Me Reading A Smut Fic Trying To Figure Out What Position They’re In

still thinking about this.

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bette davis eyes (2)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 9.1k

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

Harry Castillo still didn’t know her name.

And it was driving him insane.

It had been three days.

Three days since he sat on the steps of The Met, seething over Lucy’s engagement only to stumble into a conversation with the most aggravating woman he had ever met.

Three days since she stepped out of his car.

"If you find me again, maybe I’ll say yes."

He had taken it as a challenge.

Of course he did.

He had spent years making impossible things happen. He had turned himself into one of the richest hedge fund managers in the country. He dictated the movement of money on Wall Street with a flick of his wrist. People waited months to get a meeting with him.

When he wanted something, he got it.

But he still didn’t know her goddamn name.

He had spent hours.

Hours, going through his friends’ Instagram followings, convinced that she had to be in there somewhere. She had been outside that party on those steps. That meant she knew someone.

Right?

Wrong.

Instead, all he got was accidentally following half a dozen people he didn’t even like and no clue how to unfollow them.

"You could just Google it," Danny had suggested, watching as Harry scrolled through Instagram with the confusion of a man trying to defuse a bomb.

"I shouldn’t have to Google basic fucking technology," Harry snapped.

Danny had just laughed. "This is why Lucy did everything for you."

Lucy.

Right.

Harry shut his phone off and tossed it onto the table like it had personally offended him.

He needed to let this go.

She was just a stranger.

A nobody.

But...

She wasn’t.

She was somebody, at least to him. Someone who had looked at him like he wasn’t some billionaire hedge fund manager but just a man sitting on the steps of The Met, sulking about his ex.

And that was risky.

Because for the first time in a long time he wanted to know more.

She was balancing a tray when she spotted him.

Harry Castillo.

Sitting at the corner of the high end Manhattan restaurant she was currently serving at, looking like he would rather die than be here.

Her grip on the tray tightened. No fucking way.

She had spent the last three days assuming she would never see him again.

Rich men didn’t go looking for strangers they met outside of parties. Not unless they had some weird obsession or a savior complex. And he didn’t seem like the type.

Yet, here he was.

Dark suit. Sharp jaw. Brooding like the miserable, wealthy asshole she suspected he was.

And worst of all—he didn’t see her.

Not yet.

She had to get out of here before he did.

Her name tag was visible.

If he saw it, if he recognized her—

"Table six, go," her manager barked, pointing toward the very table Harry was sitting at.

Fuck.

She briefly considered quitting her job on the spot. Just throwing her apron at the nearest wall and storming out.

But unfortunately, she had rent to pay.

So with a deep inhale, she straightened her shoulders, gripped the tray tighter, and walked straight toward him.

Harry wasn’t paying attention.

Not to the menu. Not to his surroundings.

His mind was still back in his office, replaying every attempt he had made to find her.

And failing.

His phone buzzed. Another news notification. Probably some article about the market or a New York Times op-ed about billionaires ruining the economy. He didn’t care.

Then—

A shadow passed over him.

Someone setting a drink down.

And before he even looked up—before his brain even processed it—he heard her voice.

“Whiskey neat.”

His head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

And there she was.

Standing right in front of him.

His breath hitched.

Her.

Her.

His eyes flicked to her name tag, sharp and laser focused.

Finally.

She saw where he was looking and immediately reached for it, ripping the tag off with a sharp tug before shoving it into her pocket.

“Not a chance,” she said, shaking her head.

His lips twitched.

“Afraid?”

“Of you?” She snorted, shifting the tray in her hands. “Not even a little.”

He exhaled, leaning back in his chair.

“You work here.”

She raised a brow. “Clearly.”

“You were at the Met party.”

“I was working the Met party.”

Realization dawned.

She wasn’t a guest. She wasn’t friends with anyone there.

She was a server.

A server.

Harry’s fingers tapped against the edge of his glass.

He didn’t know why that made something settle inside him. Maybe because it explained why she hadn’t given a shit about who he was. Maybe because it meant she wasn’t part of his world, wasn’t another socialite or heiress looking for an investment banker to marry.

Maybe because it meant that night was real.

“You’ve been looking for me.”

It wasn’t a question.

His eyes lifted to hers.

She was smirking.

She was amused.

And he hated how much he liked that.

Harry exhaled slowly. “Maybe.”

“Well. Now you found me.”

He studied her.

The restaurant bustled around them. The clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation, the scent of expensive wine and seared steak filling the air.

But none of it mattered.

Not when she was standing in front of him, arms crossed, head tilted, watching him like he was the one on display.

He reached for his drink, swirling the liquid before taking a slow sip.

Then—

“Have dinner with me.”

She blinked.

Paused.

Then laughed.

Again.

Like he had just told the funniest joke in the world.

Again.

“You really don’t like being told no, huh?”

His jaw ticked. “That’s not an answer.”

She tilted her head. “What do you think I’m gonna do? Take off my apron and sit down at your table? I’m working, Castillo.”

The way she said his name made something tighten in his chest.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Then when do you get off?”

Her lips twitched.

“You gonna wait here all night?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

A pause.

“Fine.”

Harry’s brows lifted.

Her eyes flicked to the clock on the restaurant wall before settling back on him.

“I’m off in an hour.” She turned, already walking away. “Let’s see if you’re still here by then.”

He watched her go.

Watched as she weaved through tables, balancing drinks, chatting with customers, completely at ease.

And for the first time in three days—

He felt at ease.

Because this time, she wasn’t getting away.

Harry wasn’t a patient man.

He had built an empire on control, on precision, on the ability to anticipate movements before they happened. That was how he stayed ahead, how he won.

Yet here he was, sitting at a table in an upscale Manhattan restaurant waiting for a woman who barely spared him a second glance.

A woman whose name he still didn’t know.

He leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass, watching as she moved effortlessly through the restaurant.

She was good at her job.

Efficient, quick on her feet, balancing trays with ease.

And she smiled at customers.

Not the way she had smirked at him earlier. Not with that sharp edged amusement that made something itch beneath his skin.

No, these smiles were polite. Professional. A little forced, maybe, but nothing that suggested she was even remotely bothered by his presence.

It annoyed the hell out of him.

Because he was bothered.

She had been stuck in his head for three days.

And here she was, acting like their encounter meant nothing.

Like he meant nothing.

It was infuriating.

And intriguing.

And maybe—just maybe—exactly what he needed.

His fingers tapped against the rim of his glass.

An hour.

He could wait an hour.

Hell, he had waited longer for board meetings that didn’t even matter.

So he settled in.

And watched.

She could feel his eyes on her.

The weight of his gaze followed her everywhere.

