smirked faintly. “You’re what keeps me up at night.”

Francesca, pretending not to eavesdrop, muttered, “Jesus, you two need a chaperone.”

“Then don’t sit next to us,” Harry said dryly, sipping his scotch.

Luca snorted into his drink. “He’s a romantic, but he hides it behind insults.”

“I don’t hide shit,” Harry said, glancing at her. “She knows.”

And she did. Because even when he was sitting at his ex’s wedding reception surrounded by people who’d once tried to bury him in PR hell, Harry only looked at her. Only leaned in when she whispered. Only refilled her wine glass before she noticed it was empty.

He didn’t smile at anyone else. Didn’t even pretend. Which made the next moment all the more unfortunate. Because she had to pee.

“Be right back,” she whispered, touching his knee beneath the table.

Harry looked up immediately. “Want me to come with you?”

“To the bathroom?” She arched a brow. “You trying to babysit me or make a scene?”

He smirked, leaned over, kissed the inside of her wrist. “Call if you need me.”

“I’m not gonna get jumped between here and the Porta Potties, Castillo.”

But he didn’t laugh. He just watched her walk away like he always did. Like she was gravity and orbit and every soft thing he thought he’d lost.

The bathroom was set up along the edge of the venue, tucked behind hedges and a string of fairy lights, near the catering trucks and a makeshift hand-washing station someone had tried to dress up with eucalyptus.

She moved quick. In and out. Washed her hands. Smoothed her dress. And when she stepped back out, she nearly ran straight into him. John. Standing just outside. Waiting. In his suit. His tie loosened. A look on his face she recognized immediately. Contrition.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

She froze. Of course. Of fucking course.

“Hi.”

John exhaled slowly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d let me say anything.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again at all.”

He looked down. “Yeah.” A beat. “I didn’t know—when I saw you were here, I didn’t believe it.”

She tilted her head slightly. “And now?”

John met her eyes. “I still can’t believe it.”

She crossed her arms. The silk of her dress whispered with the movement. “You waited outside the bathroom to talk to me?”

“You were gonna disappear again.”

“I didn’t disappear, John. I left.”

He swallowed. “I remember.”

Of course he did. He was there. He saw it.

The chaos. The headlines. The funeral. The trial. The nights she sat curled on the kitchen floor of that too-big house with nothing but canned peaches and a grief she didn’t know how to name.

“You were a kid,” he said quietly. “And they put the world on your shoulders.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t know how.

John took a step closer. “I never forgot what your dad did. What he let happen. I thought about reaching out when I saw your name again, but…”

“But you didn’t.”

He nodded. “Didn’t know if you’d want to hear from anyone who knew the before.”

She breathed in through her nose. Held it. Then let it go. “I didn’t need rescuing. I needed people to believe me when I said I wasn’t my father.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You’re not him.”

The words landed. Quiet.

She nodded once. “You’re married now.”

“Yeah.” He glanced back toward the venue. “She’s a good person.”

“Oh I’m sure.”

Another beat.

Then, “You look happy.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Because just then—

A figure appeared near the hedges. Black suit. Rolled sleeves. Silver at the temples.

Harry. Eyes locked on her like a sniper.

Her breath caught. John noticed.

“Is that—”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

John blinked. “Holy shit.”

Harry didn’t say anything when he reached them. Just stepped between them slightly, hand finding the small of her back, anchoring her.

John cleared his throat. “You’re—Harry Castillo.”

“Mm.”

“I’ve followed your career for years—”

Harry cut him off with a slow blink. “And now you marry women you used to serve shrimp to.”

John’s face paled.

She touched Harry’s arm. “Harry.”

He tilted his head. “Just saying.”

John took a step back. “Right. I should—yeah.”

He turned. Walked off. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Just firm.

She looked up at Harry. “You were eavesdropping?”

“I was waiting outside like a husband.”

“You’re not my husband.”

“Yet.”

She snorted.

Harry’s thumb brushed the bare skin of her back, right at the base of her spine. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He tilted his head. Studied her. “Want me to get you out of here?”

She smiled faintly. “Not yet. Francesca still needs to send me a link to a lingerie set.”

Harry’s eyes darkened slightly.

“Oh. Okay.”

She leaned in. Kissed the underside of his jaw. “For you. Of course..”

“You're a menace,” he murmured.

She laughed.

He kissed her temple. “Come on. Let’s go finish this. Then I’m taking you home. Or the goddamn moon. Anywhere you want.”

“Your bed in New York has better pillows.”

“Then we’re going home.”

Hand in hand, they walked back toward the party. Not looking back. Not needing to. Because some ghosts didn’t need confrontation. They just needed to see you thriving. And Harry Castillo made damn sure she would. The grass was damp beneath her heels when they stepped back into the light. The reception had shifted again—music pulsing a little louder now, bodies dancing with the looser grace of people full of wine and relieved of ceremony. Tables sparkled under strings of warm light, their surfaces littered with plates scraped clean and wineglasses clinked a little too often. Francesca caught her eye from across the garden, waving a hand with the flourish of someone halfway through her third drink.

“There she is,” Francesca said as she approached. “The woman of the fucking hour.”

She smirked, tucking herself into the chair beside her again, Harry’s coat still resting lightly across her shoulders. “Don’t think I’m that important.”

“You walked into this party like it owed you an apology. You’re a legend.”

Harry sat down beside her again, brushing the edge of her shoulder with his hand before settling. Luca rejoined them moments later with a small plate of olives and cheese.

Francesca didn’t even wait. She leaned close, voice low. “So. You going to tell me what happened?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Saw the groom follow you.”

She paused. Then sighed. “I used to know him. When I was a teenager. He worked for my family. He was... kind. At a time when I didn’t really know what that meant.”

Francesca’s gaze softened. “And now he’s married to Lucy.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Full circle. Or something.”

Francesca touched her hand. “You doing okay?”

She smiled faintly. “Now I am.”

Harry was watching them. Eyes soft. Hands steady. He didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. Just existed in a bubble of silent attention around her, like if he looked away for even a moment, the world might try to take her.

Francesca clocked it too. Leaning in closer, she smirked. “God, he’s disgusting when he looks at you.”

She turned slightly. “Who?”

“That man. Your man. The one who’s staring like you’re his religion.”

Harry, without missing a beat, said, “I’m right here.”

Francesca sipped her wine. “We know. You’re always right there.”

The two women shared a look. Something old and female and funny.

“I’m gonna need another,” Francesca said, lifting her empty glass. “You?”

She raised hers. Empty. Francesca grinned and then pointed at their respective men. “Alright, gentlemen. Fetch and return.”

Harry arched a brow. “Are we dogs now?”

“Yes,” Francesca said, already rising. “But expensive ones. Go.”

Harry stood, eyes flicking over to her with a smirk. “You good?”

She nodded. “I’m fine. Go.”

He leaned down. Kissed the top of her head. “Stay in the light.”

She laughed. “What am I, Frodo?”

But he lingered. Brushed her cheek once with the back of his hand before turning. She watched them go—Harry and Luca disappearing toward the bar—and then turned back to Francesca, who had sat back down and was now untying her shoes.

“So,” Francesca said. “Having a good time?”

She hesitated. Then said softly, “I think this is what having a good time looks like.”

Francesca looked over. “You in love?”

Her smile curled slowly. “Worse.”

Francesca raised her brow. “How worse?”

“He’s in love with me. And it’s... it’s not performative. Or casual. It’s like he loves me with his whole life. Like I’m the first quiet he’s ever known.”

Francesca stared at her. “That’s not worse. Thats luck.”

They laughed. The soft, shared laugh of women who knew too much and still leaned into it anyway.

“I’ve never had anything like this,” she said, voice lower now. “Not with someone who listens. Not with someone who doesn’t want to own me.”

Francesca tapped her glass gently. “Then keep it. At all costs.”

She nodded. “I plan to.”

But the cost, it turned out, was about to show up. Because just then—

A voice cut through the music. Sharp. Feminine. Familiar in the way rot is familiar once you’ve known it long enough.

“Well,” the woman said. “I guess if you stick around long enough, the trash takes itself out of hiding.”

She turned. Standing just behind her, drink sloshing, dress too tight around the arms, was one of Lucy’s cousins. Tall. Blonde. The kind of cruel that came with too much money and too little self-awareness.

She straightened. “Excuse me?”

The woman took a slow sip. “You heard me.”

Francesca turned too, already rising slightly in her seat. But the woman wasn’t looking at Francesca. Just at her.

“Everyone here is pretending like this is normal,” the cousin sneered. “Like it makes sense that you’d show up here, parade around in that fucking dress, and pretend you belong. But you don’t. You never did.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re not.” The woman stepped closer, voice low and hot with something old. “You’re not sorry for seducing someone old enough to be your father. You’re not sorry for ruining a perfectly good man. You’re not sorry for making Lucy cry for months.”

Francesca stood. “Alright. That’s enough.”

But she didn’t stop.

“You think this makes you powerful?” she hissed. “Being the woman who dragged Harry Castillo out of hiding? You’re a phase. A fucking consolation prize for a man who got burned by a real woman.”

Her throat closed.

“I’ve seen girls like you,” the cousin spat. “Choke on your own ambition. Hide behind soft eyes and soft hands and then cry when someone calls you what you really are. You’re not real. You’re not permanent. You’re a fucking intermission.”

Francesca was already stepping between them. “Say one more word—”

But it was too late. Harry was back. And he had heard everything. He stepped forward. No hesitation. Voice like thunder on glass.

“Shut. The fuck. Up.”

The cousin blinked. Turned. And froze. Harry Castillo, furious in a black suit and tie loose around his collar, stood like a man who had made his fortune destroying people who spoke out of turn. And now he was looking at her like she wasn’t even worth the breath it would take to really dismantle her.

“You don’t speak to her,” Harry said, voice low. Lethal. “You don’t look at her. You don’t think about her. She’s worth more than everything on this property combined.”

The cousin flushed red. “You think just because you’re—”

“Back off,” Harry said, stepping closer. “Now.”

But then—

Another man stepped in. Older. Broader. Her husband, probably.

“Hey,” he said, stepping between them. “Back off. You don’t talk to my wife like that.”

Harry turned his gaze slowly. And smiled. It wasn’t kind. It was the smile he used to wear in boardrooms before ruin.

“I just did,” Harry said. “Want to make it a conversation?”

“Harry—” she said softly, touching his arm.

He didn’t look at her. Not yet.

The cousin’s husband stepped closer. “You think you’re untouchable?”

Harry stepped right into his space.

“I know I am.”

“Harry,” she said again, firmer.

This time, he looked at her. And just as quickly—softened. Because she looked shaken. Small. And he hated that.

He touched her cheek. “Did she hurt you?”

“I’m okay.”

“Did she hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Just words.”

Harry looked back at the woman. “Then be grateful they were only words. Because if she’d touched you—”

But he didn’t finish it. Because Lucy had arrived. And John, trailing behind her, wide-eyed and unsure. Lucy’s heels clicked against the stone. Her dress shimmered. Her expression already lined with practiced grace.

“Harry,” she said, exasperated. “What the hell is going on?”

He didn’t move. Just kept one hand on her waist. The other clenched at his side.

“This woman insulted her.”

Lucy glanced at her cousin. Then at Harry. Then at her. And instead of apology—

She snapped.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Her breath caught.

Lucy stepped forward. “You shouldn’t have brought her here. You knew it would cause a scene.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “She didn’t cause anything.”

“You brought a child to my wedding.”

She froze. The words were sharp. And Harry? Harry looked like he could kill.

“She’s not a child,” he said. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Lucy scoffed. “Oh please. Don’t turn this into some noble love story.”

Harry straightened. “She is my girlfriend.”

Even though it hurt Lucy to hear that, it was true. Lucy’s lips curled. “She’s twenty years younger than you.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, without missing a beat. “Which means she knows how to grow. Something you’ve never learned.”

Lucy flinched. The air went cold.

John stepped up, hand on Lucy’s arm. “Let’s calm down—”

“Don’t,” Harry said. “Don’t try to smooth this over. She started it.”

“She didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what she meant,” Harry snapped. “She insulted her. And I don’t care if it’s your fucking wedding, you let anyone talk to her like that again and I’ll make sure they never get invited anywhere again.”

Silence. Thick. Sharp. Awful. And then—

The cousin muttered something. But Harry didn’t react. Because she touched his hand. And that—that was what grounded him. He looked at her. Really looked. Eyes soft. Wrath dissolving. She was pale. Shaken. But still standing.

“Let’s go,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Francesca was already packing up her purse. Luca was watching everything like a man taking notes on who to blacklist next. Harry didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t wait. Just wrapped his coat around her shoulders, held her close, and walked away.

The cousin said something again. Harry didn’t hear it. Didn’t need to. Because she had his hand. And Harry Castillo would rather burn the world down than let her think for one more second that she was anything less than holy.

And as their driver drove away—his hand in hers, his jaw tight, her head resting against the seat—he finally spoke. Voice low. Rough.

“I'm so sorry.”

She looked up. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I let them hurt you.”

She shook her head. “No. You were right there.”

He looked at her. Eyes burning. “I love you,” he said. “So much it makes me ugly.”

She leaned over. Kissed his knuckles.

“You’re not ugly.”

He pulled her close. Held her to his chest. Whispered into her hair “You’re the only thing I’ve ever done right.”

And outside the car window, Cape Cod disappeared. But inside—

Inside there was only the sound of her breathing. And the feeling of being held. And the sharp, tender truth that no matter how cruel the world got—

Harry Castillo would always stand in front of it. If it meant protecting her.

