#(( theya re gOOD

[ghostlychaosfoil]

inner kirby

aughhhh kirby memory spell …. KIRBY MEMORY SPELLL

[karda]

raises hand i would like to hear about tbe hell and you benry gordon animatic i totally didn't start jumping and cheering when i read that post (if you've got the time of course :])

(below i doodled on a page with specific lyrics i have scene ideas for but heres the main idea)

ok so i picture it as mainly showing their relationship with each other and their back and forth. from hating to tolerating to actually enjoying eachothers company to hating again like this cycle of being wanted but neither one of them asking for it. hence "id rot in hell with you, if you'd just ask me to". it would start off lighthearted with the hating being mainly annoyance, to accepting him into the team, the first couple lines revolving around the resonance cascade. over the song it would get more serious and more foreboding, adding flashes of the fight on xen in between normal scenes. and ending on a comparison of the two. i wrote this out on the doodles but. the last line of "i hope you take the shot, see this chance, feel the fire, let me have this dance with you" showing a scene of them from two different times. the first three lines on gordon pointing a gun at benry during some argument, his arm turned down and not fully threatening, and then having the pov shift and tilt behind him to show them in the same pose on xen. but this time benry is the one looming above him, and gordon is pointing the gun straight and with the intent to kill. ending their back and forth cycle

[oopsarboreal]

these fuckers know how to ROCK

Source details and larger version.

See my collection of weird vintage eggs.

[iamineskew]

there is as much bacteria in your gut asd there arte celsl in your body,,t, hey are so lovng,, can you feelthem drifitng through you liek a perfect gardnem,, tou a such a home,, a home for manyt hings that writhe,, ,,,

[cosmicellis]

Prism among the storm AU

Rosen's pet: Thorn. An alien fluffy owl-panther creature with ability to synchronise with other beings. So he can do whatever lion can (Like portals and being lazy)

Paranters were discovered on one of the planets that Yellow planned to colonize. Before that they captured a couple of speciments to study them. It was nothing more that scientific curiousity, since not only paranteras can be domesticated if imprinted on gem, but they can also establish symbiotic relationship.

These creatures avolved on a harsh planet where they are not even apex predators, so cooperation is a must. They usually pick a pride member they connect with and hunt together. BUT They are not limited to their spicies. Due to nature of their planet they adapted to link with any carbon or silicon lifeform. I f you have a brain - they can connect basically.

Depending on strength of the creature the relationship can be two ways:

If creature is weak - they become parasitic, where parantera is dominant and can use host's powers at its leasure and may even kill the host.

If strong - it becomes symbiotic, where parantera must wait and get "consent" from the host to use their strength. Gem powers included.

These animals are smart as avarage doplhin. You can train them succesfully. They can learn commands and recognize people well.

Though theya re omnivores - they are very good hunters. They are pretty much bears with wings... Death from them is brutal. Have a fruit to disract them and lower their hunger.

Paranteras are expending a lot of energy if hunting, protecting their territory, patrolling or playing. So they prefer to sleep a lot to not get tired too often. Fruit is good - but meat is always more nutricious for them specifically.

They are highly resiliant to poisons, so they can eat alien meat no problem.

[thegamingcatmom]

Hi! >:3 This one is for the Dimi sisters, for each of them what do you think they enjoy doing around the castle? Like I imagine they are pretty bored esp in Winter where they can't go outside due to the cold, I imagine Dani and Bela could enjoy reading by the fireplace but there has to be something else to do, right? I don't think Cassandra is a bookworm like her sisters, in fact I doubt that one can be STILL for more than 5 seconds XD I have a few HC of my own like I think Bela likes to read but not romantic stuff like Dani I think she'd be mroe into learning new stuff constantly from the books she reads and I think she is into art so she likes painting in the atelier, or just sketching in a notebook while sitting by the window (I once read a fanfic where Bela learned to cook? And I found it so cute and stuff that she cooked for tehf amily etc that i accepted that HC too). Cassandra would be in the armory sharpening her weapons bc theya re never sharp enough or practicing ehr moves against a dummy, perhaps even getting Dani to play some pranks on the staff (who no one finds funny except for the both of them and getting on Bela's nerves which is a plus I guess :p) Dani... Aside from reading her romantic novels and pranking the staff with Cass I thin she'd be into poetry... she'd try her best ok? (I'm kinda lost with Dani's hobbies tbh XD) What are your own HC for their hobbies? :p Have a good day <3

HI HELLO 🫶

I love your thoughts and I absolutely agree that Cassandra is incapable of focusing on anything for too long. Her record is approx. 10 secs, which is exactly how long it takes her to string someone up, slice their jugular and watch them bleed, lmao.

However, I´d like to think that Momma Alci makes sure to keep her unruly offspring entertained, mainly because it keeps them from bugging her. Momma values her me time. 🛁😌

Besides, there´s always the maids to terrorize. That never gets old. 🤭

Reading

Mostly books that expand her knowledge, like you said. She takes after Momma in that respect. 🤭

Another thing she really likes are mystery thrillers. They have her on the edge of her seat in a way no hunt has managed yet.

She´s not that big into horror though, believe it or not. Probably because she more than gets her fill of that on a daily basis in that castle, lol.

Romance? Please. She has neither the time, nor the patience for such mundane things.

Painting, drawing

She enjoys the calm that comes with it (which is rare in that castle), but she also does it to impress Momma. 🤭

Her favorite things to paint are still lifes. Especially fruit. Especially when it´s rotten. She finds that there´s a certain beauty in the grotesque.

Her favorite things to draw are humans. Or, more specifically, their insides. Organs and bones. Or just certain body parts with the muscles exposed.

Being down in the cellar almost every day truly brought out her artistic side. It´s very...inspiring.

Playing the piano

Again, she does it mostly to impress Momma, seeing how the Lady is quite the talented pianist herself.

Her favorite things to play are dark, tragic pieces that capture the haunting spirit of her existence. Such as Beethoven – Moonlight Sonata 1st Movement.

Music holds immense significance in House Dimitrescu, so it was only natural for Bela to prioritize mastering it as soon as she was capable of forming coherent thoughts.

Stringing them up

Slicing their jugulars

Watching them bleed

...I don´t know what else to tell you, lol.

The middle daughter isn´t particularly picky about how she spends her evenings. She simply does what she does best and, more importantly, what she loves doing. That´s all the fulfillment she needs.

It´s as simple as that with her. I aspire to be like that.

HOWEVER-

I do like the idea of her sharpening and taking care of her weapons because she certainly holds them dear to her dead heart. They´re her babies. :3

HOWEVER-

I don´t really see it as a hobby because it still means "work" for her. She doesn´t cope well with that sort of thing, lol. She´d much prefer spending her precious time on actually using her sickle rather than maintaining it.

HOWEVER-

...She might just let a maid do the work for her. While she watches, ofc. Taunting her. Mocking her. Whispering sweet promises of gruesome death into her ear.

"You missed a spot...right here."

*slices that jugular with her newly sharpened sickle*

🤷🏻‍♀️

Reading

I think that one is pretty obvious. Anything romance is her jam. ;3

More Reading

Because why read your favorite book just once (multiplied by 1354641486418431) when you can dive into the manic endless realms of your own imagination OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND-

-UNTIL THE END OF TIME!!

Flirting/Roleplaying with the maids

The kitchen, the looming corridors, the cellars, the bedchambers - name any place within the castle, and it can almost always be guaranteed that Dani has left her mark - evidenced by blushing and stuttering maids.

Why hot when evil though?? 😭

Furthermore, as a direct result of her extensive reading, many maids have had the one-time opportunity to participate in one of her famously infamous plays, which focus on recreating her favorite scenes from her beloved books.

...Needless to say, that opportunity truly was a one-time affair.

.

.

.

Thanks a lot for your ask! 💋

[f4wri]

IM JUST NOW NOTICING THAT THE TCC HAVEN IS GONE?????

REALL, I WAS SOBBING, it was sucha good communityy aa, I hope my moot makes another community since I have their discord atmm, WILL ASK TO SEE IF THEYA RE AVALIABLEE NOO :CC

[tansyuduri]

Merlin Loregasm Rewatch S1E12

Hi Everyone! Welcome to my rewatch of Merlin focusing on the lore. I am a giant nerd so pretty excited about this. We're on TO KILL THE KING

Gwen: its beautiful!

Tom: Well you are a beautiful girl Gwen, you deserve beautiful things

Gwen: but How I mean, It must have been expensive, Tom: Oh Very OK SO in the medieval world Tyrian Purple dye was INSANLY expensive in this time period. It was made from a rare mollusk found in the Mediterranean. And was possibley THE MOST expensive thing. Which is why the color was so heavily associated with royalty. In the Merlin World Purple dye is not rare (I mean if nothing else convinces you The episode Lamia in season 4 proves it beyond a doubt.)

So its a good thing Tyrian purple was not the ONLY kind of purple dye

While of these other dyes were often more reddish, faded quickly, only worked on certain more rare fabrics ETC they did exist.

What about mixing red and blue dyes? well it was hard due to each requiring special techniques but it was possible. See the most comon red and blue would have been madder and Woad but if you overdye these two together you get a REALLY muddy purple. One of the sources that worked well and did not require mixing dyes was from the Scottish highlands. Ireland and Scotland were known to have purple dye so Camalot could have it via trade. Also nowadays natural purple dye is much easier due to plants from the new world and more advanced dying processes! We've already discussed how the Merlin world DOES have things from the Americas so that in another way purple could be less rare. If they had more advanced dying processes due to being able to use things OTHER than stale urine to set the dye it could be even more common! So what about this scene seeming to hint that purple is rare and expensive? Gwen could only have a dress like this due to her father being somehow rich? Well I don't think it was the purple that made the dress expensive. I think its the silver buttons. While people do have gold coins in the Goblin episode they do seem rare So I'm guessing the buttons on this dress are pure silver

Is it entirely possible they just did not put thought into this? Yes. Am I going to overanalyze and draw conclusions anyway? ALSO yes.

Oh Hello Magic Stone that is about to turn Lead to gold! We'll get back to you later. (*Cough* Philosopher's stone *cough*)

Merlin wakes up feeling the powerful magic of this stone before the man even starts casting a spell. This implies that the stone is powerful enough on it's own to wake Merlin up.

Merlin: somthing woke me

Gaius: What

Merlin: I don't know. A feeling,

Gaius: What kind of feeling?

Merlin: Powerful magic, Here in Camalot. Its intersting to me what wakes Merlin and what doesn't. Magical voices can do it a lot. So its actually possibly a good thing he never lived with the druids he might have been sleep-deprived. Because we know it doesn't only happen when theya re talking to him from an incident with Mordred. Also Magical artifacts, but not all magical artifacts. (Hell Sigan's heart doesnt even do it) The stone is just that powerful that it was like WAKE UP BITCH I'M HERE to Merlin.

Also it didn't do it until it was about to be used which I find intersting. It implies it was not just whenever it was in range, and as we saw before it was not when magic was activly running through it. So does it have a sort of conciousness? Does it decide? Am I overthinking this? Very likly (Welcome to my loregasms we overthink EVERYTHING HERE)

Arthur: Tauren, the leader of a band of renegade sorcerers, sworn to bring down the king.

Notice how Arthur says "A band" not "The band." There is more than one of these bands (as we see in later episodes.) Thats good news for fanfic writers! It also makes me wonder if there are spells to cover tracks because evern after 20 years Uther doesnt seem to have hunted down even nearly all oppisition. Also its mentioned that Arther recognised him. This and the "sworn to bring down the king" kind of implies there were previous encounters Arthur had with this man. Even if someone betrayed them once and THAT'S how Arthur knows they're sworn to bring down the king (Which, fair possibility!) He still knows this sorcerer on sight. He tangled with this man before and survived it, (Tauren also survived this mysterious previous encounter) So I kinda wonder if Trauren is not actually that powerful of a magic user. Especially since he did not include magic in his latter assasination attempt. I wonder how he got the stone? ALSO Tauren's name means bull or laural in latin! I find this cool because names tend to be welsh/celtic or really common English in Merlin if they're not from the legends. (another notible expetion being Gaius whos name means "to rejoice") I wonder if that is his real name or a nickname he chose to go by. Remember that Romans only left Britain about a hundred years ago from what we know of the Merlin timeline. It's possible Tauren's family claims decent from a Roman family!

