Chapter Seven #2
I pour a latte and slide it across the counter. I slide it too hard, the ceramic clicking against the granite. I don’t get attached. I don’t build routines around people who are just passing through. My jaw clenches. The truth is, I already did. And now I’m just waiting for the clock to run out.
Jules shows up at noon.
He walks in like he hasn't just been the subject of town-wide gossip. The bell chimes and I look up before I can stop my reflexes. He’s in a fitted T-shirt, his hair still damp, and he catches my eye. His smile shifts from "public" to "private."
“Hey,” he says, reaching the counter.
Aaron beams. “Jules! Your usual?”
Jules points at him. “You know me too well, Aaron.”
He leans his elbow on the counter, his attention locking onto me. He studies my face for half a second, and I see the moment he clocks the change. The warmth in his eyes dims. He sees the wall.
“You opened,” he says, trying for a joke.
“It’s my shop, Jules.”
He lifts a brow. “Okay. You’re in a mood.”
“I’m not in a mood. I’m working.”
“You’re brooding, Wes. There’s a difference.”
I wipe the counter again. It’s already spotless. “Do you want coffee, or are you just here to critique my personality?”
Jules’s mouth twitches. He likes the bite. But his gaze stays steady. “I want coffee. And I want you to stop looking at me like I’m a stranger.”
My chest tightens. “You leaving town?” I ask. It’s blunt. It’s a grenade dropped right on the espresso machine.
The air shifts. Aaron suddenly finds something very important to do in the back.
Jules doesn't blink. He just lets out a slow, tired breath. “Is that what this is? Who’ve you been talking to?”
“It doesn't matter. Is it true? Are you on a temporary rotation for six months?”
Jules leans forward, his voice dropping. “Wes. Look at me.”
I don't want to. But I do.
“I’m on rotation, yes,” he says calmly. “Most new hires are. But that doesn't mean I’m packing a bag the second the clock strikes six months. I took this job because I wanted to be here. I wanted a change.” He pauses. “And now I want you.”
“Want what? A six-month distraction?”
Jules’s jaw tightens. “Stop looking for the exit, Wes. I’m standing right here. I’m not a rumor.”
“You’re a firefighter, Jules. You go where the fire is. And when the fire’s out, you move on.”
“Is that what I am to you? A fire?”
I don't answer. He is a fire—the kind that warms you up until you forget that eventually, everything turns to ash.
I slide his coffee across. I don't spill it, but the hostility is there. “Here’s your coffee.”
Jules looks at the cup, then back at me. He doesn't take it. “You don’t get to act like that's it and pass me a coffee. We’re having a conversation. Office. Now.”
“I have customers—”
“Aaron’s got it,” Jules says as Aaron walks back in, his voice firm. He doesn't wait for me to agree; he just walks toward the back hall.
I shut the office door, and the silence hits like a pressure change. Jules is standing by my desk, looking out of place in my cramped sanctuary, arms crossed. Eyes focused on me.
“You gonna tell me what’s really going on?” he asks.
“I told you. I don't do uncertainty.”
Jules steps into my space. I can smell the citrus and the steam from his coffee. “Wes. You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared. I’m practical.”
“No, you’re terrified,” he says softly. “You’re so used to people leaving that you’re trying to kick me out before I can even decide to stay. I’m right here, Wes. I’m not leaving you.”
The words land like a punch to the ribs. I’m not leaving you.
“I didn't ask you to stay,” I mutter.
“Yes, you did,” he says. “You asked when you showed up at my door. When you climbed into my bed. Don’t lie to me now.”
I grit my teeth. “You’re a threat, Jules. To everything I’ve built here. To the way I survive. You walk in here like you’re permanent. Like I’m supposed to make space for you.”
His eyes flash. “You already have.”
“I don’t plan around people.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You do. You just call it coincidence.”
I step back, putting space between us. “You think this is easy for me?”
“I don’t think it’s easy,” he says. “I think it’s worth it.”
“Then come to me,” he continues. He’s standing still, his hand outstretched. “I’m not going to chase you in circles, Wes. If you want me, you have to step forward.”
