Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Jude
The fire was dying, but I didn’t move to feed it. Some things are meant to burn down to embers.
Around me, the circle disbanded like a dream losing shape in the morning light. Blankets were folded, cushions stacked, jars of salt sealed and stowed. Someone was humming off-key as they packed away their crystals. Another murmured a goodbye that floated into the trees like a breeze.
I nodded, smiled, touched shoulders, returned hugs. A few wanted one last word, a blessing, a confirmation that the energy was good. I gave what I could, but my focus kept sliding sideways.
Back to him.
Julian hadn’t said a word since Doug placed the herbs in the fire. But he hadn’t left either.
He stayed.
Leaning back on his hands like he wasn’t trying to look invested. Like he wasn’t watching me out of the corner of his eye while pretending to study the sky. But I felt him watching. Felt it like heat on the back of my neck.
He made me nervous in a way that wasn’t unpleasant. Like standing too close to a high ledge. Beautiful view, beautiful thrill. Just don’t lean too far.
Everyone else eventually vanished down the winding trail, headlights winking through the trees one by one. Someone shouted, “Namaste, bitches!” and I smiled to myself.
And then it was just us.
The fire crackled softly. A single pop. The smell of rosemary lingered.
Julian shifted in his seat, drawing one knee up and wrapping an arm around it. His hair had fallen a little onto his face. He didn’t push it back. He looked younger in the firelight. Not less jaded, just… more human.
“Do you always throw parties like that, or was this just for me?” he asked.
His voice was low. Not sarcastic, exactly.
I looked at him for a long moment. “If I threw it for you, would that make you feel special or suspicious?”
He tilted his head. “Both.”
That made me laugh. I wasn’t used to that kind of humor around here—dry and sharp-edged, like a wine you’re not sure if you like or if you’re just impressed by.
“I didn’t expect you to show up,” I admitted. “Not tonight.”
He lifted a brow. “Why not?”
“You seem like someone who likes to watch from a safe distance.”
“Maybe I got bored.”
“Or maybe,” I said, letting the pause stretch just a little, “something pulled you in.”
His mouth did this thing. Almost a smile. Almost. But his eyes never left mine.
“Don’t read too much into it,” he said. “I came for the story.”
I nodded, even though I didn’t believe him. Not fully.
He leaned forward a little, the light catching in the curve of his cheekbone. “But I’ll admit… it didn’t go how I expected.”
“Disappointed?”
“Confused.”
I liked the honesty in that. Even if it was reluctant.
He was quiet for a beat. Then: “You looked different tonight.”
I arched a brow. “Than what?”
“Than you did at the bar. Calmer. Softer.” He shrugged one shoulder. “It was kind of annoying.”
That made me laugh again. “Sorry to disarm you.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m still plenty armed. Just maybe not against you.”
Something in my chest fluttered. And I felt it again—that certainty I hadn’t dared name. That this wasn’t random. Julian hadn’t come to Riverbend for a podcast. Not really.
“You know,” I said quietly, “I think you’re hurting more than you want to admit.”
His body went still, like an animal clocking a sudden sound in the woods.
“You think you know me?”
“No. But I know pain.”
His jaw worked, just slightly. “Yeah? You heal people with rocks and chanting. I bet pain shows up a lot.”
“I didn’t say I heal people,” I said. “I said I know pain.”
That caught him off guard. I saw it in his eyes. The way they searched mine.
I turned to the fire, watching a curl of smoke rise. “I nearly died once.”
Julian didn’t interrupt.
“It was about four years ago. A car accident. Coming back from Richmond on Route 33. It was raining, and I was tired. I should’ve pulled over, but I didn’t.”
I heard him shift beside me. Leaning closer.
“I don’t remember the crash. Not the moment of it. Just the spin. The sound of metal. Then silence.”
I swallowed.
“And light. But not like I was seeing something outside of me. I was in it. I was the light. It was everywhere. Through me, around me. But it didn’t burn. It soothed.”
Julian said nothing, but I felt his focus. Tangible.
“I couldn’t hear words, but I understood everything.
Like the universe had pulled me into its chest and was just holding me.
There was no fear. No doubt. I felt… known.
Completely. And loved, not in spite of who I was, but because of it.
Every wound, every mistake, every complicated, broken part of me was met with kindness. ”
I closed my eyes. The memory still made my throat tight.
“I didn’t want to come back.”
Julian’s voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “So why did you?”
I looked at him again. Really looked.