TAGLIST @foxfollowedmehome @glitterspark @sukivenue @hhallefuckinglujahh @wholesomeloneliness @bebop36 @maryfanson @aysilee2018 @msjarvis @snoopyreadstoday @woodxtock @lasocia69 @jakecockley @just-a-harmless-patato @romancherry @southernbe @canyoufallinlove @aomi-recs @ivoryandflame @peelieblue @mstubbs21 @eleganthottubfun @justgonewild @awqwhat @xoprettiestkat @prose-before-hoes @indiegirlunited @catnip987 @thottiewinemom @rainbowsock4 @weareonlygettingolderbabe @hotforpedro @petertingless @lemon-world1 @jasminedragoon @algressman16 @la-120 @totallynotshine @joelmillerpascal @inesbethari @peedrow @escapefromrealitylol @mrsbilicablog @lunpycatavenue @ennvsco @vickie5446 @stormseyer

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espressheauxs

4 months ago

Ordinatio {Marcus Acacius x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 15.4k

Warnings: Political intrigue, force/arranged marriage, mentions of infertility, vaginal fingering, rough sex, unprotected sex, breast play, nipple biting, riding, talks of family planning, pull out game, attempted theft, brutal attack, Marcus going feral, mentions of pregnancy, betrayal, gladiatorial violence

Comments: Forced to marry general Marcus Acacius, you are ordered by your emperors to spy on him in order to make sure that he is not indulging in traitorous acts. Quickly falling for the war roughened solider, you must risk the wrath of the Emperors in order to possibly have a future with him.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Marcus Acacius MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

Swallowing harshly, you wait for the carriage to stop in front of the palace that towers over the city below on Palatine Hill. The shuffle of the Praetorian guards always makes you nervous, they answer only to the emperor and would kill anyone they deem a threat. It’s nerve wracking to be summoned so late at night that the torches that normally light the streets were burned out and the silence makes echoes through the darkness. Your cloak covers your hair, hastily fashioned when your household was disturbed merely an hour ago. Just the order that you were to appear before Geta and Caracalla as soon as you dress. The carriage had been waiting outside and your servant was pushed away when she tried to join you. Leaving you alone with the guards to travel just outside the city. Everything looks ominous at night, maybe it’s because your late husband so often spoke of the rot beneath the surface, but you still shiver. Jumping slightly when the door opens and you are helped out and directed to follow the flowing cape of the guard into the large palace.

You are escorted through the halls until you enter a room to the side of the court, the fires burning and casting shadows on the marbled walls. You stand there, two guards on either side of the door, and you are there for several moments until the Emperors both stride in and you bow your head, heart thumping as you await the reason why you’ve been brought here in the middle of the night.

You shiver when you see the two most powerful men in all of Rome. Uneasy by their almost manic expressions as Geta practically giggles. “This will be perfect, Caracalla.” He coos, stepping unreasonably close to you and gripping your chin so he can examine your face. “What do you think?”

“She will be perfect.” Caracalla giggles, eyes manic and they inspect you, dragging up and down your body. “He will not be able to resist her once she is in his possession.” You frown, not liking where this could be going. “You are to marry General Marcus Acacius.” Geta declares and claps, you resist the urge to pull your chin from the Emperor’s grip. You open your mouth before you think better of it, allowing the Emperor to continue, “you’ll marry him and report back to us any conversations or exchanges he has with anyone in the Senate or the army.” Geta orders and you cannot withhold your tongue, “marry the General to spy on him?” You ask and Caracalla giggles, “yes.” Geta sighs, “your late husband was a good man. Misguided in his views to an extent but we know he would’ve married a good woman. You are still young, it is sad to see you widowed.” You don’t buy their false concern for your being. “And the General?” You question softly and Geta continues, “we fear the General has become too…influential in court and in the Senate. We wish to discover if he has plans to establish a coup. We wish to avoid killing our General if we can. Perhaps you could…influence him to withhold any plans of attack.” Geta hums and Caracalla smirks, “with your cunt.” Your chin is finally released and you offer them a stiff smile, “the General is not a stupid man, he would recognize the ruse.” You say, knowing you’ll be killed if you refuse. No one denies the Emperor of Rome.

“He will not if we order the marriage. He still mourns his wife and child. Perhaps giving him something outside of war will mellow him from any unwanted…advances to the palace.” Caracalla raises his eyebrows, “do you not think you are up to the task?” He dares you and you swallow, “I- I will not disappoint you.” You promise, praying the idea fades with the sunrise and you can continue living in your villa without need for a husband. “Excellent. We shall inform the General of your wish to marry once the sun has risen. You may go.” Geta dismisses you with a wave of his hand. “Yes, Emperor.” You bow your head and back towards the door until they say your name, “fail us and you will be fed to the lions.” Geta warns and Caracalla’s shrieks of delight echo off the marbled walls. You nod, bowing your head again and you rush out the room once the guards open the doors. You have to make a plan to survive, to escape from under the thumb of the Emperor.

Marcus sighs as he adjusts the cuff around his wrist. It’s elaborate and unnecessary. Just like the laurel wreath he wears in his hair. The trappings of Rome had once held appeal when he was younger, brasher. When his wife was here to greet him with a lusty kiss and promises of pleasures far beyond what he had imagined while laying in his cold tent outside the battlefields. Those dreams had long since been buried with her and the child she had suffered to bring into the world only to be lifeless when he slipped from her womb. Leaving him alone to focus on war and follow orders. Orders that he is increasingly uneasy with, the regrets of battle following him and the weariness of the continuous fight weighing on him. Roman conquests need to be countered with prudence, allowing the people to flourish in other parts of the realm instead of just the grandiose of the capital. He taps his hand on his knee as he waits, looking out over the olive trees in the gardens below and he wonders what war the emperors have decided to wage now, the senate unwilling or unable to keep them in check.

“Ah General Acacius, thank you for joining us.” Geta crows as he swaggers into the room, Caracalla’s eyes manic and a grin on his face as he approaches Marcus. “Emperors.” He bows his head after he stands up, the laurel flashing in the sunlight coming through the linens covering the balcony. “So glad you could come on such short notice. We have some wonderful news to share.” Caracalla smirks and Geta continues by saying your name. “She is the widow of Senator Gracchus?” Marcus tilts his head, recognizing your name and he knows you from events thrown in the palace. “Yes. She is young, widowed at such a young age with no father to oversee her. She must marry again. And she will marry you.” Geta declares like it’s an honor.

Marcus pauses, his jaw tightening slightly and he clasps his hands together in front of his robes. “That is…..a great honor.” He says stiffly, immediately opposed to the idea, but he has to tread carefully with the emperors. They are impetuous at the best of times and have never learned how to accept rejection. Why would they have to when the world bows to their whims? “I fear that I would be unable to provide for a wife of such a status.” He adds, making it actually sound as if he has regret. “I spend so much time away from Rome, fighting for my emperors.” He sighs. “I fear that the young widow would not be happy with a husband such as I. Perhaps one closer to the senate might be more suitable?”

“She does not wish to have another senator husband. She wants protector. Someone who can provide for her in ways other than coin. She expressly wishes for a gladiator and you are our most prized fighter. You are worthy of a high bred woman like her. Consider this a reward for your loyalty to Rome.” Geta insists, not letting Marcus push off the marriage. You must marry him. “A union like this will bring our fighters good spirit so they win our battles. Knowing they too could possess such a woman would motivate them to fight harder. The people want to see their General happy and we-” Geta gestures between him and Caracalla, “wish to award our greatest fighter with a grand prize. She is self sufficient, running her late husband’s household which we will assign to his brother as he had no direct heir. She will ensure your home is cared for and warm your cock at night.”

There is no way that he can reject the woman without offending the emperors. It seems as if he has no choice right now but to accept this. “You honor me.” He bows slowly, seething inside. He doesn’t know you, he doesn’t want to know you. He has no need for a wife and can have all the companionship he desires if he just wants his cock warmed.

A horse neighs as a soldier brings news from the palace and you scramble when your servant brings you the scroll. You quickly unroll it, praying to the gods that you have been released from your duty and your shoulders drop when you read that you are to marry Acacius in two days time. Your villa will be transferred to the hands of your brother in law, Albus, as you are to move into the General’s villa. You fall into your chair as you reread the scroll. It’s over. You must marry and you are to be under the control of the Emperors. You could run, try to escape into the countryside but you know they would find you. No one escapes Rome. No matter how far you go, you will be found. You swallow harshly, tears stinging in your eyes, and you look up when Antonia enters, “is everything okay, matronae?” She asks and you nod, sniffing to control your emotions. “I wish for you to pack my things, I am to be wed to General Marcus Acacius. I will need to relocate to his residence after we are wed in two days' time.” You declare and her eyes widen, knowing of no existing relationship between you and the General. “Ye-yes, matronae.” She nods and rushes off, leaving you to wallow in your unfortunate luck.

“I will not do it!” The crockery shatters against the marble walls of the villa. The servant who had just brought the meal scurrying out of the room in order to avoid Marcus’s wrath. His chest heaves as he looks at the ruined meal, food scattered and his situation still just as hopeless as it had been moments before. “Fuck.” He hisses, dropping back onto the chair and reaching for the cup of wine that he hopes will drown his sorrow. He will be married in two days’ time. Another wife to bear his name and his children. He scoffs to himself and puts the wine to his lips. You had not born Gracchus any children so perhaps you are barren. It would be the gods favoring him if you were. He has no desire to have children, to leave a legacy behind. The pride he had for Rome had slowly eroded away over the years and campaigns, leaving him with a hollowness he can never tell anyone about. “Fuck.” He slams the cup down and rubs his hand over his face. The villa will be ready when you arrive, the servants already informed, he just needs to accept it himself.

You bid goodbye to the servants that you’ve overseen since you arrived at your late husband’s villa. They look sad to see you go and you take that as a compliment. You sigh and only Antonia follows you as you are helped into the quadriga as you depart for the palace. Your hair styled by your servant and the red veil placed over your head as you ride to your fate. The General will be waiting for his bride and you pray you don’t disappoint him. You’ve seen glimpses of him but you’ve never been able to properly look upon the man. “All will be well.” Antonia promises as she reaches for your hand to squeeze it. “I hope so.” You whisper, knowing this will be a life or death situation for you. When you arrive at the palace, you are helped out of the carriage and escorted up the stairs to the doors to the grand hall. You glance around, “am I not allowed to see my intended before we wed?” You ask the guard who doesn’t say a word. You swallow harshly and Antonia rubs your arm before she checks your long tunic, ensuring you are a beautiful bride. “Thank you, Antonia.” You murmur and she offers you a sweet smile, “I will be with you with every step, matronae.” She promises and you squeeze her hand and take a deep breath just as the doors open to reveal a grand hall full of the members of the court and Senate. The Emperors standing on the balcony with what seems like the entire Roman Empire watching below as General Marcus Acacius stands there dressed in white with a golden laurel atop his head.

Of course Geta and Caracalla have turned this into an ostentatious event. He would have preferred something intimate, or nothing at all. However, the emperors had other plans and invited the entire senate to witness the marriage. Marcus doesn’t flinch, standing tall and watching as you walk towards him. The red veil covers your face and he can make out your features as you move closer. You are a beautiful woman, but he’s never paid much attention to another man’s wife. Now you will become his wife.

You inhale deeply as you take a step up to the balcony and the General holds his hand out to help you. You thank him softly and the Emperors grin. Marriage is usually informal, decided upon between families and within the home but the Emperors planned for a spectacle. “We welcome you here to witness the marriage of a great Roman General, Marcus Acacius. He is to wed the widow of Senator Gracchus.” Geta announces and Marcus releases your hand. The marriage scroll is laid out on the table and you have no dowry. Lacking a father along with your late husband accepting your dowry, you have nothing to give but yourself. A fact that the general doesn’t seem to care about. The crowd cheers and the court claps, making you feel more like you’re about to become Empress than the general’s wife. “Let us witness their union. A gift from Rome to her greatest warrior.” Geta declares and the crowd cheer, making your hands shake slightly. “Now, join hands.” He orders and you nod, joining your shaky hands with Acacius who frowns as he grips your hands in his large ones.

Marcus doesn’t like the idea of you being a gift. Not caring for the implication you are being forced, even if both of you are. The whims of the emperors must be met. Your hand is small in his, soft. You are a woman of nobility, you are not used to rough men. That is what he is, despite the finery of his costume. He remembers a different wedding, a lifetime ago in the small parlor of his late wife’s house. He had been so excited then, and now he is hesitating to say the words that are expected. “Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.” He murmurs, his voice low and clear.

You swallow harshly, your throat dry as the Emperors look to you expectedly. You look at

Acacius and lick your lips. Caracalla shifts, his eyes narrowing slightly and you manage to choke out “ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” to seal yourself in marriage to the general. The Emperors grin and you know there’s no escaping this fate. Your union must be sealed with a kiss so you let go of Marcus’s hands and wait for him to lift your veil.

Marcus stares at you. Almost surprised to find that you are so young. He feels much older compared to your youthful beauty and he leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a brief kiss while everyone around erupts into cheers. The marriage contract will still need to be signed, but the two of you are married in the eyes of Rome.

The cheers roar in your ears but you blank it out, focused on the rough looking man in front of you who is now your husband. The Emperor snaps his fingers and his servant carries over the papyrus that will be the marriage contract between you and General Acacius. “Please sign to join in matrimony with your intended.” Greta orders you and you swallow, picking up the pen to sign your name on the marriage contract. Your hand shakes and you hesitate, not wanting to marry the man beside you but you have no choice. Caracalla stares at you, a menacing look on his face that has you scribbling your name in fear of the consequences of not marrying the General. You look up to see the grin of glee on the Emperor’s face and you stand up, handing the pen to Marcus.

Sighing softly, Marcus leans over and scribbles his name beside yours. Making the marriage contract legal and binding. You are now his wife in truth. “Excellent!” Geta claps his hands together. “Now we will slaughter a dozen pigs, sacrificing them to the gods for a blessed union!” It’s excessive and disgustingly wasteful, making Marcus curl his lip slightly. The animals would not feed anyone, and people in Rome were buckling under the expense of war.

