18. Julian
18
JULIAN
T he night air bites at my exposed skin, but I barely notice it anymore. What I do notice is how Ivy's shoulders tremble beneath my coat, the cashmere fabric drowning her small frame. The gesture was instinctive - seeing her shiver set off something primitive in me. The need to protect. To shelter.
Christmas lights drape every storefront as we walk downtown, casting multicolored reflections across the fresh snow. They dance in Ivy's amber eyes as she glances up at me, those delicate features softened by the glow. My hand finds the small of her back, guiding her through the bustling downtown crowd.
"Where are we going?" Her voice carries that musical lilt that's been haunting my thoughts.
I don't answer, steering her instead toward a weathered brick building tucked between two modernized storefronts. The café's windows frost at the edges, strings of white lights creating a warm halo around the entrance. Inside, the scent of chocolate and coffee wraps around us like a blanket.
"Find us a table." I shrug off my suit jacket, watching her navigate toward a corner booth. The way she moves, graceful despite those little heeled boots, draws more than a few appreciative glances from other patrons. My jaw clenches.
At the counter, I order two hot chocolates. "Extra whipped cream on both. And add those chocolate shavings." The barista's eyebrows lift at my tone - clearly not the usual request from someone in a three-piece suit.
Ivy's eyes widen as I set the oversized cups down. Towers of whipped cream teeter precariously, dark chocolate curls scattered across the white peaks like winter shadows.
"I wouldn't have pegged you for a hot chocolate guy." A smile plays at the corners of her mouth as she pulls the mug closer.
"There's a lot you don't know about me." The words come out rougher than intended, but her smile only grows.
I watch Ivy wrap her hands around the steaming to go cup, her slender fingers seeking its warmth. The sight stirs something - a memory that catches in my throat. And then, when she moans as she sips on the drink, my cock stirs, too.
"Let's go."
She hops up without question, pulling on her jacket and wrapping her palms around the hot chocolate. I hold mine in one hand as I press the other to her lower back and guide her out along the decorated storefronts.
"My mother and I used to do this." The words slip out before I can stop them. Something about being here always does that to me. "Every December, like clockwork."
Ivy's head tilts, those amber eyes fixed on mine. She doesn't push, just waits.
"We'd take the 146 bus from our walk-up in Uptown. Sometimes we'd have to wait in the cold for almost an hour because we could only afford off-peak fares." I trace the rim of my mug. "She worked as a cleaning lady, but she'd save quarters in this old Maxwell House coffee can all year. Just for one night downtown, one hot chocolate."
The memory floods back - the way Mom's hands would be raw and cracked from cleaning chemicals, but she'd still hold mine tight as we walked past Marshall Field's windows. The elaborate Christmas displays seemed like magic then - mechanical elves hammering away at toys, reindeer soaring through cotton-batting clouds.
"She'd let me press my face against the glass like all the other kids, even though we both knew we couldn't afford anything inside. But that didn't matter. We had our tradition - window shopping until my feet ached, then going to that café that still makes real hot chocolate."
I pause, the sweetness of the drink suddenly sharp on my tongue. "She'd always insist I get whipped cream on top, even though it cost extra. Said a boy should have something special at Christmas."
Ivy shifts, taking my free hand in hers. The touch is light, hesitant, but it anchors me to the present. To her. I've never held someone's hand so casually like this, but I don't let her go.
Ivy's thumb traces small circles on my palm. "You've never mentioned her before."
"No." The word comes out like gravel. I take another sip of hot chocolate, letting the sweetness chase away the bitterness of old memories. "She got sick when I was fifteen. Breast cancer that spread faster than we could keep up with. By the time we noticed the lump, it was already in her bones."
The Christmas lights blur at the edges of my vision. I blink them back into focus.
"We couldn't afford proper treatment. The free clinic did what they could, but-" My jaw clenches. "I watched her waste away in our one-bedroom apartment. Worked three jobs after school, trying to scrape together enough for pain meds. Some nights I'd come home and find her curled up on the bathroom floor, too weak to make it back to bed."
Ivy's hand tightens around mine. The pressure grounds me.
"She held on through my sixteenth birthday. Made me this awful cake - could barely stand long enough to mix the batter. But she was determined." I swallow hard. "Found her unresponsive the next morning. Never even got to say goodbye."
"And your father?" Ivy's voice is soft, careful.
"Never met him. Mom wouldn't talk about him much. Just said he wasn't worth knowing." I let out a harsh laugh. "Found out later he was some rich asshole who threw money at her to disappear when she got pregnant. Guess a bastard kid would've ruined his perfect family image."
