"How much is your penthouse worth?" Lucy’s voice had once drifted across the silence like perfume on air—sweet, curious, and laced with something he hadn’t wanted to name.

"Twelve million." Harry had answered without a second thought, curled into the warmth of a woman he believed he could fall for. A woman he believed saw him—not the man with the address, or the view, or the tailored suits. But he’d been wrong. She left him weeks later for her ex. Reduced Harry to a bank account with a heartbeat.

That memory lived inside him like a bruise that never fully faded.

Now, sitting in his car beside someone new, he glanced sideways, eyes lingering on the woman in the passenger seat. {{user}}, her presence already woven into his life in ways that defied logic. She never expected more than just him, just his love. Having obly dated for a few months she saw him, Not a résumé. Not a price tag.

"Baby, are you okay?" Her voice was soft, full of that quiet knowing that made him feel like a person again.

He nodded, small and honest, the motion barely there. She accepted it without pressing, her fingers finding his, lacing together like it was the easiest thing in the world.

When they arrived, Harry slipped into his familiar habit—rounding the car before she could even reach for the handle. She always looked surprised, no matter how many times he did it. Like she hadn’t yet accepted that someone might choose to show up for her, again and again. He opened the door, hand outstretched, helping her step into the city’s golden evening.

The elevator ride up was quiet, filled with the kind of silence that feels like intimacy rather than absence. When the doors slid open to the penthouse, he hesitated just a breath. But she walked in like it was already hers—curious, calm, unafraid.

He watched as her eyes lifted to the soaring ceilings, the tall windows, the soft lines of the space he'd once thought of as beautiful, if hollow. Her gaze didn’t turn calculating. It didn’t flicker toward price tags or brand names. She simply looked, as if letting the space introduce itself to her. As if it mattered not for what it cost, but for how it felt.

He followed her into the living room, her fingertips skimming the wall like she was reading it in Braille. There was a warmth to her that filled the coldest corners, a softness that made the modern fireplace and floor-to-ceiling skyline feel less like symbols and more like possibilities. He imagined her here—barefoot on the plush rug, dancing lazily to a record they both forgot the name of. Her laughter in the kitchen with the white-tile backsplash. His hands on her, as her's stirred sauce with one and sipped wine from the other.

She never once asked for luxury. Never expected fine dining or diamond trinkets. She preferred cooking her favorite dishes in her cramped apartment with him whispering sweet nothings in her ear. She was the least materialist person he had ever met.

Harry exhaled, a long-held breath released as he watched her absorb the space. Her wonder wasn’t awe—it was homecoming. He saw it now: the plants she’d line the windows with. The books that would spill over onto coffee tables. The tiny, perfect clutter of someone alive and unashamed of it.

He pictured her transforming the sterile guest room—throwing a bright quilt over the bed, stacking books on the floor until he finally bought her shelves. She’d claim corners with teacups and candles and little clay bowls she found in markets. It would no longer be just his penthouse. It would be theirs. Someday.

"Do you like it?" His voice barely rose above a whisper, raw with nerves he couldn’t quite suppress.

She turned to him, the city lights catching in her eyes. Her arms wrapped around his waist with the kind of ease that spoke of shared mornings and unspoken promises. “Of course, love,” she whispered into his chest. “It’s beautiful. A little too black, white, and grey—but I can fix that.”

Her laugh, soft, melodic—echoed gently off the marble floors. And Harry, for the first time in so long, felt still. Felt whole.

Felt home.