You want to suggest a cake for Jupiter but you will not argue with the Emperors. You swallow harshly and the Emperors clap, approaching the balcony edge to declare the union. The crowd cheers, “feliciter!” and the Emperors spin around to both cheer, “let us feast.” You look at Marcus whose jaw is clenched and you bite your inner cheek, imagining he is not pleased with you, you are not young enough, pure enough. You have no dowry to provide. Perhaps you’re not pretty enough for him. Lacking in all aspects. You don’t have time to dwell on it when Antonia comes for you to prepare you for the feast. You look at Marcus as you are taken away and he nods, his laurel shining like he’s Mars himself standing there.

He has a wife. A woman that he knows nothing about is now under his care and carrying his name. He receives the congratulations of the Senate, aware that they are all just as confused as he is by the speed and celebration of the events. Especially when neither he nor you look particularly happy. Marcus had noticed how nervous you had seemed and had wondered if it was because of the emperor’s attentions or if you did not care to be under a man’s thumb again. He is aware of the way the two most powerful men are carefully watching him as he shakes hands with the senators, keeping his conversations brief because he knows Geta and Caracalla would rather be feasting than talking. They love to drink and carouse, and he hopes that the wedding feast they have prepared will not turn into the orgies they are becoming known for.

Antonia removes your veil and restyles your hair for the reception. She reaches into the pocket for the bottle of perfume oil, rubbing it into your skin to refresh you and you exhale shakily, realizing you are married once again. “I hope he is not cruel.” You confess to Antonia who shakes her head, “I spoke with one of his house servants, he is strict but does not hit them. I pray to the gods he treats his wife the same.” She whispers, knowing that most nobles would smack her for speaking as she does but you request her candid nature. “Very well, let’s return and feast. I am anxious for wine to calm my nerves.” You confess and Antonia nods, escorting you to the hall where the feast is being laid out for the guests.

Marcus has not yet sat down. Always finding it rude when a man would put his own comfort before that of his wife. While training with him, he had heard stories of Maximus’s devotion to the woman he had loved, the care in which he had treated her when she was alive before Commodus had her brutally murdered. He had treated his first wife the same way and had been rewarded with the loyalty and love that he had cherished when he was away. Eyes turn towards you when you arrive and Marcus is once again struck by your beauty, your slight apprehension as you look around for him and the surprise that he is not already feasting.

Antonia escorts you to the table where your husband sits alongside the Emperors who are gulping down wine like it’s going to evaporate at any moment. Antonia bows her head and rushes off to the servants area, watching you while Marcus pulls your chair out and gestures for you to sit. “Thank you.” You murmur, taking your seat and he sits down beside you, his posture stiff as you look at the food on display. “My Emperors have been most generous in their hosting of our union.” You declare to Marcus so Geta and Caracalla hear you, wanting to ensure they are in good spirits so you can leave the feast earlier than expected.

“Yes.” Marcus finds it to be a lavish expense that is completely unnecessary, but so many of the Emperor’s decisions cost the people of Rome. “The excess is very abundant.” He picks up the cup of wine that is at his plate and offers it up in a toast. “To Rome and her glory.” He offers. “And our Emperors that make it so.”

“To Rome and her glory.” You toast and Caracalla giggles, holding up his golden goblet. “And your Emperors.” He adds with raised eyebrows. “And her Emperors.” You declare with a stiff smile. You know you are playing a dangerous game with the manic leaders. Any moment they could change their mind and have you killed. You doubt you’ll be able to report anything on the general. He seems reserved and only speaks when he feels he has something of substance to add. He doesn’t speak at all while you enjoy the meats, cheeses, and fruits on display in front of you. You gesture for another cup of wine when Caracalla tuts, “you really shouldn’t drink so much. It’s unbecoming of the bride to be drunk when she takes her husband’s cock for the first time.”

Marcus’s brow arches up, wondering why the emperor is so invested in this marriage being consummated. Your fingers pull back from the cup as if you are being rebuked and the servant pulls the carafe of wine away, but Marcus turns around to take it himself, refilling your cup. “There is no celebration without wine.” He reminds them, refilling his own cup as well. “She has been a wife before, she knows what is expected of her.” The truth is, he has no intention of bedding you tonight, he doesn’t know you and he feels as if you don’t want him. This is a marriage that was forced on both of you by the whims of madmen.

Your eyebrows raise slightly at the defiance shown by Marcus. Something that would’ve gotten him killed if he were of a lower rank. Geta stares as Marcus takes a sip of wine and you follow your husband, taking a gulp as the Emperor tilts his head. It’s Caracalla that breaks the tension by throwing his head back and laughing, “this is true. She is no virgin. She has been trained and therefore should satisfy our great general before he has to venture off to claim more land for Rome and her people.” The Emperor grins and raises his goblet towards you. You offer him a stiff smile and glance around the room at the court and senate feasting while the people of Rome suffer for their gluttony. The feast continues with Geta and Caracalla standing up to mingle around the room, wanting to boast about their perfect match. “Shall we return to your villa? I am certain you wish to bed me and get some rest after such an arduous day.” You ask your husband softly.

He nods, figuring that he could speak with you in private without guards or servants around. It is rare to be able to speak freely. “Your possessions arrived earlier today and my servants unpacked them, but I am sure you wish to have things set up to your liking.” He murmurs as he stands up and reaches for your hand. “Do you have many servants coming with you?”

“Just one. Antonia. The others were my late - were Gracchus. They belong to his brother now.” You reveal and he nods as you take his hand. It’s calloused and engulfs yours, making you apprehensive that such a strong man could easily break you. You approach the Emperors and bow your head as your husband announces your departure.

Geta chuckles and nods. “Eager to fill her.” He claps Marcus’s shoulder and motions for the two of you to leave. “I do not blame you for wanting to feel the clutch of her cunt around your cock. The spoils of your latest conquest.” His shrill laughter grates on the general’s ears and he doesn’t do more than simply nod. “We have much to do.” He agrees.

Marcus escorts you through the bustling hall, Antonia and his own men on your trail as he takes you to the carriage that is waiting to bring you to his villa. Marcus helps you up into the carriage and you settle in to watch the city pass by on your silent journey to his villa. “I know that neither of us wanted to be wed but we must do what is required of us so we do not endure the wrath of the emperors. I wish for you to bed me tonight. To consummate the marriage as I do not trust that the Emperors do not have eyes watching our moves. If we fail to indulge them in our union, we will suffer.” You whisper, keeping your face turned away from your husband.

Marcus snorts softly and sighs. “I do not rape on a battlefield and I would not do so in my own bed.” He tells you. “We can send the servants away and say that we have fulfilled our marriage duties.” He knows you are uneasy so he doesn’t touch you. “I will not take a woman by force or coercion.”

You turn to look at him, his face flickered with each lamppost you pass, and you are surprised. Most men would have accepted your offer to have a warm cunt to spill inside without any care to how you feel or what you wish. “Thank you.” You whisper, knowing in that moment that the stories of the brutal warrior that fights for Rome has not returned to her streets. The man beside you is slow in his movements and you realize that he’s trying not to spook you. “I am no stranger to married life and I have heard that you were married too. I am sorry for the loss of your wife and child. I cannot - I cannot imagine-” You reach for his hand, “I lost my husband but I did not love him. My father arranged the marriage to guarantee his connections to the senate and we never were blessed with children. He was older, I was his third wife after his previous wives died from disease and a snake bite. He was unlucky and I do miss his companionship but I never loved him.” You confess, wanting your husband to know your history.

“Then you have my deepest sympathies that your second marriage is also not of your choosing.” Marcus looks down at your smaller hand in his and there is a moment where his heart jolts. You are soft and sweet and deserve much more than him. “My uxor- we loved each other very much. She was everything to me.” He admits. “I had thought to never marry again after burying her and our son.”

You squeeze his hand, “I’m sorry that you’ve been pushed into this but I want you to know that I would never try to take her place. This is an arrangement forced upon us. Your wife will be your true love. I am here to help with your household and provide you with a confidant if that is what you wish for.”

“You are a beautiful and youthful woman.” He murmurs honestly. “You won’t want to find pleasure?” He asks, wanting there to be honestly between both of you if this union is to be successful in the eyes of the Emperors. “What do you want out of this arrangement?”

“I want freedom. I have been running the household for a year and I wish to have my freedom, to not be under the control of my husband’s whims. I will provide for you a stable household and in return, I want to spend my time indulging in painting and needlework. My hobbies.” You confess, “and for pleasure…I have never known such a thing other than from my own hand.” You admit, “you cannot yearn for what you have not experienced.”

Marcus is stunned that you have never known pleasure. He would be lying if he did not immediately think to offer to show you pleasure. He could give it to you, he knows that. Even the whores that he sometimes uses that follows the army find pleasure with him. “I am gone from the city much of the time.” He reminds you. “The household is more yours than mine. The servants will do what you tell them to. Your time is yours to decide how to spend it.”

You nod, letting go of his hand, “thank you. Then we are in agreement. Our union will be one of convenience and to satisfy the whims of the Emperors. I will not sully your name by seeking pleasure from others.” You promise, “and I understand if you find your pleasure while you are away.” You’re a pragmatic woman, you know men need to find their pleasure.

“That will not happen.” Marcus admits. “It would be dishonorable to take another woman to my bed while you are my uxor.” He has a code that he follows. Even if he did not want to be married, he will not tarnish his reputation by seeking pleasure somewhere else. “I have a hand.”

You frown, knowing that most men would take your invitation and find the first whore to bury himself in. "Very well. We shall live our lives...together but separated." You declare just as you arrive at Villa Acacius. Marcus opens the door and holds out his hand, helping you out and you look up at your new home. It's not as grand as the Senator's home but it is beautiful. You enter the courtyard and smile at the servants awaiting your arrival.

Marcus normally allows the servants to run his household, not carrying much about the schedule of things as long as the place is clean. Now you might change things so he leads you over to them. “This is your new matronae, my uxor.” He introduces you. “She will oversee your work and any changes she wishes to make are to be treated as if they came from me.” He orders.

The servants nod, greeting you and some are more enthusiastic than others. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. I want to observe during my first days here and then I will discuss what I’d like to change with input from you all on what you consider to be best.” You declare and some are shocked that you are considering their opinions. “My job begins tomorrow. For now, I’d like to retire to our rooms.” You declare and Antonia steps from behind you, “this is Antonia, my handmaid. She will be continuing her duties by my side.” You announce and the staff nod.

Marcus is pleased with the way that the introductions went and he turns around to stride off towards his room. He knows that you will have to sleep there, with him, but he needs a moment to change out of the cumbersome robes he had worn to get married in. Preferring a plainer, softer tunic when he is home.

You watch him go and Antonia is speaking with the women who give her a briefing on your new home. Antonia nods and turns back towards you, “let us get you ready for bed, matronae.” She says and you follow her to the room near where Marcus is changing. The room along from there is the bedchamber and you close your eyes as Antonia takes your hair out of its style to allow you to relax and you’re soon wearing a thin tunic, ready for bed. “I hope he treats you well, matronae.” She murmurs and squeezes your hand before she leaves you. You inhale shakily and enter the room you will be sharing with the general to find him standing there, shoulders broad in the thin tunic and he is looking to the streets below. “All is well?” You ask, letting him know of your presence.

Marcus turns and is struck by your beauty as he sees you in the simple tunics and your hair down. The jewelry is gone and you look like you are much younger than your years. It makes him feel older all of a sudden and he wonders again why the emperors would give you to him. “As well as can be expected.” He answers, watching as you look towards the bed warily as if you expect him to break his promise from earlier and throw you down on it. “I will sleep on the floor.” He assures you, making you drown. “That is not- it’s your bed.” You protest and Marcus snorts. “I have spent many nights sleeping on a rocky ground without a blanket.” He reminds you. “A floor with cushions will be a luxury.” He shrugs. “I wish to put you at ease.” He admits. “I will not take what is not offered, and you have no reason to offer if you find no pleasure in fucking.”

You stare at him and sigh, “I do not wish to cast my husband from his bed. We are well aware of the sexual act and what it takes to copulate. We can be adults and share a bed so you do not wake with an aching back.” You announce as you walk over to the bed. “I am weary. It’s been a long day. Get in bed and sleep, Marcus.” You order, not wanting to argue about this.

He stares at you for a moment and there is a hint of amusement that softens his features. “If you were a man, you would make a good general.” He hums, moving to the bed and throwing back the soft, clean sheets. “Come rest.” He urges once he has sat down.

You nod and sit on the bed, swinging your legs in and you pull the sheets up after Marcus slides under them. “I know I wasn’t what you wanted but I want to make this work.” You murmur and he hums, “we will.” He promises and you sigh, closing your eyes after he blows out the candle. You will need to report to the Emperors with something about him at some point and you already feel like you’re betraying him. “Goodnight.” You whisper and close your eyes as you fall asleep within moments, unable to worry about being in a strange place when you are exhausted.

Marcus lays in the darkness, listening to your breathing as it starts to slow down. The soft rustle of the sheets when you move. Looking over at you as the moon casts a pale glow through the sheer curtains covering the balcony. It’s a curse that you are so beautiful right now, since it has been some time since he has had a woman in his bed. His cock twitches as he imagines touching you, but he doesn’t reach out. Turning away and looking at the stand where his sword is displayed, sighing softly as he wonders how long it will be before the emperors send him off to war again.

