Harry gets home late.

The penthouse is quiet in that curated, expensive way—city lights bleeding through the glass, the low hum of Manhattan never quite shutting up. He loosens his tie as he steps inside, shoulders still tense from a meeting that went on too long with men who spoke like his father and looked at him like he was still a boy playing dress-up.

Then he hears you.

Romy’s voice carries from the living room, light and sweet in a way that makes Harry slow his steps. You’re on the phone, perched on the arm of the sofa, one leg tucked under you. He doesn’t announce himself. He never does when it’s just you.

“Mm-hm,” you say. “Yeah, totally.”

Your face, however, tells a different story. Brows raised. Lips pressed together like you’re biting back a comment that would absolutely ruin the performance. You nod along, patient, polite—hypocritically so.

Harry smirks.

He leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you lie through your teeth for the sake of social harmony. It’s one of his favorite things about you—how you try. How you care enough to pretend.

“Romy?” the voice on the other end of the line drones on. “Are you even listening?”

“Of course I am,” you reply instantly, eyes rolling so hard Harry’s surprised you don’t fall over.

He bites his lip to keep from laughing.

You catch his reflection in the glass.

Freeze.

Your mouth twitches. You fight it. Lose.

Harry lifts a hand in a small wave, grin spreading slow and indulgent. He mouths, Hi.

You shake your head at him, warning, but your smile gives you away. He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room, deliberate, unhurried, like he owns the place—and you.

He does, in a way.

You turn slightly away from him, still talking, but he slips an arm around your waist from behind, chin dropping to your shoulder. He listens absently, more interested in the way your body relaxes against his, like this is where you’re meant to be.

“Wow,” you say into the phone, voice syrupy. “That’s… crazy.”

Harry presses a kiss just below your ear.

You flinch. Gasp quietly. Shoot him a look.

He beams, unapologetic.

“What?” he whispers. “I missed you.”

You mute the call, finally, turning in his arms. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, echoing himself from months ago, “you keep me.”

His hands slide to your hips, grounding, possessive but gentle. His eyes search your face like he’s checking you’re still real. Still here.

“Meeting ran long,” he adds. “They’re nervous.”

“About you?”

“About everything,” he shrugs. Then, softer: “I wanted to come home.”

Something in his voice gives him away—the fatigue, the weight. Oscorp. His father. The legacy that never stops breathing down his neck.

You cup his face without thinking, thumb brushing under his eye. Harry leans into the touch instantly, like he’s been waiting for permission to fall apart.

“You did good today,” you say, certain.

He exhales. A little shaky. Honest.

“I always do when you’re here.”

He pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours, the city glowing behind you like a promise. For a moment, it’s just the two of you—young, powerful, ridiculous with potential.

“You know,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile returning, “I’m pretty sure I’m more obsessed with you than I am with Oscorp.”

You laugh. “That’s dangerous information.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, kissing you slow, deliberate. “But I trust you with it.”

Outside, New York keeps moving. Inside, Harry Osborn holds onto the one thing that makes the future feel survivable.

And he doesn’t plan on letting go.