“Because someone needed me. Maybe a lot of someones. I don’t know. But I felt that call—like the light was pushing me back into myself, like it was whispering not yet.”
Julian didn’t respond right away. He looked away, then down, then he finally stood. For a second I thought he was leaving.
But then he walked over and sat next to me. Not just beside me. Next to me. Close enough that his thigh brushed mine.
I felt that heat again. The gravity of him.
He didn’t look at me. Just stared at the fire, his voice quiet.
“I’ve never believed in anything like that,” he said. “Not the universe, or some silly spirit guides. Not light or destiny. I don’t think anyone’s watching over me.”
“I think someone is.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re still here.”
He let that sit. Then he turned his head.
Our faces were inches apart.
“And what if I don’t want to be saved?”
I smiled faintly. “Then I won’t try.”
“But you want to.”
His voice dropped. My heart stuttered.
“I want to know you,” I said honestly.
He shifted closer. “I’m not easy to know.”
“I don’t need easy.”
His hand brushed mine. Barely.
Then again, firmer. His fingers grazed my wrist.
And just like that, the space between us collapsed.
His lips hovered close to mine. Not touching. Just breathing the same air.
And for a moment, I forgot every rule I’d ever made for myself. To never mix the personal with the spiritual, and to protect my energy, my heart, my calling.
Because Julian was breaking through all of that with one look.
He didn’t kiss me. Not yet.
But he was inviting it.
Tempting me.
And God help me… I wanted to say yes.
The air between us was taut—alive with something unspoken but undeniable. But just as I leaned in, as the heat between us began to rise, the sound of laughter broke through the trees.
Not close. But loud enough.
Julian turned his head. “Did you hear that?”
I nodded, already pulling away. “Teenagers. Probably from the trailer park off Church Street. They come through the woods to get high and scare each other.”
Julian snorted. “Hope they don’t stumble into your fairy circle.”
“I’ve blessed the path,” I said, half-joking. “The spirits might get to them before they get to us.”
That earned a grin, but the moment had broken. Just a little. The fire had burned too low to keep the illusion intact.
Still, I wasn’t ready for the night to end. Not yet.
I looked at him, feeling suddenly shy. “Do you… want to come inside? For a drink?” I gestured toward the Healing Center. “I’ve got a bottle of wine. Local stuff. Made just outside Charlottesville.”
Julian arched a brow like he was deciding whether to tease me or take me up on it. “Sure,” he said. “But only if it’s not made from crystals or moonlight.”
“It’s fermented grapes, I promise,” I said with a small smile. “But I can bless it if that helps.”
He gave me a crooked little grin, and we stood, brushing bits of ash and grass from our clothes.
The Healing Center was peaceful at night—more than peaceful. Sacred. It was built to breathe with the surrounding forest. Wide windows. Cedar floors. Soft lamplight instead of overhead glare. The energy inside felt… aligned. Like walking into the calm after a prayer you didn’t know you’d made.
Julian slowed as we entered, eyes scanning the space. His tone shifted. “This place is…” He didn’t finish.
“Quiet?” I offered.
He nodded. “Tranquil.”
“It holds energy well,” I said, letting the door click softly shut behind us. “People come in vibrating with grief, anger, anxiety. By the time they leave, they’ve usually dropped some of it at the door.”
He didn’t answer. Just looked around like he was trying to figure out what he felt.
I led him to the back, up a set of narrow stairs to the loft where I lived.
It was small. Purposefully so. The roof angled low on one side, and the space was mostly open—just a bed, a couch, a coffee table.
A kitchenette tucked against the far wall, a tiny bathroom behind a sliding barn door.
The walls were bare except for one old photo of my grandmother smiling in her garden. No clutter. No artifice.
Julian stepped in and blinked. “Jesus.”
I tilted my head. “Too much wood paneling?”
“No, it’s just…” He gave me a sideways glance. “It’s like a hotel room if monks ran the hotel.”
I smiled and stepped around him toward the counter. “I don’t enjoy owning a lot of things,” I said, pulling the wine from the cupboard. “Too messy. Too chaotic. Things get in the way.”
“Of what?” he asked, watching me.
“Stillness.”
He looked like he wanted to say something snarky. But he didn’t.
I poured two glasses, handed one to him. “Cheers?”
Julian didn’t answer. He set the glass down without drinking and took a single step forward.
And then, without a word, he kissed me.
Hard.