She ignored it.

Or at least, she pretended to.

Because if she acknowledged it, if she met his gaze, if she let herself wonder why he was still sitting there—then she would have to admit that she cared.

And she didn’t.

Not really.

Not about Harry Castillo.

Not about his perfectly tailored suit or the way his dark eyes followed her every movement like she was some kind of puzzle he was determined to solve.

Not about the way her heart had kicked up just a little when she realized he had actually been looking for her.

Nope.

Didn’t care.

Not at all.

She refilled a wine glass at table twelve, smiled at a group of finance bros who didn’t deserve it, dodged her coworker carrying a tray of desserts, and did not look at the man still sitting at table six.

But she could feel him.

And it was driving her crazy.

Harry was losing his mind.

Every time she passed his table without sparing him a glance, something inside him tightened.

This was ridiculous.

He didn’t wait for people.

People waited for him.

He could leave right now. Get up, walk out, and be done with this whole thing.

But he wouldn’t.

Because she had said one hour.

And he was going to make sure she kept her word.

His phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

Buzzed again.

Danny.

Danny: Why are you ignoring my texts?

Danny: Did you figure out how to unfollow people yet or are you still stuck?

Danny: Are you seriously still looking for that girl?

Danny: …You are, aren’t you?

Danny: I hate you.

Danny: Text me when you’re done being pathetic.

Harry rolled his eyes and slid his phone facedown on the table.

The hour crawled by.

And then—

Finally—

She walked back toward his table.

Apron off. Jacket on. Bag slung over one shoulder.

Her shift was over.

And Harry sat up a little straighter.

“You actually waited.”

She didn’t sound surprised.

More amused.

Like she had expected him to wait but still found it funny.

He lifted a brow. “You said an hour.”

“And you’re a man who listens?”

“I can be.”

She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Dangerous skill.”

Harry smirked. “You have no idea.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the way her lips twitched.

It wasn’t a no.

Wasn’t a go home, Castillo.

It was something else.

Something better.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “So?”

“So.”

“What now?”

Harry exhaled, watching her carefully.

She was testing him.

Waiting to see if he was serious.

If he was worth the trouble.

And Harry Castillo never backed down from a challenge.

“Dinner,” he said simply.

She arched a brow. “You just ate.”

“You were working. I don’t eat alone.”

She crossed her arms. “That’s a dumb rule.”

He shrugged. “It’s my rule.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then—

“Fine.”

A single word.

But it sent something sharp and victorious rushing through his chest.

He stood, pulling a few crisp hundreds from his wallet and tossing them onto the table without a second glance.

She eyed the money but didn’t say anything.

Just turned on her heel and walked toward the door.

Harry followed.

The wind cut sharp against his skin as they stepped out onto the Manhattan sidewalk, the world around them alive with the hum of the city at night. A taxi honked a block away, a couple laughed as they passed, and the crisp scent of winter curled into the air.

She shivered, pulling her coat tighter around her body.

Harry didn’t shiver.

He barely felt the cold.

His eyes flicked toward her, noting the way she huddled into herself slightly, as if suddenly self conscious. She had been confident inside the restaurant sharp, unbothered, teasing—but now, beneath the glow of the streetlights, something in her had shifted.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She scoffed. “You think I’m just gonna tell you that?”

His jaw twitched.

She was impossible.

And yet, somehow, he found himself waiting for her answer anyway.

She sighed, exhaling into the cold air. “It’s just…I just got off a shift. I’m not exactly dressed for whatever expensive place you’re about to drag me to.”

Harry blinked.

Then looked her over.

Dark jeans. A fitted black sweater. Scuffed up ballet flats.

She looked fine.

Better than fine.

She looked real.

She looked like her.

And that, he realized, was the problem.

She didn’t belong in his world.

Didn’t fit into the mold of women he was usually seen with.

She wasn’t draped in designer. She didn’t have a last name people recognized. She didn’t float through life with the quiet, effortless privilege of someone born into money.

But she was still the most interesting person he had met in years.

And that was dangerous.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t care.”

She blinked up at him.

“What?”

“I don’t care what you’re wearing.”

She hesitated.

Her eyes searched his, looking for—what? Lies? Pity? Some hidden agenda?

She wouldn’t find any of those.

He had none to give.

Instead, he tilted his head. “Are you hungry or not?”

She rolled her eyes. “I just worked a ten hour shift. What do you think?”

His lips twitched.

Without another word, he turned and started walking.

And after a beat—she followed.

To her surprise, Harry didn’t take her somewhere suffocatingly high end.

No pretentious Michelin starred establishment. No reservations only steakhouse with white tablecloths and chandeliers worth more than her apartment.

God, her roommate was in for a treat when she gets home.

Instead, they ended up at a cozy, tucked away bistro on a quiet side street. The kind of place that didn’t have a dress code. The kind of place where people actually talked instead of posing for Instagram photos.

She narrowed her eyes as she followed him inside. “How do you even know about a place like this?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he pulled out a chair for her like some old fashioned gentleman and waited for her to sit.

She hesitated, lips twitching in amusement. “Wow. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

He ignored that too.

She sat.

He took the seat across from her.

A waiter appeared almost instantly.

Harry ordered whiskey.

She ordered a glass of wine.

She knew her wine, he'll give her that.

And then—for the first time since they met—there was silence.

Not uncomfortable silence.

But silence nonetheless.

She leaned back in her chair, watching him.

Harry was hard to read.

Brooding. Intense. Reserved.

The kind of man who looked like he had a thousand thoughts running through his head but no intention of saying any of them out loud.

The kind of man who could crush someone with a single, well calculated decision in his office during the day and then sit across from her in a dimly lit restaurant at night like none of it mattered.

She tapped her fingers against the table. “So, are you gonna ask me anything? Or are we just gonna sit here and stare at each other?”

Harry’s brow lifted slightly.

“I don’t ask questions I don’t care about the answers to.”

She blinked.

Then huffed out a small laugh. “Jesus. You’re insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of wine.

He watched her over the rim of his own glass, studying the way she moved.

She wasn’t nervous.

She wasn’t trying to impress him.

And he hated how much he liked that.

She started talking first.

Not because he asked.

But because she wanted to.

“So, what do you think I do?” she asked, resting her chin on her hand.

Harry took a slow sip of whiskey. “You’re a server.”

She smirked. “Wow. Good job, detective.”

His jaw twitched. “That’s not a real question.”

“Fine. How long have I been doing it?”

He studied her.

Noticed the way she held herself, the way she had moved through the restaurant earlier, the way she hadn’t hesitated when her manager snapped at her.

“Years,” he said simply.

Her smirk faltered.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Since I was nineteen.”

