"Doesn't have a name yet." His eyes never leave the keys. "Been working on it since the night we met."
My pulse skips. "Since the robbery?"
"Since I saw you reach for that Coke."
The music swells, building toward something inevitable. I move closer, drawn by invisible threads. The bench seems to dip as I sit beside him, our thighs pressed together—more touch than space between us.
His playing falters. Just for a beat.
"Keep going," I murmur.
But his concentration's shattered. The final chord hangs in the air as he turns, eyes darkened, breathing uneven. The hand that was dancing across keys slides to my knee instead, fingers tracing upward with slow, deliberate intent.
Heat pools low in my stomach.
I place my hand over his, my fingers curling around his wrist as I guide it higher along my thigh. The heat of his palm burns through the fabric of my thin dress, each inch of movement sending sparks racing up my spine.
His breath catches—sharp and ragged—and I feel the slight tremor in his hand as he registers what I'm asking for, what I'm offering.
Our foreheads press together. His breath shakes.
"I can't think straight when you're this close to me," he whispers, his voice rough and low, vibrating against my skin. "Haven't been able to since that first night."
I kiss him—slow at first, savoring the taste of wine still on his lips. Then consuming. My fingers thread into his hair, tugging until he groans against my mouth. The piano vibrates beneath us as we shift, urgent and graceless.
His hands map my body like he's memorizing every curve. I arch into him, needing more, needing everything.
"Liza." My name sounds like a prayer.
"Bedroom," I breathe against his neck.
He stands in one fluid movement, pulling me with him. We stumble down the hallway—a tangle of reaching hands and desperate kisses. My back hits his bedroom doorframe. He pins me there, one hand cradling my head while the other grips my waist.
"You sure?" His voice is wrecked.
I answer by pulling him inside, kicking the door shut behind us.
I step into Julian’s room and stop without meaning to, my breath catching in that quiet, traitorous way it does when something feels too intimate too fast.
The walls are deep blue—confident—not the kind of color you choose by accident. They seem to close around me gently, like a held secret. The bed sits at the center of everything, perfectly made but undeniably lived-in, its clean lines softened by patterned pillows that feel almost indulgent. This is not a guest room. This is not a place meant to impress. This ishim.
Light spills in through tall windows dressed in heavy blue curtains. I imagine him here.
I feel exposed standing here, like I’ve stepped into his inner world without armor. This room isn’t messy or chaotic—it’s composed, intentional, steady. And somehow that unsettles memore than disorder ever could. It tells me Julian knows who he is. It tells me he’s rooted.
I glance at him, leaning casually against the doorway, watching me take it all in. He isn’t showing off. He’s introducing me to a small slice of his life.
And the realization lands softly but decisively in my chest: This room has held his solitude, his nights, his unguarded self. And now he’s lettingmein.
My pulse quickens with the dangerous thrill of being invited somewhere I might never want to leave.
I turn slowly, deliberately, and let myself look at him—really look at him. He stands there in the doorway, under the amber glow from the lamp on his dresser, one shoulder resting against the frame with an ease that is impossibly sexy. His dark eyes hold mine with a quiet intensity that makes my breath catch somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
God, he's beautiful.
Not in the obvious way that makes you do a double-take on the street, though he could do that, too. It's deeper than that. It's in the way he holds himself, in the intense way he looks at me—those dark, soulful, intense eyes of his. I can't quite name it, but I feel it everywhere.
He hasn't moved, hasn't said a word, but there's a pull to him that makes the air between us feel charged with possibility.