Gaius: his forge Merlin, Its the finest in the kingdom. Perydacyl screams in my "Gwen's family is upper lower class (closest thing to middle class) Theory from previous entires in this series.

Though I gotta add more here, the fact that a forge in the lower city is the best in the kingdom, It's not just Tom's skill level is really strange. It implies a lot. Because while we know Tom is as skilled as a royal smith if not more and likley does a lot of smithing for knights and their expensive orders, HAVING THE BEST FORGE is odd for someone who is not wealthy enough to buy silver buttons normally! See most smiths either inherited the forge or refined it over time. Even if we assume that JUST his forge is the best not the rest of his smithy WHY THE HELL DID UTHER NOT MATCH IT IN THE CASTLE SMITHIES? (And no it can't be Toms was somehow left over by the Romans, the Romans were worse at forging) Tom (or someone) must have known some tricks at Forge Construction and engineering others did not, And Uther was too proud to admit that a commoner's forge in the lower city was EVER better than the one in the castle. (Camalot forged steel is known to be the finest as is mentioned in season 4 so perhaps he did not have much to worry about.)

Gaius: Tauren's Expariment bears all the hallmarks of Alchemy

Merlin: But Alchemy is impossible isnt it?

Gaius: To change the very nature of one thing to another has defeated all who have tried, but if you use magic

Merlin: Do you think that's what woke me?

HERE WE GO. Alchemy was HUGE in the medieval and Renaissance time period. Though it was generally introduced in the 1100s before that it was mostly only found in the east.

However since it started in Greceo-roman Egypt and the fall of the roman empire is what caused it to move mostly to the Islamic world. (or china and idea though their kinds of alchemy are different.)

Its very possible residual knowledge could have existed in the Merlin world after the Romans ditched the place. I find it interesting that its known to be folly because the idea of making gold from lead or serching for immortality (More on this when we talk more about the stone) was only viewed as ridiculous starting in the 1700s when there were efforts to separate is practices from more valid chemistry. (by 1740 it was largly viewed as the work of charlatans)

Merlin was trying to sleep when Morgana picks up the Stone and he hears it in his mind again. MERLIN IS NOT HAPPY. LET HIM SLEEP! But again it doesnt need to be activly doing magic to be like HEY I'M HERE.

Time to talk about being a Ward and what that means for Morgana

In medieval times Wards were children of a vassel (Noble) raised by the vassel's lord or another vassel This is pulling in me talking about ranks of nobility If a land was big enough like a kingdom, the king did not manage all the land instead he had vassel lords under him (And in some cases those lords had more minor lords under them.) But Medieval times were violent! So what happens when a lord/vassel dies before their heir is of the age of majority? The Child is named a ward. Now, Nobles tended to really like having wards, Why? Well chances are if you raised the child right the child would grow up to really like you and be extra loyal to you. Also as the guardian, it would be up to you to arrange a good marriage for your ward and you could do it in a way that benefitted you politically. Hell perhaps even to your own family! A guardian would also control a ward's lands. So lets look at Morgana being a ward!

We also don't know if Gorlois had an estate outside of Camalot that is Morgana's (Hes certainly buried outside camalot, but I did not see any castles nearby so really it could go either way.) If he did have lands outside of camalot and Morgana is past the age of majority its likley Morgana chose to stay in Camalot. (because she would own those lands.) Having lands seems possably unlikely if Morgana is of age because she could go to those lands and get away from Uther when she satared showing magic. I say possably because she could have just not wanted to go.

But Morgana is not called a former ward, Shes called 'His ward'

So I think we actually have a possible answer to the "who is older Morgana or Arthur" question. Because we know Arthur is past the age of majority after season 1 but unless what ward means is very different in Camalot, being a ward means Morgana has not yet reached that age. Assuming that age is 21 in season one (As it seems to be) It means Morgana is 4+ years younger than that. Accounting for her being a ward even in season 3. Of course, ward could mean something different in the merlin world and that would throw this all out the window. Or they could have just kept refering to her as ward past when she inherited whatever her father left her!

But why did I bring this up here? Because I'm sorry throwing a future noble in the dungeons with no real reason is just a stupid thing to do on Uthers part if he wants to keep them loyal. I mean its politicaly stupid. Uther problubly did have to rule though fear because he keeps doing stupid things to nobles. Even if this can be excused as him correcting his ward. This is not the first time we see it.

Arthur can say this to Gwen because what he is doing here is telling her she no logner has to pay her fudual lords. (The Pendragons) Who actualy own all the land in the city and keep of Camalot. It might seem like a paltry gesture but is actually a pretty big deal. Because this kinda thing was NOT usually done.

Merlin: the Mage stone?

Gaius: wonder of the ancients, lost for a thousand years or more

Merlin: what does it do?

Gaius: theoreticly it could gvie the bearer the power of transformation

Merlin: gold? The power of Alchemy

HERE WE GO. Okay what the shows calls the mage stone is almost certainly based on the Philosophers stone. It was the main physical goal of alchemy and could turn base metals to gold and grant imortality. The importality bit doesnt seem to apply in the Merlin world. The ealiest known writen mention of it somes from around 300CE so fits with the thousand years or more (200 years off from a thousand)

And its waking up Merlin again while held in Morgana's gloved hand. Apparently gloves don't stop it from sencing magic.

Tauren: Bribery is Rife At Camalot. I will use the corruption at the heart of his kingdom. And such abundance of gold will buy me into the kings chambers -- even to the king himself.

Okay so This is the only time we hear about this. SO I wonder if Morgana confroted it and fixed it when she got back on Uther's side. Otherwise I feel like she would have used it against him when SHE turned against him. If Merlin overhears all this I know he would have made sure it was not the case for Arthur.

A funny thought occured to me. Does this have anything to do with Camalot guards being so bad? Like you can buy a post in the guard or somthing? Or they are regularly bribed just not to do their jobs well? The court officials WE KNOW OF are not bribeable. So I assume he wanted to bribe his servants and guards to look the other way as an assasin came. Or to bribe the king's tasters and let him get poisioned. but "rife" really makes it sounds like courrption is all over and we NEVER SEE IT and it never gets brought up again. So I totally think its the guards. Its totally the guards. We now know why they are so horrible. hahaha!

OMG CALLED IT! I CALLED IT HAHAHAHA!

Uther: that was a terrible day. Your father was a great freind. I had no part in his death

Morgana: You sent him into battle, You promised him reinforments and them gave him none. You sent him to his death.

Uther: That is not true. It was never my intention,

Morgana: but it happened! So was this like one of those very hard calls comanders somtimes have to make or just Uther being an ass as usual? Was this before or after Vivianne (Morgana's mom) died. Because if it was before I am giving Uther some serious side eye, even subconciously he could have done it because he wanted the lady he hooked up with while her hubby was gone.

(It might be relivent to mention here that in the original legend Uther activly battled with and killed Garlois because he wanted Ygraine. Then after killing him has Merlin tranform him to look like Garlois and went and had sex with Ygraine and this is how Arthur is conceived.)

Obviously the show is VASTLY diferant but I do wonder if they carried the Uther causes Garlois's death because he had the hots for his wife bit.

If thats the case I expect Morgana did not become Uthers ward until after Vivianne died. (So 10 years old) But Vivianne is barly ever mentioned, not even by Morgana. I always wondered if she died in childbirth with Morgana or when she was really young. I'll keep my eyes peeled for more on this.

Merlin: Do you think Uther's a good king?

GaiusL sorry?"

Merlin: Uther-- do you think hee's good for the kingdom?

Gaius: Yes. Yes I do. In the Light of Recent events you might find that hard to belive.

Merlin: Hard? no. Impossible, Deffinatly

Gaius: Merlin

Merlin: Everyone hates him

Gaius: it is not Uther job to be liked. It is Uther's job to prtect the kingdom. Most of his Methods are right. Sometimes he may go too far.

Merlin: really you mean like executing anyone who so much as passes a sorcer on the street.

Gaius: yes, Despite Uther's failings, he has brought peace and prosparity to this kingdom

The interting thing is jugling by the vigil held for Uther when he was dying this is a generaly held view. We even see Uther working to make peace in more than one episode. Now I hate Uther. And I happen to think hes a much more compelling villian and creater of genocide because he is humanized in the show. Real people who start genicides are not always mustache twirling villians. They will care about things or people. And that deserves to be shown because if we forget that we will get complacent.

Anyway I do wonder how Uther's views on magic are seen by everyday people. We have hints that they don't like magic but never anything definative. I also wonder at the Dialuges that seem to suggest there was misuse of magic beyond just Ygraines death around the time Uther banned it. And the hints at how this effected Gaius. Again to be clear I am all for magic returning. But I think when Gwen does it she might face certain backlash. And possably not just from nobles. (Totally not somthing I plan to write about cough.)

Merlin's coment of everyone hates him (Uther) also needs to be looked at because it means the people Merlin knows the opinion of DO hate Uther (Well besides Arthur.) How many people has he spoken to? Has he spoken to many of the everyday people of the kingdom? Has he overheard knights? I REALLY WANT TO KNOW.

Okay So Goirlois was TOTLLY with Uther when he was conquoring the kingdom. Also I'll mention this again when we get to the episodes in question but, From Uther telling Morgouse she has no claim to the throne (And other things) I AM TOTALLY calling my earlier theory as the truth now. Uther gained the throne of Camalot during a sucession crisis.

Morgana became Uther's ward likley when she was 10. Also Uther says she frought him from the begining. I wonder if this was her grief exploding out or what she fought him about? Was it always about killing people? Was she a childhood trouble maker? Did she not want to be the kind of Lady Uther expected her to be? I think the last was at least part of it, because we know she and Arthur used to go at each other with swords and that Morgana knows how to use a sword very well which we do not see in most noblewoman. I wonder if Uther curbed that when she became his ward or as she entered her teenage years.

+1 to the Merlin deaths. I find it intersting that the stone is strong enough to absorb a sidhe blast and then just reflect it! WHO MADE THIS THING IN THE MERLIN WORLD?

Merlin stays down for 28 seconds. as opposed to the 46 in Poisoned Chalice. In Gates of Avalon we dunno how long he was down.

I just realized Merlin wakes to see them hugging but likley doesnt know Morgana stabbed the atacker. At this point he may think the atacker just failed because of Uther and Morgana is playing along. He does find out very quickly after this however because he and Gaius talk about how Gaius heard about the attemted assasination and Morgana saving him.

[rise-my-angel]

I think girlboss characters like Dany are evidence of men not knowing how to write compelling female characters, or women being insecure in writing a good female character. Or both.

Grrm is notoriously good at writing such compelling female characters, and the show wanted to strip Dany of all the dark and flaws aspects that make her interesting, just like what is now being done with Rhaenyra's dark and flawed side. They have no idea how to make a female character powerful and interesting, when the blueprints were right in front of them. They just didnt follow it and I have no idea why theya re so scared to adapt women in the way they literally already adapted Cersei (faithfully while taking her in their own direction while keeping the ecessence of the character)

[ssavinggrace]

dating someone beautiful and smart but you get jealous of how pretty theya re and how good at everything they are<<<<

[hcguesstheauthormessageboard]

MAGS UPLOADED 1/2 OF THE LLAUVERSARY FICS AND I AM EXPLODING LLAU!IMP N SKIZZ ARE SO IMPORTANT TO ME I JUST FINISHED FIC HOLY SHIT THEYA RE SO CODEPENDENT IT'S NOT EVEN FUNNY I NEED TO WRITE. I NEED TO WRITE RIGHT. NOW. THINKING SO HARD ABOUT THEM OH MY FUCKING GOD hooooooooooooly SHIT I NEED EVERYONE TO READ LLAU RIGHT NOW. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA ABANDON THE HOSPITAL (aka 15k words of impulsesv Struggling so much and like 5k of that is just anxiety and panic attacks but uh. fuck it we ball) WAS SO GOOD WRIFGWIFUBUWIRGIWFLEBAEBRAEGIYLVBGAW0EOHVFE9UWHEF0HWFHOUW

-🪽

pats you gently and cautiously

[rh-confessions]

Captain Tuck had a wife, they just divorced due to him not being present as much in the family. Theya re on good terms though.