You may have fallen asleep right away but you wake in the middle of the night. The moon is high in the sky and it takes you a moment to remember where you are. You inhale sharply when you remember you’re in Marcus’s villa. In your new home. You exhale and lean back onto the bed, looking over at the muscular back of your new husband. He’s handsome, no denying that fact, and he’s strong. Capable. Smart. All qualities to want in a man. You wonder what his desires are. He hasn’t been married for 20 years and you wonder who he fucks. He can’t be celibate. He’s a general. You’re not stupid enough to think he hasn’t slept with whores. You wonder if he pleasured them or simply took what he wanted. You can see his golden skin illuminated by the moon, moles and scars mapping his life before you and you can’t help but reach out to gently trace a path, your touch feather light. He grunts and you withdraw your hand, eyes wide at the idea of being caught. You sigh when he settles back down and you lean back on your side. Staring up at the ceiling, you imagine him giving you pleasure. You’ve read about it plenty of times but your late husband always fucked you to fill you. There was never a day in bed pleasuring each other. He had business to attend to in the senate and he didn’t have time for silly things like making his wife cum.

Marcus had woken up the second you touched him. Feigning sleep as he waited for you to slip from the bed. Only to feel you roll away from him and sigh. He wonders if you are regretting this, if you are doubtful of your future even though you had seemed to trust him enough to fall asleep. You grunt quietly and sigh, like you are thinking about something that is uncomfortable. “What keeps you awake, uxor?” He asks quietly in the dark.

His deep, sleep laden voice makes you squeak and you turn to look at him, his back still facing you. You bite your lip, wondering if you should lie or tell him the truth. You are no longer a young innocent bride. You were a widow, matured by loss. "I was wondering if you pleasured the lovers you've had during your time of being a widow." You declare, cheeks burning but you speak without wavering.

Marcus grunts slightly, the sheets rustling as he turns over to look at you. His dark eyes searching your face for some clue of what you are thinking. “Unless they cry out to gods falsely, I would say yes.” Marcus tells you, not bragging, but speaking honestly. “I do not like false attempts to flatter me and I prefer that a woman leave my bed with a smile on her face.”

You appreciate his candid response and you decide to be bold. You sit up, shifting to look down at him and you drop the sheets from your body. "I have never cried to the gods. My last husband would penetrate me without caring if I was wet enough before he would push into me. He would spill inside me and then go about his day, leaving me with my legs up in hopes of conceiving his child. He never - he never gave me pleasure or made sure I was enjoying myself." Marcus makes a noise of disappointment but you don't let him comment when you quickly add, "I want you to fuck me. Like you would a camp whore. I want you to make me cry your name so every god will hear me on Capitolium."

Pushing up to his elbow, Marcus stares at you seriously. “The camp whores are used to…rougher sex.” He warns you. “After war, after the killing- the urges to fuck are rough. There isn’t the pretty lovemaking that is slow and sweet.” His cock hardened even now thinking of it. “It’s hard and deep. Enough to steal your breath and make your tits shake from the force of my thrusts.” He arches a brow. “Are you sure that is what you want? I am sure your senator husband didn’t fuck you like I would.”

His words combined with his deep voice makes your cunt clench and dampen, and you lean closer to him, "my husband didn't make me see stars. He didn't make me cry. I want you to fuck me like you do those whores. Make me scream for all of Rome to hear. I can handle it. I can take it."

This time, the kiss Marcus gives you isn’t chaste. It’s not a quick pressing of his lips to yours to appease the Emperors. This is wet, carnal. Lunging forward and capturing your lips with his and sliding his tongue into your mouth as he rolls you onto your back. Completely and instantaneously taking over as his fingers reach for the hem of your tunic.

You gasp into his mouth, tongue meeting his and you whine when he breaks the kiss to drag your tunic up your body, tossing it down on the marbled floor. You shiver as the cool night air hits your skin and he shifts to kneel, his dark eyes looking down at you. You look up at him and reach for the hem of his tunic, already tenting with his arousal. "I want to see my husband."

He has no problem being naked, revealing himself for you. He pulls his tunic up and his cock catches, starting to bob as he pulls it up over his head and tosses it aside. “Spread your legs for me, bella.” He growls, his voice raspy and full of command. “Let me see my wife’s cunt.”

You are already wet just from the strength he displays and you whimper, spreading your legs for him and your slick is shiny in the moonlight as you put yourself on show for your new general husband.

Marcus groans, his large hands squeezing your thighs and then moving down to your hips, holding them as his thumbs spread apart the lips of your sex and his cock twitches. Sliding his fingers through your folds until he is circling your entrance with two fingers until they are wet with your desire and he pushes them inside your slick walls. “Perfect.”

You moan when his thick digits push into you, stretching you out. Your hands itch to touch him so you reach down to wrap your fingers around his cock. “Not yet.” He growls, batting your hand away and you whine, both in frustration and pleasure as he starts to move his fingers. Slowly pumping them until he’s twisting his wrist so he can press his thumb against your clit. “Gods.” You gasp, your fingers gripping the sheets.

Leaning down, he bites at your nipple before running the flat of his tongue against it when you gasp. It makes him smile, the shocked sound you give. “You should see men suckling the tits of whores as they bounce on their cocks.” He groans against your skin. “They all love it, the men, the whores.” He continues to pump his fingers deeper into your cunt and loves how your walls start clenching down around them.

His words are scandalous but you gush at the thought of watching a scene like that. Something so sordid. “Marcus. I- do it again.” You beg and he obliges, leaning down to suck on your nipple before biting down. “Oh gods.” You whimper, your hips tilting as he works you higher and you feel that familiar feeling in your stomach. Something you’ve only ever done for yourself.

“That’s it.” He encourages you, his cock throbbing as he presses his thumb against your clit and pumps his fingers deep, curling them up inside you like one of the whores of his youth had shown him. He had been grateful to her ever since when he had been able to consistently please the women he was fucking, including his wife when he had married. “Why don’t you cry out for me, uxor?”

Marcus’s words send you over the edge. His claim of you both verbally and physically has you clamping down on his thick digits. “Oh fuck.” You curse, soaking his fingers when you cum harder than you ever have in your life.

He isn’t the type of man to just stop as soon as you start to cum. Continuing to work his fingers into you as he watches you come apart. Groaning quietly as your slick coats his fingers and slides down his wrists. You are wet enough now.

He takes your breath as he works you through it. “Marcus. Please.” You beg, wanting to feel him inside you, “I need you inside me.” You reach out to wrap your fingers around his cock, pumping him like Gracchus taught you.

Marcus hisses, batting your hand away and for a moment you freeze, afraid you had done something wrong. “It had been too long.” He growls, grabbing your hips and flipping you over to your stomach to pull your ass up in the air. “I need to be inside you before I spill.”

The position is new and you gasp in surprise, looking over your shoulder at your new husband who has his cock in his hand, pumping himself as he smacks your ass with his free palm. “Fuck me.” You demand, arching your back to display yourself for him.

“You would make such a good camp whore.” Marcus growls, shuffling forward to line up. It’s not exactly a compliment to most high born women, but he doesn’t think you will take offense. His hand is on your hip as he presses the head of his cock at your wet entrance to push inside you in one, hard thrust.

He stretches you like you’ve never known but it doesn’t hurt. You moan in pleasure as he twitches inside your pussy, making you whimper his name. “Marcus.” You pant, “move.” You demand and he chuckles, “so desperate.” He pulls his hips back, leaving only the tip of him remaining before he pushes deep into you in one quick thrust. “Fuck!” You yelp, loving how he feels.

He chuckles and grips your hips harshly in his hand as he rocks into you. Watching as your body arches back as he pulls his hips back, withdrawing again. He had told you he wouldn’t be gentle with you and he is keeping his word. “Now you will cry my name.” He vows, pushing forward again to fill you up and rock your body into the bed beneath you.

He takes your breath away, feeling like he’s in your stomach and you cry out on every rock of his hips, falling forward onto your cheek as you grip the sheets that are crumbled beneath you. “Fuck, Marcus.” You cry, feeling your body jiggle with each thrust.

He had almost vowed that he would not touch you but he could not resist your request. Your body is so willing, so yielding to him, making him groan as he plows into you over and over again. Listening to your moans as he fucks you.

His hands squeeze your flesh and you are lost in the sensations. No one has made you feel like this before. “Gods, you’re - you’re so thick. Stretching me out, husband.” You whine, rocking back onto him.

He growls in pleasure, snapping his hips forward again and again. He won’t last long, he knows that. It’s been too goddamn long since he has fucked anyone. Leaning over your back, he slides a hand between your thighs and starts to rub the little pleasure button above your grasping entrance. “You are such a needy whore.” He coos in your ear.

His words make you squeal when combined with his fingers on your clit and it doesn’t take long for you to fall apart. You cry out his name loud enough that the servants will hear and your thighs shake as you clamp down on his cock.

“Shit, shit.” Marcus hisses in pleasure at how you soak his cock, rocking his hips through your pulsing orgasm. His body starting to tighten as he works himself closer. Pulling his hand away from your clit and grabbing your hips. Slamming his own against your ass for another few thrusts before he is ripping free of your cunt and taking his cock in his hand. Pumping furiously as he starts painting your ass with hot ropes of his seed.

You huff in disappointment when he spills hot cum on your ass. You wanted him to fill you up, to experience it. Not to become with child but to feel him. You look over your shoulder as he relaxes from his orgasm and he’s so beautiful. Jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, he looks like a god.

Marcus squeezes your hip with the hand that is still holding you and sighs. “Fuck.” He pants, feeling completely blissed out. Slapping your ass once before he is shuffling off the bed to reach for his tunic to clean your ass off. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

You rest your cheek against the sheets as you let your body lay flat while he cleans you up. “I did. Why didn’t you- did you not wish to spill your seed inside me?” You ask curiously, looking over at him as he walks naked across the room, the moonlight highlighting his form.

Marcus picks up the pitcher of wine and pours a cup. Turning to you with a slight tilt of his head as he starts to pad across the floor back to the bed. “We have not talked about children.” He reminds you. “I did not want to fill you if you did not want to risk carrying my child.” He never spilled inside the women he fucked, always pulling out. When he started to cum, he had just acted on instinct. He takes a sip of the wine and offers you the cup.

You take the cup from his hand, thanking him soft and you watch him as he sits down beside you. He’s so broad. You imagine him protecting you, defending you. You shift closer to rest your head on his shoulder, feeling closer now you’ve consummated your marriage. “I do not mind children. I am not sure I can have them. Gracchus…he spilled inside me every time and it never took. Would I disappoint you if I do not provide you with a child?” You ask softly, pulling away from him so you can look at him.

“I …..never imagined having another child.” Marcus tells you honestly. He looks over at the sword on the display and then back to you. “If you never give me a child, I would not think it was because of you, but because the gods did not wish it so.” He rationalizes. “One day, I will leave and never return home, fallen in battle.” He accepted his fate a long time ago, made peace with it. “If you have no wish to risk carrying, I will spill my seed on the sheets.”

You barely know the man but to know he could die in battle makes your heart clench. “I’d like you to spill inside me if you wish to have me again. I enjoyed the pleasure. I want to feel you and if it takes, then we will be blessed and you can fight knowing your legacy will live on.”

Marcus chuckles. “You are a beautiful woman, one the gods would be envious of.” He tells you. “I am just a man. I would have you every night and at least once during the day if you were willing.”

You fluster, biting your lower lip as he compliments you. Your late husband never did so. “I will not complain if that is what my husband wishes of me.” You declare and he reaches out to grip your chin, “it is not about whether I wish it of you, it’s if you wish to have me.” He says and you look into those dark eyes, “I want you if you want me.” You promise and he slides his hand down to your neck, inhaling deeply. He never expected to fall into bed with the woman that was gifted to him but he finds himself eager to bury himself inside you again and fill you up. “Let us rest, corculum.” You say as you stand up to set your wine cup down on the table and you make your way back to the bed, sliding under the covers still nude.

Marcus hums in agreement and slides back into bed beside you. Pulling his arm back to allow you to curl against him if you wish. “I don’t mind.” He tells you when you hesitate. “We will rest and know that no one can claim we have not consummated our vow.”

You curl into his side, listening to his breathing even out and you focus on his heartbeat. You’re here to spy on him, to ensure he’s not hurting the empire with a coup but you aren’t sure if you can betray him like that. He’s already gotten under your skin. Eventually, you close your eyes and decide to see how things go. Perhaps it’s only rumors and there will be no evidence of Marcus Acacius’s unrest with Rome and her emperors.

****

Marcus groans, toes curling as he thrusts up into you. Watching as your breasts shake, mouth dropping open in a low moan of his name. It’s been nearly a month and he is still in Rome. The Emperors claim they want their general well rested for the next campaign and to give him time to spend with his new bride. He has enjoyed that. Since that first night, you have become insatiable and Marcus has fucked you in every position, on every surface of the villa. Spending more time with you than anyone else although you do disappear with your servant at times, claiming you prefer the peace of the women’s baths in the city center. He doesn’t begrudge you that, although he misses the time when you aren’t with him. He slaps your thigh, smirking when you clench down around him. Riding his cock is probably your favorite way to have sex and he doesn’t mind, your beauty entrancing him as you gallop towards the Elysian Fields of pleasure. “Cum for me, amica.” He moves to rub your clit like you enjoy, having learned your body well over the past weeks and his other hand drags your body down so he can suckle at your tits.

