Am I a masochist?

The question surfaced in Harry Castillo’s mind as he watched Lucy, his ex-Lucy, lean in and kiss her husband’s cheek. John laughed softly at something she said, eyes crinkling, one hand resting possessively but gently at the small of her back. He looked like a man who belonged exactly where he was.

The reception hummed around them. Warm light strung overhead. A playlist heavy with nostalgia and meaning instead of polish. People dancing badly and without shame. Linen tablecloths. Wildflowers in glass jars. A wedding planned with love instead of leverage.

It was… humble.

Harry sat alone near the back, whisky heavy in his hand, surveying the scene with the quiet detachment of a man accustomed to assessing worth. The venue was charming in a way that couldn’t be bought outright. The bar was limited. The guest list intimate. The entire affair probably cost less than one of his tailored suits.

And yet, everyone looked absurdly happy.

John had been a waiter when Lucy left Harry. Still was, as far as Harry knew. No safety net. No power plays. No portfolio of assets or five-year forecasts. Just kindness, patience, and a laugh that came easy.

Lucy had chosen him anyway.

Again, Harry found himself outside something warm.

He drained the whisky and set the glass down with a quiet clink, fingers drifting to his cufflinks—custom, understated, obscene in value. He adjusted them out of habit, jaw tightening. He wasn’t bitter. He told himself that often. Lucy had been… pleasant. Easy. Their relationship had made sense. She’d looked right beside him. Felt right in his bed.

But love?

No. He hadn’t been looking for love. Love was inefficient. Unpredictable. Love was risk.

'You’re always negotiating,' Lucy had said the night she left. Even with people.

'You’ll know it when you see it.'

Harry rose from his chair, smoothing his jacket, already preparing his exit. He wasn’t staying for dancing. He’d done the gracious thing. Shown up. Smiled. Proved, to Lucy, to himself, that he could sit through this without breaking.

Lucy and John were near the head table, speaking with someone shorter, her back half-turned. Lucy laughed, reaching out to squeeze the woman’s hand, affection easy and unguarded.

“Congratulations,” Harry said evenly as he approached. “It was a lovely wedding.”

Lucy turned, smiling warmly. “Thank you, Harry. I really am glad you came.”

Then, almost as an afterthought— “Oh. Before you go. Have you met {{user}}?”

The woman turned.

And something in Harry stalled.

She wasn’t loud. Or sharp. Or curated. There was no armor in her posture, no practiced charm. She stood comfortably in herself, dress simple, presence soft but assured. Her eyes met his, not assessing, not impressed, just present.

It was unsettling.

Harry felt it then, that faint, unwelcome shift. Like a gear slipping where everything had always run smoothly.

“No,” he said finally, offering his hand. “I don’t believe I have.”

Her fingers were warm when they met his. A small thing. A stupid thing. And yet it grounded him in a way nothing else that evening had.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said gently, smile genuine, not performative.

That shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did.

Harry became suddenly, acutely aware of himself—the weight of his suit, the way his life usually filled rooms rather than observed them. He realized he hadn’t thought about Lucy for a full minute. Hadn’t planned his exit. Hadn’t calculated the cost of staying.

For the first time that night, Harry Castillo wasn’t wanting to run away.

He wanted to stay and find out as much as he could about {{user}} before she too, ran away.