🌺

[lady-wren-of-tella]

IM ALMOST HALFWAY THROUGH SONG KF ACHILLES OH MY GAYD ACHILLES CALLS PATROCLUS HIS HUSBAND (THE CIRCUMSTANCE IS A BIT SAD THOUGH) BUT OH MY GOD THEYA RE IN LOVE

-ash

oooooh it sounds so good

i’m gonna start reading babel soon which i’m super excited for

the poppy war is now on my (ridiculously long) tbr now

[sweetheartsaku]

Oml Saku

I need your opinions on boys with hair clips. It could be any boy or an idol in specific. All boys with clips seriously look so cute, especially if the clip has a litol drawing on it. Like, imagine a tiny pumpkin stuck on their fluffy hair...

Ps I TRIED SCROLLING THROUGH MY PINS FOR IDOLS WITH HAIR CLIPS BUT THE ONLY THING I FOUND WAS THIS-

HEESUNG 😭😭 IT LOOKS SO MUCH BETTER IN MY HEAD I SWEAR- OKAY BUT HE STILL LOOKS GOOD THO, BUT UNTIL THEN, I REST MY CASE *dramatically bows down and spotlight turns off*

OMFMGG UR SOSOSOSOSO REAL I LOVE GUYS IN CLIPSOIDHE 🥹🥹🥹 ESP HYUKA!!!! I THINK I KNOE A COUPLE

ADN IM PRETTY SURE THERES ONE MORE WHERE HES WEARING 2 HEART CLIPS!?!?!?!!? IDK WHERE IT IS THOOOOO TwT

THEYA RE ALL SOSOSOSOSOSO CUTEEEE THE LITTLE PRINTS AND CHARMS ARE ALSO SSSOSOOSOSOS ADORABLE!!!!! (and omg heeseung so cute TT)

[mamustreads]

OH MY GOD I'M JUST LOVING THIS STORY SO MUCH! I JSUT TRAVALLED TO ITALY AND HAD SUCH A GOOD TIME WITH OUR HARRY ❤️ Meaning... THE WRITING IS INCREDIBLE LOVE! I just teleported there and back! its just incredible Harry's characterization is just so incedible! AND THEYA RE SO SWEET I LOVE THEM YOUR HONOURRRRR ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Now plot wise...

Spoilers ahead

OH MYYYY ITS OUTTTT THE DARKS ECRET I DIDN'T KNOW WE HADDDD GODSSSSS ITS AN AWFUL ONE BUT VERY INTERESTING WHEN WE GET THE BLAME FOR FAMILY'S MISTAKES! and this was such a scandal! can't wait to see Harry's reaction! OMG

I just love the glimpses into Harry's and Lucy's thoughts and scenes! add so much depth, and btw what a b! she was so mean to our Harry 🥺❤️ He deserves all the love ❤️❤️

See you in the next chapter love! this story is just amazing!

sweet dark haired man (6)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 13.8k

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

The Cape Cod light was brutal in its honesty—too bright, too clean, the kind of afternoon sun that made everything look sharper than it should. The ocean beyond the windows of the renovated beach house sparkled like glass, waves crashing against the shore in rhythmic indifference.

Lucy hated it.

She hated how picturesque it was. How calm. How settled. How every breath felt like a performance of peace.

John had gone into town to pick up oysters and a bottle of wine he couldn’t pronounce. He kissed her cheek before he left. He always did that. Like routine made up for the silence between them.

She was curled on the white couch in her favorite silk robe—cream, embroidered, delicate—as if softness could protect her. Her hair was tied up with a scrunchie she didn’t remember choosing. The mug of green tea beside her had long gone cold. She hadn’t touched it.

Her laptop was open on her knees. And the email was staring at her.

Subject: FYI — goes live tomorrow, late afternoon. Thought you’d want to see it first.

From: Carrie Roth

No greeting. No punctuation. Just a single link beneath the sentence. No context.

But Lucy didn’t need context.

She clicked. And the screen unfurled into a headline she already knew would hurt.

"The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name."

Her breath hitched.

Below the headline, the byline—Carrie Roth. Of course. And below that?

The photo. That photo. The one Harry had supposedly made Carrie delete.

Lucy blinked hard.

There they were—in Harry’s lobby. She remembered the building. The hallway. The marble floors. The stupid orchid arrangement by the elevator that never died.

But that wasn’t what made her pause.

It was the way Harry was looking at the girl. She was in his clothes. Hair wet like she just took a bath. At his place. But Harry? Harry was looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

It was instinctive. Natural. The kind of look you didn’t even realize you gave unless someone froze the moment.

Lucy stared at the image. Her hands went cold. Her ring—thin gold, small diamond, a gift from John—pressed into her skin as she clenched her fingers.

She scrolled. The article wasn’t cruel. Not exactly.

It was careful. Surgical. The kind of carefully worded gossip Carrie was famous for—less fire, more poison. Phrases like “rare public moment,” and “sources say she doesn’t have a last name that anyone can find,” and “Castillo’s first serious appearance with someone new since his highly publicized breakup with his ex Lucy.”

Lucy flinched at the mention of her name. It was in bold.

Of course it was.

Carrie had buried the quote deeper in the piece, almost like a treat for the diligent reader.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet,” Lucy had said, when asked if she knew about the woman. “How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to.”

She hadn’t meant it to sound bitter. Or maybe she had.

Maybe some part of her had wanted Harry to read that line and feel something sharp in his chest. But now, looking at the photo—the girl in his clothes, the way his body was angled toward her, protective, intimate—Lucy felt something sharp in hers.

Because she recognized that version of him.

The quiet Harry. The gentle one. The one who made tea without asking and never needed to be told what you were thinking because he already knew.

She had killed that version of him. And someone had brought him back to life.

Lucy’s phone buzzed once. A message from John.

John: Need anything else from the store? 

She didn’t answer right away. She just stared out the window. The sea was bluer than usual. A boat skimmed across the horizon like punctuation.

She clicked the link again. Scrolled back to the photo. Studied the girl’s face—partially turned, but visible. Eyes cast down. Mouth soft. She didn’t look like a socialite. Or an actress. Or a woman who’d ever once tried to control a room.

She looked like someone who’d wandered into Harry’s life by accident. And stayed.

Lucy’s finger hovered over the keyboard. Her eyes flicked back to the headline. Then to the quote.

She’s not built for it.

She closed the laptop. Stood. The silence in the house was so loud it made her ears ring. And suddenly, Lucy wasn’t sure if she’d moved on at all.

Back in Italy, the sun was just beginning to dip behind the hills, casting everything in gold.

The villa glowed like a painting—stone walls kissed by twilight, lanterns strung along the balcony flickering to life one by one. The air was warm, threaded with rosemary, lemon, and the faintest trace of woodsmoke from somewhere nearby.

She stood in front of the mirror, still pinning one last piece of her hair into place.

Her dress was a soft rust color, silk again, but different from last night. This one moved like water when she walked, low in the back, delicate at the shoulders. Her earrings were borrowed from Francesca. Her lipstick was a shade she got from Maya. 

Harry watched her from the edge of the bed.

Shirt crisp. Pants pressed. One hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a small glass of something he hadn’t sipped yet. He’d shaved, but left a trace of scruff. His chain caught the last bit of sunlight, gleaming like a secret.

“You keep staring,” she said, not looking at him.

“I can’t help it.”

She smiled at her reflection. “Is it the hair?”

“It’s the everything.”

He walked over slowly. Stood behind her. Met her eyes in the mirror.

“I thought I was in love with you before,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair off her shoulder. “But then you did that thing with the peach at lunch.”

She laughed, head tilting back slightly. “That wasn’t me. That was the wine.”

“You were licking your thumb.”

“I was cleaning my hand.”

“It was obscene.”

She turned. Faced him.

And for a moment, they just stood there. Quiet. Grounded.

“Well,” she said softly, “good thing I brought extra peaches.”

Harry groaned like a man in pain. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Liar.”

She kissed him once, quick and mischievous. Then grabbed her bag.

Chiara had texted the address hours ago. Danny was still sulking around the villa, probably pretending not to exist.

The car was waiting. The roads were winding. The evening had started.

And neither of them had any idea what tomorrow night's headline would bring.

But for now—

They were still in Florence. Still in the golden hour. Still theirs.

The driver didn’t speak much.

Harry gave the address once and the rest of the ride passed in a hush, the hum of the engine soft beneath the cobblestone rhythm. The roads curled like ribbon through the hills, olive trees flashing past the windows in soft blurs, golden light smearing the windshield.

In the backseat, she let her head rest against the window for a while, watching the landscape spill by like something dreamt.

Harry sat beside her, shirt deep navy, sleeves rolled up neatly. His trousers were black, fitted. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine—controlled, watchful, impossibly composed.

But his fingers found hers anyway. Laced them together. Rested their joined hands on the seat between them like a promise.

She smiled without turning her head. They didn’t speak the whole ride. They didn’t need to.

When the car finally turned off the main road and slowed onto a gravel path lined with wildflowers and pale stone, she sat up straighter. Adjusted her silk dress. Smoothed her hands down the front.

Harry reached over without a word and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb grazed her jaw.

“You ready?” he asked softly.

“Nope.”

“Too late.”

The car stopped. And there it was.

Chiara’s family home was nothing like the villa. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t curated. It was warm. Chaotic. Built like a hug.

A long, low house with chipped shutters, ivy spilling down the side, and music floating faintly from the open windows. Children’s laughter rang out somewhere around back. The scent of tomato and garlic clung to the air like an old coat.

Lights were strung overhead—crooked, twinkling fairy lights bouncing between olive trees and the wooden beams of a pergola that shaded the long dinner table already half-filled with people.

They stepped out of the car. The gravel crunched under her sandals. Harry opened the door for her, of course. Offered his hand. She took it.

It was now 8:30. And the sun had just melted fully behind the hills, leaving everything bathed in the kind of purple-gold glow that only happened in Italy and movies.

Chiara spotted them first. She was barefoot again, curls pinned half-up, wearing a thin white dress with a red sweater tied around her waist like a ribbon. She bounded toward them with a glass of wine in one hand and a sprig of rosemary in the other.

“You came!” she beamed, flinging her arms around her in a hug. Then looked at Harry and added, “You too. Terrifying boyfriend.”

Harry’s brow ticked. “Thanks.”

Chiara only grinned. “Come meet everyone.”

She grabbed her hand, tugged her forward without giving her time to panic. Harry followed behind, towering, silent, one hand in his pocket, already receiving double-takes from some of the guests as they approached.

The table was long. Wood worn soft by weather and wine stains. Set with mismatched plates and linen napkins. There were pitchers of red wine and baskets of bread at each end. Someone had set out bowls of figs and mozzarella, tomatoes still warm from the vine, plates of roasted eggplant and olives soaked in garlic oil.

Chiara pointed as she rambled on. “That’s my mother—Rosalinda and that’s my father—Leo. Don’t let him pour your wine or you’ll never stop drinking. My brothers—Matteo and Gianni."

There were a bunch of other guests that she didn't introduce but still they still waved.

Everyone waved.

Rosalinda gave a warm smile. “Benvenuti. Welcome.”

Chiara tugged her to two empty chairs at the far end of the table, tucked beneath a blooming wisteria vine. “These are yours. I saved them.”

Harry held the chair out for her. She sat. He took the one beside her.

And just like that, they were in it. The wine was poured before either of them could decline. The bread basket was passed like gospel.

Someone slid over a small dish of anchovies and roasted peppers with a murmur, “Try this. It’ll change your life.”

She was dizzy already—in the best way. Everything smelled like salt and basil and firewood. The table was loud, people speaking over each other in fast Italian, gesturing wildly, laughter bubbling up in waves.

And Harry? Harry didn’t say a word. He didn’t smile. Didn’t reach for the wine. He just sat there—hands folded, watching everything like he was gathering intel.

No one said anything for a while. Until Gianni, Chiara’s younger brother—maybe twenty, maybe high—leaned over the table, squinting.

“So,” he said, accent thick but voice teasing, “you are the scary man, yes?”

Harry looked up. Raised a brow.

Gianni grinned. “Chiara said you looked like you kill people for fun.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Harry replied, deadpan.

The table froze. Chiara choked on her wine. Then—Rosalinda burst into laughter. Loud. Unapologetic.

Everyone followed. Even Harry smiled, just barely. The kind of smile that curled at the corner of his mouth like a secret. And from that moment, the ice cracked. A little.

Rosalinda passed him the wine again. This time, he took it.

A cousin leaned forward and asked if he was a Gemini.

He said, “Worse.”

The table howled. Dinner unfolded in waves.

The food kept coming—handmade pasta with sage butter and lemon zest, grilled zucchini, risotto flecked with saffron. Someone brought out slices of porchetta carved from a roast, still warm, the scent making her stomach ache with joy.

