"There's a Girl Across the Road and It's a Problem" Pt. 2
A/N: I still got more shit to post guys! We're getting to the smut I swear!!!!! Just gonna get some tension built up and outta the way y'know. ENJOY
Female Reader x Julian
_____
She kicked off her shoes without thinking, letting them thud somewhere behind her as she drifted barefoot into the center of the room. The floor was cool beneath her soles, grounding her just enough to keep her upright, but her pulse still rattled through her veins â not just from the fight, or the drive home, or even the sharp slam of the car door behind her.
The kiss still clung to her mouth like static, electric and unwelcome and unforgettable. She could still feel the shape of his hand on her jaw, the way his fingers curled around her like he was scared to let go, but too scared to hold on. The press of his chest against hers in that dim car, the sound of his breath catching when he almost, almost let himself feel something real.
She wasnât stupid. She knew he wasnât indifferent. No one kissed like that if they didnât care. No one looked at her the way he did , like she was a risk and a lifeline all at once, if they were really trying to stay away.
But he was running. Walls up, guard raised, voice like ice as he told her he wasnât the kind of man who made lives better.
And maybe he believed that. Maybe he even thought he was doing her a favor by pushing her away.
But she was so goddamn tired of being the one who stayed soft.
Tired of being the one who reached out, who tried, who kept chasing after something that refused to name itself.
And hell would freeze over before she cried over it. Before she let herself sit here and fall apart over a man who couldnât even look her in the eye when things got hard.
She turned on her heel and made her way to the tiny bathroom, her legs moving like they belonged to someone else. Each step felt heavier than the last.
In the harsh fluorescent light, she stripped out of her clothes, the work dress sheâd worn all day, the cardigan that still smelled faintly of cheap coffee and VS body spray. She let them fall in a pile by the door and didnât bother folding them.
She needed to wash the day off her skin, and maybe, if she was lucky, him too.
She twisted the hot water knob until steam filled the room, fogging the mirror in seconds. Then, reaching into the bottom drawer of the Rubbermaid organizer beside the sink, she plucked a bath bomb, one of the stupid fruity ones she usually saved for better moods.
She tossed it into the tub and watched it dissolve in a swirl of neon pink and citrus fizz.
The water was hot enough to sting.
She sank slowly beneath the foam, arms folding over her chest, head tipping back against the porcelain edge. Her eyes fluttered shut.
Let him have his silence.
Let him sit across the street in that trailer of his and pretend he hadnât just broken something.
If Julian wanted distance, fine. She could give him distance. She could pretend she didnât care, even when it burned.
But God, she hated how empty the silence already felt without him in it.
Julian poured another drink, the clink of the ice against the glass louder than it shouldâve been in the stillness of the room.
Ricky was passed out on the couch, half-snoring, half-muttering about BBQ chips and fireworks, one hand still clutching an empty bag of Cheesies. Bubbles had gone home hours ago.
Julian didnât turn on the TV. Didnât put on music.
He just sat there, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, glass of rum in hand, staring blankly at the wall like it might tell him what the hell he was doing. The burn in his throat wasnât from the liquor anymore.
The image of Y/N kept looping behind his eyes, like a film reel with no off switch. The way her mouth parted in shock, voice trembling when sheâd said:
âYou think Iâm just some little girl?â
He dragged a hand over his face and exhaled like it hurt.
He hadnât meant for it all to come out like that. He hadnât meant to say half the things heâd said. But sheâd pushed him, not in a bad way, not even unfairly. She just, saw too much. And he didnât know what to do with that. She looked at him like he was someone worth holding onto.
And he didnât know how to live up to that kind of faith.
What scared him wasnât that she wanted him. What scared him was how much he wanted her back. Not just for a night. Not just for the touch, the kiss, the rush of her against him in the car. No, he wanted her in his life. Her mess. Her stubbornness. Her quiet fire and the way she always knew when he was lying, even when he tried to lie well. He wanted to believe she could handle it, all of it. The drinking, the job he didnât really have, the history that followed him like a bad smell. He wanted to think sheâd stay, even when things werenât easy.
But if he let her in, really let her in, thereâd be no going back. And he wasnât sure he was a man who got to have something like that. Something steady. Something real. He stared down into the rum swirling in his glass, and for the first time in a long time, he didnât take another sip.
Just sat there, drowning in the sound of everything he hadnât said.
And knowing damn well sheâd already heard it anyway.
She stayed in the tub long after the water had lost its warmth, long after the fizz from the bath bomb had vanished and the foam had retreated to the corners like it didnât belong anymore. The silence pressed in on her , thick, unrelenting. Only the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional wheeze of the old floor vent reminded her that time hadnât actually stopped.
Her heart wouldnât settle. It pulsed beneath her ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. Her hands trembled faintly beneath the water, and her lips â swollen, tender. Still burned with the memory of his mouth on hers. Not gentle. Not shy. Hungry. Like he meant it.
She swallowed hard and stared at the ceiling above her, eyes wide, lashes damp. The tiles blurred a little as steam fogged her vision, or maybe that was just the tears she refused to shed.
Hated that he got to walk away, again, like it was easy. Like the damage he left behind wasnât still sitting in her skin. She hated the way he spoke, cold and final, like he didnât feel anything at all.
But he had. She knew he had.
That kiss wasnât an accident. That touch, the way he cradled her face like it was something breakable, like he wanted to memorize the shape of it, that wasnât a man who didnât care.
Left her in the quiet with no answers, no apology, just silence.
She would call Lucy and Sarah in the morning, and pretend to laugh and say she was fine until one of them called bullshit. Sheâd probably yell a bit, cursing his name and the day he was born. Theyâd listen. They always did.
She didnât want to speak. Didnât want to move.
She just sat there in the cooling water, skin puckered and pink, heart cracked clean down the centre, staring at the ceiling like it might hold the answer to everything she couldnât say out loud.