Something flickered in her eyes.

Something he didn’t understand.

Didn’t push.

But still—he noticed.

She exhaled, rolling her wine glass between her fingers. “It wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”

Harry’s fingers drummed against the table. “It never is.”

She lifted a brow. “You say that like you know.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he did know.

But he didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t talk about the nights he spent as a kid listening to his mother cry in the next room because she didn’t have the money for rent.

Didn’t talk about how she had worked three jobs just to keep food on the table.

Didn’t talk about how she got sick.

How the bills stacked up.

How money would have saved her.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He never did.

She watched him for a moment, like she was trying to figure him out.

Then she leaned back in her chair, lips curling slightly. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

Harry exhaled. “Not if I can help it.”

She grinned. “Well, lucky for you, I talk enough for the both of us.”

And she did.

She told him about the worst customers she’d ever had. The ridiculous things people asked for at restaurants. The way rich men treated servers like they were invisible.

She didn’t include him in that category.

And for some reason, that mattered.

She laughed at her own stories.

Harry didn’t laugh.

But he listened.

More than he should have.

More than he ever did.

She didn’t push him to share.

Didn’t ask him about his life, his money, his past.

She just talked.

And it was the first time in a long time that Harry didn’t mind someone filling the silence.

When their food came, she didn’t pick at it like the women he usually dined with.

She ate.

Finished her entire burger.

Made a satisfied noise as she wiped her mouth with a napkin.

Harry’s lips twitched. He wanted to smile. But he didn't.

By the time they left the restaurant, it was late.

The air was even colder now, the city quieter.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “Alright, big shot. Where’s your driver?”

Harry exhaled, glancing down the street.

James was waiting, parked at the curb.

But for some reason—

For some stupid reason—

He didn’t want the night to end yet.

So instead of answering, he met her gaze.

And said, “Let’s walk.”

She blinked.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

And just like that—

Harry Castillo found himself walking through the city with a woman he barely knew.

And, for once, he didn’t hate it.

The streets of Manhattan were quieter at this hour.

The usual chaos—the honking taxis, the chatter of impatient pedestrians, the ever present hum of a city that never slept had settled into something softer. The streetlights cast golden pools of light on the pavement and every now and then, a stray gust of wind sent a flurry of dry leaves skittering across the sidewalk.

She walked beside him, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her unhurried.

Harry had no idea where they were going.

She was talking again, the words flowing effortlessly, her voice filling the quiet space between them like it belonged there.

“I don’t know how people live alone in this city,” she mused, her breath visible in the cold air. “I mean, sure if you’re a billionaire hedge fund guy, then yeah, easy. But for the rest of us mortals? Forget it.”

Harry glanced at her. “So you have a roommate.”

She huffed out a small laugh. “More like a personal angel disguised as a roommate.”

His brow lifted slightly.

She kicked a small pebble across the pavement as they walked. “Her name’s Maya and she’s the only reason I can even afford to be in New York. She’s an artist—one of those ridiculously talented people who’s always sketching on napkins or leaving paint stains on everything.”

Harry hummed, tucking his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. “And she sells her work?”

“Oh, yeah. To people like you,” she teased, smirking up at him.

His jaw flexed slightly. “Like me?”

She shrugged. “Rich. Intimidating. Definitely the type to spend five grand on a painting because some gallery curator convinced you it was ‘evocative of the human condition.’”

Harry let out a sharp exhale, something just short of a laugh. “I don’t buy art.”

She gave him a pointed look. “So you just have blank walls in your penthouse?”

He hesitated.

She gasped, dramatic. “Oh my God, you do!”

His jaw twitched. “I don’t see the point.”

She groaned, shaking her head. “That is actually the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harry smirked slightly. “Maya sounds lucky to have you as her publicist.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not her publicist. Just her number one fan. And her unpaid assistant, apparently, because every time she has a gallery showing, I end up playing bartender.”

“You work events for her?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, I mean... I don’t want to be useless.”

Harry frowned slightly at that. “You’re not useless.”

She blinked up at him, something flickering behind her expression like maybe she wasn’t used to hearing that.

She recovered quickly, exhaling through her nose. “Try telling that to the people who snap their fingers at me when they want a refill.”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

There was something about that, about the idea of her being treated like she was nothing, about people looking past her like she didn’t matter.

That irritated him more than it should have.

But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he glanced over at her, taking her in.

Her hair was slightly tousled from the wind, strands curling around her face. The dim glow of the streetlights softened her features, casting a warm hue against her skin. She looked…

Gorgeous.

Pretty.

She caught him staring and arched a brow. “What?”

Harry looked straight ahead. “Nothing.”

She huffed a small laugh, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. “You’re weird.”

“Good to know.”

She grinned but didn’t push it.

They kept walking.

They hadn’t planned on stopping anywhere, but when she spotted a small, hole in the wall coffee shop still open, she made a beeline for it.

Harry watched as she pressed her hands against the glass, peering inside like a kid outside a toy store.

She turned back to him, eyes bright. “I need something warm.”

Harry exhaled. “You could’ve just said that.”

She grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He sighed but followed her inside anyway.

The shop was small, filled with the comforting scent of coffee and fresh pastries. A tired looking barista was wiping down the counter, clearly ready to close up for the night but she bounced up to the register without hesitation.

“One hot chocolate, please.”

Harry stared. “Hot chocolate?”

She flashed him a look. “What?”

“You’re a grown woman.”

“Wow, ageism?” she gasped. “How very hedge fund of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Hot chocolate is for children.”

She smirked. “And yet, I bet I’m gonna enjoy my drink way more than whatever depressing black coffee you’re about to order.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then turned to the barista.

“…Make it two.”

She lit up.

Not a smirk, not a teasing quip...just a genuine, unfiltered grin. “See? You’re not completely soulless after all.”

Harry huffed but said nothing.

They sat by the window, watching the street outside as their drinks cooled.

She took the first sip and sighed dramatically. “Oh my God."

Harry lifted a brow but took a sip of his own.

It was…warm. Smooth. A little too sweet.

Not terrible.

She grinned at him over the rim of her cup. “You love it.”

He set his cup down. “I tolerate it.”

She snorted. “Liar.”

Harry exhaled, shaking his head.

He was lying.

But he wasn’t about to admit that to her.

By the time they finally made it to her place, it was late.

The entrance to her building was old but well kept, tucked into a quieter side street. The kind of place that probably had thin walls and a temperamental landlord.

She stopped at the door, turning to face him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

“You gonna be weird about this?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Harry tilted his head slightly. “Weird about what?”

She smirked. “You look like the kind of guy who doesn’t walk a woman home unless he’s expecting to come up.”