She reached for a piece of bread and Harry slid the butter toward her without being asked.

Their knees touched under the table. At one point, she turned to him and whispered, “You okay?”

He nodded. “You?”

She smiled. “I’m good.”

He reached for her hand beneath the table. Held it loosely, fingers stroking hers as the night softened.

The stars came out slowly. Someone put on a record player—crackling, old jazz spinning from a speaker tucked beneath the table.

Rosalinda began reading tarot cards near the rosemary bush.

Chiara danced barefoot with her grandmother under the vines.

Leo refilled Harry’s glass without asking. He didn’t argue.

He was still quiet. Still him. But softer now. Warmer.

He leaned in close once, mouth brushing her temple, and murmured, “This is the best night I’ve had in years.”

She looked at him. Eyes lit.

“Me too.”

They didn’t talk about Lucy. They didn’t know that across the ocean, Lucy had just stared down the proof of their intimacy frozen in pixels. They didn’t know the article was going live tomorrow.

They didn’t know that Danny was trying—desperately, recklessly—to contain the fallout.

For now, they just drank the wine. Ate the figs. Held hands under a string of crooked lights.

And when Chiara brought out a lemon cake her aunt had baked that morning, they split a slice and fed each other bites like fools. Harry didn’t even flinch when someone took a photo.

“You’re different here,” she whispered, later, when the table had quieted and only the older guests remained, nursing espresso and arguing softly about soccer.

Harry looked at her.

“You’re softer,” she said.

“I think you make me that way.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. His fingers threaded through hers. The record spun to a close. And for now, the night held. Long and safe and theirs.

But even the gentlest nights had to end.

She was mid-laugh, swirling the last sip of wine in her glass as Chiara told some absurd story about falling into a canal in Venice when she was a child—elbows flying, hands gesturing, cheeks pink with wine and warmth—when it happened.

Harry saw it. The yawn.

Small. Half-hidden. She tried to stifle it behind her knuckles, the motion lazy and unbothered. But he caught it. Of course he did.

It wasn’t the kind of yawn that meant boredom. It was the kind that meant her bones were heavy and her body had officially stopped running on adrenaline and sugar and wine. The kind that meant she wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes open much longer.

He leaned down slightly, his voice brushing her ear like something private.

“You’re fading. Tired?”

She turned, blinking up at him with bleary affection. “No, I’m not.”

“You just yawned mid-sentence.”

“Did not.”

“You did.”

“That was a—dramatic breath,” she mumbled. “For storytelling.”

He smiled. Barely.

Then stood.

It was subtle—how quickly the table noticed. A hush, almost reverent, like the weather had shifted. Conversations paused. Heads tilted.

Harry Castillo had stood. And that meant something.

Chiara looked up. “Leaving?”

Harry gave a slight nod, hand resting at the back of her chair. “We should.”

She opened her mouth to protest. To insist she was fine. But another yawn betrayed her.

Harry quirked a brow.

She gave up. “Okay, fine.”

Chiara leaned over and hugged her, cheek warm against her own. “Thank you for coming. Truly.”

“She’s the one that made us come,” Harry muttered as he shook Leo’s hand.

“You’re a good boyfriend,” Chiara said. Then added, teasing, “Terrifying. But good.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He just placed a hand on the small of her back—warm, grounding—and guided her through the garden path, away from the laughter, the flickering lights, the music still curling into the air like a lullaby.

They walked slowly.

She leaned into him more with each step, her sandals forgotten in one hand, her body sagging with contented exhaustion. The rust silk of her dress shifted with each step, catching moonlight and memory like it was something alive.

The gravel crunched beneath them. The breeze had cooled now, brushing through the trees like whispered secrets. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once. The sound echoed.

When they reached the car, Harry opened the door for her, of course. Helped her in without speaking. Tucked her sandals at her feet. Then slid into the seat beside her and gave the driver a short nod.

They didn’t speak much on the way back.

She leaned her head on his shoulder somewhere between the vineyard and the old church they’d passed earlier that afternoon. Her fingers drifted to his thigh out of habit. He let her stay like that, barely moving, afraid to shift and break the spell.

By the time the car pulled into the villa’s gravel courtyard, she was half-asleep.

The windows glowed with low golden light. The stone shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Everything felt soft. Suspended. Like they were the last people left in the world.

Until Harry saw movement. Someone was pacing near the stone fountain at the edge of the courtyard. Fast. Sharp. A phone pressed to his ear. Gesturing wildly.

Danny. He looked...frantic.

Harry’s brows furrowed.

She stirred, mumbling sleepily, “Are we back?”

He kissed her temple. “Yeah. Just a second.”

Before she could fully register it, Harry had stepped out of the car, door shutting softly behind him. She blinked herself upright, trying to process the sudden absence of his warmth.

Outside, Harry walked toward Danny with a slow, deliberate pace.

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” he asked, voice low and even.

Danny jumped. Spun.

“Oh—shit—Harry. It’s nothing.”

Harry stopped a few feet away. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Danny covered the receiver with one hand. “It’s personal.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “From your tone, it sounds like work.”

“It’s not,” Danny said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s one of my exes. She’s losing it. You know how it goes. Screaming about closure or whatever. I’m just trying to shut it down before she flies here with a bat.”

Harry didn’t blink. “You’re lying.”

Danny’s jaw clenched. “I’m not.”

Harry took one step closer.

And for a second—just one, tight, fragile second—Danny’s face cracked.

Not fully. Not visibly. But enough for Harry to see it. To catalog it. To file it under I’ll ask again later.

He looked over Danny once more, then pulled back.

“Figure it out,” Harry muttered, already walking away. “I don’t like being lied to.”

Danny exhaled. Said nothing.

Harry returned to the car without another glance. She was waiting, sandals back on, dress wrinkled from the ride.

“You okay?” she asked, groggy.

“Yeah,” he lied.

He offered his hand. She took it.

Their room was exactly how they’d left it. Soft lighting. The bed turned down. A carafe of water on the nightstand, fresh flowers in the bowl by the window.

She let out a sigh the moment she stepped inside. Toed off her sandals. Swayed slightly in place. Harry locked the door behind them.

She was already halfway to the bed when he said, “Shower first.”

She groaned like a child. “Noooo.”

“Yes.”

“I’m too tired.”

“You’ll feel better.”

“I’ll feel better horizontal.”

Harry arched a brow. “That can be arranged. After you shower.”

“Harry,” she whined, dragging out the syllables like syrup. “I have no bones.”

He moved toward her.

She backed away dramatically, flopping onto the bed like a fainting Victorian ghost. “I’m already dying. Leave me.”

He reached down, grabbed her ankle, and gently tugged her toward the edge of the mattress. She shrieked—quietly, theatrically—but didn’t resist.

“Come on,” he said, voice softer now. “Arms up.”

She blinked.

Then slowly raised her arms. Like surrender.

He knelt down, unzipped the back of her dress. The rust silk peeled away like petals. It fell in a pool at her feet.

She stood in her underwear, hair messy, cheeks flushed from wine and heat and fatigue. She looked like a painting. A little bruised by the night. A little radiant because of it.

Harry touched her waist.

“Shower,” he repeated.

She whined. “You go with me?”

He nodded.

“Fine,” she huffed. “But you better carry me after.”

“Done.”

The shower was warm. Quick.

She leaned into him the entire time, face pressed against his chest, arms around his neck while he washed her hair with the patience of a saint. She mumbled something incoherent about peaches and tarot cards. He just listened. 

He dried her gently afterward, wrapping her in a towel, then carrying her back to the bed like she’d demanded.

She giggled when he nearly dropped her onto the mattress. “You’re such a gentleman.”

“I’m reconsidering it.”

She didn’t respond.

She was already half-asleep.

He dressed her slowly—one of his t-shirts again, soft and oversized then a pair of his boxers. Kissed the crown of her head. Pulled the blanket up to her shoulders.

Her lashes fluttered. Then stilled.

And Harry…

Harry sat at the edge of the bed for a while. Just watched her. She looked safe now. Soft. Here. He wanted to believe the worst of it had passed.

But something in Danny’s face���something in that lie—coiled like wire under his ribs.

He reached over. Turned off the lamp. Slipped under the covers beside her.

She stirred only once—just enough to press her cheek to his shoulder, murmuring something like “mine.”

Harry closed his eyes. Wrapped an arm around her waist. And held on. Tighter than usual.

Just in case. But just in case wasn't enough. Not anymore.

Harry opened his eyes before the light did.

It was instinct—some built-in warning system that had always protected him from the worst of it. From too many hours asleep. From the risk of rest. Rest meant exposure. Rest meant you might miss something.

And something was off. He knew it the moment he registered how calm everything was. Too calm.

The room was still. The kind of stillness that only came before something terrible.

She was curled into him like always—head pressed into his chest, one leg tangled over his hip, lips slightly parted as she dreamed something soft.

He looked at her. Really looked.

Hair a little damp from the night before. Cheeks flushed with sleep. The collar of his shirt slipping off one shoulder, exposing the delicate slope of skin he’d kissed a dozen times the night before. Her arm was draped over his chest like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go.

And he knew—

He would burn the whole fucking world down to keep this. To keep her.

To keep mornings like this where her skin smelled like lavender and sweat and him, where her body knew his even in sleep, where everything had finally felt like it was settling into something close to peace.

Which is why the dread crawling up his spine was unbearable.

He carefully, silently, shifted her arm. She murmured something incoherent. He stilled. Waited.

Then slowly slid out from beneath her. She didn’t wake. Just rolled over, curling into the spot he left behind, still warm.

He grabbed a hoodie off the chair. Pulled it on. Then left.

The hallway outside was dim, washed in soft amber light from the wall sconces. The villa was still asleep—except for Harry. Always Harry. Awake before anyone could disappoint him.

He didn’t make noise. Didn’t need to. He knew exactly where Danny’s room was. Didn’t bother knocking. Just twisted the handle. It wasn’t locked. Because Danny, for all his skills, never thought he needed to hide things from Harry for long.

The room was a mess. Clothes tossed over the back of a chair. Two empty water bottles on the desk. One of those tiny espresso cups half-filled and forgotten on the nightstand.

Danny was asleep on the couch. Fully dressed. Mouth slightly open. One arm flung across his chest like he’d passed out mid-heart attack.

But Harry wasn’t looking at Danny.

His eyes were on the laptop. Sitting open. Still glowing faintly on the coffee table.

He walked over slowly. Silent. Careful. Grabbed the laptop and sat down on a nearby chair. 

Danny didn’t stir.

The laptop screen was still unlocked. And there it was. The tab. His name. Her anonymity. His stomach dropped. He clicked it.

There was a draft open—scheduled for publishing at 5PM EST. 11PM Florence. A timestamp in the corner. Carrie Roth.

He felt something cold settle in his ribs.

The headline was more appalling than he expected.

"The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name."

But it didn’t matter.

Because right below it—

The photo.

The one he’d tried to bury. The one she never even saw. The one Carrie took from the lobby of his penthouse—the day of the delivery, when she was in his clothes, her hair still wet from the bath they took together, no warning. 

And him?

He looked like he belonged to her. It wasn’t scandalous. But it was real. Too real.

It was a portrait of something not yet built. Something fragile.

And Carrie had caught it. Was going to publish it. Was going to make it permanent.

He read the first few lines of the article, his jaw tightening with every word...

"She doesn’t look like someone accustomed to being photographed. She doesn’t carry herself like a model, actress, heiress, or anyone remotely used to proximity to power. She looks like she just stepped out of his shower, borrowed his laundry, and followed him out without knowing where they were going next. There’s no stylist, no heels, no curated façade. There’s not even a purse in sight."

"Which, of course, begs the question...Who is she?"

His fingers clenched around the edge of the laptop.

Of course Carrie knew about them in Italy. Livia definitely was the one that informed her.

Of fucking course.  

The article was bait. Softly written, yes. But full of implication.

A mystery woman? No digital footprint? They made her sound like a ghost. Like a scandal. Like something waiting to be exposed.

And Harry knew what would come next.

The blogs. The forums. The Reddit threads. The obsessed Twitter girls. The old money pages on TikTok that would start stitching clips of her walking into restaurants and speculating about her outfit, her past, her worth.

They’d find photos. Someone would dig up something. And if there wasn’t anything to find? They’d make it up.

He sat there, breath slowing, vision narrowing. Not out of panic. But calculation.