It’s the first time he’s ever truly challenged me. I feel safe and absolutely petrified.
“You’re good at this,” I swallow.
Jules huffs a small, sad laugh. “I’m not. I’m just tired of pretending I don't want you.”
I don’t think. I just move.
I step into him, my hands gripping his shirt, and I press my mouth to his.
It starts rougher than I mean it to—teeth, breath, frustration.
He makes a low sound and his hands come up fast, fisting in the back of my hoodie, pulling me flush against him.
For half a second, it turns hungry. Not careful. It’s simply need.
My fingers curl into his collar like I’m trying to anchor him there. He tastes like coffee and something dangerously steady. He’s hard against me, a blunt, undeniable pressure that makes my heart stutter in my throat. It’s too much. It’s the kind of heat that doesn't just warm you—it levels you.
Then reality slams back in—the shop, the thin walls. I pull back first, because I don’t trust myself not to keep going.
He exhales against my lips, his hands finding my waist, letting it be a moment of truce. I rest my forehead against his. “I’m a mess, Jules.”
“I noticed,” he whispers. “Good thing I like messes.”
The office door creaks. Aaron’s voice comes through the wood, muffled but unmistakably nosy. “I’m not saying I heard kissing, but the silence in there is very suspicious!”
I shut my eyes, a genuine laugh bubbling up in my chest for the first time all day. Jules laughs too, it's soft, helpless, and real.
“He’s dead,” I mutter.
“He’s alive. Unfortunately,” Jules grins. I turn toward the door to leave, but when I move, he doesn't follow.
He stays anchored where he is. “Wait. Give me a minute or two.”
I stop, giving him a confused look over my shoulder. “For what? I need to get back out there before Aaron starts charging admission.”
Jules doesn't answer with words. He just steps into me, his hands landing on my waist to pull me flush against him one last time. He hitches his hips forward, a slow, deliberate tilt that presses the hard, heavy length of him right into my thigh.
My breath hitches. It’s blunt and undeniable.
He gives me a look—eyebrows raised, eyes dark and slightly hooded—that says this is the reason. “Unless you want the tourists asking questions,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating against my temple. “I’m staying behind the door for a second.”
I swallow hard, my own blood humming. “Right. Good call.”
He lets me go, but the ghost of that pressure stays with me. “That’s better. Your eyes... they look like you’re actually here again.”
I don't know what to do with that, so I just open the door and shove my way back into the shop first.
After he’s able to come out, Jules doesn't hang around. He finishes his coffee and leaves. But before he goes, he leans over the counter and says, “Text me later.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
The rest of the day is... manageable.
Closing time comes. Aaron leaves, and I stand alone in the shop. My phone feels like it weighs ten pounds. If you text him, it means you want this. If you want this, it can hurt you.
The lights hum overhead. The stairs to my apartment are right there. Fifteen steps to safety. I could go upstairs and convince myself today didn’t happen. I could pretend I didn’t almost lose something because I got scared of a rumor.
My hand brushes the counter where Jules leaned earlier. I can still see him there, refusing to let me shove him out of the narrative.
Six months. Maybe less. Or maybe more.
Maybe it’s not about the timeline. Maybe it’s about whether I keep choosing him while he’s here. I think about my mother’s pale blue hospital blanket. I think about the way I store things in boxes. And then I think about Jules’s citrus shampoo.
I pull out the phone.
Me: You home?
The reply is instant.
Jules: Yep. You coming over or are you just flirting like an idiot?
My mouth twitches.
Me: I’m not flirting.
Jules: You’re texting me. That’s flirting for you.
Me: Shut up.
Jules: Make me.
Heat shoots through me. I could close the app. But I’m tired of that part of me winning.
Me: I heard something today and it got in my head. I’m sorry.
There’s a long pause. Then:
Jules: Thanks for telling me.
Jules: I’m not leaving, Wes.
Jules: And I’m not chasing you. But I do want you here.
My chest aches, but it’s the unclenching kind.
Me: Give me ten.
Jules: I’ll be here.
I grab my jacket and lock the shop door. The bell jingles behind me, a bright, clear sound in the night. This time, I don’t feel like I’m running. I feel like I’m finally walking toward something.