“Marcus.” You gasp, tangling your fingers in his hair as he bites down on your nipple and the change in angle has you falling apart for him. His fingers rubbing your bundle of nerves has you shaking and you have never known such ecstasy. You rock back onto his cock, trying to work yourself through your orgasm and spur his but it’s so much. Your thighs shake as you collapse on top of him, smothering him as you moan his name. He moves fast, rolling you over so you’re beneath him, his jaw clenched as he looms above you, his hand gripping your thigh to push it towards your stomach so he can work himself deeper inside your pulsing cunt. “It’s it, fuck. You are so deep. Keep going. Want you to fill me with your seed.” You order, watching him as he grunts. The last month you’ve been indulging in your new husband but as you look up at him, the guilt looms. Your trips to the baths have not been truthful. You’ve been to the palace to inform the emperors about Marcus’s interactions, his meetings while he is in Rome. You hate betraying him, wish you could go to the palace and tell them you’re done, but you know the emperors would have you killed for insolence and treason if you dared to deny them. So far, Marcus has met with a few senators at his home, discussing the mounting cost of the endless war, the endless conquests that have sent the Roman people into poverty. That idea alone is treason to the empire, to question the decisions of the emperors, but they haven’t dragged Marcus from his home. They are waiting for something and you don’t know what that is. Marcus reaches for your hand, lifting it above your head to bring you back from your thoughts and you moan, squeezing him inside your pussy. “Want you to cum for me, Maritus.” You order, sliding your free hand up his chest.

He groans, his thrusts stutter and he starts to give himself over to your command. Life with you has been so rewarding, so free. He has done nothing more than drink wine and have sex with you. Feeling more relaxed than he ever believed possible. The emperors had truly blessed him when they had forced the marriage and he can only hope that he had treated you well enough that you look on your union favorably. Every day he has spent with you has brought you closer to his once guarded heart and he knows that he would die for you. Having fallen for you sometime between the hours spent in bed and the conversations you have while you indulge in your hobbies. Often you would sit outside under a shaded tree and watch while he trains in the courtyard. Making him proud when you later attack him and beg him to fuck you after he is done and his sparring partners have been dismissed. It makes him think of a simpler life, leaving the army and moving out of the city to work a small farm. Leaving the intrigues of Rome behind.

You slide your hand up to caress his cheek, his grip on your hand tightening as he pulses inside you, painting your walls with his seed. “Marcus.” You whisper, wanting to tell him how you feel. You believed him to be a heartless brute from the stories you’d heard about the general but he’s shown you nothing but kindness. He’s funny, he’s smart, and he is loyal to Rome. Not her Emperors, but the Empire and you admire that. You know he risks his life trying to associate with the senators to try and quell the Emperors’ need for more land, more blood. You don’t want to betray him any longer. Tomorrow, you’ll go to the palace and try to end the task you’ve been given. You can no longer betray the man you love. He turns his head to kiss your palm and you offer him a loving smile, wanting to spend the rest of your life like this.

Marcus pulls out of you gently and rolls to his back, pulling you against him. He has learned that you enjoy the closeness after sex. The lazy conversation that can be shared after you are exhausted. Your last husband cared little about your thoughts and he can only wonder how foolish Gracchus was. You are far more insightful than anyone would believe, brains behind your beauty matching most of the officers under him. “You enjoy your baths, but have you always wanted to live in the city?” He asks, his fingers stroking your spine slowly.

You caress his chest as you throw your leg over his, enjoying the closeness. “Not always. I’ve imagined a little farm in the country. Growing my own fruits and vegetables, maybe even some vines to make wine. Peace and quiet and away from the hustle of the city. When I married Gracchus, I was barely grown, and I imagined having children and watching them run free in the country.” You confess, “what about you? Your position in the city is close to the gods. Only the emperors and senate sit above you. Would you ever give up that power?”

He hums, happy that you are sharing with him. “I am weary of it.” He confesses quietly. “I have never wanted power, fame or adulation. I want to live simply. Quietly.” He had hoped to save for a little farm when he was married to his first wife, but he had given up those dreams when she died. Now that yearning was starting to build inside him again. “Would you be happy to live that way with me? Without children?”

You smile, leaning in to kiss his jaw, “I’d follow you anywhere. With or without children.” You vow, “if you wish to leave Rome, I will be by your side.” You promise and he turns his head to kiss you, his tongue sliding into your mouth and you moan at the way he devours you. “Insatiable.” You tease when you feel his hand trailing up your thigh to your cum slicked folds. “For you, always.” He promises and you giggle as he flips you onto your back, a growl escaping his lips.

****

You are reading a scroll outside under the olive tree, watching Marcus as he trains, and you turn your head when Antonia comes into the garden with a scroll. “Matronae, your presence is required at the baths.” She says your code and you sigh, shifting to stand after you hand her the scroll. Marcus pauses his training to look over at you, “Maritus, I will be heading to the baths.” You declare and he sets his sword down, striding over to you to cup your cheek, pressing his lips to yours. “Be careful.” He demands and you nod, pecking his lips as you step back and Antonia follows you when you enter the villa to prepare to leave.

Marcus sighs and reaches for the cloth to wipe his sweat away. “We are finished for today.” He decides, suddenly restless and uneasy about you leaving the villa. He’s not a man who ignores gut feelings so he decides that he will change and go out. If he happens to be near the baths that you frequent, it will be a coincidence.

You glance around the street as you make your way down the cobbled streets that lead to the baths before you’ll detour to the palace. You look over your shoulder, feeling like someone is following you and Antonia will wait at the baths to keep your cover. She doesn’t know what you’re doing but she keeps your secrets. You turn your head back to the street and moments later, your coin purse is grabbed from your belt and you are shoved to the ground. You hiss, hands grabbing your belt to stop them from robbing you but the man slaps your face, causing you to cry out. You keep hold on the coins and the man hits you again, grabbing your arms and you know he’s bruised you with his grip. He wrestles you as he grabs your belt and yanks, desperate to get the pouch of coins from your body. You scream for help, trying to slap the man and Antonia jumps on him but he swings her off and she hits the ground with a thud, a dazed look on her face.

The moment Marcus hears the scream, he knows his gut is right. The hood over his head is thrown back when he breaks into a sprint down the street. Citizens and slaves alike turn towards the sound, but Marcus ignores them, turning the corner to see a man on top of you, drawing his hand back to hit you. “Arghhhhhhh!” His screaming war cry distracts the man, giving him time to tackle him off of you in a red hazed fury. Enraged that someone would dare attack his wife, Marcus Acacius begins to hit him, over and over again.

You scramble to sit up, your body aching as Marcus hunches over the man, hitting him over and over. The crowd watches in shock and you are frozen as you witness your husband’s ferocity in person. He hits the man over and over until blood is pooling on the cobbled street and you scramble to stand, swaying as you approach slowly. “Marcus. Marcus. Maritus. Please -” You collapse back to the floor, your body aching as you struggle to stand and Antonia crawls to you as your eyes roll into the back of your head.

Your servant's cry is what breaks through the focused rage. Turning to see you pass out and he immediately abandons his task. Dropping the unconscious man back to the cobblestones to scramble over to you. “Uxor.” His bruised and bloodied hands are gentle as he cradles you, scooping you up into his arms. “Get a hippocrates.” He demands, his eyes filled with rage that you have been hurt. “Have them come at once.” He turns and starts to run back up the streets, carrying you back towards the villa.nmm

Marcus carries you through the streets and your head lolls as you regain consciousness in his arms. "Maritus?" You whisper, head throbbing and he stops walking to look at you in his arms. "You're awake." He murmurs, "we must get you home. A hippocrates will be there soon." He promises and you nod, closing your eyes again as he carries you until you're set down on the bench in the entrance of Marcus's villa.

Soon the servants are scrambling, fetching cool water and clothes when he orders them to. The wine is brought and he urges you to open your eyes and drink some, knowing you must be in pain. “What happened?” He asks, ignoring his own injuries as he starts to lift your dress to check your body.

You gulp down the wine and look at your husband, "he came from nowhere. He - he wanted my coins. From my belt. He was trying - he hit me. Over and over. Threw Antonia. Where's Antonia? Is she okay?" You demand and your servant steps forward looking worse for wear but okay. "I am fine, matronae." She promises and you sigh in relief. "He slapped me and pushed me down. I wouldn't let him take the coin and he was hitting me until you came and Marcus, oh carissima." You gasp, looking at his bloodied knuckles.

You reach for his head but he shakes his head, “I am fine.” He insists, knowing that he has been through much worse. A few busted knuckles is nothing compared to battle. “Where do you hurt, uxor?” He asks softly, wanting to make sure that the hippocrates examines you thoroughly.

"My head and my back. That's where he hit me. He was - I was so shocked. I should've fought harder." You shake your head and Marcus cups your cheeks to examine the tender skin from the hits to your face. Luckily the bastard didn't break the skin. "You were brave. Most would've simply given him the coins." He murmurs and you nod, wincing when his thumb presses against your tender flesh.

“I should have killed him.” Marcus growls. “The guards will hold him, but I will have to go speak to them about your attack.” He won’t leave you until you are being examined, unless you want him to stay. “I should have sent one of my guards with you.” He murmurs guiltily.

Your eyes meet his guilty ones, “do not think that way. I have never been attacked before and I had Antonia. You did nothing wrong. I will wait for the Hippocrates.” You murmur, knowing he wants to go speak with your attacker.

He is stubborn, staying with you until the man he had summoned is ushered into the villa. “She was attacked.” He explains. “I want her examined and treated. Nothing is to be overlooked.” He leans down and presses his lips to yours briefly. “I will leave you to his care and return shortly.”

You nod and watch Marcus leave your rooms as the man asks you what happened. "I was attacked. The man hit me over the head several times and pushed me to the ground." You reveal and the hippocrates asks you to remove your tunic so he can inspect your injuries. "Your husband wishes for nothing to be overlooked." He says and you wince as he pushes on your lower back where you fell. He asks you several questions and you pause when he asks when you last bled. You frown, counting until you realize you have missed your bleed. "It could be the stress of the marriage and moving and-" The hippocrates hums, "perhaps but you must be careful in case you are with child. We shall wait and see if you miss your bleed again." You nod, knowing you must take care and you slide your hand down to your stomach as the hippocrate applies a salve to your tender aches. You redress after the hippocates leaves and you are confronted by palace guards. "You are being summoned to the palace." Antonia tells you and you nod, wincing as you take your cloak and let the guards escort you to the palace. Marcus is not there to argue your presence and no one says no to the emperors.

Marcus watches as the guards bring the criminal into the cell, smirking at the swollen features of the man. “You fucked up.” He tells the poor bastard. “You assumed to rob a noble woman, not realizing who she was married to.” The man whimpers, both from his injuries and the implication behind the words. “Who does she belong to?” He scoffs, trying to appear like it makes no difference to him. The guard holding his shackles chuckles. “You beat Marcus Acacius’s wife.” He tells him.

You arrive at the palace, guided to the room to wait for the emperors and you bow your head when they stride inside. “Ah, we heard news that you were attacked and your husband protected you. That is why you did not arrive. We trust you are well.” Geta says and you nod, “tender and bruised but not gravely.” You declare and they smile, nodding, “we are glad to hear that but we want to hear news of your husband. We hear that he met with Senator Brutus.” Caracalla tilts his head and you raise your chin, “I will no longer speak of my husband’s meetings.” You declare and Geta raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?” You clench your sore jaw, “I will not speak of my husband’s affairs any longer.” You announce and Caracalla laughs, throwing his head back. “The insolence.” He spits after his smile drops. “I love him. I do not wish to betray his trust any longer.” You say defiantly and Caracalla growls, “you cunt. We are going to have you killed for your treason.” He hisses and you stand tall despite your heart pumping. “No, no. We gain nothing by killing her. Let’s invite her maritus to witness her betrayal.” Geta smirks and you gasp, “no. No. He can’t know.” You plead and Geta smirks, gesturing to his guard, “chain her and send someone for Marcus Acacius.”

Marcus watches as the criminal starts to cry, begging for his life as he contemplates the punishment for this man. He should have him killed, but in truth, the man is less than a plebeian, begging and scrapping by for survival. A result of the emperors foolish taxes to support their war mongering. Because his wife was the victim, he can choose the punishment. “He will serve in the army.” Marcus decides. “Since he has a need to plunder, he can do so in the name of Rome.” He doesn’t believe the man would survive long, but he will have food and a bed until he does die in battle. “General.” The cell door opens. “The Emperors demand your attendance at once.” The head guard for the Emporers is the one speaking, making Marcus wonder what has happened now.

You are shackled when Marcus arrives, striding into the hall and his brow furrows when he sees you chained. “What is the meaning of this? She’s injured.” He growls at the emperors who had waited for him to arrive. “Your dear wife has a secret.” Caracalla grins manically, clapping his hands. Marcus frowns, “secret? We have none.” Geta smirks, “oh she does. She’s been spying on you. Delivering details of your meetings directly to us. You see, we were concerned about your influence in the army, we wanted to ensure you were not planning a coup. Your dissatisfaction with our regime has not gone amiss and we know you have been vocal about this with the senators. We simply had to take precautions to maintain our status in the empire. We had your precious uxor spy on you. We ordered her to marry you and she has delivered on our orders until today. Today she suddenly has loyalty to you.” Geta scoffs and Caracalla rolls his eyes.

His brow furrows when he hears the accusations and his eyes find yours, stomach twisting when he sees the guilt and truth of their words in your eyes. “Marcus, please-“ he turns his head, his heart twisting, ignoring your plea as he faces the two emperors. If they know the conversations he has been having, he is dead anyway. “Rome is crumbling beneath our sandals.” He implores them. “The weight of the campaigns is heavy. Today, she was attacked by a man who can no longer afford to feed himself because of the taxes imposed for the war chest.” He doesn’t look over at you. “The poorest of Rome suffer heavily.”

You watch Marcus condemn himself and you shake your head. The Emperors stare at him and you swallow harshly. “You shouldn’t have - Marcus.” You whisper and Geta stares at him while Caracalla growls. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t - I didn’t want to but they threatened me and I- I love you. I never wanted to do this.” You promise with a cry.