She didn’t deserve this. She wasn’t ready. This wasn’t what she signed up for. And he should’ve protected her. Should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve buried it the moment Carrie Roth stepped into that lobby. Should’ve crushed it before it had the chance to exist.

But he hadn’t. And now? Now there was a countdown.

Nineteen hours. Until her face was everywhere. Until the silence around her wasn’t a sanctuary—it was an invitation for speculation.

He closed the laptop. Carefully. Stood. Walked over to Danny. And kicked the bottom of the couch. Hard.

Danny jolted awake with a sound that could’ve passed for a war cry. “Jesus fu—Harry?!”

Harry stared down at him. “You lied to me.”

Danny blinked. Rubbed his face. “What?”

“You lied. Last night. In the courtyard. You said it was one of your exes.”

Danny sat up slowly. “Look, I was trying to—”

“You think I give a fuck about your intentions?”

Danny sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t ready yet. The article. Carrie’s still fighting with her editor about the angle. Allegra said—”

“You should’ve told me.”

“Allegra made me swear not to.”

Harry’s voice dropped. “And you listened to her?”

Danny’s jaw twitched.

“I asked you one thing,” Harry said. “One fucking thing. Be honest with me.”

“Carrie was going to publish it no matter what,” Danny snapped. “You think she needed my permission? I was trying to delay it. Manage it. Spin it if I could.”

“You let me walk into that dinner. Laugh and drink and kiss her like everything was fine—”

“Because I knew if I told you, you’d ruin it before it hit the press. You’d blow up at Carrie, maybe even call her yourself, and then she’d publish it just to spite you. I was trying to protect her too.”

That stopped Harry.

A beat passed. He looked down. Then back at Danny.

And his voice was cold now. “You don’t get to say that.”

Danny stood. “Harry—”

“You don’t get to say you were protecting her. Because you don’t know her.”

“I know what she means to you.”

Harry turned. Started for the door.

Danny’s voice followed him. “What are you going to do?”

Harry didn’t answer. He just walked out. Back through the hallway.

Back into the room.

She was still asleep. Barely.

One arm stretched across his pillow now. Her mouth slightly open. Her face soft.

She looked peaceful.

And Harry knew—

He had about sixteen hours to keep it that way. To protect the only thing in his life that didn’t feel manufactured.

To preserve whatever fragile, fierce, ridiculous thing they’d built between cups of espresso and whispered fights and silk dresses and rain-soaked kisses.

And he would. He didn’t know how yet. But he would.

He slipped back into bed beside her. Careful not to wake her. Careful with everything now. More careful than he’d ever been.

He wrapped his arm around her again. Pulled her in.

Held her tighter than he did the night before. Just in case. Because the day was coming.

And with it?

Hell.

Harry didn’t go back to sleep. He couldn’t.

Instead, he laid there with her pressed to his chest and stared at the ceiling like it might give him an answer. Something, anything, to make nineteen hours feel less like a death sentence.

Because that’s what it was. A countdown.

Not just to the article—but to the before and after.

Before, quiet mornings and peach juice on her wrist, wine-stained linen and soft kisses behind alleyway walls, her foot in his lap at lunch, the sound of her laughing with Francesca, the way she tucked into his coat like it was always hers.

After, the world.

He already knew how it would go. He’d seen it a thousand times.

The internet would eat her alive.

They’d comb through every blurry photo, every scrap of background noise, and when they didn’t find anything, they’d start making things up.

“She’s too young for him.”

“She’s using him.”

“She’s boring.”

“She’s not boring enough.”

“She’s not even pretty.”

“She’s too pretty—it’s obvious she’s had work done.”

“She’s only with him for the money.”

“She’s not interesting.”

“She’s trying too hard to be interesting.”

“She’s just like Lucy.”

That one would be the worst.

The comparisons. The analysis. The recycled history he’d spent years burying.

And the photo—that fucking photo—would be the centerpiece. Used in every post, every headline, every whisper campaign. Frozen in time.

A moment that had belonged only to them.

Now handed over to the wolves.

He looked at her again. Still asleep. Still soft and safe and everything the world didn’t deserve.

And he made a decision. He would tell her.

Not all of it. Not yet. He couldn’t put that kind of fear in her eyes. But she needed to know what was coming. Before she saw her own face at a newsstand or on a feed. Before someone DM’d her a link.

She’d never forgive him if he let her find out like that.

So when she woke, he’d tell her. Gently. Slowly. He’d cushion it with espresso and pastries and the kind of touch that said, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.

The light started to shift around 7:30. The room warmed. Birds stirred outside the balcony. A linen curtain fluttered against the open door.

She woke with a faint groan, face buried in his chest.

“Time is it?” she mumbled, her voice raspy.

“Too early,” Harry murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

But she stretched instead, her body arching against him like a cat.

“No, I’m up. Kind of. Sort of. Halfway.”

He kissed her hair. “Let me get you coffee.”

“No,” she groaned, grabbing his shirt. “You’re too warm. Stay here for five more minutes.”

He did. Of course he did.

She could’ve asked him for anything.

When she finally sat up, the shirt slipped off her shoulder again. She blinked slowly, hair wild, cheeks creased from the pillow. She looked like a dream.

Harry sat up behind her, running his hand down her spine.

“Breakfast?”

“Yeah.”

He helped her out of the shirt—slowly, carefully, like it was ritual. She kissed his jaw before heading into the bathroom, and he stood for a moment in the doorway just watching her.

He wasn’t ready to let her out of his sight.

Not today.

He got dressed while she did her skincare—charcoal slacks, black button-up, sleeves rolled once at the elbow. No tie. No blazer. Just sharp enough to look deliberate.

“Okay, I feel human again,” she declared, voice soft and bright. “Are we staying here for breakfast or leaving?”

He swallowed. “Staying.”

She smiled. “Perfect. I want something carby and sweet and bad for me.”

He watched her cross the room, picking through her things—eventually settling on a soft, tank top and a white cotton skirt. No makeup. Gold hoops. She didn’t even bother with shoes.

“You look…” he stopped, unable to find the right word. “You look beautiful. Truly.”

She blinked.

Then laughed, flushed. “Thank you.”

“You really are.”

They headed down the corridor together, slow and unhurried.

Every staff member they passed tried to look away discreetly. Some nodded. One stuttered out a buongiorno before tripping over his own cart.

She leaned into Harry’s side and whispered, “You know you’re terrifying, right?”

He didn’t respond. Just smirked faintly.

They reached the courtyard where breakfast was being served—small, shaded tables nestled beneath white umbrellas. The smell of espresso, fresh fruit, and butter drifted in the warm air.

She let out a soft sound of delight.

Harry pulled out her chair before she could. She blinked at him, amused.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Castillo.”

He sat beside her, not across. Always beside.

“Of course.”

They ordered coffee—hers with sugar, his black—and two plates of pastries. Then eggs. Then more fruit. He kept glancing at her like she might disappear if he blinked.

She noticed.

“What?” she asked, smiling around her spoon.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” she teased, nudging his thigh with her knee.

He chuckled softly. Then looked up.

Danny. Crossing the garden with his phone in hand, looking half-dead.

She spotted him too.

“Danny!” she called out, waving.

Harry tried not to flinch.

Danny turned. Paused.

Smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

She tilted her head, voice playful. “You’ve been ghosting me.”

Danny approached slowly. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since dinner, and I was beginning to think you hated me.”

Danny gave her a sheepish shrug. “Just busy. Logistics. Emails. All that boring shit.”

“You should eat. Come sit.”

Danny looked between them. Then shook his head. “Nah. You two should have your moment. You lovebirds deserve it.”

She frowned slightly. “You sure?”

Harry stared at him. Flat. Cold.

Danny nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got to take a call anyway.”

Harry didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched him turn and leave like a man on fire.

She turned back to Harry. “He’s acting weird.”

“He’s always weird,” Harry muttered, sipping his espresso.

She leaned her chin into her hand and looked at him. “You okay?”

He nodded once. But she didn’t buy it.

“Tell me,” she said softly.

He set down his cup. Met her eyes. And suddenly, the timing felt like glass.

She was so calm. So soft. Wrapped in sunlight and kindness. And he was about to put a crack in that.

But she deserved to know.

So he took her hand. Held it across the table. And started to speak. Because the world was coming. And he wanted her to hear it from him.

Harry shifted his chair beside her, closer than before.

The courtyard buzzed around them in that golden, slow way—espresso cups clinking, forks scraping, someone laughing faintly in the distance—but at their table, time stopped.

She looked radiant in the morning light, unaware that the world was already bending its gaze toward her. That somewhere, in sleek offices and messy group chats, her name was being typed. That headlines were drafted. That judgment had been scheduled.

And Harry—Harry looked like a man about to ruin something precious.

He didn’t start with the photo. He started with her hand. He took it—quietly, deliberately, fingers wrapping around hers like he was grounding himself first.

Then he turned to her, jaw tense, voice low.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

She stilled. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

The air between them shifted, dipped.

“I found out early this morning,” he continued, “and it's something you should know.”

He glanced away for a moment—toward the far end of the garden where the waiter had just placed another cappuccino down. Then back to her.

“There’s going to be an article. New York Times. It goes live tonight at 11. 5PM back home.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But inside? Her heart cracked.

Just once. A fracture.

He kept going.

“It’s about us.”

That hit. Us.

She heard the weight in it—the implication, the inevitability. About us. Not about him. Not just a line in passing about a man seen with a woman. No, this was different. This was targeted. This was real.

Her stomach dropped. Her throat tightened.

“They’re using the photo,” he added. “The one from the lobby. The woman—Carrie—she didn’t delete it like I told her to.”

There it was.

She blinked once. Twice.

Then nodded.

But she didn’t speak.

And that terrified him more than anything.

“I’m sorry,” he said, almost under his breath. “I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve gotten ahead of it. Should’ve—” he stopped himself, jaw tightening. “It’s my fault.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she said finally, her voice quiet but sharp. “It’s not your fault.”

But she didn’t look at him.

Just stared at the tablecloth.

A pale smear of fig jam stained the edge of her plate. A bird chirped somewhere above. It felt wrong that the world was still moving.

She had known—of course she had. Knew the risk the second she let herself be seen with him in public. Knew the reality the first time he brought her over to his place like she'd belonged to him.

But knowing something and facing it were not the same.

Now it was here. Now she had less than fifteen hours before the world knew her face.

Hopefully maybe more.

Her mind spiraled before she could stop it.

What if they dig?

What if they find the pieces I buried?

What if Harry finds them too?

She tried to breathe normally.

Tried to pretend she wasn’t unraveling inch by inch.

Harry’s voice was gentle now. Careful.

“We can stay here. We don’t have to go anywhere today. I’ll talk to the villa staff—have everything brought in. We’ll just… ride it out.”

She nodded again, but it was slow. Mechanical.

He wasn’t getting it. Not really.

He was trying to protect her, and that only made the shame worse. The guilt. The fear.

Because she hadn’t told him. Not all of it.

Not the history that lived behind her ribs, locked up in a box she’d buried at twenty-one and never opened again. Not the part of her life that wasn’t elegant or poetic or beautifully broken—but messy and raw and stained in ways that didn’t wash out.

He didn’t know.

And once the article hit—once her name spread—once someone, anyone, decided to pull a thread—

He would.

And then what?

Would he look at her differently?

Would the way he kissed her change?

Would she become another complication he had to manage?

She couldn’t bear that.

Not from him.

So she stayed quiet.

Let him think it was just nerves.

Let him reach for her coffee cup and slide it closer, let him kiss her knuckles like it meant something more than a sweet morning gesture.

He thought she was afraid of the article.

But she wasn’t.

She was afraid of the fallout. Of what he’d find in the ashes.

He could feel her slipping into herself, pulling back in that silent, practiced way she did when she was scared.

He moved closer. Touched her jaw, guiding her to look at him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “Not yet. I just need you to know—none of this changes anything. Not for me. They can write what they want. Post what they want. You’re still mine.”

That broke her a little more.

She forced a smile—soft and small and almost real.

But inside? Panic.

He didn’t know.

And I can’t be the one to tell him.

Not today.

Maybe not ever.

So she leaned into his touch.

Let him kiss her cheek. Let him finish her coffee. Let him believe she was okay.

But part of her heart had already braced for impact. And the worst part?

She wasn’t afraid of the world finding out who she used to be.

She was afraid of Harry finding out.

