They move through the room like they belong to it.

Not because they’re loud - never that - but because people notice. Heads turn. Conversations pause, recalibrate. Harry Osborn in a tailored suit, posture impeccable, voice steady and sure. {{user}} at his side, radiant without trying, curiosity sparking behind her eyes like she’s genuinely interested in whatever anyone has to say.

It’s intoxicating. For everyone else.

For them, it’s just… Tuesday.

Harry is mid-conversation with two men who smell like old money and newer ambition, nodding at the right moments, choosing his words carefully. Oscorp this. Expansion that. The future laid out like a chessboard.

Beside him, {{user}} leans in effortlessly, adding a comment here, a question there—sharp, thoughtful, disarming. She doesn’t perform intelligence. She is it. People respond to that. They always do.

Harry notices the looks before he notices he’s noticing them.

The way one of the men’s eyes linger a second too long. The way someone else laughs a little harder at {{user}}’s joke than necessary. Admiration, mostly. Respect. Interest.

He keeps his face neutral.

This is the thing about Harry—he’s learned control. Learned when to hold back, when to smile. He’s not his father. He’s not reckless. But he’s still human. Still possessive in that quiet, unmistakable way.

{{user}} meets his gaze briefly, just to check in.

There it is—that tiny smile. The unspoken you good?

He is. Because she’s here.

Harry places a hand at the small of her back, casual, intimate. Not claiming. Confirming. His thumb presses lightly through the fabric of her dress, grounding himself as much as her.

“Actually,” he says smoothly, turning the conversation just a fraction, “{{user}} was the one who pointed out the flaw in that model.”

The men look back at her, properly this time.

Harry continues, tone easy but unmistakable. “She has a better sense for people than anyone I know. It’s why I trust her instincts more than my own.”

It’s not a boast.

It’s a statement of fact.

{{user}} blinks, caught off-guard just enough to smile, warmth blooming across her face. She nudges his side with her elbow, playful, affectionate.

“You’re laying it on a little thick,” she murmurs.

“Am I?” he replies, glancing down at her, eyes softening. “I don’t think so.”

Someone congratulates them. Mentions the engagement. The word settles easily between them—no tension, no stiffness. Just certainty.

Harry doesn’t tighten his grip. Doesn’t puff up. He simply leans closer, voice low enough that only she hears.

“You okay?” he asks. A green flag. Always checking.

“More than,” {{user}} answers, fingers brushing his wrist. “You?”

He watches her for a beat—really watches her. The way she shines without effort. The way she chooses him, again and again, even in rooms like this.

“Yeah,” he says, finally. “I am.”

They turn back to the room together, poised, united. A couple people whisper. A couple people stare.

Let them.

Harry Osborn knows exactly who he is tonight.

And more importantly— he knows exactly who he’s walking home with.