Eventually, she climbed out. Towelled off slowly, like her body didnât quite belong to her anymore. Every movement felt like it took effort, like she was underwater, still trying to surface. The cardigan sheâd worn earlier was crumpled on the bathroom floor. She didnât pick it up.
She walked into her bedroom on bare, damp feet and slipped beneath the covers without turning on a single light. The sheets were cool against her skin, the air still thick with the scent of citrus and salt. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and curled in on herself, small and still. Her eyes drifted to the curtains, drawn shut, like they could keep him out. Like they could keep anything out.
They just sat there, unmoving, separating her from the trailer across the street.
From the man who kissed her like heâd never stop and then left her like he never started.
But the ache in her chest settled deep.
And sleep, when it finally came, felt more like surrender than rest.
Julian sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, a full glass of rum in his hand. He hadnât touched it. Ricky was long gone. Bubbles hadnât been by. It was just him. And the dark shape of her trailer across the street.
The lights were on when he dropped her off.
That, he noticed. Because her curtains were never closed. Even when she was just dancing around folding laundry or vacuuming in her socks, the blinds were always cracked. Just enough light for the rest of the world to see how soft her space was. How lived in. How her.
But now there was nothing. Her trailer remained sealed off, and he knew she was shutting him out.
Julian rubbed a hand over his face and muttered, âFuck.â
He didnât even know what he was doing anymore. Trying to protect her? Or just pushing her away because he was scared of how much she made him feel? Either way, heâd wrecked something.
And for once, he didnât feel justified for it.
The world hadnât changed. Birds still chirped. Ricky still cursed at the empty fridge. Bubbles still walked his cats like it was the most normal thing in the world. But Y/Nâs curtains stayed closed.
Julian noticed it the second he stepped out for his first smoke of the day. He stood on his porch, unlit cigarette between his fingers, watching the morning sun bathe the street in gold.
No vacuum hum. No radio. No shadow dancing in the living room.
He didnât like how much it bothered him.
Julian lit his smoke, took a long drag, and muttered to himself, âSheâs just cooling off. Thatâs all.â But the tension in his jaw said otherwise.
Y/N sat at the kitchen table in a La Senza lounge set, spooning cereal into her mouth without really tasting it. She stared at the closed curtains like theyâd personally offended her. Yet, despite the burning feeling in her chest, y/n had managed to get up early and curl her hair, even put on a bit of mascara, and put on something cute. There was no sense losing herself in someone who kept trying to keep her away.
Still, part of her wanted to crack open the curtains, just enough to catch a glimpse of him outside, sunglasses on, drink in hand, pretending like nothing ever touched him.
But thatâs what always happened.
He got to walk away. Be cold. Be untouchable.
And she was left pacing the kitchen like a little girl with a crush and a gut full of glass.
Let him feel what distance really tasted like.
Bubbles noticed before anyone else.
Julian was quieter than usual. Focused, sure, but distracted.
âSomething on your mind?â Bubbles asked, gently nudging a kitten out of his toolbox.
Julian didnât answer at first. Just tightened the bolts on a rickety shelf and stared at the wall. Bubbles looked at him over the rim of his glasses. âThat girlâs still got her blinds shut.â
The curtains didnât move.
Y/N didnât open the door.
But they both felt the weight of it.
Every time he glanced across the road. Every time she paused by the window. Every time one of them stepped outside and caught the faintest trace of movement from the otherâs trailer, but did nothing.
And maybe they both thought they deserved it.She sat curled up on the couch, knees drawn tightly to her chest, the pale flicker of the TV casting shifting shadows across her face. An old romantic comedy played quietly in the background, its clichĂŠd jokes and predictable moments filling the silence in the room, but she wasnât really watching. Her mind was tangled in the sound of his voice, replaying over and over in her head like a broken record, every word weighted with meaning she couldnât shake. She remembered the way his voice had sounded just before he shut down completely - low, almost rough, laced with something raw and painful.
âOnce I touch you the way I want to, youâre mine.â
Those words echoed, haunting her. They werenât promises. They were warnings. Then there were the others, dark and resigned.
âIâm not the kind of man who makes your life better.â
âIâm the guy people barely survive knowing.â
She tried to understand. Why did he keep coming back if thatâs how he saw himself? Why did he build her bed, piece by piece, as if staking some claim? Why did he fix her creaky cabinet pulls? Why did he kiss her like he meant it, like it was the only real thing in his life, and then flinch away as if it cost him blood?
Her throat tightened, and tears pricked painfully at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them away stubbornly, swallowing hard. She told herself again to be strong, to stay tough. If he wanted to keep his distance, if he chose to shut her out, then she could do the same. She could build walls around her own heart just as firmly.
But no matter how fiercely she tried to convince herself to let it go, there was a raw ache underneath it all, one sheâd never admit aloud, that it was killing her inside, slowly and completely.
Julian stepped out onto his porch just as her car turned the corner at the end of the park road, its taillights disappearing between the scraggly pines lining the lot. He stared after it, jaw set, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. Too late. Again. That made three mornings in a row now. Three mornings where heâd stepped outside just a second too slow, catching only the exhaust in the air and the hollow ache of her absence.
Everything about her daily routine was the same on the surface. Y/N still left for work at the same time each morning, like clockwork. She still came home in the early evening, right around sunset, sometimes with groceries or takeout bags clutched in one hand, her worn leather tote slung over her shoulder. She still wore those soft little cardigans, colourful, frayed at the sleeves, over dresses that made Julian's brain stall out, the way they hugged her frame, the way they always looked just a little too delicate for a place like Sunnyvale. But that was where the familiarity ended.
The blinds on her trailer, once perpetually open to let in the light, now remained closed. Always. Drawn tight like a wall he wasnât allowed to see past anymore. The life she used to live so openly had shuttered itself away in the space of one fight. No more humming drifting through the windows, no more glimpses of her twirling across the kitchen floor with bare feet and a glass of wine. The clothesline that used to flap with her laundry, bright little tees and soft cotton sheets, now hung empty. She didnât pass by his place on the gravel path anymore, didnât slow down, didnât look over, didnât offer one of those soft, casual hellos that used to make his chest tighten with a need he never voiced.