Because if he looked at her differently—if he pulled away—if the softness in his voice ever twisted into something cold—

It wouldn’t just break her. It would wreck her.

So she smiled.

Held his hand tighter.

And whispered, “Okay.”

Even though it wasn’t. Even though it was anything but.

They finished their breakfast quietly. She picked at a pastry, peeled apart a fig. Harry didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Just let her move at her own pace, his hand never far from hers, his eyes lingering like he was memorizing her all over again.

And when they stood to leave, he didn’t let go of her hand.

Didn’t say a word.

He just walked her back through the sun-washed corridors of the villa, their footsteps soft against the cool stone floors, her cotton skirt swaying gently with each step.

The second the door closed behind them, it changed.

The quiet was heavier now. Not cold. But dense.

Loaded with things neither of them had fully said.

She crossed the room slowly, fingers brushing over the top of the dresser like she didn’t know what to do with her hands. The breeze from the open balcony door moved through the curtains like breath. Her hair fluttered across her shoulder.

Harry watched her for a long moment. Then moved.

He came up behind her—slow, deliberate—his presence folding over her like gravity. His hands slid around her waist. Firm. Certain.

She let out a breath. Leaned into him.

He pressed a kiss to her neck. Then another. Then one just behind her ear, hot and slow, and she shivered.

“You are quiet,” he said softly.

“I’m okay.”

He exhaled against her skin. “You don’t have to be.”

She turned slightly, eyes catching his. “I just need you.”

That did it. Something shifted behind his gaze. His jaw tightened. His grip on her waist flexed.

And before she could blink, she was being spun—back pressed against the dresser, his hands caging her in on either side, his eyes dark and hungry and full of everything he’d been trying to hold back since dawn.

“Say that again,” he said, voice low.

“I need you.”

He kissed her. Hard. Full-mouth, no space in between them, kissed her.

His hands gripped her face, holding her in place as he devoured her mouth—like he was angry at the air between them. She moaned, arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer like she couldn’t get enough.

His hands moved fast—down her sides, over her hips, sliding beneath the soft hem of her tank top. When he touched bare skin, he growled into her mouth.

“No bra?”

She shook her head, breathless.

He smirked—feral, gorgeous.

“Good.”

The shirt was gone in seconds—tugged up and over her head, tossed somewhere across the room without ceremony.

Then his mouth was on her chest.

Kissing. Biting.

Sucking marks into the tops of her breasts like he needed to brand her. His hands palmed her, thumbs rolling over her nipples until her knees buckled.

“Harry—”

He lifted her. Effortless.

Turned and walked her back toward the bed, kissing her the whole time like he couldn’t stop. He dropped her onto the mattress like he was done being soft. Like something inside him had snapped.

The cotton skirt was next—pushed up her thighs, bunched around her waist.

“Keep wearing this fucking skirt,” he murmured, voice rasping like gravel. “It's like you want me to lose my mind.”

“I do.”

He froze. Looked at her.

Then tugged her panties down in one rough motion, dragging them down her legs and off with a single pull.

He didn’t even kiss her again.

Just sank to his knees at the edge of the bed and dragged her hips toward him.

She gasped.

“Harry—”

“Shh.”

He hooked her knees over his shoulders and dove in. His mouth on her was feral. Starved.

He licked her like he was trying to silence every thought in her head—slow, messy drags of his tongue that made her cry out, one hand clutching the sheets, the other buried in his hair.

He held her open, fingers digging into her thighs like he wanted to leave bruises. Every time she tried to squirm, he growled and pulled her tighter against his face.

“You taste like a fucking dream,” he muttered against her, voice hoarse. “This pussy’s mine.”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, yours—Harry, please—”

He moaned into her, sending a jolt straight through her spine. When he added two fingers—thrusting them deep and curling just right—she nearly came right then. Her legs shook. Her head dropped back.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “So wet for me already.”

He worked her like he knew her body better than she did. Licked her until she was whimpering, fucked her with his fingers until her thighs trembled, until her hips bucked uncontrollably.

Then, without warning, he stopped. She whimpered in protest.

He stood.

And looked down at her—chest rising, cheeks flushed, mouth open.

“Turn over.”

She blinked. “What?”

“On your knees.”

The tone left no room for negotiation.

She obeyed—heart pounding, breath ragged.

He dragged her skirt up again. Gripped her ass. Slid two fingers back inside her, slow and deep, making her arch.

“Still so fucking wet,” he growled. “You were dripping at breakfast. Did you like knowing I could take you apart the second we got back here?”

She moaned, pushing back against his hand.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Good girl.”

She heard the rustle of his clothes—his belt, his zipper, the soft hiss of fabric as he freed himself. Then the blunt heat of him at her entrance.

He didn’t ease in.

He slammed into her in one deep, punishing thrust.

She cried out, hands fisting the sheets.

“Fuck, Harry—”

“Shhh, baby,” he growled, leaning over her, one hand on her hip, the other wrapping around her throat. “You can take it. You always do.”

He pulled out slowly—almost all the way—then slammed back in, harder. Deeper. Again. Again. Relentless. Unyielding. Each thrust drove her forward on the mattress, her body a plaything in his hands.

And the sounds—

The slap of skin, her soft gasps, his low grunts—all of it filled the room like heat.

“Look at you,” he rasped, tightening his grip on her throat just slightly. “Letting me fuck you like this. Taking every inch like you were made for it.”

“I was,” she whimpered. “I am—Harry, please—”

He growled.

Dragged her up by the throat, back flush to his chest, his cock still deep inside her.

“Say it.”

She turned her face, breath catching. “Yours.”

He kissed her—deep and brutal—while fucking her harder from behind, one hand between her legs now, rubbing tight circles over her clit until her body started to break apart.

“I’m gonna—Harry—please—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into her mouth. “Let go.”

She shattered.

Her orgasm hit like a wave—loud and long, her whole body convulsing as she moaned his name, clenching hard around him. He held her through it, fucked her through it, chasing his own release.

And when he came, he growled something filthy into her neck—buried so deep, so rough, it knocked the breath from both of them.

They collapsed together.

A tangle of limbs and sweat and silk. He stayed inside her. Just held her. Breathing heavy.

His hand moved to her chest—flat over her heart like he was anchoring her. Or himself.

For a long time, neither of them said anything.

Then—

“You’re mine,” he whispered again. Fierce. Quiet.

She nodded. Still trembling.

“I don’t care what they say,” he added. “You’re mine.”

And even though her heart was still racing, even though her mind was already spiraling toward what was coming—

She believed him.

She was his.

And he was hers.

They didn’t move for a while.

The sunlight crept across the bed, warming their bare skin, catching in the folds of the white sheets, highlighting the flushed pink across her chest where he’d kissed too hard, bitten too softly. Her leg was still slung over his hip. Her fingers rested on his stomach, rising and falling with each breath like they were syncing again, recalibrating after the heat of what they’d just done.

Harry couldn’t stop touching her.

His thumb traced idle patterns along the slope of her hip. Her skin was damp, glowing. She was too beautiful like this—undone and half-asleep, skin smelling like lavender, sex, and sweat, hair stuck to her temple.

She blinked up at him. He was already watching her.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured, voice hoarse from pleasure.

“I always stare.”

She smiled. Barely. Then tucked her face against his chest, breathing him in like she didn’t want to forget this. Like she was memorizing the shape of his body beneath her.

Harry looked up at the ceiling, his palm gliding up and down her spine.

Neither of them spoke for a long while. They didn’t need to.

Eventually, she sighed, voice sleepy. “Do we have to leave the room? Or talk to people?”

“No,” Harry said instantly. “We’re not leaving this room today.”

She lifted her head a little. “Really?”

He nodded. “I’m not in the mood to be charming. Or diplomatic. Or hear Lorenzo’s snarky little comments.”

She laughed against his chest. “God, he’s exhausting.”

“Everything out of his mouth is a TED Talk laced with disdain.”

“And Livia’s probably halfway through writing her own op-ed about us already.”

“Exactly,” Harry muttered. “Let them all speculate.”

She sat up slightly, still naked, still flushed, still glowing.

“You sure?” she asked, more serious now. “There’s probably some contract thing or meeting or…I don’t know…state secrets you’re supposed to be handling.”

Harry leaned up on one elbow. Brushed a strand of hair off her cheek.

“I want today to be just ours,” he said softly. “Before everything changes.”

That hit.

She looked at him—really looked at him. The shadows under his eyes. The way his voice dropped when he said “ours.” The crack in his armor that only she ever got to see.

She nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s keep the world out. Just for today.”

He kissed her forehead.

Then wrapped her in the sheet, pulling her back down to his chest, tangling them together like he needed to anchor her to the bed.

They spent the next few hours like that. Not moving much.

Just limbs tangled, bodies lazy with heat and afterglow.

Harry ordered breakfast again—more fruit, more coffee, more bread—then had it delivered straight to the room. When the knock came, he pulled on his slacks and shirt but left the top buttons undone, his chest bare as he cracked the door open and took the tray.

She watched from the bed, head propped on her hand.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “You’re like a hot dad in a cologne ad.”

He smirked. “Tell me more.”

They ate in bed. She sat cross-legged in his t-shirt, drinking espresso from a delicate porcelain cup while he peeled figs and passed them to her, one by one. She stole a bite of his toast. He wiped butter off her lip with his thumb. They didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t check their phones. The world felt far away.

At one point, she curled into his side again, her cheek pressed to his chest. His hand moved slowly through her hair, over and over, soothing. She drifted off like that—worn out and warm and full of carbs and comfort.

And Harry?

Harry laid there, watching her sleep. For hours. 

Until he realized it was past three already. His mind never stopped.

He wanted her to rest. Wanted her to stay soft and safe in their little bubble of stolen hours.

But there was the countdown.

And the closer the clock crept to eleven, the tighter his chest felt.

He waited until her breathing evened out, until her fingers went slack against his stomach. Then, slowly, he slid out from beneath her. Careful. Quiet. Placing a kiss at the crown of her head before easing out of bed.

He dressed quickly—charcoal trousers, navy sweater, no shoes. Ran a hand through his hair. Didn’t bother looking in the mirror.

Then he left the room. For the second time today.

Danny was in the corner of the villa he ran off to, holed up in what used to be a study but had become his makeshift office—a tangle of laptops, chargers, espresso cups, and half-buried Italian snack wrappers.

He barely looked up when Harry walked in.

“Close the door,” Danny muttered.

Harry did.

Then crossed the room in a few long strides.

Danny spoke before he could.

“I’ve been talking to Sadie back at the office all morning. She’s trying to get ahead of it. Our options are limited, but—”

“We’re doing a statement,” Harry said flatly.

Danny blinked. “What?”

“When the article goes live. We control the narrative.”

Danny leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. “You’re sure?”

Harry nodded. “She’s not going to become someone’s TikTok theory. I’m not letting people build a myth out of her silence. They’ll do it anyway—but I’m not giving them fuel.”

Danny ran a hand through his hair. “You realize this means press calls. Confirmations. You’ll have to say something. Actually say it.”

“I don’t care.”

Danny looked at him for a beat.

Then nodded.

“Okay. Then we do it your way.”

Harry exhaled.

The silence that followed was short-lived.

Because then Danny added, almost too casually, “There’s something else.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “What?”

Danny hesitated.

“Spit it out.”

Danny didn’t meet his eyes. Just opened his laptop again. Clicked once. Then turned the screen toward him.

It was the article. Still in preview form. But this time—there was a new paragraph at the bottom.

And Harry’s name wasn’t the only one in bold.

Lucy’s was.

He read the quote.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet. How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to.”

Harry stilled. Everything in his body went quiet.

Then—

He laughed. Once. Sharp. A sound with no humor in it.

Then he leaned back, ran a hand down his face, and muttered, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Danny didn’t answer.

Harry stood. Started pacing.

“She gave a quote,” he said flatly. “To Carrie Roth.”

Danny nodded.

Harry barked out another bitter laugh. “The same woman who fed a wedding invite to my team like it was an olive branch now wants to narrate my personal life for the New York fucking Times?”

“Harry—”

“She left,” he snapped. “She left me. She walked away. She broke something in me that no one has touched since, and now—what? She wants to throw rocks at the glass house she abandoned?”

“I don’t think she expected you to—”

“To move on?” Harry turned, eyes dark. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

Danny watched him carefully.

Harry’s voice dropped, razor-sharp.

“She’s not protecting anyone. She’s not warning anyone. She just wants to stay relevant in my story.”