His jaw clenched. “I wasn’t—”

She grinned, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Hilarious.”

She stepped back, pressing her shoulder against the doorframe. “But hey…thanks. For dinner. And the hot chocolate.”

Harry held her gaze.

She was looking at him like she wasn’t sure what to make of him yet.

Like she hadn’t quite figured him out.

And that, somehow, made him want to see her again.

Before he could say anything, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head.

“You gonna try to find me again?”

His jaw tightened.

But his lips twitched.

“I already did once.”

She hummed, tilting her head. “Then maybe next time, I’ll let you find out something about me.”

Harry exhaled.

He should have left.

Should have walked away.

But instead, he lingered just long enough to watch her disappear into the building, just long enough to hear her footsteps fade.

And then, finally—

He turned.

And walked away.

He still didn't get her name.

But he knew where to find her.

Harry had gone back to the restaurant.

But she wasn’t there.

Two days.

Two entire days of walking into that overpriced Manhattan restaurant, sitting at the same damn table, ordering the same damn whiskey neat, only for some random server—not her—to take his order.

It was infuriating.

He didn’t know her name.

Didn’t have her number.

Didn’t know anything except where she lived.

And that made something settle in his chest that he wasn’t ready to examine.

Danny noticed.

Of course he did.

“You’re sulking,” he said, lazily swirling his cocktail at their usual bar.

Harry scowled. “I don’t sulk.”

Danny smirked. “Right. You just glare at your drink like it owes you money.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then exhaled sharply. “She’s not at work.”

Danny blinked. Then grinned. “Oh my God, you are sulking.”

Harry resisted the urge to throw his whiskey at him.

Instead, he pulled out his phone and stared at her building’s address for the fiftieth time.

Danny sighed, tilting his head. “You know, if you really wanted to, you could—”

“I’m not hiring a private investigator,” Harry muttered.

Danny huffed. “I was gonna say Google it. Jesus, man.”

Harry scowled.

But he did Google it.

Or rather, he, Danny, and James—his driver, the only person in his life with more patience than a saint—spent two hours tracking down any lead they could.

It was a long, painful process.

But finally—Maya.

Maya Klein.

Her roommate.

Her best friend.

Her very online best friend.

It wasn’t hard to find her art portfolio.

Okay, maybe it was a little hard.

But after squinting through three different Instagram accounts, a Tumblr page, and a very outdated LinkedIn profile, they found it.

And in bold, clean font on her website—

GALLERY SHOWING TOMORROW.

TRIBECA

8PM-11PM

Harry leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against his desk.

“She bartends for her friend’s events,” he murmured.

Danny’s brows lifted. “And you’re planning on showing up.”

Harry exhaled. “I want to see her again.”

Danny smirked. “Wow. You’re down bad.”

Harry ignored him.

He stuck out like a sore thumb the moment he stepped inside.

Danny, of course, fit right in. Already drifting off into the crowd, chatting up a woman in a fringed leather jacket holding a glass of something overpriced.

James had stayed outside, leaning against the Maybach with a cigarette between his fingers, avoiding any part of this ridiculous endeavor.

And Harry?

Harry stood in the middle of an art gallery, surrounded by people who clearly hated him.

The walls were filled with abstract pieces. Raw depictions of capitalism and greed, of money and power and the corruption that came with it.

A statement.

A big fuck you to billionaires.

A big fuck you to him.

And here he was—one of the richest men in the country—standing in the middle of it.

He definitely stuck out.

Eyes flickered toward him.

Some curious. Some amused.

But most?

Judgmental.

Harry sighed.

Danny was gonna love this.

He scanned the room.

And then—

He saw her.

Behind the bar.

Her hair pulled back in a clip, sleeves rolled up, effortlessly balancing bottles and glasses, moving like she had done this a million times.

His jaw unclenched.

Something settled inside him.

Something he didn’t have the time—or patience—to name.

He walked over.

She didn’t see him at first.

Not until he was standing right in front of her.

Then—

Her eyes lifted.

And froze.

Her fingers stilled over the cocktail shaker, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

Then, slow and deliberate...

She smirked.

“You again.”

Harry exhaled. “Me again.”

She hummed, setting the shaker down. “Didn’t peg you for an art guy.”

“I’m not.”

Her smirk widened. “So you’re here for the free drinks?”

He tilted his head. “No.”

Her lips pressed together, amusement flickering in her gaze. “Then why are you here?”

Harry held her gaze.

And then—

She sighed, shaking her head.

“You really don’t like answering questions, do you?”

He exhaled. “You weren’t at work.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

Harry leaned forward, resting his hands against the bar. “I noticed.”

Her expression softened just for a second.

Then she sighed, rolling her eyes. “My legs gave out.”

His jaw tensed. “What?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “It happens. I overworked myself too much. I needed a break.”

His fingers curled against the bar.

Harry didn’t like that.

Didn’t like the idea of her pushing herself until she physically collapsed.

Didn’t like the fact that she was still working tonight.

Didn’t like any of it.

She noticed.

“You’re brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

She arched a brow. “You definitely brood.”

Harry exhaled sharply.

She smirked.

Then casually, she grabbed a napkin, scribbled something on it, and slid it across the bar.

He frowned. “What’s this?”

She smiled.

“My name.”

His fingers brushed the paper.

His jaw flexed.

Finally.

Finally.

Then—

Across the room, a conversation caught his ear.

Loud. Purposeful. Like it was meant for him to hear.

It definitely was meant for him to hear.

“I don’t understand how these people live with themselves.”

Harry’s fingers stilled.

He turned slightly, gaze narrowing at a group gathered near one of the paintings.

“They show up, throw their money around, act like they’re saving the industry when they’re the ones who ruined it in the first place.”

Another voice chimed in. “It’s capitalism at its finest.”

Harry exhaled through his nose.

Same conversation. Different setting.

Nothing he hadn’t heard before.

He should have ignored it.

But then—

Then, he heard her.

Her voice.

Sharp. Defiant.

“You do realize the only reason these paintings are selling at all is because of the people you hate, right?”

Silence.

Harry blinked.

His gaze snapped back to her.

She wasn’t looking at him.

She was facing them, eyes narrowed, jaw set.

The guy—some twenty-something in a turtleneck—sputtered. “That’s not the—”

“No, go ahead,” she said, tilting her head. “Explain to me how you think art survives without the rich. Who do you think is buying these paintings? Who do you think is keeping galleries open? I’ll wait.”

The group shifted uncomfortably.

Harry smirked.

The guy scoffed. “That’s not the point.”

She arched a brow. “Then what is the point?”

More silence.

She exhaled. “Look, I get it. The system’s fucked. But if you really hate capitalism so much then maybe don’t take a paycheck from a company that thrives on it.”