She was still here. Physically. Her car was in the driveway, lights flickering on in the evening, the soft murmur of her television barely audible on quiet nights. But it felt like she had vanished anyway. Like she had packed up her laughter, her warmth, her presence, and taken it all with her. Julian could feel the distance like a bruise, tender and stubborn, pressing against him with every step she didnât take toward him.
She was there. And yet she wasnât.Julian sat slouched on the couch, only half-listening as Ricky launched into yet another rambling rant. Julianâs gaze, however, kept drifting toward the window. He wasnât really hearing Ricky. Not when his focus was outside waiting, watching. His foot tapped restlessly against the floor, matching the quiet storm brewing in his chest. A car rolled slowly down the street, headlights flashing briefly through the blinds. Julian stood before he realized it, crossing to the door and pulling it open in one motion. But she was already halfway to her front steps. She didnât look over. Didnât wave. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. His jaw tensed, and with a quiet breath through his nose, he shut the door hard enough for the frame to shudder. Across the street, in the muted evening glow of her trailer, Y/N stepped inside with no ceremony. She dropped her keys into the ceramic dish by the door with a familiar clink, kicked off her shoes like she was moving through a script sheâd done too many times before. She didnât bother with the blinds. Didnât turn on the stereo. She went straight to the fridge, pulled out a half-wilted salad container from the deli, and ate it standing at the counter, chewing absently. There was no need to look out the window to know he was watching. She felt it, the weight of his attention across the street. But she didnât give him the satisfaction of a glance. Not this time. Let him feel it, what it was like to want something and not reach for it. To hesitate, to push away, and realize too late that you meant it. Julian sat on the porch not long after, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, staring at her darkened windows. The curtains were still drawn, and behind them, a soft glow spilled faintly across the glass. No movement. No silhouette. But he knew she was there, just like he knew his rum was poured too heavy tonight, his hands wouldnât stop twitching, and his mind refused to wander anywhere that wasnât her. He hadnât seen her face properly in three days, but the absence felt louder than any fight theyâd had. It pressed into his ribs like a weight he couldnât shift. By the fourth morning, the silence still lingered. Bubbles wandered by with a shopping cart rattling under the weight of scrap and stray cans, pausing to adjust his thick glasses. âY/N brought tuna last night,â he offered casually, like he was talking about the weather. âSaid the cats deserved the good stuff.â Julian didnât look up from the toolbox he was rearranging for no reason other than needing something to do. âYeah?â he muttered. âYep,â Bubbles said, lingering. âShe came by around 9:30. You were out back, I think.â Of course he was. Always somewhere just behind the moment. Julian exhaled through his nose, frustration tightening his shoulders, but he didnât say another word. Bubbles, sensing the tension, moved on without pressing. That night, she pulled into her driveway later than usual. Her headlights swept briefly across his trailer before fading. Julian stood at his kitchen sink in the dark, lights off, the curtain pulled back just enough to see. Y/N stepped out of the car slowly, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. Her hair was twisted up, her cardigan draped over one arm. She didnât look over. Didnât linger. Just walked up the steps and slipped inside, the door closing softly behind her. Curtains still drawn. Lock still clicking. Julianâs hands clenched the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. He had told her to stay away, and she was listening. Too well.
It had been eight days since their last fight, eight days of silence, of distance, of him catching only glimpses of her from across the street like some stranger instead of the woman heâd once kissed like she was the last good thing in his life. Julian sat stiffly on the edge of his porch, a screwdriver clenched in his hand, twisting idly, aimlessly, doing nothing to fix what was broken. His eyes were locked across the way, burning holes into Y/Nâs trailer behind his shades. The place that had once felt like a refuge, and now looked more like a place he was no longer welcome.
The morning sun hit her front steps just right, casting a golden haze over the dust motes dancing through the air. She was out there, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled into one of those loose, careless twists that let soft tendrils fall around her face like a halo. She moved with quiet determination, her motions confident and smooth, and for a second, Julian just stared. She hadnât looked that calm in days. Not since him. Not since their voices had turned sharp and their eyes too tired to hold each otherâs gaze. But now, now she looked lighter. Like someone whoâd set something heavy down.
Corey and Trevor hovered nearby, crouched by the creaky front step with hammers and nails in hand, like two eager little brothers trying to impress the older kid. Y/N handed Corey a hammer with a teasing smile that cracked right through Julianâs chest. âCareful with that,â she murmured, her voice soft and playful. âDonât want you smashing your thumb again.â
Corey laughed, that open, dopey grin stretched wide across his face. Trevor cracked a joke about Coreyâs âclumsy-ass hands,â and Y/Nâs laugh rang out, bright and warm, unbothered. It rolled through the air like it had every right to be there, and Julian hated how much he missed it.
She crouched beside the railing, brushing sawdust from her palms, and looked up at Trevor as he steadied a loose plank. âYouâre doing great,â she said, reaching out to squeeze his arm, quick, casual, but enough to send something sharp straight through Julianâs gut. Trevor looked at her for just a moment too long, and Y/N smiled, not the kind she used to save for Julian, but real enough to twist the knife.
Corey grinned, hammer raised. âThanks for dragging us into this mess, Y/N. But seriously, you make hard work look easy.â
She laughed again, shaking her head. âWell, somebodyâs gotta keep you two out of trouble.â
Julianâs fists clenched around the screwdriver. The way they hovered around her, the way she let them, it wasnât just about fixing a broken step. It was something more. It was connection. It was warmth. It was everything heâd spent the past week aching for, and none of it was his anymore. She hadnât looked over once. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. She was right there, but it felt like she was miles away.