A long pause. Harry walked to the window. Stared out at the hills.

Then said, quietly—

“She can’t stand that I’m happy.”

Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Harry turned back, calmer now. But there was something in his eyes. Something cold. Resolved.

“I want it noted in the statement,” he said. “No comment about Lucy. No clapback. Just silence. Her quote will scream louder against it.”

“You sure?”

“I want her words to hang in the air with nothing to land on.”

Danny nodded. “Okay.”

“And when the article drops—have the staff pull the villa Wi-Fi.”

Danny tilted his head. “You really think that’s necessary?”

Harry didn’t blink. “I want her to sleep through it.”

Danny exhaled. “Understood.”

Harry looked down. Then out the window again.

The sun was slipping low now. Dipping into late afternoon. Only a few hours left.

And somewhere upstairs, she was still asleep in his bed—barely covered, skin warm, lips parted, dreaming of nothing.

Still untouched by what was coming.

He clenched his jaw.

“I’m going back,” he said. “I want her to have as much of today as she can.”

Danny didn’t say another word.

Harry turned. Opened the door. And left.

The light was different when he returned. Softer. Golden. Filtering in through the gauzy curtains like a whispered promise.

She was still curled up in bed, just where he left her—one arm flung over his pillow, the other tucked beneath her cheek. Her hair was a mess. Her leg was kicked out from under the sheets. Her mouth twitched once, like she was smiling in her sleep.

He stood at the doorway for a long time. Just watched her. The most peaceful thing in his world.

And he knew—

He would burn it all down if they touched her. If they twisted her story. If they dug too deep.

But for now? She was just his.

He toed off his shoes. Pulled his sweater over his head. Slid back into bed beside her, gentle and quiet, wrapping an arm around her waist.

She stirred. Then melted into him like she’d never left.

And Harry?

Harry closed his eyes. Just for a minute.

Because something was coming.

And with it—hell. But not yet. Not now.

The world outside their villa room remained distant. Muffled. The kind of late afternoon lull that made everything feel dipped in honey. The sun was still warm but fading, and the breeze through the balcony door carried the scent of lemon trees and salt and something blooming.

She was still asleep.

Curled into his side again, her small hand wrapped gently around his thumb like she knew, even in dreams, that something was coming. Harry held her close with one arm, the other resting on the blanket. He hadn’t moved in nearly an hour.

But his mind wouldn’t rest.

He stared at the ceiling. Then at the golden curve of her cheek.

Then, slowly, reached for his phone from the nightstand. The screen glared to life—27 missed messages, 14 emails, 6 calendar alerts—and he ignored them all.

Instead, he opened something he hadn’t touched in weeks.

Messages.

He scrolled down until he found her name.

Lucy.

And clicked.

The thread opened like a wound. Not because he missed her.

But because he couldn’t remember how the hell he ever loved her.

He scrolled, slowly at first. Then faster.

Messages from a year ago. Six months ago.

Texts full of jabs that looked like jokes. Compliments edged with contempt. Whole stretches of time when she wouldn’t respond at all—just long silences punctuated by acid replies.

Harry: I moved the 3PM to 5 to make time for your meeting. Want to get dinner after?

Lucy: Not if you’re going to talk about your profits the whole time again.

He kept scrolling.

Harry: Missed you this morning. Hope your flight was okay.

Lucy: Did you leave the AC on again? My plants are dead. Again.

Another set.

Harry: Can we talk about what happened last night?

Lucy: There’s nothing to talk about. You overreacted. As usual.

He stared at that one for a long moment.

Then scrolled up again.

Harry: I’m not trying to fight with you. I just want to understand why you said that.

Lucy: I said it because it’s true. You’re exhausting, Harry. I’m not going to babysit your emotions every time you feel insecure.

He winced. He remembered that night.

Remembered how she’d looked in the restaurant, eyes glittering like a knife. How she’d laughed in front of the waiter when he tried to explain why a news leak had made him sad.

She’d called him fragile.

He kept scrolling. Closer to the end now.

The final texts before it all fell apart.

Harry: Why are you making me feel guilty for wanting to pay the bill?

Lucy: Because you always do it. Because it makes me feel like I owe you something. You don’t know how to exist in a relationship without treating it like a transaction.

Harry: That’s not fair.

Lucy: Life’s not fair. Grow up.

The last message was his.

One he never got a reply to.

Harry: I just want to take care of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Three days later, she posted a photo onto Instagram in Montauk with John. Smiling. Holding his hand.

The broke ass waiter she used to mock under her breath during charity dinners. The one she told Harry would never understand her. The one she ran to after burning every bridge in his chest.

Harry looked down at his screen. At the last words he ever typed to Lucy.

Then looked at the girl sleeping on his chest. Everything inside him softened.

Because this—what he had now—was not the same storm. It was something else entirely.

She breathed evenly. Her hand twitched once in her sleep, like she was dreaming of running. Or dancing. Or chasing something. Her leg was still tangled with his, bare skin on bare skin beneath the sheets, her body warm and real and here.

And she didn’t ask him to shrink.

She never mocked his care.

She let him hold her.

She leaned into his protection like it meant something. Like he wasn’t some cold, obsessive machine.

She smiled when he opened the door. Laughed when he kissed her shoulder. Praised him with a look alone.

She was everything Lucy never was.

And Harry felt it in his bones—that she wasn’t just a phase or a fix or a fever. She was real. She was joy and grief and survival and softness all tangled into one beautiful, infuriating, irresistible thing.

He wanted to protect her.

He wanted to keep her laughing in bed, lips sticky with figs and espresso, forever. He wanted her to have days where her past didn’t feel like an undertow and nights where she fell asleep safe in his arms, knowing that no one—not Carrie Roth, not Lucy, not the internet—would ever touch her without going through him first.

His phone buzzed. Once. Then again.

He glanced down, expecting another update from Danny. But it was from Luca.

Luca: Francesca got the film developed.

Luca: Thought you’d want these.

Luca: Don’t let her see them yet unless you’re ready to cry like a little bitch.

Harry opened the message.

Three photos. Film. Unedited. Grainy in the way that made things feel truer.

And the moment he saw the first one, his breath left his chest.

They were at lunch. The one with the crooked string lights and those marzipan. The one where they were wine-drunk and sunk into each other like vines.

The first photo was her on his shoulder. Eyes half-lidded. Flushed cheeks. Lips slightly parted. He was saying something into her ear—something private, something that made her laugh in the second photo. That laugh that cracked her whole face open like light through stained glass.

He looked down at her like she was the only thing that existed.

And in the third photo? She was feeding him a bite of cake. Her fingers near his mouth.

And he was smiling.

Not the tight-lipped, polite kind.

But the kind that looked like freedom. Like after.

Harry stared at the screen, heart hammering.

Francesca had been right. They looked like they’d been in love for a hundred years.

He gently tilted the phone away, not wanting to wake her with the brightness.

Instead, he tucked it under the pillow and looked back at her. Still sleeping.

Still unaware that somewhere, deep in the belly of the internet, her face was already loaded into a server, waiting to be released into the wild.

But not yet. He still had time.

And so, with the weight of Lucy’s cruelty still echoing in the back of his mind and the ghost of her last text sitting unanswered in his pocket, Harry wrapped both arms around the woman he hadn’t lost.

And whispered into her hair like a vow.

“I’ve got you.”

Because for the first time in years, he meant it.

And she believed him. Even in sleep. Especially then.

The late Florence light spilled across their bed like honey, warm and gold and cruel in how peaceful it made everything look. She was still tucked into him, limbs loose and trusting, face slack with sleep. Her cheek pressed to his chest, one hand resting over his heart like she needed to feel it beat to believe it was real.

Harry exhaled slowly.

He was still holding the memory of that photo—her laughing, head tilted, eyes closed, like she’d never known anything but love. It rattled something in his chest. A different kind of grief. The kind you only feel when you realize you almost lived your whole life without something that should’ve been this easy.

His hand moved through her hair.

He closed his eyes. And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to drift.

All the way.

Just enough. Just far enough to feel her breath against his ribs.

Six more hours until the world opened its mouth and swallowed them whole.

Across the other wing, Danny sat hunched over his laptop, AirPods shoved into his ears, a half-empty espresso growing cold beside a massive spreadsheet of crisis comms protocols. Allegra had finally—finally—gotten Carrie Roth on the phone, and now Danny was regretting every second of his life that had led him here.

The call connected with a click.

And then—

“Danny,” Carrie said. Her voice was syrupy and sharp, like honey poured over glass. “Didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“You know why I’m calling,” he said flatly.

She laughed. Not kindly.

“I’m flattered. You sound so serious. Are you practicing for a deposition already?”

“Cut the shit, Carrie,” Danny snapped, already red in the face. “We know what you’re planning. You’re sitting on an invasion of privacy and running it under the guise of journalism.”

“I’m reporting a public figure’s romantic life,” she replied breezily. “Not the Pentagon Papers.”

“She was followed into his home,” Danny snapped. “The lobby was private property—”

“It’s not private if there’s a camera and a doorman.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing. That headline is disgusting. You’re using an image that was never meant for public consumption.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then Carrie’s voice dropped, slow and smug.

“She’s in his clothes, Danny. Her hair’s wet. She looks like she just blew him in his penthouse shower. I’m reporting the moment.”

Danny’s jaw clenched.

“Harry’s going to sue you.”

Another pause.

And then Carrie laughed.

“Let him,” she said. “Honestly, it might boost traffic.”

“You’re playing with people’s lives—”

“Oh please,” she snapped. “Don’t act like he hasn’t played with other people’s lives before. This is how it works. You want to keep her private? Keep her off Fifth Avenue. Don’t parade her around Italy, you know Livia is a good conversationalist.”

Danny stood up from the desk.

Paced.

“You publish that article and I swear to God—”

“It’s done.”

Danny froze.

“What?”

Carrie’s voice was calm. Deliberate. Cold as marble.

“I got tired of the back-and-forth. My editor was stalling and frankly, I don’t care. The world should know. Everyone’s waiting. Might as well give them the headline, fuck those six hours.”

“Carrie—”

“Refresh your browser, Danny.”

He did.

Fingers shaking.

And there it was.

The New York Times

Culture & Style

The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name

By Carrie Roth | Published 11:14 AM EST, March 5th, 2025

Danny’s stomach dropped.

He opened the article—only the top, only the first few lines before the paywall.

But the photo was there. The photo.

Her. Wet hair. In his sweats. His shirt draped over her frame. Standing beside Harry in his penthouse lobby, his hand hovering near her back like it belonged there.

And Harry—

Harry looked in love.

Frozen in a moment he thought no one would ever see. And now? Now the whole world could.

Danny sank back into his chair, chest tight.

Allegra’s voice buzzed through his phone screen as she called again.

Too late. It was already too late. He was fucking too late. The six hours were gone in an instant.

In the west wing of the villa, the silence still held.

She stirred in Harry’s arms, half-asleep, half-dreaming, lips parted against his skin. Her lashes fluttered. One leg kicked softly under the covers. She murmured something unintelligible—something safe, something soft.

Harry was still asleep.

His chest rose and fell evenly. His face relaxed. His hand loosely tangled in her hair like he couldn’t let go even while unconscious.

They were still untouched. Still dreaming in gold. Still pretending they had six more hours.

And outside their door—

The wolves were already circling.

Meanwhile, across the ocean, Cape Cod was overcast.

The clouds had rolled in sometime after breakfast, dragging a dull gray light over everything—the sand, the water, the white clapboard house Lucy still couldn’t believe she lived in. It was a borrowed kind of life, the kind where the floors creaked like someone else’s memories still lived in the walls.

The kind where she still sometimes reached for a card key instead of a brass doorknob. 

John was out back. Raking the garden. They’d promised her parents they’d try growing tomatoes this year. He looked ridiculous in the sweater she shrank in the wash, sleeves too short, collar stretched. He had one earbud in and was humming something off-key. 

Lucy watched him from the kitchen window.

There was a teabag steeping in a mug on the counter. She hadn’t touched it. 

The clock on the oven read 11:26 AM.

She had tried to write that morning. Opened her laptop. Closed it again. Her Substack hadn’t been updated in two weeks. She had a folder of half-finished drafts, all of them brittle and tired. None of them sounded like her.

She couldn’t figure out what she was trying to say anymore.

The house smelled like Windex and laundry detergent.

She hadn't worn makeup in three days. Her robe was slipping off her shoulder again. The dog—a small mutt they adopted from a local shelter last week—was asleep at her feet.

