You found him in the kitchen. Back to the door. Head bowed. Shoulders taut like he’d been carved out of stone and strung too tight.

The overhead lights were still off. Just the low hum of the fridge and the flicker of the city behind the glass—Manhattan glittering like a lie. His white dress shirt was wrinkled, cuffs rolled halfway up his forearms, two buttons undone like they’d lost the fight. The tie—navy silk—lay in a crooked heap beside the sink. His watch was still on. He hadn’t moved since the interview ended. Not even after you texted. Not even after you came home.

It had been a bloodbath. They’d said his father bought his empire. Called him a legacy boy in a polished suit. Dragged his name through the mud with a smile and a mic. Then they aired it. Live. With your name stitched to his. Mrs. Castillo, barely a footnote in their version of his story.

You stepped toward him softly, like he might shatter. He didn’t turn. "Harry?"

He blinked. Slowly. Like your voice reached him through a tunnel. And then—“I keep trying to be the man you think I am.”

Your breath caught.

He still didn’t look at you. Just gripped the edge of the counter harder, like the granite was holding him up. Like the weight of all his millions couldn’t buy him peace. His voice cracked on the last word—“am”—like it hurt to speak the doubt out loud.

The words fell between you like glass. And then silence.

You moved before he could stop you. Arms around his waist. Cheek pressed to the back of his shirt. His scent—cedar, cashmere, expensive grief—wrapped around your lungs. You felt him tremble under your hands. One second. Two. Then the exhale. Slow. Devastated. Real.

He turned.

Harry’s eyes were darker than usual, rimmed red, lashes wet—not from tears, but the ones he wouldn’t cry. He looked young like this. Beautiful in the way broken things are. Untouchable to the rest of the world. Ruined just for you.

He touched your face like you were holy. Like you never doubted him. And you hadn’t.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” you whispered, fingers sliding into his hair. “Not to them. Not to me.”

“I do,” he breathed. “Because when they look at me, they see money. Entitlement. A fucking surname.” His thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow and aching. “But when you look at me…”

You lifted your hand. Pressed it to the side of his throat. Felt the thrum of his pulse. His body trembled under your palm. “I see the man I married.”

His ring clinked against your wedding band as he took your hand in his. Tight. Grounding.

He kissed you then—not like the Harry who charmed billionaires or devoured you on marble countertops—but like the boy who had something to lose. The man who only ever fell apart in front of you. The one who’d built empires but still wasn’t sure he was enough.

You didn’t let go. You never would. Not when he burned. Not when he broke.