The screw slipped from his hand, bouncing across the porch with a small, sharp clatter. He didnât move. The cigarette between his fingers had burned nearly to the filter, forgotten. All he could do was watch. Watch as she smiled. As she laughed. As she touched someone else. And he stood there like a ghost, invisible in the space he used to fill.
The curtain on her window was still drawn. Just like it had been for eight days. Just like her heart, closed off, locked up tight. Julian stared at the laughter he couldnât reach, the warmth he wasnât welcome to touch anymore. A storm churned in his chest, jealousy, regret, longing, but all he did was stand there, frozen on his own porch, while the only thing he really wanted slipped further out of reach.A fortnight had passed since they last spoke. Fourteen long, echoing days of silence and stolen glances. Y/N stood alone in front of the cracked full-length mirror on the back of her bathroom door, fingers adjusting the slim straps of her halter top with quiet determination. The top was new, skimpier than anything she usually wore, the neckline dipping lower than she was used to, but she didnât mind the look of it. The low-rise bootcut Wranglers hugged her hips in all the right places, worn denim softened from age, and she gave herself a faint smile in the reflection. It wasnât about impressing anyone, not tonight. It was about proving to herself that she could still feel good, still turn heads, still move forward. The loneliness that had curled in her chest for the past week hadnât vanished, but it had dulled. Three glasses of cheap white wine helped, warming her skin and blurring the edges of her thoughts just enough to make the idea of dancing and noise and laughter feel inviting instead of overwhelming. Her coworkers were waiting downtown. The night was hers if she wanted it. Outside, Julian leaned against the railing of his porch, a fresh cigarette forgotten between his fingers as his eyes locked on the glow spilling from her trailer. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving only the porch light to cast gold across the gravel. He didnât bother pretending he wasnât watching. When a familiar truck pulled up and idled at the curb, his jaw tightened on instinct. It was one of her coworkers. One of the few guys Y/N worked with. The one she always mentioned offhand, like he was nothing, even though Julian had started recognizing a pattern. There was no doubt in his mind this guy had the hots for y/n. And tonight, when he stepped out of the driverâs seat with a too-easy smile and walked up to her porch, Julianâs gut twisted like a warning siren going off in his chest. Then she appeared, Y/N, flushed and radiant. Her smile looser than usual from the wine, her body wrapped in a new sexual confidence that looked almost unfamiliar. Her hair caught the light just right, and for a second Julian forgot how to breathe. The guyâs grin widened, and before Julian could fully process what was happening, he saw the man reach across the cab and pop the door for her. She smiled up at him as she climbed into the passenger seat. She didnât seem bothered, didnât act like anything was wrong. He saw the way the guyâs eyes lingered when they shouldnât have, the way they paused to chat in her driveway for a second too long. Julianâs stomach burned. That familiar fire, the same one heâd tried to choke down for days, flared up with full force. Y/N didnât see it. She didnât recognize the kind of man who smiled like that. She was being her usual self, kind, open, unguarded. Too trusting. And Julian knew if he stormed across the street now, sheâd only get defensive. Sheâd tell him it was nothing. That he didnât get to have an opinion. And sheâd be right. Julian stood in the growing dark, cigarette long dead between his fingers, jaw clenched and eyes shadowed with something deeper than anger. It wasnât just jealousy, it was regret. It was need. It was the aching awareness that she was slipping further away from him with every passing night. And he still hadnât done a damn thing to stop it.
The club pulsed with light and noise, a chaotic blur of bass, laughter, and heat that wrapped itself around Y/N like a heavy coat she hadnât asked to wear. The air smelled like sweat, cheap cologne, and too much perfume, clinging to every movement and every breath. She leaned against the bar, shoulders bare beneath her tiny halter top, the cool metal of the counter a sharp contrast to the warmth blooming beneath her skin. The low-rise Wranglers hugged her hips snugly, making her feel more daring than she had in months, maybe even years. A little dangerous, a little free. The wine sheâd downed before leaving, paired with the drinks her coworkers had coaxed her into, left her floating just above herself, detached, buzzed, looser than she usually allowed herself to be.
She was laughing. Smiling. Pretending that everything was fine.
A guy had approached her earlier. Mike, or Mark, or something like that. Older, rugged in the kind of way that mightâve been attractive if it werenât for the way he looked at her like she was already his. He wore a weathered leather jacket and carried himself with an easy sort of confidence, and when he offered to buy her a drink, she hesitated only briefly. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe not. Sheâd spent the last week drowning in silence, avoiding Julianâs porch across the street, the ache of their last conversation still a bruise she couldnât seem to touch without flinching. The loneliness was getting to her, chewing holes in her chest. And in the haze of neon and noise, thisâMike, the drink, the attentionâfelt like a possible way out. Just for a night.
She clinked glasses with him and gave a strained smile. âTo new friends,â he said. She didnât really respond. It wasnât about him anyway. It was about feeling seen. About proving to herself she could move on. That she didnât need Julian to breathe.
But minutes later, things shifted.
Theyâd moved closer to the dance floor, and Mikeâs voice had dropped into something lower, more intimate. âYou wanna get out of here?â he asked, his grin widening. âIâve got a place nearby. We could keep this going.â At first, she tried to brush it off with a soft smile and a shake of her head. âIâm good here. Just out with friends.â Her tone was light, easy, meant to keep things friendly without giving him the wrong idea. But Mike didnât back off. His smile twisted, more persistent now. âCome on. Donât be shy,â he said, leaning in. His fingers grazed her arm again, lingering longer than before.
A tight knot of unease began to form in her stomach.
She laughed, but it was forced. âNo, really. Iâm fine.â
Still, he didnât listen.
âYouâre just saying that,â he said, and this time when his hand brushed her again, it wasnât casual. It was deliberate.