She didn’t hear her phone at first.

It buzzed once on the counter, face-down. Then again. Then a third time, longer.

She flipped it over with two fingers.

CARRIE ROTH

Lucy stared at the name. The screen. The blinking green light.

Then she answered.

“Carrie,” she said, voice flat. “It’s not a great time.”

“It dropped.”

Lucy’s breath caught. Carrie didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. There was only one thing it could mean.

Lucy turned away from the window. Walked slowly to the table. Sat down.

Her voice was quieter now. “Already?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

Lucy swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

“I thought—”

“Danny threatened to sue me,” Carrie said. “It annoyed me. So I pulled the trigger.”

Lucy didn’t respond.

“People are reading it already,” Carrie continued. “It’s trending.”

Lucy closed her eyes.

“And you used my quote?” she asked. Her voice didn’t shake. But it was cold now. A razor sheathed in velvet.

“You know I did.”

Another long silence.

Carrie didn’t fill it. Just waited.

Finally, Lucy asked, “Does she know yet?”

She could hear the smile in Carrie’s voice.

"She will soon."

Lucy’s stomach turned. She hung up without saying goodbye.

The phone stayed pressed to her palm, screen black, fingers tightening around it like it had betrayed her.

Outside, John waved at her through the glass.

She didn’t wave back. She sat there for a long time.

Long enough for the tea to go cold. Long enough for the dog to shift, whine softly, and curl closer to her feet like it could sense something wrong.

She didn’t cry. She wasn’t the crying type. But something inside her splintered. A small, sharp ache behind the ribs.

She told herself it wasn’t jealousy. She told herself it wasn’t regret. She had made a choice. She left New York. She left him.

And not just the high-rise penthouse and the assistant with the dry wit and the perfectly tailored suits. She left the man.

Harry Castillo. The one who loved quietly.

Who boiled her tea before bed even when they weren’t speaking. Who carried her keys in his coat pocket without asking. Who hated poetry but listened when she read it out loud like he was trying to understand anyway.

But also—

The man who never told her how he felt unless she dragged it out of him. Who made her feel like she was constantly trying to earn softness. Who made the walls of their penthouse feel colder every time he shut down instead of shouting.

They were never right for each other. But they had been something.

And now? He was in love again. And someone had captured it on film.

Lucy had already seen the photo. She didn’t want to have to see it again. She would feel it this time.

The way Carrie had broke it to her. That wasn’t journalism. That was a knife. That was salt in a wound no one was supposed to know she still had.

She looked down at her robe. At the ring on her finger. Thinner than the one Harry had once picked out and never got the chance to give her. The diamond smaller. The love less complicated.

She looked at the phone again. It didn’t buzz. Didn’t ring.

No one was calling to tell her how it felt to be quoted like that. No one was telling her how Harry had reacted.

She wouldn’t know unless she asked. And she wasn’t going to ask.

Because even if she still thought about him when the wind off the ocean sounded like Manhattan in the winter—

Even if she still had his number saved under Harry <3.

Even if she sometimes imagined what he’d say about the neighbors, or the farmer’s market, or the chipped tile in the bathroom—

She had left. And he had moved on.

So she sat there. In the silence. And for the first time since the article dropped—

She wondered if he’d finally fallen in love for real.

And if that woman—whoever she was—wasn’t a nobody after all. But someone who had given him something Lucy never could.

Peace. And the permission to be soft.

She got up slowly. Turned off her phone.And didn’t open the article. Not yet.

─────

The New York Times

Culture & Style

The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name

By Carrie Roth | Published 11:14 AM EST, March 5th, 2025

When Harry Castillo, the notoriously private hedge fund billionaire and reluctant society darling, walked away from the limelight in late 2024 after a very public and very painful breakup with longtime partner Lucy, no one expected to see him surface again in any intimate context.

Yet here we are.

Castillo, 54, was photographed in the lobby of his Fifth Avenue penthouse earlier this month with a woman whose name, background, and entire existence appear to have baffled both the social elite and the media machine equally. In a world where a last name can function as currency, this woman has none—or at least, not one that anyone seems able to find.

The photo—captured by Carrie Roth and verified by multiple sources—features Castillo in a pair of dark joggers and a custom Valentino long sleeve, his expression unreadable. The woman beside him is dressed in what appear to be his clothes, oversized sweatpants, a faded navy shirt likely pulled from his top drawer, and socks patterned in chaotic, juvenile colors that make one wonder if she dressed herself in the dark or simply enjoys looking like a college freshman home for spring break.

Her hair is wet. So is his. Her face is bare. Her body language, reserved.

It would be forgettable if it weren’t so telling.

She doesn’t look like someone accustomed to being photographed. She doesn’t carry herself like a model, actress, heiress, or anyone remotely used to proximity to power. She looks like she just stepped out of his shower, borrowed his laundry, and followed him out without knowing where they were going next. There’s no stylist, no heels, no curated façade. There’s not even a purse in sight.

Which, of course, begs the question...Who is she?

At the time of publication, no verified identity has been confirmed. What we do know, she’s American. Likely in her twenties or early thirties. No public social media. No recognizable affiliations. No traceable digital footprint. A true anomaly in a city—and a culture—obsessed with documentation.

Some will say it’s romantic. That Castillo, long labeled cold and career-obsessed, has finally fallen for someone outside the machine. That love found him in a quiet corner of life and pulled him back into the light.

Others are less convinced.

The most damning quote comes from Lucy herself, the woman who knew him best—and left.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet. How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to. She’s not built for it. She’ll realize eventually. It’s a facade. All of it. He doesn’t do warm. Not really.”

Harsh words from a woman once fiercely loyal to the man she now paints as emotionally inaccessible. But they do echo a question many of Castillo's partners are quietly asking...What happens when the charm wears off?

Castillo’s pattern is well-documented. He disappears for months, reemerges without explanation, and surrounds himself with handlers more loyal than blood. He doesn’t date. He selects. Curates. And if this woman—this “nobody”—has truly captured his attention, she may have unknowingly stepped into a role with no script, no exit, and no idea of the performance required.

The optics are troubling.

The power imbalance is obvious.

He’s 54. She, allegedly is in her late twenties, early thirties. He is a billionaire. She, by all accounts, works in a field so mundane no one’s been able to confirm what it is. (Waitress? Gallerist? Nanny? The rumors span the alphabet.) She does not appear to be in fashion, finance, tech, or any industry tangential to his world.

She is not, in the traditional sense, someone.

And maybe that’s what he wants.

Someone who doesn’t challenge him. Someone who looks up to him. Someone who—like the rest of us—didn’t see it coming.

But let’s be clear, this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a headline.

And for now, that headline reads like the beginning of a story that’s more about power than love. More about fantasy than future. More about the image of intimacy than the truth of it.

Whether or not the woman in the photo understands what she’s walked into remains to be seen.

But the internet has already decided.

She’s already a meme.

Already a conspiracy thread.

Already a canvas for everyone’s projections.

And Harry Castillo, once the ghost of Manhattan's most elite rooms, has reemerged—only to set the world ablaze with a single photo of a girl who, until now, had the gift of being unseen.

Now?

Now she belongs to the feed.

And the feed never forgets.

Comments (238):

louisa83 Isn’t she that girl from Charlotte? Her brother…you know. The one who killed himself after their dad went to prison?

sampaige OMG. YES. my cousin went to school with her at hillside academy. her family basically imploded. her dad was some finance guy who scammed half the town. people lost their homes. then the son took his own life and the mom vanished overseas. it was a whole thing. wild to see her resurface like this.

deannareads Yup. This was a huge story here in North Carolina. Her dad ran a fake investment firm and got busted in 2019. Ponzi-style. Churches lost money. Local businesses folded. I had a friend whose grandmother lost her retirement in that mess. The daughter (the one in the article) disappeared right after the brother’s funeral. Like poof. Gone.

moneymessNC THEY LIVED IN THAT BIG BRICK HOUSE ON CEDAR RIDGE LANE! Her mom used to throw those weird garden parties and acted like she was royalty. Then the FBI raided their house and it all went to hell. I heard the mom dipped to Europe with a new identity. And now the daughter’s dating a billionaire? Make it make sense.

brookee02 “she doesn’t have a digital footprint” ....or maybe she just scrubbed the hell out of it after the biggest scandal in north carolina since john edwards. this girl isn’t a mystery. she’s a cover up and fake!!!!

southernbella She used to go by a different last name, I swear. She changed it after the trial. Her dad was literally sentenced to life. People were protesting outside their house for weeks. The fact that she ended up with Castillo? Feels strategic. Sorry not sorry.

annahayes Not her climbing her way back up to billionaire status like nothing happened...I remember the story. That family imploded. We’re talking lawsuits, fraud, rehab, funerals, extradition rumors. The whole Netflix package.

jadedjuliet sooo let me get this straight. her dad ruins hundreds of lives, her brother dies, her mom runs away, and she gets to rebrand as mysterious and date a billionaire? cool. must be nice to fail upward.

stellamae Nothing like a tragic backstory to distract from the gold digging. Daddy’s in prison, mommy’s in hiding, brother’s six feet under and she’s wearing $900 sweats in a billionaire’s penthouse like it’s a redemption arc. Give me a break.

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[asktheghosthost]

On the topic before but as a tangeant.

In 2014 they announced a something wicked this way comes remake.

And i was HYPED! it is one of my favorite books! And the movie in the 80's is great! But the story deserves to be broyght back to bring more attettion and awareness.

And it pissed me off for 11 years that theya re remaking classics who are always in the mainstream. They would fast pass the green light dor alladin, the little mermaid, beauty and the beast remakes and make them.in a few years, while other classics that deserve a second change,not because they are bad, but because at the time of their release they were overlooked, to rot.

But now i stop and think, no, no other version of the 80's swtwc will do.

Because disney 80's where dark. They did show many scare and creepy with no second thought!

But even if we disregard the too dark of 80, what about now? It won't be dark enough to do justice to the book! Maybe in the 2000's they could still pull it.

But disney is taming and "cleaning" EVERYTHING!

God it hurts!

I hate the "live action" (it's like 90% CGI, c'mon) remake trend. It's so lazy, and they keep botching ideas that could be a neat change because it's always done half-assed. Like, you'll have some really great casting choices, but then make things as soulless looking as possible. I don't get it. Mainly, I'm always disappointed they don't pick stories that could use it. They play it super safe with movies that were already hits so they can copy and paste.

You know what could be cool? The Chronicles of Prydain. Don't remake The Black Cauldron shot for shot. Go back to the source material, have the filmmakers sit at a table and read all of the books, and rework the basis for The Black Cauldron from the ground up. Make it a series on Disney+. But that would take time and a lot of effort and it's not an intellectual property that's universally beloved by Disney fans, so they won't do it. They'll just keep sitting on the rights for it so no one else can try. AAGH!

Anyway, I was going to talk about something in the parks that was mentioned here and in the last ask, because it's a rant I've gone on with my husband a lot. There very much is a clear drive to make attractions as tame as possible. And this kind of thing has happened before. The Fantasyland dark rides have a history of tweaking to find the right tone, but there's been a very noticeable move to make things as G rated as they can, and I think it can be detrimental to the experience.

A big example of this is the Little Mermaid dark ride. Don't get me wrong, it's cute and likable. But they very deliberately omitted any peril. No fight with Ursula. No hypnotized Eric. It just weirdly cuts to the end. Snow Whites Scary Adventures is now Enchanted Wish, which sounds like a bad direct to video sequel. Mission Breakout is way less scary than Tower of Terror, despite being essentially the same. My beloved Dinosaur will be gone soon. And I'm someone who actually likes Tiana's Bayou Adventure, but it really feels like something, some bit of "oomph" or adventure needs to be in that Dig and Little Deeper and the lift hill section. Maybe a chase from the gators or the frog hunters? Just some little bit of extra excitement to match the tone of the drop. Say what you will about Eisner, but the dude tried new things, and wanted to appeal to older kids/tweens/teens. Maybe something like Alien Encounter was too intense, at least for Magic Kingdom, but a good balance can be found. People want to experience the world of the films at the parks, but the parks make it way tamer than the films. I don't really have a great answer for this, I just wanted to vent. Yes, it's a park for families, but families are made up of all kinds of people. Some kids are going to love "it's a small world," and some kids are going to favor Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. I'm just asking for variety, instead of this really sanitized shift that seems to be playing out.