The guy’s face turned red.

Then, huffing, he spun on his heel and walked away.

Harry exhaled through his nose.

And when she turned back to him—

He was looking at her.

Really looking at her.

She raised a brow. “What?”

Harry’s jaw ticked.

Then, slow—steady—

He reached for the napkin with her name.

Folded it.

Slipped it into his pocket.

“Nothing,” he murmured.

And, for the first time in months—

Harry Castillo smiled.

Actually let out a smile.

It was a rare thing. Unpracticed. A little uneven.

And it caught her off guard so much she forgot to breathe for a second.

That smile.

The real kind, not the smirk, not the polite billionaire press photo kind. It was all quiet softness and amusement, like a secret between the two of them. It was the kind of smile you could fall into if you weren’t careful.

“Wow,” she murmured, recovering. “You do know how to do that.”

Harry’s smile didn’t falter, but he said nothing.

Typical.

The gallery began to thin out as the night wore on. Coats were retrieved from racks, the sound of shoes echoed across the polished concrete floor, and people began floating toward the exit in clumps, cheeks flushed from wine and conversations.

Harry stayed.

He didn’t know why he stayed.

He could’ve left after thirty minutes like most of the other well dressed nuts in the room. But something about the way she moved behind the bar—tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, laughing quietly when Maya came over to whisper something in her ear—held him in place.

She kept sneaking glances at him too.

Never long. Never obvious.

But enough.

He stayed perched in a corner, away from the art critics and the performative intellectuals with their wine sick grins and disdain for everything they secretly wanted. He watched her wipe down glasses and stack them methodically, her body moving slower than usual now, more deliberate. Her energy was dwindling down.

She was tired.

Exhausted, actually.

He could see it in the way her shoulders sagged when she thought no one was watching.

Around midnight, the final few stragglers filtered out. Maya was surrounded by compliments, champagne, and laughter as she waved people goodbye. She was magnetic.

But Harry’s focus was only on one person.

Her.

She was drying a wine glass with a rag that had seen better days when he approached the bar again.

“You’re still here?” she asked without looking up.

“I tend to see things through.”

She scoffed. “That doesn’t sound exhausting at all.”

Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he reached into his coat and placed something on the bar. A lemon ginger lozenge.

She stared at it. “What is this?”

“You’ve been clearing your throat for the last hour. Thought you might be getting sick.”

She blinked.

And then quietly, “Thanks.”

He nodded once. “You ready to go?”

She furrowed her brows. “Go?”

“You were going to walk home, weren’t you?”

“I—” She hesitated. “Yeah. I was.”

“Not happening.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Harry—”

“Maya said she’s having people over.”

Her mouth opened. “She what?”

As if on cue, Maya bounced over, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. “There you are! Just wanted to let you know we’re having a tiny get together back at the apartment. You’re coming, right?”

She forced a smile. “Yeah…totally.”

Maya beamed. “Perfect! I’ll see you there!” And just like that, she twirled away in her silk pants and heeled boots like a whirlwind of chaos and charm.

Harry looked at her, quiet.

“You don’t want to go,” he said plainly.

She paused. “No, I mean—I don’t mind—”

“You need rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted.”

She made a face. “Thanks.”

“It wasn’t an insult.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It was. You’ve been on your feet all night and still managed to argue with an entire table of art anarchists without flinching.”

She blinked. “You were listening?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m observant.”

Something warm crept up her neck. “That’s actually…kind of sweet.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Still is.”

He exhaled, glancing toward the door. “Let me take you somewhere quiet.”

She looked at him carefully. "Okay." She nodded.

Harry smiled. “Come on.”

As they walked toward the exit, a low whistle echoed across the room.

“Ooooh, look who’s leaving together,” Danny called out, arm slung lazily around a girl wearing metallic eyeshadow and an alarming amount of lip gloss.

Harry cringed visibly. “Ignore him.”

“Oh, I planned on it,” she muttered, quickening her step.

Outside, James was leaning against the Maybach, his cigarette burning low between his fingers.

He straightened when he saw them. “Evening,” he said coolly, holding the door open without a single question.

Once inside the car, she leaned her head against the window, legs tucked beneath her. The car purred beneath them as it slid through the streets like a shadow.

“You always have a driver?” she asked after a moment.

“Yes.”

“Even when you’re just, like…getting groceries?”

Harry looked at her. “Do I look like I get groceries?”

She snorted. “Fair.”

He glanced at her again. “Do you want me to take you home?”

She paused. Her apartment would be loud. Crowded. Too many people, too much laughter, and she was tired.

Bone tired.

“I…wouldn’t mind going somewhere quiet,” she said softly.

Harry didn’t reply. Just gave James a nod. And James didn’t need to be told twice.

The car ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. The city lights flickered through the windows as they sped through Manhattan, the hum of the engine steady beneath them.

She was curled up in the passenger seat, head resting against the cool glass, eyes flickering between exhaustion and quiet thought.

Harry didn’t say anything. Didn’t push.

He liked the silence with her.

When they finally pulled up to his building, James barely looked surprised. He simply put the car in park, gave Harry a knowing look and muttered, “Have a good night, sir.”

Harry ignored him.

She hesitated when the elevator doors opened, glancing up at him.

“You sure about this?” she murmured.

Harry met her gaze. “You need rest.”

She exhaled. “You’re really committed to this whole taking care of me thing, huh?”

Harry didn’t answer. Just stepped into the elevator.

After a beat—she followed.

The penthouse was quiet when they entered.

It was huge.

Dimly lit, the skyline of Manhattan stretching out before them through the floor to ceiling windows. She looked around, taking in the sleek design, the impossibly neat kitchen, the pristine furniture.

Then—

“You really don’t have anything on the walls.”

Harry exhaled. “We’ve been over this.”

She smirked. “Still depressing.”

Harry ignored her, shrugging off his coat before turning to her.

“Go take a bath.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

Harry huffed. “You need to relax.”

She scoffed. “I’m fine.”

He raised a brow. “You’ve been on your feet for how many hours straight. Worked so long your legs gave out.”

She rolled her eyes. “I said I’m fine.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

Then, slowly, pointedly, he turned and started walking toward the bathroom.

“What are you—”

“Follow me.”

Against her better judgment—she did.

The bathroom was nothing short of luxurious.

A massive tub sat beneath a soft glowing light, marble countertops lining the space. The air smelled faintly of something expensive, probably whatever soap billionaires used.

Harry turned on the water, letting the tub fill, steam curling into the air.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You really think I’m about to take a bath?”

Harry gave her a look. “Yes.”

She scoffed. “Why?”

“Because you deserve to rest.”