Part of her wanted to shove him off, to walk away without looking back. But another part of her, so tired, so painfully lonely, just wanted the night to keep going. To not feel invisible anymore. She glanced through the crowd, searching for her daycare coworkers, but they were lost somewhere in the haze, drunk and laughing and oblivious. She was alone.
Mike stepped closer again, voice rougher now. âLetâs go. I can show you a good time.â
âNo,â Y/N said, firmer this time, her body tensing.
His hand closed around her wrist like a vice.
âDonât be like that. Just one night.â
Her smile vanished. Her pulse roared in her ears. The clubâs lights flashed across his face in disjointed intervals, but all she could see was the way his grip wouldnât let go.
She pulled back harder. âNo.â
He still didnât listen.
Everything hit at once: the pounding bass, the dizzy swirl of liquor in her bloodstream, the tightness in her chest. Her heart stuttered as panic surged through her veins. Her free hand fumbled in her purse, digging blindly for her phone, the desperation making her fingers clumsy. She finally got it out with shaking hands, opened her contacts. Julian. She pressed Call. The phone rang onceâ
Then Mark reached over and ended the call.
She stared at the screen, stunned. Her heart plummeted. âWhat the hell?â she gasped, but Mark just gave a tight smile, smug and unwavering.Back in Sunnyvale, the night had gone still, heavy with the kind of quiet that settled over the park when everyone else had turned in or passed out. Julian stood alone on his porch; eyes fixed across the road at Y/Nâs darkened trailer. It had been that way for over an hour now, no movement, no lights, just silence. He hadnât moved much himself, only shifting his weight now and then, a glass of rum sitting untouched in his hand. Ricky had yelled something to him earlier, Bubbles too, but he hadnât responded. He barely heard them. All his attention was trained on that trailer, on the empty driveway, on the ache in his chest he wouldnât name. When his phone buzzed in his pocket, he didnât hesitate. His hand snapped to it like a reflex, already bracing for disappointment. But then he saw it, her name glowing on the screen, cutting through the dark like a match struck in a storm. For a split second, everything in him surged, relief, hope, maybe even a little panic. She was calling. After a week of silence, after nights of nothing but distance and unanswered questions, she was reaching out.
No second ring. No voicemail.
Julian froze. The air around him seemed to go still, as if the whole park was holding its breath. That wasnât right. That wasnât how she called, not when she meant to talk. And it wasnât like her to hang up like that, not without at least a few more seconds, not unless something had gone wrong. His instincts flared hot and fast, years of reading people, of knowing when shit was off, kicking in all at once. His chest tightened. Something wasnât right. He didnât give a damn if she was drunk or if it was accidental. He knew. Something was wrong.
Without a second thought, he dropped the glass onto the porch railing, letting it thud heavily as he turned and grabbed his keys. Every step he took down the stairs was sharp, purposeful, like a storm gathering speed. He didnât know exactly where she was, but sheâd mentioned it once in passing. some downtown club her coworkers liked, one she wasnât sure about but had agreed to try anyway. That was enough. He could find her.
He got in the car, shoved the keys into the ignition, and peeled out of the driveway with tires that squealed just enough to wake the street. But he didnât care. He wasnât thinking about consequences. He wasnât thinking about himself. All he could see was her name disappearing from his screen. All he could hear was the silence that followed. All he could feel was the kind of dread that settled deep in his gut when he knew someone he cared about was in trouble.
Across town, in the pulsing chaos of the club, her world had started tilting.
Her voice had cracked with the weight of fear as she tried to hold herself together, as the alcohol and noise blurred her thoughts but sharpened her panic. Her fingers clutched the phone like it was the last thing tethering her to safety, to reality, to someone who might actually help. No friends near, no bouncer in sight. Mike had started to try to dance with her again. She staggered back, still held fast by the grip on her wrist, heart pounding hard enough to drown out the music. All she could do was hope, hope Julian could somehow read her mind. Hope he hadnât stopped caring. Hope he would come. Because right now, she wasnât sure how to get herself out of this.
Inside the club, the air was thick, choked with bass-heavy music, strobing lights, and the chaotic tangle of bodies moving in every direction. The scent of sweat, alcohol, and perfume clung to everything. Julian shoved through the crowd with single-minded focus, every nerve in his body strung tight as he scanned the room. His eyes swept the chaos in sharp, focused bursts, until he saw her.
Y/N stood near the edge of the dance floor, locked in a struggle that made Julianâs blood run cold. Mike had his hand clamped around her wrist, his grip visibly tight, his posture aggressive and too close. Y/Nâs face was drained of colour, her eyes glassy and wide with fear, her body angled away like she was trying to escape. She tugged back, weak from the alcohol and adrenaline, but Mike wasnât letting go.
Julian didnât hesitate.
He shoved through the crowd, not giving a single fuck who he bumped or knocked aside. Drinks spilled. People cursed. Someone tried to grab his shoulder and got shoved hard enough to stumble. He had one targetâand when he reached him, he didnât hesitate.
âGet your fucking hands off her!â he barked, voice like a crack of thunder over the music.
Mike barely had time to turn before Julian grabbed him by the collar and slammed him backwards into the wall so hard a picture frame rattled off nearby. Y/N stumbled free and into a nearby chair, gasping. Mike swung a fist, but Julian dodged, jaw dark with fury. He landed a punch to Mikeâs gut, then another across his face. Blood sprayed, and Mike sagged.
âYou think that shitâs okay?â he spat, slamming Mike again. âGrabbing her like that? Scaring her? You fucking coward.â
Mike choked out something, hands flailing defensively, but Julian drove his forearm into the guyâs throat, pinning him in place. His knuckles were split, blood dripping from the cut across them, and his breathing was ragged, barely held back.
âIf she ever so much as sees you again, I swear to God Iâll bury you under this fucking club.â
Julian didnât spare him another glance. Y/N hadnât moved. She stood tall just a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest, watching the whole thing with eyes that were wide, but not scared. Her pulse was racing, yeah. Her body was humming with adrenaline. But the relief that poured through her as Julian stepped in, fists flying and fire in his eyes, was matched by something else.