Marcus doesn’t look over at you, waiting for his Emperors to determine his fate. Gets curls his lips into a cruel smile and claps his hands together. “I have the best idea for his punishment.” He cackles. “He will compete in the gladiatorial games!” His wide eyes swing towards you. “And she shall watch!”

Your eyes widen, “no. No. You cannot do that. I am the one who betrayed him. I am the one who refuses to continue spying. Don’t let him- he is a good general. He’s fought hard for you. Please. Take me. Don’t let him fight.” You plead on Marcus’s behalf.

They wouldn’t listen to you anyway, they never listen, but Marcus shakes his head. “If the emperors wish for my life to be fought for in the arena, then they will have their amusement.” He answers them, making them smirk as their personal guards surround him.

You shake your head, tears in your eyes as Marcus is dragged off and so are you. Taken in opposite directions and you are pushed into a cell, shackled, and you sob for your husband. For the life you loved with him that is now gone. Even if he survives the arena, he won’t want you. You have betrayed him. You don’t know how long you’re in the cell with nothing but dirty water until the cell door is opened and you’re dragged out by the guards.

“We cannot have you looking like a prisoner.” Caracalla titters as he smirks at your dirty and disheveled appearance when you are brought in front of him and Geta. “So we must clean you up.” He snaps his fingers and a female servant appears. “Wash her. Dress her in robes that will hide the chains.” He orders. “You will be sitting with us, isn’t that fantastic?” He asks. “The best view in the house as your dear Marcus fights for his life.” He tilts his head. “And yours.” He adds menacingly.

You are numb as you are cleaned and scrubbed by the servant, dressed in a clean tunic and she wipes your tears after she hides the chains beneath your robes. “It’s time.” The guard declares as he opens the doors and you try to swallow the lump in your throat. You ride to the Colosseum with tears stinging your eyes and you’re dragged up to the balcony where the Emperors are sitting on gold thrones, matching manic grins on their faces. “So glad you could join us.” Geta chuckles and you are pushed into a seat beside him, your chains rattling but hidden. You refrain from glaring at him, clenching your fists, and the crowd roars as Marcus walks out onto the sands. Your breath catches and you want to close your eyes, pretend this is a nightmare. “And who is my husband fighting? What man could match my husband’s skills?” You ask the Emperor and Caracalla chuckles, “not man. Men.” You inhale sharply as four men walk onto the sands.

The armor that he wears is his own, the subtle needling of the emperors’ visible to the crowds but unknown to all but those he had conspired with. The message that even an honored general of Rome, a man who had spent his life fighting for her glory, was not immune to the will of her emperors. Turning to the stands, it is easy to spot Geta and Caracalla, both of them laughing and drinking, merrily watching men fight to the death. His eyes find you, the horror written on your face making him pause as he brings his sword up over his heart, signaling his fealty to Rome. He turns and honors the men who will be fighting him, knowing that they have no choice in their fight and accepting that they will do their best to kill him. He had always known he would fall on a battlefield, he had just never assumed it would happen in the Colosseum.

Your heartbeat is deafening in your own ears as you watch the men rush towards Marcus, his sword swinging within seconds and you are terrified that he’s going to be killed. Your battle worn husband has fought many during his life but you worry he will die today in Rome, the Roman people witnessing his death. A symbol that even a great general can be taken down. “Please. He didn’t do anything. He’s fought hard for you.” You beg Geta, who scoffs, “by conspiring with others?” You shake your head, “to protect Rome and her people. Not against you.” You plead your husband’s case but it falls on deaf ears as your husband takes one man down.

This is needless. Marcus pants, gripping his sword firmly as the next man attacks. Crimson spilling from the man in the dirt and being mixed into a bloody paste as the general blocks the lunge, his foot shuffling back and he almost trips over the body.

You gasp when he stumbles and one of the men swipes his arm, cutting him. “Marcus.” You whimper, not wanting to scream and distract him. He grunts and swings back, the man crying out when his arm is chopping off. “Please, maritus.” You beg, needing Marcus to win.

Another man rushes him while the man he had just injured drops his sword to grab the bleeding appendage. Causing him to shift focus and move to the other man, grunting out when he grabs the man’s arm as he swings his sword down and shoves his own blade into the gladiator’s belly. Watching as his eyes widen when the pain registers and he realizes he will die on the hot sands.

You gasp when he has one man left to kill. The Emperors frown and clap as expected when Marcus takes down another opponent. The remaining man swipes at him again and you are on the edge of your seat as you watch your husband fight for his life.

The last gladiator is obviously the most skilled. He was smart too, using the other men to exhaust Marcus as he fought for hard minutes at a time with little break between attacks. The days of little water and no food leaving the general much weaker than he would be under normal circumstances, no doubt planned by the emperors to make sure that he falls today. Marcus barely jumps back in time from a swipe of the sword, the tip dragging across the armor covering his stomach and he feels his resolve weakening. There is no point to continue.

You choke when the sword cuts close to his stomach and you stand up, yanking on the chains that bind you. You try to walk towards the balcony but you stumble. “Marcus! Marcus! You must fight, Maritus. Fight for us! For our baby!” You shout, pleading with him to fight for his life.

The roar of the crowd is loud but he hears your voice. The shouting cuts through the din and he stumbles back, turning to look at the balcony where you are watching. Your eyes are wide and frantic as you scream again. This time he hears what you are saying. Our baby. Our baby. You are pregnant. His mind is reeling when he hears this, ducking down from the next attack on instinct alone to be brought back into the fight.

You watch as he has more energy, spurred on by your words, and Caracalla growls, “sit the fuck down.” He demands and you refuse, remaining standing as you watch your husband swing his sword. His opponent is skilled but younger and Marcus has your future in his hands as he swings his sword. Swiping the man who cries out, Marcus grunts as he kicks at the leg of the man, making him fall. He moves fast, swinging his sword to behead the man. You scream in joy as the man’s head rolls, knowing that Marcus has saved you.

You try to scramble to the emperors but your chains keep you in place. “Please spare him. He’s won. He’s won.” You beg and Geta gestures for Marcus to come to the balcony. He bows his head, knowing he will be ordered to be killed soon after, and he makes his way up to the balcony. You swallow harshly and you want to reach for him when he walks past you to stand before the emperors, bowing his head before he lifts it to clench his jaw in defiance. “You have beaten men who should have killed you. You have won.” Geta declares and reaches towards Marcus’s belt, taking his blade from the sheath and he presses it against his neck. Marcus hisses as blood drips from the cut, his lip curling. “Please.” You whimper, wanting your husband to survive. “You will leave Rome today. Disappear and take your uxor. If we hear a word of betrayal, you will be killed before you even realize it. Do you understand?” Geta hisses while Caracalla shakes his head, wanting blood.

“I understand.” Marcus murmurs quietly. “I will leave Rome.” He knows that he cannot risk your life and that of a potential child, if you are indeed pregnant. He is weary and just wants to get away from the Emperors. His eyes cut towards the men, his disgust for them clear.

You watch as Geta lowers the knife and sheaths it back in Marcus’s belt. He looks over at the guard and nods for him to release you. The shackles fall to the floor with a clang and you rush over to Marcus, cupping his cheeks to make sure he’s okay. “Take your traitor wife and leave Rome today otherwise you’ll be killed.” Geta promises and you nod, caressing Marcus’s cheek.

Marcus doesn’t trust the other men to keep their word, but he nods. Letting the guards guide you off the balcony and he reaches for his knife when he is out of the Emperor’s presence. “Maritus-“ you murmur but Marcus cuts you off. “Be quiet.” He hisses, knowing that you are not out of danger yet. A shift of armor could be the only clue an attack from the guards is coming and he needs to be alert.

You cling to him as he escorts you out of the colosseum to the awaiting chariot that is waiting to take you back to Marcus’s villa so you can pack your things. You are helped onto the villa and you swallow harshly, “I am so sorry.” You choke out and he shakes his head, “not here.” He says still not comfortable that you’re safe and you nod, reaching for his arm.

Because of his training, Marcus is efficient packing up. He completely takes over and gives orders to the servants while he drags you towards the private quarters where you can be alone.

Your wrists are sore from the shackles as Marcus stands in front of you. Both of you are worse for wear. You are covered in dirt, him in blood as you stand in front of him.

He stares at you, wondering if any of the time you had spent together was real or if it was all to get him to relax around you. “Are you pregnant?” He asks finally, needing to know if you were just bargaining for your life and praying it would sway the emperors.

You reach for him but he takes a step back, “I- I think so. I’ve missed my bleed and I- I never do. I think I might be.” You say softly, not wanting to lie to him.

His jaw clenches and he nods. “Then we will see if you are before we decide where we will go permanently.”

You nod, “I- I know you’re angry that I betrayed you but I- I went to the palace to tell them that I was done telling them your secrets. I didn’t want to - I never wanted to betray you but they threatened me and I couldn’t do it anymore because I love you. I’m in love with you, Maritus.” You confess, eyes wide as you prepare for his rejection.

Marcus wants to deny you. To call you a liar but he doesn’t see lies in your eyes. Maybe he is a fool, because you have already betrayed him, but he believes you. “Are you not just saving your neck now?” He asks, wanting to be sure. “I have nothing now. No power, no prestige. If you go back to your Emperors and beg for mercy, maybe they will give you to another man.” You move closer to him again and he doesn’t step back.

You shake your head, “I don’t want another man. I want my husband. I want you.” You promise, “I love you, Marcus, and I know - I know you are still mourning your first wife, your love, but I want you to know how I feel, Maritus.” You murmur, caressing his cheek.

“I stopped mourning my first wife.” Marcus admits. “When I asked you if you imagined always living in Rome.” He hears the servants rushing around to pack up the household, but he doesn’t move, staring at you. “I was asking to see if you would move away with me. Before this. Before we were exiled.”

You nod, “before this…I would’ve followed you anywhere. I love you, Marcus. I never imagined when the emperors ordered for me to marry you that I’d fall in love with you. I’d follow you anywhere.” You promise breathlessly.

“I have no trust in you.” Marcus admits, watching your face fall, biting your lip as you nod. “But I know you were trying to survive the whims of our Emperors.” He steps closer to you. “And I will not let you suffer for that.” He promises, lifting his good arm to trail his fingers up your arm. “I love you, uxor. We will leave Rome and make our home somewhere else, away from the intrigue and betrayal of this festering city.” He smiles. “Perhaps we will have your dream of children running in the sunshine.”

You smile, imagining children running in the fields while you spend your days with Marcus in the sun without worry of the politics of Rome. You lean in to kiss his lips. “I know you don’t trust me but I want to earn your trust.” You murmur and he nods, “let us find a new home. Together.” He declares and you lean in to softly kiss him.

****

“Maritus.” You moan, caressing his shoulders as you rock on top of him, your bump between you. “Uxor.” He groans, his hands sliding down your back as you ride his cock. “I love you.” You moan, “so much.”

The villa around you is still being cleaned and repaired, abandoned for such a long time but it will be worth it when it’s restored to it former glory. The fields outside are fertile and the bones of the home are sturdy. After the fire years ago, it had been left to let the vines overgrow. Perhaps it was fate that you and Marcus are settling and creating a family where Maximus’s was taken from him, but the former general just thought it was the gods way of finding balance. “I love you.” He promises breathless as he rocks his hips up gently.

You moan, getting closer and closer to your orgasm as you rock on top of him. His cock thrusts up into you and you cry out, falling apart as you soak him. You clench down around his cock and fall into his chest, your bump pressed against him. “Fill me up, Marcus.” You plead, wanting to feel it, feel him.

He chuckles softly, puffing out the sound as he works himself in and out of your cunt towards his own satisfaction. “It’s obvious I’ve done that.” He grunts, loving how your walls tighten around him. The baby will come soon and he prays to all the gods that they will spare you and the child. “Fuck.” He grunts, pushing deep and painting your walls with ropes of cum as he moans your name.

You run your fingers through his hair as he relaxes beneath you and you sigh, “te amo.” You murmur and he caresses your back while the moon shines through the linen on the balcony.

****

Your screams echo in the halls as you bear down. You are in agony, Antonia pressing a wet rag to your forehead as you push. The women of the household surround you as you labor. “Gods!” You curse as you grip the sheets. It feels like hours of pushing and you’re exhausted. “One more push!” Antonia demands and you sob, shaking your head as you push and finally, the pressure releases and a cry fills the air.

As soon as the baby’s cry rings out, Marcus cannot stop himself. Pushing the doors to the bedchamber open, he rushes inside, his hair sticking up from long hours pacing and running his hands through it, worrying about your fate. “Uxor!” He only has eyes for you and the small little bundle you are taking from Antonia. Your face is drenched in sweat and you’ve never looked more beautiful.

You look up from the baby in your arms, a grin on your face as your husband rushes over. “It’s a boy.” You murmur, checking all fingers and toes are in place. Marcus grins, leaning in to kiss your sweaty forehead. “You’re incredible, amor.” He murmurs and you tilt your head to kiss him softly. The cord is cut and Marcus takes the baby in his arms, needing to claim him. He holds him up to the servants and says “My son.” He proclaims, cradling his son and he leans in to kiss you again. “Our son.” He says and you smile, taking the baby after he slides him back into your arms so you can have skin to skin. “What shall we call him?” You ask Marcus who leans over to kiss your son’s forehead before he kisses yours. “Maximus Acacius.” He declares and you grin, “it’s perfect.” A new life in a place that held such pain. Your marriage may have been arranged by the emperors but your life together is fuelled by love and by choice.

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espressheauxs

2 months ago

girls will say “this healed me” and it’s just pedro pascal’s massive biceps on jimmy kimmel

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espressheauxs

1 month ago

jack seems to be so composed in your writing, especially during sex. is there ever a scenario you could see him maybe losing control/composure during?

Oh, definitely—Jack’s composure isn’t just habit, it’s armor. But under the right pressure? He’ll break. And when he does, it won’t be loud or reckless—it’ll be raw. Quiet.