Something flickered in her expression.

Soft. Unreadable.

Harry stepped back, nodding toward the tub. “Take your time.”

She hesitated.

Then—finally—sighed. “Fine.”

Harry nodded once before leaving the room.

She stood there for a moment, staring at the tub, at the ridiculous luxury of it all.

Then—she caught sight of the robe hanging by the sink.

A man’s robe.

His.

She swallowed.

Slowly, she peeled off her clothes, stepping into the warm water letting the heat soak into her muscles, melting the exhaustion from her bones.

She leaned back, closing her eyes.

And then—

She caught the scent of something in the air.

His shampoo.

His body wash.

Without thinking, she reached for the bottle, pouring a small amount into her palm before lathering it into her hair.

She didn’t know why she did it.

Didn’t know why the idea of smelling like him made something tighten in her chest.

But she didn’t stop.

Not until the scent of Harry Castillo was wrapped around her.

The warmth from the bath had seeped into her bones, leaving her skin flushed, her limbs loose.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt good.

Not just better—good.

Rested.

Weightless.

And wrapped in the scent of him.

She exhaled slowly, fingers dragging through her damp hair as she stepped out of the tub. Water dripped from her skin, soaking into the thick, plush bath mat beneath her feet.

She reached for the robe hanging by the door.

His robe.

It was heavy, rich, expensive fabric, meant for a man built like Harry.

She pulled it on anyway, wrapping herself in it, feeling swallowed whole by the warmth of something that belonged to him.

Something about that made her stomach twist.

Not in a bad way.

Not in a way she could name.

She let her fingers toy with the fabric as she padded quietly out of the bathroom, stepping into the dim glow of his penthouse.

Harry was waiting.

Not in a way that was obvious, but in a way that was distinctly him.

His posture was casual, leaning against the back of his couch, one hand resting lightly on the armrest. He had changed, too—no longer in his suit jacket, just his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the veins in his forearms, the carefully restrained tension in his body.

His gaze flickered over her, slow like he was taking his time, committing every detail to memory.

She knew what he saw.

Bare legs peeking out from beneath his robe. Damp hair curling against her collarbone. The softened edges of her normally sharp expression.

And for once—

For once, she let him look.

She watched his throat bob slightly, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Come here.”

Her lips twitched. “Bossy.”

He didn’t deny it. Just waited.

She crossed the room, bare feet pressing against the smooth floor, stopping when she was just a few inches away.

Harry’s hands curled into fists against the couch for a second, like he was fighting the urge to touch her.

Then without a word he turned, disappearing into his bedroom.

She blinked, startled.

Then—

He came back.

With clothes.

A pair of sweatpants.

A plain black T-shirt.

Things that were clearly his, judging by the size of them.

He handed them to her, jaw tight. “Put these on.”

She took them, amused. “You actually own sweatpants?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, running a hand along his jaw. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t sleep in a tux.”

She grinned. “Shocking.”

He said nothing.

Just watched as she took the bundle of clothing and walked back toward the bathroom to change.

His sweatpants hung low on her hips, the waistband tied in a loose knot to keep them from slipping. The shirt was too big, drowning her frame, the fabric worn in and soft against her skin.

It felt like being wrapped in him.

Warmth lingered in the cotton, in the faint scent of his cologne. Something expensive.

She padded barefoot through the penthouse, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the shirt. The city glittered outside the floor to ceiling windows.

Everything about this place was so immaculate. So clean. So structured. It screamed of control—of a man who ruled his world with precision.

But the moment she entered it some of that control seemed to slip.

She could feel it in the way Harry watched her, the way his fingers twitched when she walked past him, as if resisting the urge to reach out and keep her close.

She stopped in front of the window, arms crossing over her chest, her breath fogging slightly against the cool glass. “You can see everything from here.”

Harry was behind her, watching her quietly. “You like it?”

She exhaled, eyes scanning the skyline. “Yeah. But…”

His brow lifted slightly. “But?”

She hesitated. Then with a small teasing smirk, she turned to face him. “It’s kinda depressing that you live up here all alone.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. “I’m fine.”

She huffed. “That’s what all lonely people say.”

His lips curved just slightly, something almost amused flickering behind his sharp gaze. “And you’re an expert on loneliness?”

She shrugged, moving closer, the fabric of his shirt swaying against her thighs. “I know what it looks like.”

Harry watched her approach, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “And what do I look like?”

She tilted her head, scanning him playfully. “Like a very, very rich man who doesn’t know what to do with himself outside of work.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Accurate.”

She grinned, victorious. “Told you.”

For a moment they just stood there.

Him watching her.

Her watching him.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was heavy. Charged.

Harry’s gaze flickered to her legs, to the way his sweatpants hung off her frame, the fabric pooling at her ankles. Then to the curve of her hip, the way his T-shirt stretched over her body, swallowing her whole.

Something deep and dangerous stirred in his chest.

She looked good like this.

Too good.

Her chin tilted up, eyes meeting his. “You really don’t talk much, do you?”

His hand lifted, brushing her damp hair back behind her ear. His touch was light, barely there, but it made her breath catch.

His fingers trailed lower, down her jaw, grazing the edge of her throat.

She swallowed.

His voice was deep when he finally spoke. “I say what matters.”

Her lips parted slightly, something unspoken hanging between them.

She felt it before she realized what she was doing.

The way her body leaned into his.

The way his fingers skimmed over the fabric of his shirt against her skin, so close, yet still too far.

His touch was careful.

Like he was memorizing her.

She exhaled shakily. “You keep looking at me like that.”

Harry’s thumb brushed over her hip. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure something out.”

“I am.”

She blinked. “What?”

Harry’s hand slid lower, fingers teasing along the edge of his sweatpants on her frame. His voice was softer this time, almost dangerous.

“If I can control myself.”

Her breath hitched.

She wasn’t sure who moved first.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was her.

But suddenly—

They weren’t talking anymore.

His lips crashed against hers, urgent and deep, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him. She gasped into his mouth, fingers tangling in the fabric of his dress shirt as he devoured her.

The world blurred.

She barely registered the way he picked her up, his hands firm around her thighs as he hoisted her up, murmuring quietly against her ear, “Jump.”

And she did.

Wrapped her legs around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He carried her through the penthouse with effortless strength, like she weighed nothing, like holding her close was something he’d done a thousand times before.

And then—

He walked her backward towards his bed, his mouth never leaving her skin, breath warm against her jaw.

The mattress hit the backs of her knees, sending her falling onto it in a slow, melting sprawl of limbs and want.

The soft silk duvet caught her, cool against the fever of her skin, her hair spilling across his impossibly expensive sheets. The room was dim but warm, the city humming just beyond the glass windows, the skyline glittering like a thousand secrets no one else would ever know.

