Page 36 of Beautiful When He Breaks

That part is true enough to hold up.

He nods immediately. “Fair.”

Luca jerks his chin toward the exit. “Tell Mrs. Alvarez she survives another day if the house is still standing when we get back.”

“I’ll pass it on,” I say, and then I leave before my face can betray me or my body can come up with some fresh new horror.

The walk to my car feels surreal. My bag is heavy on one shoulder, the late afternoon air is thick and warm, and my head is so full of static that I barely register the route across the lot. I get in, shut the door, and just sit there gripping the steering wheel with both hands while the inside of the car slowly turns into an oven around me.

I can’t go home yet, not like this. Not until I get myself under control, and I don’t mean physically. That part is already fading, thank Christ. It’s the shame that stays. It settles heavier with every passing second, spreading through me in waves I can’t outrun now that I’m alone.

I stare through the windshield at nothing and let myself feel it in full because apparently, punishment is my hobby.

What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with me that I can stand in a locker room I’ve stood in for years and suddenly react to Julian’s body the way I just did? What the fuck is wrong with me that after everything, after Celeste and the baby and the legal mess and nearly losing Jules completely, I’m sitting here with my heart racing over the memory of his bare skin and hating myself for wanting to look longer?

God help me, I did want to look longer. The arousal was humiliating enough on its own, but it didn’t come from nowhere. It came from looking. It came from noticing. It came from that same low pull I’ve been trying to shrug off ever since I watched him hold Mila the other night. My body didn’t make a random mistake; it answered something I haven’t wanted to name.

I drop my forehead against the steering wheel and shut my eyes.

Julian.

Of all people, Julian.

Maybe that’s the part that hurts the most. Not that he’s a man, or even that it’s my best friend, though both are terrifying enough in their own way because it rips open questions I’ve spent years avoiding by simply not asking them.

Him, after I pushed him away for a woman who lied to me and manipulated me. Him, after I let fifteen years of friendship go brittle because I’d rather defend a lie than hear him be right. Him, after he stayed anyway.

And now I’m sitting in my car feeling ashamed because he made me hard without even trying.

No, not because he made me—that thought stops me cold. Julian didn’t do anything. He existed. He stood there naked in a place where nakedness isn’t even remarkable, talking to Luca, being exactly who he’s always been. I’m the one who’s reacting. I’m the one carrying this weird, guilty, impossible thing around in my chest now. Blaming him for it, even accidentally, makes me feel worse.

So I sit up, grip the steering wheel harder, and let the guilt come in where shame was a second ago.

I nearly gave up fifteen years of friendship. I nearly gave up the easiest, oldest loyalty in my life because I was too proud, too stubborn, too scared, and too wrapped up in a relationship that kept hollowing me out.

I chose her over him.

Over and over again, I chose her over him.

And now that I finally have him back, helping me raise my daughter and steadying me through things I still can’t fully say out loud, some treacherous new part of me decides this is a good time to start wanting him differently. To start noticing the body I’ve seen a thousand times with completely different eyes. To start reacting in ways I don’t know how to handle.

It feels like betrayal in every direction.

A betrayal of him, because he deserves better than me turning whatever this fragile, repaired thing is into a fucking identity crisis. A betrayal of the friendship itself, because there’s something clean and sacred in what we’ve had and what we’re rebuilding, and I’m terrified my attraction is going to stain it somehow just by existing. I know that’s bullshit. I know it. But trauma and shame are not exactly known for being rational roommates.

I scrub both hands over my face and force myself to breathe slower.

What exactly am I supposed to do with this? I can’t tell him. Obviously, I can’t tell him, even if he is pansexual. I can’t just go, “Hey, man, thanks for helping me through finding out my ex probably raped me and that I’m a dad now. Also, I got hard looking at you naked in the locker room.”

Fantastic. Truly no notes. He’d either think I’d lost my fucking mind or, worse, he’d feel guilty for something he didn’t even do. I can’t pull away either. Not now. Not when Mila knows his voice, not when he’s become part of her routine and mine, and not when the thought of creating distance between us again makes my chest hurt in a completely different way.

So, I’m stuck with it. I’m stuck with wanting to look at him and not wanting to disrespect him by looking. I’m stuck with noticing his body and then hating myself for noticing it.

None of this feels small enough to dismiss anymore.

I let out a slow breath and stare up at the roof of the car.

It doesn’t feel random or small at all. It feels like something that was already there in pieces and just hadn’t found a way into words yet. A glance that lasted too long. A warmth I dismissed. A flutter low in my stomach when he would smile at me. A thousand tiny moments that made more sense separately than they do now, standing in a line.