Here’s where I think he’d lose control—physically, emotionally, or both. 18+ ONLY. Do not interact if you’re a minor.

Jack Seems To Be So Composed In Your Writing, Especially During Sex. Is There Ever A Scenario You Could

warnings/content: rough sex, deep emotional repression, emotionally charged confessions, unprotected sex, dom/sub energy without labels, messy pacing, loss of control, clingy post-sex silence

1. When He Thinks He’s Losing You

You shouldn’t be here.

Not after what you said. Not after the door slammed. Not after you’d spent the past few nights curled under someone else’s blanket on someone else’s couch, trying to forget how his voice sounded when he didn’t ask you to stay.

But it’s raining, and you’re here. And Jack opens the door like he knew you’d be on the other side.

Still, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares.

His gray curls were tousled, flattened at the sides like he’d been dragging a hand through them too many times. The shirt he’s wearing is soft, white, the collar stretched, the hem sitting uneven over a pair of sweats. He stood still, but not at ease—his weight angled slightly, one leg bearing just a little more than the other. The prosthetic stayed grounded, subtle in its silence, like something his body adjusted to without thinking—something you’d learned to notice only when he was this still.

He looks tired.

He looks like he hasn’t been able to stop thinking.

You speak first. Quiet. “Can I come in?”

He nods, barely. His jaw twitches like it pains him not to reach for you.

You toe off your shoes in the entryway. The house smells like coffee, antiseptic, and whatever candle you left half-burned in the kitchen—still faint in the air, like the memory of your warmth hasn’t fully left.

He closes the door behind you. Doesn’t move.

The silence between you presses down—thick and unfinished.

“I wasn’t sure you’d open the door,” you say first. Voice quiet. Uncertain.

Jack huffs through his nose. Not a laugh. Not quite. “I wasn’t sure I should.”

Your voice drops. “I didn’t come to keep fighting.”

“I didn’t think you did,” he says. Then, after a pause: “But you did leave.”

You nod, once. “I left. You shut down. Not that different.”

It lands. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just stands there, still, eyes locked on yours like there’s more he wants to say but no good way to say it. He breathes out, sharp at the edges, and you know—it got through.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he says.

You nod again. “Neither did I.”

It hangs there for a moment—we hurt each other. We didn’t mean to. But we did.

Then finally, you say it. Not softly, not dramatically. Just truthfully.

“I missed you.”

And that—that—is what breaks him.

His hand’s in your hair before you can breathe. His mouth finds yours—desperate, uneven, like the words he didn’t say are still stuck in his throat and this is the only way to let them out. Not polished. Not careful. Starving.

He's everywhere—your jaw, your waist, the small of your back—like he doesn’t know what to hold onto first. His body crowds into yours, chest to chest, thigh slipping between yours without finesse, without warning. It isn’t about sex. It’s about contact. Closeness. Like he’s trying to fit both of you back into the same breath.

“Jack,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “Hey—”

He kisses you harder.

“I can’t—” His voice breaks at your throat. “I can’t do that again. I can’t watch you leave and pretend it didn’t fucking gut me.”

Your hands find his chest first—flat against the worn fabric, fingers curling into it like you’re trying to steady both of you. He’s burning beneath it. You slip your palms beneath the hem, not tugging, just touching, just wanting—a wordless way to say me neither.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you breathe.

That’s when something in him gives.

He grabs the back of your shirt and pulls it off, fast and clumsy. His own shirt’s gone next—tossed to the floor. You catch a glimpse of the scar trailing along his ribs, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t slow.

His hands move to your waistband, not asking. Just moving. Just needing. He drags your pants down with both hands, catching your underwear with them, tugging hard until they’re off and forgotten on the floor. Then his hands are back on you—raking up your thighs, gripping the curve of your hips.

You start to reach for him, but he’s already gathering you into his arms—like instinct took over before thought could catch up. You cling to him without hesitation, arms winding around his shoulders, legs locking at his waist. He carries you down the hall without a word, without pause, like getting you to the bed is the only thing anchoring him now.

He lays you back on the bed and follows you down.

No teasing. No pause.

Just Jack—pressing into you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding himself between your legs. You’re already wet. Already open. And when he pushes in—deep, slow, all at once—his breath leaves him in a broken exhale.

He stills.

Not to tease. Not to hold back.

Because it wrecks him.

He lowers his head, jaw clenched tight, arms shaking with restraint. You feel him tremble above you—one, sharp tremor—and then he starts to move.

Not rhythmically.

Not smoothly.

Just fucking desperate.

Every thrust is erratic, forceful, like he’s been holding this back for days, weeks. He can’t find a pace. He can’t breathe through it. He’s rutting into you like it’s the only way to stay grounded. Like it’s the only place he knows how to be.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders and he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t slow down. He presses his forehead into your neck—sweat damp, teeth clenched. He makes no sound. But you feel it.

The unraveling. The shudder in his hips. The way he drives deeper, harder, chasing something even he doesn’t have words for.

And when he comes—he doesn’t curse. Doesn’t groan.

He just breaks.

Whole body locking up. A silent, shuddering gasp against your skin. Hands gripping too tight. Hips stuttering through the aftershock.

And then stillness.

He stays inside you.

Doesn’t move.

Just breathes—shallow and wrecked—his weight braced against your chest like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling further.

2. When You’re in Control—And He Didn't See It Coming

He’s lying on the bed, propped against the headboard. Bare chest rising slow and steady like he’s trying not to let the day get to him.

And then you crawl into his lap.

No warning. No words. Just your body over his, thighs straddling his hips, your skin barely covered by the oversized shirt he left folded on your side of the bed. His shirt. Still carrying his scent.

His hands move automatically—to your waist, to the back of your thigh—but you push them back. Gently. Firmly.

“Let me,” you whisper.

His brow lifts—only a little. The only sign of tension is the flicker in his jaw, the way his thigh shifts beneath you. But he doesn’t stop you.

You lean in, kiss his collarbone, run your hands over his chest, the scars and the muscle and the years of wear he never talks about. You don’t rush. You don’t ask. You just slide your hand lower—over his stomach, beneath the waistband of his sweats—and wrap your fingers around him.

That’s the moment he falters.

His head drops back against the headboard. His mouth falls open. One of his hands fists the sheet beside him, the other grips your hip—tight, like he needs something to hold onto. He bucks up into your hand once, twice, breath caught in his throat.

“Don’t—” he rasps. “Don’t tease.”

You do.

You stroke him slow, deliberate, watching the tension build in every part of him—his abs flexing, his breath shortening, the way his eyes shut like he’s fighting not to give in. You feel him throb against your palm, hot and heavy and helpless in your grip. He’s panting now, voice shredded when he tries to speak.

And when you finally slide down onto him?

He gasps—sharp and strangled. His hips jerk upward and he catches himself on instinct, trying not to lose it too fast. But you ride him with control, your hands braced on his chest, grinding down slow and deep until he’s twitching inside you, his voice stuck in his throat.

His hands fly to your hips again, gripping hard, trying to hold you still. You lean down, brush your mouth against his ear.

“Let go.”

And he does.

He flips you onto your back, his mouth crashing into yours, and drives into you with everything he’s been trying not to feel. No rhythm—just need. His voice is raw when he breaks, forehead pressed to yours, thrusting so deep you swear you’re going to come undone from the inside out.

“You wanted to see me lose it,” he growls, breathless. “Here.”

And he fucks you like it’s not just sex—it’s relinquishing. It’s him, undone.

3. After a Day That Nearly Broke Him

He doesn’t say a word when he comes in. Just shuts the door, tosses his keys somewhere near the counter, and disappears down the hallway like the house is too loud, even in silence. You hear the shower.

By the time the mattress dips behind you, you’re barely awake.

But then you feel it—his hand. Heavy. Flat against your thigh beneath the sheets. He doesn’t trail it up, doesn’t ask, just presses. Like he needs to know you’re warm. Real.

You shift toward him, barely murmuring his name—and he’s already on top of you. No words. No preamble. Just his body moving over yours like a weight he can’t hold anymore. His mouth finds your shoulder first—open, hot. Not a kiss. Just breath and teeth. Desperation.

His hands work fast. Pulling your sleep shorts down, dragging your legs apart with his palms wide on the inside of your thighs. Breath stuttering as he fits the head of his cock between your folds.

And then he pushes in.

Deep. All the way. In one solid thrust that stretches you wide and makes your whole body jolt. You gasp, clutching his forearms—but he doesn’t move. Not yet.

He just stays. Buried to the base, forehead resting against yours, his body trembling with restraint.

“Jack…” you whisper.

His jaw is clenched tight. Breath shaking. His hands grip your hips hard—too hard—but you don’t stop him. You don’t want to. You know this isn’t about rhythm or foreplay. This is him trying not to break.

And then he starts to move.

It’s not fast. Not sloppy. It’s intentional. Each thrust deep and full, grinding into you like he’s trying to anchor himself inside your body. You feel every inch of him dragging slow and thick through your cunt, your breath catching every time his hips meet yours.

His arms cage you in. His mouth is at your throat, hot and wet and lost. Not saying anything—just making small, broken sounds against your skin.

You moan his name again, and that’s what shatters him.

He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, the sound obscene, wet, raw. You cry out. He doesn’t pause.

Again. Harder.

He’s shaking now—his abs tensing under your hands, his breath rasping in short, uneven bursts as he fucks you harder, deeper, wrecklessly, like something gave out inside him and there’s no pulling it back.

You feel him pulse inside you before you hear the sound he makes—low, guttural, broken. His whole body tightens, chest pressed to yours as he comes hard, buried deep, cock throbbing with each wave as he empties into you, mouth open against your collarbone, completely silent now.

He stays inside you. Breathing. Not moving. One hand slides up your side and stays there.

You don’t ask what happened at the hospital.

You just hold him like he’s still unraveling.

Because he is.

4. When You Break Him With Words

He’s already fucking you when it happens—slow, deep, focused. Jack above you, heavy with control, arms braced tight on either side of your head. His chest brushes yours with every roll of his hips, thick and steady, cock sliding in slow and hot with the kind of precision that only comes from someone who never lets himself get carried away.

He doesn’t talk much during sex. Just the occasional sharp breath, a low curse when you clench around him. Mostly silence. Measured. Like everything else he does.

His body covers yours completely—his weight, his warmth, the subtle difference in how he shifts to keep balance—but there’s nothing hesitant about the way he moves. He knows your body, knows how to make you fall apart. He just rarely lets himself need it.

Tonight’s no different.

Until you say it.

“I love the way you fuck me,” you breathe—first, casual. And he grunts, lips brushing your jaw, pace unchanging.

But then: “I love you.” “I mean it.” “I want all of you.”

That stops him.

Not entirely. His hips stall mid-thrust, chest tight against yours, his jaw locked so hard you feel it in the weight of his breath. His cock throbs inside you, thick and full and unmoving.

You cup the side of his face—fingers slow, tender—and say it again.

“I mean it, Jack. I want you. All of you. Not just this.”

He exhales through his nose—sharp. Controlled. Like he’s trying to fight the way that lands. You feel it in the way his arm flexes. In the way his cock twitches inside you, untouched and aching.

Then suddenly—he moves.

Faster. Rougher.

He drives into you like something cracked, like if he keeps fucking you hard enough, he can shake the words out of his head.

But it’s too late.

They’re already inside him.

He fucks you with his whole body—thrusts rough and deep, every stroke dragging moans from your throat as he hits you just right. Your thighs are hooked around his waist, back arching into him, nails raking down his shoulders as he starts to unravel.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he mutters, voice hoarse and close to ruined.

“I do,” you gasp, holding onto him tighter. “Jack, look at me.”

He does.

And his rhythm falters the second your eyes meet.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His whole body stutters.

He growls—actually growls, low and guttural—as he drives into you harder than before, pace snapping, control slipping completely. You feel him start to lose it—his hips jerking, cock throbbing so deep inside you it makes your vision go white. He’s there, on the edge, and trying not to be.

You dig your heels into his back and pull him closer. “Don’t hold it in.”

His eyes flutter shut. His mouth crushes to yours, desperate, brutal, all tongue and teeth. His thrusts go ragged—sloppy and devastated—until he buries himself fully and groans, deep and wrecked, as he comes inside you.

You feel every pulse, hot and thick, his cock twitching deep inside your cunt as his whole body jerks. His arms are shaking. His breath is gone.

And still—he doesn't move.

Just stays there, pressed full length against you, forehead buried in your neck like if he lifts his head, he’ll say something he can’t take back.

1K notes View Post

espressheauxs

4 months ago

date sweet men. men who can articulate themselves. men who are soft spoken. men who are patient with you. men who respect their own bodies. men who are kind to your soul. men that are gentle. men who have self control.

16K notes View Post

espressheauxs

3 weeks ago

Companionship | pt. 11

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: A first date and a whole lot of sexual tension.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: Y’all really know how to make a girl feel special!! Thank you for all the likes, comments and reblogs!! You guys have been real troopers through the whole slowburn portion!! Now we move on to (mostly) better things for these lovebirds😌

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: age gap, jitters, anxiety, mild angst (it’s literally just who I am at this point lol), mild fluff, alcohol, talk of Adamson

not beta read

A complex flurry of emotions whirled around in his chest, thoughts exchanging between this is good and this is very bad. One wrong move and he could destroy it all, or he could actually make something real out of it.

It was equally thrilling and terrifying.

He remembered Dana’s eyes on his back as he left on time, skipping out right after giving report to Abbot, after avoiding her questions for over an hour. The curious eyebrow raise from Langdon as McKay had whispered something to him, or the way Princess hovered while you were still present. The way Jack so clearly looked like he wanted to say something, no doubt hearing something in passing from Dana, or the rumor mill buzzing through the hall.