Harry stood above her, his breathing deeper now, his eyes locked onto her like he was trying to memorize the moment. Like she was a painting he hadn’t expected to fall in love with.

She propped herself up on her elbows, staring back. Waiting. Wanting.

Harry’s fingers moved to his collar first. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time, revealing inch after inch of warm, lived in skin beneath it. He wasn’t carved like marble—wasn’t the chiseled fantasy that Hollywood sold in glossy posters.

He was real.

His chest was broad, his arms strong but not perfect. Age spots dotted his skin like constellations, a faint scar ran along the side of his ribs, and when his shirt slipped off his shoulders, she saw the slight softness of his belly.

A pouch.

Honest. Natural. Human.

And when her eyes lingered there—he froze.

She could tell.

The way his breath caught. The flicker of hesitation in his brow.

He was used to being looked at like a power figure. A man in suits. Behind desks. Holding titles and leverage.

But being seen like this?

Like a man—just a man—baring everything? That was different.

She sat up slowly, still watching him. She didn’t say anything, didn’t tease, didn’t fill the space with false comfort.

She just reached for him.

Her fingers skimmed across the skin of his abdomen, soft and warm beneath her touch, and she whispered, “Come here.”

Something in him shifted.

Like maybe he believed her.

That she wanted all of him.

He slid out of his slacks, slow and deliberate, leaving him in nothing but his briefs for a moment before they, too, joined the pile of fabric on the floor.

Then he reached for her.

She let him.

His hands were careful when they peeled off her borrowed T-shirt, pulling it over her head and dropping it aside. Then her body lifted instinctively as he slid the sweatpants down her hips, revealing soft skin, flushed and ready beneath him.

Now they were skin to skin.

Warm and real.

Harry hovered over her, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as he held himself above her, his gaze moving slowly down her body.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Just like that.

No flourish. No performance.

Just a truth that had been sitting in his chest since the moment he first saw her.

She reached up and cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing just beneath his lip. “So are you.”

His breath hitched.

And then he kissed her.

Not rough. Not greedy.

Deep.

Warm.

Slow.

The kind of kiss that says I see you. I feel you. I’m here.

His hands roamed her body like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch first—her ribs, her hips, the soft curve of her breast beneath his palm.

And then—

He began to slide lower.

Kissing down her neck.

Dragging his lips across her collarbone.

Sinking further and further until he was kneeling between her thighs, the backs of his hands brushing gently along the insides of her legs, coaxing them apart like he was opening something sacred.

She was already breathing heavy, already undone just from the look in his eyes.

He settled between her legs like he belonged there.

And maybe—he did.

He didn’t dive in like a man with something to prove. He took his time.

Let her feel his breath first.

The heat of his mouth pressing gentle, almost shy kisses to her thighs.

Then—

He licked a slow, deliberate stripe up her center, groaning low when he tasted her.

Like she was the answer to a hunger he didn’t know he’d been carrying.

Her hips jerked. Her fingers scrambled for the sheets.

He pressed his palms to her hips, grounding her, murmuring something too quiet to make out.

Then his mouth opened on her again.

Tongue.

Lips.

Heat.

Every part of him focused on unraveling her.

She moaned, soft and choked, as his tongue circled her clit, slow at first, then faster with just the right amount of pressure.

He adjusted when she squirmed.

Groaned when she whimpered.

Moved with her, not against her.

Like this was a language only he spoke.

She looked down once—just once—and saw him watching her.

Eyes locked to hers.

Dark. Hungry. But more than that...captivated.

Like he could spend the rest of his life right here, on his knees tasting her like he needed her to survive.

His mustache scraped lightly against the tender skin of her thighs, a delicious burn. His fingers dug into her hips as his mouth worked in steady rhythm, not relenting even when she gasped, Harry, please—

Especially then.

He moaned against her like her begging was the most beautiful sound in the world.

And then—

She broke.

She came with a soft, shattered gasp, her body buckling as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. Her hands found his hair, her legs trembled, her hips rolled up into his mouth.

He held her through all of it.

Licked her through it.

Didn’t stop until she was whimpering from overstimulation, her fingers tugging weakly at his hair.

Only then—only then—did he lift his head.

His mouth was slick, his jaw tense, his chest heaving.

He crawled back up the bed, lips brushing her cheek, her neck, the corner of her mouth.

He kissed her slowly.

Didn’t try to speak.

He just laid beside her, naked and warm and quiet.

Letting her curl into him.

Letting the silence stretch.

Letting himself feel.

And when she finally caught her breath, when she looked up at him and whispered, “You okay?”

Harry gave her a look so full of tenderness it nearly undid her all over again.

“I am now,” he said.

And she believed him.

They laid there, skin to skin, her fingers tracing slow, thoughtless shapes against his chest while his hand rested on the curve of her hip not wanting to let go, grounding them both in something quiet and real.

For the first time in months, Harry hadn’t thought about Lucy.

Not once.

Not her laugh, not the space she left behind.

He only thought about the girl breathing softly in his arms, asleep against his chest like she belonged there.

And when his eyes finally closed, he felt safe.

Maybe for the first time in his life.

jack abbot definitely holds ur hand when he eats you out. SEND TWEET.

It's the same picture

if i could disappear beneath the leaves || michael robinavitch

summary: between awake and asleep, dreams are not always what they seem.

pairing(s): m.r x reader, j.a x reader, m.r x reader x j.a

warnings: none, really? aside from some small allegories to sexy times.

note: i wrote this with a shiteating grin lmaoooo please don't hate me for how this ends. a million thanks for @superhoeva for proof reading my nonsense. inspired by this post and that one the marias song.

p.s: if I see you reposting, stealing, feeding my FICS into AI or some other fuck shit, don’t. 👀🫵🏽

----

LONG BEFORE THE SUN WAKES UP AND THE STARS DISAPPEAR to make space for the clouds, brown eyes that were once heavy with sleep suddenly find themselves opened up just before the light shines through the curtains. 

No matter what Robby did, or how late he’d go to sleep when he got home, he’d always wake up at the same time. 

He lets out a low yawn, rubbing the sleep off his face as much as he can with his free arm, before looking over, all of him stupefied and hazy with sleep. 

He smiles softly when his favorite view in the world is no longer blurred, his heart beating in a flurrying thump badum thump badum, and his stomach flipping in a dizzying woosh at the sight of you and Jack curled up together. Your back is to Jack’s chest as his arms curled around you, and your foot tucked just so under Robby’s ankle to keep tethered to earth. 