The walk to Jules’s place is usually seven minutes. Tonight, it feels like forty. Every step is a debate. My brain is a lawyer presenting a closing argument for why I should turn around: It’s late. You’re tired. You’re already in too deep. Think about the six months.
But my feet don't listen.
When I reach his porch, I don't knock. I just stand there for a second, watching the porch light catch the fine mist of the evening air. I can see the light on in his living room—a warm, amber glow that looks far too inviting. I reach for my phone to tell him I’m here, but the door swings open before I can even unlock the screen.
Jules is standing there in a pair of grey sweatpants and nothing else. He looks like he was halfway to bed, or maybe he was just waiting by the door. The sight of him—the broad slope of his shoulders, the ink on his skin, the way he looks completely unburdened—makes my throat tight.
“You’re late,” he says, but there’s no bite in it. He reaches out, grabs the front of my shirt, and hauls me inside.
The heat of the house hits me, but it’s nothing compared to him.
He doesn't give me a chance to overthink it.
He backs me up against the door, and the air between us is already stifling.
His hands don't hesitate, sliding up under the hem of my shirt to find bare skin, his palms hot.
His palms are rough, calloused, and hot against my skin.
“Wes,” he breathes against my neck. “Tell me you’re not here to talk about the weather.”
“I’m not here to talk,” I manage to rasp.
I reach up, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down until our mouths collide. This isn't like the office. There’s no Aaron on the other side of the door. No tourists. No thin walls. It’s just us and the quiet hum of a house that feels way too much like a home.
He groans into the kiss, his hands moving to my waist, lifting me until I’m forced to wrap my legs around him. I’m a mess of limbs and adrenaline, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s constantly shifting.
He carries me toward the bedroom, his stride steady even with my weight anchored to him. When we hit the mattress, it’s not graceful. It’s a tangle of denim and discarded cotton, of skin meeting skin in the dark.
Jules moves over me, his weight a grounding pressure I didn't know I needed. He kisses the line of my jaw, his thumb tracing the shell of my ear. “You’re shaking,” he whispers.
“Shut up,” I mutter, but I pull him closer.
I’m shaking because I’m terrified. I’m shaking because I’ve never let anyone in this far. Jules seems to sense it—that specific, jagged edge of my panic. He doesn't rush. Instead, he reaches for the drawer of his nightstand, the small sound of it opening cutting through the quiet.
He slides a hand between us, his fingers slick and warm as they find me. I gasp, my back arching off the mattress, but he stays steady.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing vibration against my skin. “I’ve got you, Wes. Just breathe.”
He works slowly, his fingers pressing deep and deliberate, stretching me open until the initial sharp sting fades into a heavy, pulsing ache.
He watches my face the whole time, his thumb brushing my cheekbone, catching a stray tear I didn't even know had escaped. He’s checking for a "no" that I’m not going to give him. He’s making sure I’m actually with him.
When he finally nudges my knees further apart and settles between my thighs, I’m pliable, my body humming with a desperate, heavy sort of need.
“You okay?” he asks, his forehead resting against mine.
“Yes,” I choke out, my fingers fisting in his hair to pull him down. “Please, Jules. I need you inside me.”
He sinks into me then, slow, excruciatingly careful, and so full that it feels like he’s filling up every hollow, lonely space I’ve spent years guarding. It's not just a physical sensation; it’s a takeover.
I don’t think about the six months or the rumors or the boxes I keep in my head. I just feel him. The way his heart beats against my chest. The way he says my name like it’s a secret he’s finally allowed to tell.
Later, when the room is quiet and the only sound is the distant hum of a moth hitting the window screen, I lay there with my head on his chest. His skin is damp, and he’s tracing idle patterns on my shoulder.
“Wes?”
“Yeah?”
“I meant what I said. I’m not going anywhere.”
I don’t answer. I can’t promise him the same thing yet. But I don’t pull away, either. I just close my eyes and let the scent of citrus and sleep take over.
This time, I don’t feel like I’m running. I feel like I’m finally walking toward something.