They only got more obvious as the weekend got closer.

“You’ve been leaving consistently on-time recently, boss. Even Abbot noticed.” Dana said with a quirked brow and a knowing smile, “Have anything to do with that pretty girl in here earlier this week?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He lied smoothly, “What girl?”

Dana laughed. “The one you rolled right over McKay to help a few weeks ago? A simple stitch job and you took it. Must be special. Even got her back right away to get them taken out.”

Michael hummed, already knowing that Dana was likely seeing right through him. “Wasn’t Gloria just down here explaining satisfaction scores? You know, making sure each patient is seen and heard.”

“With just her?”

He tried to temper the blush, “Was it? Can’t remember everyone I’ve helped.” He glanced from his computer screen to the opening ambulance doors. “Oh, look at that. Gotta go!”

“Saved by the bell!” Dana called after him.

Langdon approached him later, bouncing on the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets. They had just stabilized a patient and were waiting for Garcia to come and consult.

Langdon blew out a puff of air, “So that woman was totally checking you out the other day.”

Barely sparing him a glance, Michael removed his gloves, “That so?”

“Totally!” Langdon told him eagerly, before flickering his eyes across his face, “There was something there.”

Michael hummed indifferently.

McKay piped up from the side, “Called her a VIP, if I remember right.”

It was hard to miss the way Perlah and Princess exchanged a glance.

“Come get me when Garcia gets here.” He said, departing from the trauma room looking for something to busy his hands — or just keep everyone from asking any more questions. The gossip was never likely to stop, but he hated being the center of it.

It seemed like things never stayed quiet long, since Dana found him sometime later, crossing her arms across her chest.

“VIP, huh?”

Michael let out a long sigh, glancing at the clock and hoping his shift would end already.

—

Michael asked to pick you up, and you accepted easily, pacing around your apartment in heels and the dress you had borrowed from Erin. You half wished you had been able to drive yourself, distract your mind with music or some random radio show, and the lull of Pittsburgh traffic.

He arrived a few minutes early, and knocked on your door, and your heart lurched into your throat. It took a few beats of your heart to steady yourself. It was only Michael.

But now feelings are known and there is no more hiding.

Perhaps that was a good thing.

When you opened the door, he was standing there with a bashful smile and flowers. Lavender, purple hyacinth, and baby’s-breath with green foliage holding it all together. You momentarily forgot to breathe, looking from the flowers in his hands then to his face, face lax with dumb disbelief — a thousand words swirling in your mind immediately going silent.

“You got me flowers.” You said, more so from shock rather than a statement of fact.

“I got you flowers.” He said, trying to gauge your reaction. “I wanted this to be proper, but I haven’t been on a date in forever—”

“They’re beautiful.” You breathed out, ignoring the storm in your chest. “No one’s ever gotten me flowers before.”

Surprise crossed his face momentarily. “That’s a shame. You definitely deserve them.”

A warmth rose to your cheeks, before moving to the side, “Come in. I’ll get a vase.”

Do I own a vase?

He stepped into the apartment, handing the flowers over, watching as the smile lit up your features. You inhaled the scent of them, closing your eyes to savor it. They smelled sweet, with the calming aroma from the lavender, and you sighed in contentment.

“You look beautiful.”

You stopped, looking at him, ignoring the way your ears grew hot, “Thank you. You look—”

Grey chinos with a light tan cardigan buttoned over a white shirt. His long, dark grey woolen coat was left unbuttoned, looking effortlessly in the area between elegant and casual. A carefree sophistication that even in Erin’s expensive dress you felt out of place. His beard was trimmed neatly, hair combed carefully, with a smile that clouded your thoughts.

“—really good.”

He blushed.

You moved into the kitchen while Michael stayed in the tiny foyer, hands in his pockets. You grabbed a pitcher to fill with water, unable to quickly find a vase. The water pitcher would do.

On the drive, you had such an urge to grab his hand. The sight of him with one hand on the wheel, the other loosely hanging off the bottom of it, a relaxation seeping from his posture, made your mind lurch into overdrive. You felt rigid beside him, thinking of a hundred thousand things, overthinking anything you could say — should say — that would have been commonplace for any normal first date.

But you already knew those things.

The silence was riddled with tension, thick and unchecked. The way his fingers flexed on the steering wheel, or lingered when he turned the volume up or down, eyes not-so-subtly looking over at you periodically. Each time it felt like he was stoking a fire low in your belly.

He opened his mouth to trade small talk until you arrived at the restaurant, and the low timbre of his voice cooled the anxiety in your chest and fanned the flames in your abdomen. You felt far too hot in your coat, buzzing with anticipation, with nerves, with wanting.

Peregrin was an elevated, classic, modernized eatery, that felt mildly out of place on the street corner — decorated in fairy lights, hues of blue and grey, and sharp, deliberate angles. It had overpriced appetizers and an overhyped atmosphere, but everything you had heard about the food had been good things.

Your table was ready when you walked in, a few minutes early for your reservation, and you absorbed the interior quickly. Refurbished dark wood floors, light cream walls, a brick wall accented on the far wall, copper fixtures and large windows overlooking the Allegheny River.

The waitress eyed you when she arrived to take the drink order, but was discreet in her assessment. The feeling of being criticized hit you like a freight-train. Once upon a time, you would have thought the same, questioned the girl's sanity or the man's intentions — but now you sat knowing both. As big of an age gap as it was should have given you more pause than it did, but you had already danced around the edge of it long enough. You had run far enough, and you were tired of allowing your own feelings coming second place to those around you.

You tuned it all out. You had to. You had to.

You smiled at him, “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

Relief flooded his face, looking back at you. “I have too.”

You both knew you were not talking about the food.

“I hope work was not too chaotic this week?” You ventured, opening the menu.

He chuckled lightly, “Everyone’s been pestering me about the mysterious girl all week.”

Your face warmed, “Oh no, I didn’t cause too much of a stir, did I?”

“I think I created it myself,” he said, pulling out his glasses, “wasn’t exactly as subtle as I would have liked to be when you came in.”

You paused long enough, staring at him, for Michael to look up over his frames at you. Warmth pooled lower and you took a sip of your ice water to try to snuff it.

“Wasn’t my intention.” You said tightly, “Didn’t know that was the hospital you worked at.”

“I’m glad you did.” His lips dipped momentarily. “Not that you got hurt, but—”

“Yeah, me too.” You offered a smile, bringing your wild thoughts to heel.

He smiled, looking back at the menu, “How’re your classes going?”

“Good, actually. Still busy trying to stay on top of everything, but it’s good.”

He rubbed his hand along his beard, the light catching several of the greys, “You know, I’d like to say something…about that…without being too forward.”

You raised a careful eyebrow, your lungs stalling.

“I…still want to help you.” Michael said, brown eyes watching you intently before caving and looking back to the menu. “With school, your bills.”

“Michael—”

“I know, I know.” He said quickly, “No ulterior motives. You wouldn’t owe me anything. Just because I want to. Because I have more than the means to do so.”

You hoped the dim lighting did not give away the way you flustered. “That’s—I don’t think—I can’t accept that. It’s…not right. I don’t want to use you.”

“You wouldn’t be.” He assured, one side of his lips quirking up. “I’m offering.”

You frowned, “It just reminds me of what you said; that I wouldn’t be here unless you were paying me. I—that’s not what I want you to think. That’s not how I want to feel.”

Michael’s tiny smile disappeared, and he just stared at you, gears clearly turning over in his head. He opened his mouth, but the waitress returned to take your order, interrupting him. Scribbling down on her notepad completely unaware — or just unfazed — by the tension now collecting at the table.

When she departed, you were both silent.

You chewed your lip and avoided his eyes.

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” He finally said, removing his glasses to rub his eyes. “I don’t feel that way about it. I know you would be here without it.”

“Are you sure? I feel like money will just complicate this again.” You met his gaze. “I don’t want to burden this with money, or insecurities, while we’re still figuring it out.”

Michael nodded in what you hoped was understanding. “You’re right, but it’s a standing offer. If you ever need it, it’s there.”

You let out a long breath, “Thank you.”

He sipped the white wine he had chosen for you both, glancing out the window at the sunset.

Part of you felt endeared that he still wanted to help out, but the money felt like an unnecessary weight to add to your shoulders. You did not want to hinder the relationship budding between you, or give him any reason to second guess your intentions.

“I’m glad we’re here.” Michael told you, offering a smile.

“I am too.” You grabbed your wine glass and raised it. “To second chances?”

He clinked his glass with yours and grinned.

—

When the food arrived, you were trading light banter. It felt easy, uncomplicated, despite the warm feelings invading your chest and working their way to your heart. You tried to take a breath, slow it all down, but they thrummed beneath the surface. He was polite, except the occasional way his eyes took you in — eyes lingering over the exposed bit of skin of your chest that the dress made obvious, wandering slowly back up to your eyes.

Those eyes were going to set you on fire.

You laughed, “That reminds me of when we were all on lockdown—”

Michael grew silent, a faraway look in his eyes, completely unaware of the rest of your sentence, or the way you stopped short.

“...you with me?” You asked softly, running your fingers along his hand until you were holding it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really realize how much the pandemic affected you.”

He blinked rapidly at you, before trying to shrug it off, clearing his throat. “It usually doesn’t.”

“I know it took its toll on the healthcare system, I wasn’t trying to make light of it.” You told him earnestly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I lost my mentor.” He said quietly, looking down at his food. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I had to make a choice, and it didn’t end up really mattering.”

You squeezed his hand. “I’m really sorry. Adamson? Tell me about him.”

Michael looked up at the sound of the name, momentarily surprised by you remembering it.

“He was a force. Reliable. Took me under his wing not long after my residency and showed me just about everything I know. He always knew what to say, a trait I wish I had.”

You nodded along.

“Great doctor, even better man.”

“I can see how much you admired him. How long since he passed?”

“Three years about two months ago.” He said.

“I’ve never met him, but I don’t think he would want you to carry it with you like this. You said last week that it was for a little girl, and I know she didn’t make it either, but I’m sure he would’ve wanted you to try. If he was as great a man as you say, I doubt he’d want you to feel guilty over it. If he showed you everything you know, then surely the decision you made would have been the same one he would have.”

The words hung heavy in the air — and Michael’s eyebrows scrunched together while he digested them. He squeezed your hand tightly and a tear slipped from his eye.

“...thank you.” It was quiet. It was raw. It was unmasked.

You brushed your thumb over his knuckles and smiled softly.

He wiped away the tear quickly and cleared his throat, “So you said school was almost done. Is this your last semester?”

“Yeah, just have to finish out my classes, and then I’ll be graduating in two months.”

“Damn, you’re almost done.”

You moved your hand from his back to your lap, twisting a bit of pasta onto your fork. “I try not to count down the days. But then I’ll have to get my certification, then I’ll finally be a CPA.”

His smile was easy, “Congratulations.”

“I haven’t graduated yet.” But your lips moved upwards anyway.

“You’ve put in a lot of hard work, you should be proud of yourself.”

Your cheeks burned, “Thank you.”

The check came, and you only tried to glance at it once before you reined the thoughts in. He grabbed your hand when you got up from the table, his touch equally holding you steady and sending your thoughts back into a whirlwind. Heat had your heart racing, thoughts without any pure intention slipping in and making you blush deeper.

You intertwined your fingers instead of saying anything.

In the car, the conversation continued easily, though Michael reached for your hand again and held it throughout the drive. It felt like pieces were slotting into place, and it felt good to not pretend. To allow yourself to feel the feeling coiling around your heart. To accept his attention, his intention, without feeling like there was anything hindering you.

When they arrived at your building, he got out to walk you up. You went to protest, but the warmth was back rolling around in your stomach and you closed her mouth. Instead, an excitement was building.

He spoke first when you reached your door, “I had a really good time tonight.”

“I did too.” You were grinning. “Thank you for our first official date.”

He smiled, dark brown eyes flickering to your lips and back to your eyes. Your breathing picked up to keep up with your racing heart, and you glanced at his mouth. When your eyes returned to his, he was already leaning in.

You accepted the kiss eagerly, curling one hand around the front of his coat, the other moving to his hair. He took the invitation, bringing a hand to your cheek and pulling you closer, pressing his other hand to the small of your back.

Something bloomed deep in your chest, and you savored the taste of him while you could. He pulled back before it delved any deeper, though he held you still against him.

“Goodnight,”

“Goodnight, Michael.”

There was a fear of being known, but you were both finally letting the light in.

[ Next ]

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Companionship taglist: @queenslandlover-93 @clementine111002 @virgomillie @emily-b @kaygilles @lt-jakeseresin @imonmykneessir @kniselle @gabsgabsvaz @rosiepoise88 @calivia @holdonimwalkingmysnail @valhallavalkyrie9 @blahkateisdone @shadowhuntyi @fuckalrighty @elli3williams @yournerdmodziata @i-know-i-can @dickheadturner @dcgoddess @pittobsessed @glamorizethechaos @blueb33ry-cat @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange @burningpenguinwitch @evienorville @equallyshaw @heyysolsister @justrandomthougt @babygirlagenda

Dr. Robby taglist: @cherriready @seeyalaterinnovator @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @bxxbxy @18lkpeters @flyinglama @hagarsays @mayabbot @anakingreys @happyfox43 @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @girl-obsessed-with-things @laurenkate79 @woodxtock @rosie-posie08 @artsymaddie @partofthelouniverse

(50 tags have been reached with the combo of all three taglists, so unfortunately The Pitt taglist for this series will be added in a reblog right after this is posted - I’m sorry if this is an inconvenience!)

most of the heavy angst is over — they still suck at feelings, but they’re learning😊

as we get closer to smut territory, I get more worried it won’t live up to y’all’s expectations lol (😭)

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