It makes his heart melt, knowing you wanted to hold onto him even while you’re still in dreams. Your consciousness floated away somewhere, completely unaware of everything else but the comfort and safety that the two men that are with you provide. 

As lithe and fast as he is, Robby is still two hundred something pounds and over six feet tall. So even on the rare days he gets to stay in and sleep with you, he tries to be as careful as he can be as he regretfully leaves the bed you share. 

He hates it, leaving the two of you. He really wants to stay in bed and kiss you two awake, but he’s been waiting for ages to do this for you, with you.

And as much as he’s enjoyed reuniting with you in more ways than one, few and far between were the days where he simply got to do something just because he wanted to do it.

“Shh, shh, shh…” He coos softly, as his big, warm hand cradles your face and caresses your brow bone softly with a calloused thumb. Knowing you’re still far too deep to reveal your eyes to him, he gently coaxes you further back into your dreams. 

Softly pressing a kiss to where his thumb had just been, he adjusts the thousand thread count blankets – and with a gentle squeeze to Jack’s bicep, he reluctantly tears away his adoring gaze to get started on his surprise - breakfast in bed. 

There’s a slight draft in the brownstone’s kitchen that chills Robby’s skin, but it doesn’t bother him. The hospital was always far colder than this. And yet, even with you in the other side, he feels warmed all over by you. 

He can’t explain the feeling that blooms through him as he mills about the kitchen, as bare feet softly pad about the tiled floor while he gathers all he needs to make breakfast. He truly tries to be as quiet as possible, cursing himself as he rattles the cutlery drawer with his hip. 

A familiar song is whispered from Robby’s lips as he works. And for a moment, he thinks – he hadn’t been religious for a time longer than he can remember, but he knew he had to believe in a higher power when his life became more colorful with you in it. He knows Jack would agree. 

Strawberry studded pancakes are stacked on your favorite plate set, and Robby grumbles at how some of them are so not uniform. He turns to the other counter, where he preps the French press to make enough coffee for the three of you. 

There’s something about the smell that brings him back to the days of his med school youth, where he could barely get through the day without the caffeine. Nowadays, he’s happy to be dragged along by you to whatever the latest coffee shop was, and only a little begrudgingly pay for, in his opinion, overpriced coffees and sweet treats. 

Dishwashing is left for later, wanting the two of you to wake up to the breakfast spread on the tray that was sourced at a vintage market you had dragged him to months ago. 

As his surprises for you normally tend to go, they always get found out somehow. 

Just as he places the dish towel back on the counter after drying his hands, a sound by the kitchen’s threshold snaps his eyes to the door. The sight of you wearing his shirt and looking so disheveled melts his heart, even more so than the whipped cream used on you last night. 

“Robby…” You mumble, making grabby hands as you reach out for him while walking over. “Hey…what’re you doin’ up so early, huh?” He whispers, practically scooping you up in his arms and off the floor. He’s that much taller than you, and the way you gasp always makes him chuckle low in his chest. Robby kisses the crown of your head softly, letting you seek safety from the cold of the world that’s yet to wake up. 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s held you like this - just because he wanted to, just because he could. Just you and him and nothing else or no one else in the world. Holding you always makes him feel like you’d always belonged in his arms. 

“Went to the bathroom,” your voice is muffled on his chest, “you weren’ there anymore.” 

You meant the bed, he knew it. And the way you say his name with a sleepy moan in that lilt of your voice makes Robby’s heart tighten only a little. 

“Go back to bed, honey. Bringin’ us breakfast.” He kisses your head again when you whine, urging you to go along, “go on, doc’s orders.” 

Only when he gently swats your behind do you listen to him. 

Robby follows close behind with said breakfast, smiling as he watches you crawl back into bed and Jack’s arm, resuming the same position as before. Jack was always the big spoon, and you were the little spoon. 

Seeing the two of you cuddled up again makes Robby feel only a little guilty for making such a big deal out of something so trite, but he figures that the array of food will more than make up for it. 

“Room service is ready, you two.” He wheedles, settling the breakfast tray on the side table that’s on your side of the bed. 

Robby only rolls his eyes a little, clearly cognizant that both of you are purposefully ignoring him, wanting to sleep as much as possible on a rare day off. But the smell of the coffee and sugar practically teased you both awake. 

He supports his weight on his arms by caging you protectively, arm on either side of you. 

“Come on, up you get.” He murmurs against the warm skin of your shoulder, slowly working his way up and places a kiss on your temple - stealing one, two, three smooches. 

The small commotion stirs Jack awake, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He blindly grabs your hand, lacing his fingers with his hand on top of yours and a small squeeze follows. 

“Mm, do we have to?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

Breakfast is quiet and syrupy slow for the most part. Robby is more than happy to sit back in bed, breakfast tray in his lap as the food and coffee is shared between you three. 

Plans are made but very few of them end up happening. At least not right away they do. But the day starts of slow, the warmth of twilight still keeping you three tucked away. 

With the tray and plates set aside, the three of you settle into bed once more. You’re in the middle, with Robby and Jack on either side of you. This time, Robby is the big spoon while you face Jack, holding onto his hand after sharing a saccharine kiss. 

It’s always been easier to sleep this way, the weight of them with you reminding you that they’re real and that you weren’t stupid at all to have fallen for them both. 

The rumble of Robby’s chest as he slowly falls back asleep lulls you back to your dreams, Jack scooching over to be close to you while he pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. 

There’s the sound of a car alarm going off in the distance, but you’re far too sleepy to care. 

– 

The shrill beep of the snooze button set for the umpteenth time snatches you awake. 

For a moment, you forget where you are. But the fact that your joints crack as you stand up from the overused bed makes you realize where you are as you look around. 

The call room. 

Your dream was just that, a dream. 

You let out a sigh as you walk towards the door and motion to grab the doorknob, willing yourself to walk back out into the chaos. But you bang your forehead on the door softly, unwilling to face the very unreal fantasy on the other side. 

What were you gonna do? 

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© espressheauxs, 2025

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carmy loves quietly to me. not quietly where he doesn’t do anything but quietly in a way where it’s more personal, intimate but not in some erotic sense. he tries, and i mean really tries, to not bring any dramatics or unnecessary chaos into what the two of you have. and it gets difficult for sure when things start to cave in on itself like they always seem to do or when shit just happens too fast to comprehend. sometimes things just slip out and snowball into a chaos. but things inevitably die down. go back into that quietness.

it’s rubbing circles into the back of your hand. fingertips trailing up and down your spine. a cup of coffee made the way you like ready when you wake up and he’s already gone to do whatever he has to do that day. a knee bumping and staying against yours whenever he’s beside you.

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

How are you practically married to one of the biggest names in fashion and fumble that hard?

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