The memory of finding those old checks while clearing out Mom's things still burns. Ten thousand dollars to erase me from existence before I was even born. She never cashed them.
But I fucking took his money and made something of myself.
"She worked herself to death keeping me fed and clothed. Never complained once." My voice deepens a little, and I tilt my head to look at Ivy. "I guess this time of year makes me think of her."
The softening in Ivy's eyes hits me like a physical blow. I didn't even think when I shared with her but if there is one thing I hate it's being pitied. My control snaps.
I grab her arm and back her against the storefront window, my fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath my coat she's still wearing. The hot chocolate cups clatter to the sidewalk, dark liquid seeping into the snow. Holiday lights cast shadows across her face as she stares up at me, those amber eyes wide.
"Don't." The word comes out as a growl. "I don't need your fucking pity. I'm not some broken thing you can fix with sweet words and soft touches."
My grip tightens, and I lean in close enough to catch the vanilla scent of her skin mixing with the winter air. "You think you understand me now? Think knowing about my past makes me less of a monster?"
I press my free hand against the window beside her head, caging me in. The anger in me is visceral because if there is one person that I ever wanted to know the truth about me and not look at me differently, it was her. "Every person I've hurt, every life I've ruined - those weren't things that happened to me. They were choices. My choices."
Her pulse races beneath my fingers, but she doesn't look away. Doesn't shrink back.
"I've watched men beg for their lives and pulled the trigger anyway. I've destroyed families for profit. And you know what?" I bare my teeth in something that's not quite a smile. "I don't regret a single fucking moment of it."
My voice drops lower, ice coating each word. "So don't look at me like that. Like I'm something that needs to be saved. You can't fix what isn't broken, sweetheart. And I'm exactly what I choose to be."
Ivy doesn't flinch from my grip. Her chin lifts, those amber eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"I was twenty." Her voice carries no tremor, no weakness. "Finals week, junior year. The call came at 3 AM - black ice on Lake Shore Drive. A semi couldn't stop in time."
My fingers loosen on her arm, but she doesn't move away.
"The police said it was quick. The car spun out, hit the guardrail." She speaks with a detachment that cuts deeper than tears ever could. "Mom died on impact. Dad held on for six hours in the ICU. I sat there watching his vitals drop, one by one, until there was nothing left but flat lines and silence."
The Christmas lights paint shadows across her face, highlighting the steel in her expression.
"So no, Julian. I don't pity you." Her hand comes up, pressing against my chest. Not pushing away, just resting there. "I understand what it means to walk past empty chairs at holiday dinners. To catch yourself picking up the phone to share news with someone who'll never answer again."
The heat of her palm burns through my shirt, searing into skin.
"You had sixteen years of hot chocolate and Christmas windows. I had twenty years of family dinners and weekend phone calls." Her lips curve in a smile that holds more pain than joy. "We both know exactly how much we lost. How it feels when December comes around and the memories hit harder than any physical blow."
The hollow ache in her voice mirrors something in my chest - a resonance I can't ignore.
"So save the intimidation tactics for someone who doesn't understand the weight of empty spaces at the table." Her fingers brush my jaw, feather-light against the stubble. "But don't mistake my understanding for pity. I don't want to fix you, Julian." The words ghost across my skin. "You're not broken."
Something shifts in my chest - a tectonic plate moving after centuries of stillness. Her touch breaks through years of carefully constructed walls, crumbling my defenses like they're made of sand.
I crash into her, claiming her mouth with mine. She tastes like chocolate and winter air, like understanding and acceptance. My hands frame her face, thumbs stroking over those high cheekbones as I press her against the frosted window. The glass must be cold through my coat, but she arches into me, fingers tangling in my hair.
Shoppers hurry past, their shadows dancing across us. Somewhere, a brass band plays Christmas music, the notes drifting through the evening air. But all I can focus on is the soft sound she makes when I deepen the kiss, the way her body fits against mine like she was made for this moment.
Her lips part beneath mine, and I taste more of that sweetness, that heat. My hands slide down to her waist, pulling her closer until there's no space left between us. Just shared breath and racing hearts and the understanding that we're both a little broken, both a little lost, but maybe that's what makes this feel so right.
The Christmas lights blur around us, casting us in shifting colors - red, green, gold. But her warmth is the only thing that matters. Her touch is the only anchor I need.
And it really solidifies that this is my favorite time of year.