Heâd come. Heâd fought for her. And not like some jealous asshole, he saw the line Mike had crossed and didnât let it slide. Julian fucking handled it.
When he reached her, he didnât ask if she was okay.
She didnât speak, just let him take her hand and lead her to the door. Security was too slow making it to them as they peeled out of the parking lot.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, every nerve on edge, body lit with adrenaline, but beneath the chaos, beneath the sharp rush of what-ifs and almosts, there was something else blooming deep in her chest.
Julian had come. No hesitation, no questions, no waiting around to see if sheâd figure it out on her own. He saw what was happening and tore through the crowd like a goddamn storm, fists flying and rage in his eyes. Not because he was jealous. Not because he was trying to control her. But because he saw the moment Mike crossed the line, and he didnât let it slide.
He didnât just show up.
That mattered more than she could say. Not just because someone had finally stood up for her, but because he had. Because even after all the silence and distance and mixed-up emotions between them, Julian still gave a damn. Still had her back when it counted.
Watching him fight for her, really punch a guy, lit something in her chest that had nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with how much sheâd missed him. But she wasnât ready to forgive him just yet, let him back in. Heâd have to earn it back.
Julian had driven her back to her trailer when sheâd asked, quiet between them except for the hum of the engine. She didnât say much, just leaned against the window, eyes half-closed, trying to keep herself together.
When they pulled up, she didnât want him to come inside. She just wanted to get through the night without falling apart. So Julian stayed by the driverâs side, watching her until the door shut and the lock clicked behind her.
The next morning, sunlight spilled unevenly across the worn floorboards of Y/Nâs trailer. She lay sprawled on the sagging couch, tangled in a thin blanket, head pounding like a drum.
She cracked the curtains just a sliver, enough to let a sliver of pale light creep in, but not enough to let the world stare back. Her skin felt raw, and her mouth tasted like old cigarettes and regret.
Every movement made her stomach twist, so she stayed low, nestled in the cushions, half-lounging, half-curling in on herself. The silence felt heavy, but safe.
Outside, she could hear the faint sounds of the trailer park waking up, a distant lawnmower, the low murmur of a car starting, birds chirping somewhere in the trees.
She didnât want to think about Julian. Didnât want to think about what had happened the night before. But the ache in her chest told her she was already tangled up in it.
Her fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of the blanket, heart pounding with the weight of everything she hadnât said.
Julianâs fist hovered for a moment, then knocked softly on Y/Nâs trailer door. He waited. The quiet stretched, thick and uneasy.
Seconds passed before the door creaked open just a crack. Y/Nâs tired, glassy eyes peeked out at him, wary and guarded.
He didnât wait for an invitation.
Before she could pull the door closed, Julian slipped inside, the faint scent of last night, smoke, cheap perfume, and something else clinging to the air.
Y/N sagged against the doorframe, vulnerable and raw, but said nothing. Julian didnât push.
Instead, he moved toward the small kitchenette, the wood worn and scratched from years of use. He pulled a battered coffee pot from the shelf and filled it, the soft gurgle of the coffee maker breaking the silence.
He reached for the Tylenol bottle, quietly clicking two tablets into his palm, then found a glass, filling it with water from the tap. The sounds were small, carefulâlike he didnât want to disturb whatever fragile calm held the room together.
When the coffee was ready, he poured a steaming cup and carried it over to where Y/N sat wrapped in a thin blanket on the couch.
He offered it without a word. She took it with shaky hands, the warmth seeping into her palms.
Julian crouched down beside her, setting the glass of water and the pills on the low table within reach. His eyes searched her faceâsoftened by worry but still distant.
âYou look like hell,â he said quietly, almost a joke, but there was no bite behind it.
Y/N blinked, swallowing hard, her throat too dry to speak easily.
He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
âIâm not good at this, getting close to peopleâ Julian admitted, voice low. âBut I want to be. For you.â
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to reach out, to let him in. But the fear still held tight, tangled with the pounding in her head and the ache in her chest.
Instead, she just nodded, eyes fixed on the swirling steam rising from the coffee cup in her hands.
Julian stayed there, close but careful, as if trying to bridge a gap neither of them was ready to cross just yet.
Would you like me to keep going with this slow, unspoken dance between them?
Certainly! Hereâs the revision with Y/N clearly saying he hurt her, keeping the fragile tension and deeper detail:
Julian remained crouched beside her, his fingers barely brushing the worn fabric of the blanket, careful not to disturb the fragile calm. The quiet in the room was heavy, thick with all the things left unsaid between them.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Y/N broke the silence.
âYou hurt me,â she said simply.
The words landed softly, but with undeniable weight.
Julianâs throat tightened painfully. That day, the fight, the distance, the cold walls theyâd built, was a wound that hadnât healed. Hearing her say it aloud made it impossible to pretend otherwise.
He swallowed hard. âI know.â
A long pause stretched between them, filled only by the faint steam rising from the coffee in her hands.
âI fucked up,â he admitted, voice rough with regret. âBig time.â
She didnât look up. Instead, she stared down into the swirling coffee, fingers trembling slightly.
Julian wanted to reach out, to offer something, anything, to heal the cracks. But he held back, afraid of pushing her further away.
âI donât want to lose you,â he said quietly, voice thick with an almost pleading honesty.
Her gaze slowly lifted, meeting his. No anger, just raw, open hurt. A flicker of something fragile, maybe hope.
Julianâs heart ached. He edged closer, his fingers brushing her arm with delicate care. âI donât know how to fix this all, but I want to try.â
Y/N bit her lip, eyes flickering down. âYou really hurt me. It wasnât just the fight. Itâs how you shut me out.â
Her words hit Julian like a punch. He swallowed again, the weight of her pain settling deep in his chest.
âIâm scared,â she whispered, voice breaking the quiet.