His mouth crashed into mine, hands sliding around my waist, gripping tight like he was afraid I might vanish if he didn’t hold on with everything he had.
I gasped—genuinely startled—and he used that moment to deepen the kiss. Tongue, teeth, a groan low in his throat. His body pressed to mine like a question with only one answer. He was urgent—all hunger and heat and motion.
I kissed him back, stunned by the force of it, until I felt his hands on my belt. Fingers fumbling, tugging, pulling my shirt out from my waistband like we had minutes to live.
“Wait—Julian,” I breathed, pulling back.
But he went for my neck instead, mouthing it rough, dragging his hands down my hips like he was mapping me by touch.
“Julian—” I said again, firmer now. “Wait.”
He paused just long enough to look me in the eye.
“Damn, I want you,” he said, voice thick, almost a growl. “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you in that fucking bar. I want to fuck you so bad it hurts.”
The words landed like cold water.
I stepped back.
Julian blinked at me, flushed and panting.
I shook my head slowly. My voice came out soft but steady. “I don’t want to be fucked.”
He froze. The realization flickered across his face. Something between confusion and embarrassment. Maybe even shame.
“I want more than that,” I said. “I want to know you. All of you. I want… to connect. Not just collide.”
Julian swallowed hard. His hands dropped away from me, and he glanced down like he was trying to figure out how to rewind time.
“I’m not judging you,” I added. “But this isn’t just sex for me. It never has been.”
He looked up then, eyes darker, guarded again. Like I’d just shut a door in his face.
“You don’t even know me,” he said, voice low.
I took a breath. “Not yet. But I want to.”
He stood there, shirt rumpled, belt unbuckled, chest rising and falling like he was coming down from a sprint.
And me? I was still buzzing. Still wanted him. But not like that.
Not like a storm.
Like a sunrise.
The silence stretched, awkward now. Charged in a new way.
I turned and picked up my glass of wine, taking a slow sip to ground myself. The flavor bloomed—berry and oak and something slightly sweet. From the mountains. From the earth.
“You can stay,” I said finally, voice quiet. “But only if we slow down.”
Julian nodded once. Still not meeting my eyes.
The fire between us hadn’t gone out. But it was different now. Not a blaze. A banked flame. Waiting.
And for the first time, I wondered if he even knew how to be touched without being devoured.
Julian said nothing for a while. He stood there, jaw clenched, gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder. His hands flexed at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.
Then he moved.
Fast.
Crossed the space between us, grabbed the collar of my shirt, and pulled me in for another kiss—this one harder, more desperate.
Less want and more need. His mouth was open, biting, breath hot.
His hands slid down my sides again, rough and impatient, like he could find something in me if he just touched deep enough, fast enough.
I broke the kiss, breath catching. “Julian—”
He didn’t stop. His fingers were back at my belt, pulling, yanking.
“Stop.” Firmer now. I grabbed his wrists. “Julian, stop.”
His hands dropped as if they’d been burned.
I stared at him, heart pounding. “You’re not listening to me.”
He looked wild for a moment. Unmoored. Like he’d just woken up and didn’t know where he was.
Then, that wall slammed back into place behind his eyes.
“Right,” he muttered, stepping away. “Got it.”
“Julian—”
But he was already walking toward the stairs.
“Julian, wait—”
He didn’t. He went down without looking back.
The front door of the Healing Center opened—creaked—and then slammed shut so hard it rattled the windowpanes.
Silence.
I stood there alone in the loft, the wine untouched, my skin still buzzing from his hands.
The slam echoed longer than it should have. Not in the room—in my chest.
Because I’d seen it. Just for a second. Before the anger. Before the retreat.
A flicker.
Pain.
Not the kind you show people. The kind you build entire careers to hide.
I walked to the window and looked down. The parking lot was dark, the gravel path dimly lit by one motion-activated lantern. I glimpsed Julian’s silhouette disappearing into the woods toward the trail.
Gone.
But not really.
I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to center myself. Trying to push down the ache he left behind.
Julian wasn’t just angry. He wasn’t just horny, or cold, or cynical.
He was wounded.
And I knew that kind of pain. The kind that makes you grab someone too tightly, kiss too hard, push instead of surrender. The kind that keeps love at arm’s length because it once got too close and shattered something.
He didn’t need a hookup.
He needed healing.
And even though tonight had ended with slammed doors and silence… I made myself a quiet promise:
I was going to help him find his light again.
Even if it broke me a little to try.