Harry has already decided he hates this party.

The lighting is too warm, the smiles too white, the laughter too loud - manufactured, practiced. Old money pretending it isn’t bored to death of itself. He’s three drinks past polite when he stops pretending the bartender has authority over him and takes the bottle straight from the counter.

“Careful,” someone says.

Harry scoffs, pouring anyway. “It’s mine.”

He’s not wrong. Nothing here ever really is.

Peter flashes through his mind uninvited - Peter’s face, Peter’s lies, Peter’s everything. Harry’s jaw tightens as he drinks, the alcohol burning just enough to keep the anger sharp instead of dull.

Then, you.

You’re not trying to be subtle. You never were. Standing a little apart from the crowd, dress effortless, posture relaxed like you belong here without needing to prove it. Which, of course, you do.

Harry stares.

It’s ridiculous how immediate it is - the recognition. The memory of small hands sticky with juice boxes, whispered jokes under polished tables while men in suits talked numbers and futures. You with scraped knees in Dior little skirt and a wicked grin.

He hasn’t seen you properly in years. Not up close. Not like this.

You turn. Catch him looking.

Smile.

That’s it. That’s the universe having a sense of humor.

Harry exhales a laugh through his nose, already moving before he can second-guess himself. He cuts through the room with the confidence of someone who’s never had to ask permission to exist.

“Didn’t think you still came to these,” he says, stopping beside you, voice low, familiar.

You tilt your head, eyes flicking to the bottle in his hand. “Didn’t think you’d still steal from bartenders.”

He shrugs. “Growth is nonlinear.”

You laugh. Soft. Real. It does something to his chest - tightens it, then loosens it all at once.

“Hi, Harry,” you add, like an afterthought.

“Hi,” he replies, too quickly. Then, softer: “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

You glance at him sideways. “Were you.”

“Yeah,” he admits. No games. A rare green flag slipping through. “Actually… yeah.”

You’re closer now than you should be, shoulder nearly brushing his arm. He smells your perfume - something expensive but understated. Very you.

“You look good,” he says, eyes lingering just long enough to be obvious. Not crude. Appreciative. More than good.

“So do you,” you say. “More… broody.”

He huffs a laugh. “I get that a lot.”

His gaze flicks around the room, then back to you. The noise fades, replaced by the familiarity between you. History gives him confidence. Attraction gives him nerve.

“Remember when we used to hide under the conference tables?” he asks. “You kicked me every time someone said ‘merger.’”

“They deserved it.”

“They did,” he agrees, smiling. “You always were on my side.”

The words land heavier than he means them to. His smile falters for just a second - there it is, the crack. The grief. The longing to be chosen.

You notice. Of course you do.

“Well,” you say gently, nudging his shoulder with yours, “you did steal my dessert that one time.”

Harry grins, relieved, warmth flooding back in. “I was nine. It was survival.”

He leans closer now, voice dropping, flirt sliding back into place like a well-worn jacket. “You disappeared, you know. I kept thinking I’d see you again. Then suddenly - there you were. Across the room. Like a ghost with really good posture.”

You smile, eyes holding his. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d come say hi.”

His eyebrows lift. Amused. Interested. Tipsy enough to be honest.

“Guess I passed the test,” he murmurs.

“You always were competitive,” you reply.

Harry raises the bottle in a mock toast. “To old friends,” he says. Then, quieter, just for you: “And you’re even prettier.”

You don’t clink glasses.

You just smile back at him - slow and Harry Osborn, heir to everything and master of very little, feels for the first time that night like the universe might be giving him something instead of taking it away.

And he decides, right then, that he’s not letting you disappear again.