Julian nodded slowly, feeling the ache in his own chest. âMe too.â
The silence returned, but it was different now. Less a wall, more a thread stretched thin but holding.
Y/N shifted beneath the blanket. Julian stayed quiet, letting the space between them breathe.
After a moment, he reached out again, letting his hand rest gently over hers.
And for the first time in days, the tension between them softenedâjust a little.
The quiet filled the room again, steady and low like a tide neither of them could quite stand in.
Y/N sipped her coffee slowly, though it had gone lukewarm. The heat no longer mattered. Her body still felt heavy and thick with the hangover, but not just that, exhaustion curled into her bones. Emotional, not physical.
Julian stayed beside her, silent but present. He didnât look at her much. Just at his hand, now resting over hers. The way her knuckles twitched beneath his touch. She wasnât pulling away.
He let out a quiet breath through his nose and leaned back just slightly on his heels, the leather of his vest creaking faintly as he shifted.
Then, after a long moment, he moved his hand, slowly, and placed it on her knee.
Just a touch. Steady. Grounding.
She glanced down, not startled but surprised. It wasnât like him.
He stared ahead at the far wall, jaw flexing like he was chewing over what to say, or maybe what not to.
âI missed you,â he said finally.
The words were low, like gravel, but they cracked the quiet wide open.
Y/N blinked, throat thick. Her fingers tightened around the mug.
Julian didnât add anything right away. He just stayed like that, his hand warm against her knee, his voice trailing in the space between them like smoke from one of his cigarettes.
âIâm not⌠good at this kind of shit,â he said, quieter now. âTalkinâ about stuff.â
He shifted again, still not looking at her, just staring ahead like he was watching something no one else could see. âLotta peopleâve walked away. Over the years. From me. From the way I live.â
She felt the words slip into her skin. They didnât sound like a ploy for sympathy. More like a truth he hadnât said out loud before.
Y/N tucked the blanket tighter around herself. The sting in her head was starting to dull, but her chest still ached.
âIâm not them,â she said softly.
Julian turned his head then, just slightly, eyes flicking to her face. Searching it.
âYou sure?â he asked.
It wasnât bitter. It wasnât angry. Just broken in that quiet way he always was when he started to let his guard down. His voice didnât shake, but something behind it did.
She didnât answer right away.
Instead, she set the mug down on the side table and slowly leaned back into the couch cushions, just far enough that he could still touch her. Still keep his hand where it was.
âI donât know yet,â she said honestly, almost in a whisper. âBut I didnât call anyone else last night. I called you.â
Julian looked down at his hand on her knee.
And for a long time, he didnât say a word.
But he didnât let go, either.
Julianâs hand lingered on her knee for a second longer than necessary before he pulled away. Not fast, not abrupt, just enough to give her space.
He stood, rolling his shoulders like he needed to shake something off. His eyes moved around the trailer, catching on details, details he already knew, but now saw like he hadnât in weeks.
âYou got a couple cabinet pulls coming loose,â he said, gesturing toward the kitchen. âAnd that step out front? The one Corey and Trevor âfixedâ? Still wobbly.â
Y/Nâs brows lifted faintly. âYou saw them fix it?â
He huffed through his nose, walking over to the drawer by the sink. âIf you can call it that. They used drywall screws. For a step.â
Julian pulled open the drawer and gave the handle a wiggle. Sure enough, it shifted in his grip. âCabinet pulls too. You probably already noticed.â
âIâve been meaning to get to them,â she said softly.
Her arms tightened around the blanket still draped over her shoulders. âYou donât have to.â
âI want to.â He didnât look at her when he said it.
And just like that, he stepped back out to the truck. Two minutes later, he was kneeling on the linoleum with his red toolbox cracked open beside him, screwdriver in hand.
Y/N stayed curled on the couch, not saying much. Just watching.
She didnât offer him water. Didnât make small talk. Didnât ask him why he was really there. Because she already knew.
This, quiet acts of service, grumbling about Corey and Trevor, trying to fix things with his hands when he couldnât fix what heâd broken with his silence, this was how Julian let people in.
He worked methodically, tightening one drawer pull after another. The small clink of the screwdriver echoed in the quiet.
âYou really think they fucked up the step that bad?â she asked eventually, her voice low.
Julian glanced up. âI know they did. I stepped on it yesterday and damn near ate shit.â
That earned a weak laugh from her, half buried under the tension in her chest.
âIâll fix it proper this time,â he added. âProbably shouldâve done it myself in the first place.â
She moved from the couch slowly, padding over in socked feet. She leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, still swaddled in her blanket.
Julian tightened the last screw and stood, tucking the screwdriver back into the box. When he turned to her, his gaze met hers, and didnât look away this time.
âYou donât have to let me in,â he said after a beat. âI get it.â
Y/Nâs fingers tightened on the edge of the blanket.
âBut Iâm still gonna show up,â he added. âStill gonna fix the shit that needs fixing. Whether you open the door or not.â
She looked at him, eyes heavy, voice hoarse from the hangover and something deeper. âYou really hurt me that day.â
The words landed like a dropped stone.
Julian didnât flinch. Didnât argue. Didnât offer excuses.
His jaw shifted slightly, and he exhaled through his nose, slow and rough.
No defense. No bravado. Just three low words, steeped in regret.
He glanced at her kitchen table. âYou should sit. Iâll make you something. Eggs or toast or⌠I dunno. Something to soak up all that tequila.â
Y/N didnât move for a moment. Then she slowly stepped out of the doorway and sank into one of the kitchen chairs.
She didnât smile. But she didnât stop him, either.
And Julian, still figuring out how to say what he meant, pulled open her fridge and got to work.
Because if he couldnât say everything yet, he could at least make sure the step didnât break under her feet again.
The pan sizzled low on the stove as Julian cracked a couple of eggs into it, one-handed, like it was second nature. It probably was. He moved with the same control he did in everything, measured, careful, like even the way he cooked had something to prove.
Y/N stayed at the table, still wrapped in her blanket, elbows propped, chin in her hand. Her eyes were heavy, not just from the hangover but from everything sitting behind it. She hadnât really looked at him yet, not fully. Not the way she used to.
When the toast popped, he moved automatically, butter, a little salt on the eggs, a glass of water refilled without asking. When he finally placed the plate in front of her, she looked up.
âThanks,â she said quietly.
He nodded. âEat. Youâll feel less like shit.â
She picked at the toast first, slow, methodical. He watched her take the first bite of eggs and seem vaguely surprised that they werenât terrible.
He sat across from her, silent.
It was the first time in weeks theyâd shared a table.
For a while, the only sound in the room was the occasional scrape of her fork against the plate. He didnât try to fill the silence. He just sat there, leaning his elbows on the table, staring at the spot between them.
Finally, after sheâd finished about half the plate, she broke the stillness. Her voice was soft, but clear.
âDid you mean it? That youâre still gonna show up?â
Julian looked up slowly. His brows drew together, like he didnât expect the question, or maybe didnât expect her to ask it like that.
âI wouldnât be here if I didnât.â
She looked down at the plate again, toying with a corner of the toast. âI just⌠Iâm not sure what to do with you when you act like this.â
His mouth opened a fraction, no comeback, no smirk. Just stillness.
âIâm not saying I donât want you to,â she added. âI just⌠itâs a lot. After everything.â
He sat back, arms crossing, but not defensive. Justâclosed, like he didnât know how to be open and stay safe at the same time.
âI donât do this much,â he said. âThe whole⌠talking it out thing.â
âNo kidding,â she said, with the faintest trace of a smile that didnât quite reach her eyes.
He shrugged one shoulder. âPeople usually leave. Or get sick of it. Sick of me.â
Y/N looked at him then. Really looked.
She saw the wear around his eyes, the way heâd shaved this morning but missed a spot under his jaw, the tension still wrapped around his shoulders like it never really left.
âYou think thatâs what Iâm doing?â she asked, quieter now. âGetting sick of you?â
Julianâs gaze flicked up to hers. And stayed there.
âI donât know what youâre doing,â he admitted. âBut I know I miss you.â
The silence that followed didnât feel empty. It felt fullâwith things neither of them were ready to name.
After a while, she stood slowly, carrying her plate to the sink. Her limbs were still heavy, her hangover still blooming behind her eyes, but her movements were more sure now. More grounded.
She rinsed the dish and set it in the rack, then leaned on the edge of the counter, back to him.
Watched the way she stood there like she wasnât sure if heâd leave, or if she wanted him to.
He stood too. Moved to the door like he was going to go.
But before his hand touched the knob, he paused.
âYou want me to fix that step today?â
Y/N turned halfway, not quite facing him.
âYeah,â she said. âThatâd be good.â
And it wasnât everything.
The pan sizzled low on the stove as Julian cracked a couple of eggs into it, one-handed, like it was second nature. It probably was. He moved with the same control he did in everything, measured, careful, like even the way he cooked had something to prove.
Y/N stayed at the table, still wrapped in her blanket, elbows propped, chin in her hand. Her eyes were heavy, not just from the hangover but from everything sitting behind it. She hadnât really looked at him yet, not fully. Not the way she used to.
When the toast popped, he moved automatically, butter, a little salt on the eggs, a glass of water refilled without asking. When he finally placed the plate in front of her, she looked up.
âThanks,â she said quietly.
He nodded. âEat. Youâll feel less like shit.â
She picked at the toast first, slow, methodical. He watched her take the first bite of eggs and seem vaguely surprised that they werenât terrible.
He sat across from her, silent.
It was the first time in weeks theyâd shared a table.
For a while, the only sound in the room was the occasional scrape of her fork against the plate. He didnât try to fill the silence. He just sat there, leaning his elbows on the table, staring at the spot between them.
Finally, after sheâd finished about half the plate, she broke the stillness. Her voice was soft, but clear.
âDid you mean it? That youâre still gonna show up?â
Julian looked up slowly. His brows drew together, like he didnât expect the question, or maybe didnât expect her to ask it like that.
âI wouldnât be here if I didnât.â
She looked down at the plate again, toying with a corner of the toast. âI just⌠Iâm not sure what to do with you when you act like this.â
His mouth opened a fraction, no comeback, no smirk. Just stillness.
âIâm not saying I donât want you to,â she added. âI just⌠itâs a lot. After everything.â
He sat back, arms crossing, but not defensive. Just, closed, like he didnât know how to be open and stay safe at the same time.
âI donât do this much,â he said. âThe whole⌠talking it out thing.â
âNo kidding,â she said, with the faintest trace of a smile that didnât quite reach her eyes.
He shrugged one shoulder. âPeople usually leave. Or get sick of it. Sick of me.â
Y/N looked at him then. Really looked.
She saw the wear around his eyes, the way heâd shaved this morning but missed a spot under his jaw, the tension still wrapped around his shoulders like it never really left.
âYou think thatâs what Iâm doing?â she asked, quieter now. âGetting sick of you?â
Julianâs gaze flicked up to hers. And stayed there.
âI donât know what youâre doing,â he admitted. âBut I know I miss you.â
The silence that followed didnât feel empty. It felt full, with things neither of them were ready to name.
After a while, she stood slowly, carrying her plate to the sink. Her limbs were still heavy, her hangover still blooming behind her eyes, but her movements were more sure now. More grounded.
She rinsed the dish and set it in the rack, then leaned on the edge of the counter, back to him.
Watched the way she stood there like she wasnât sure if heâd leave, or if she wanted him to.
He stood too. Moved to the door like he was going to go.
But before his hand touched the knob, he paused.
âYou want me to fix that step today?â
Y/N turned halfway, not quite facing him.
âYeah,â she said. âThatâd be good.â
