Chapter 2
Julien
T he bar was right off the hotel lobby where I’d been staying the past few days.
I didn’t tell her that.
Not because I had anything to hide, but because I liked watching her put the pieces together on her own.
The second we step toward the entrance, I catch the hesitation, the slight shift in her weight, the way her arms fold neatly across her chest. A flicker of something sharp flashes in those pretty brown eyes, and just like that, I’ve been judged, sentenced, and convicted, all before I say a word.
Women look at me and see money, entitlement. A man too accustomed to getting his way, to flashing a smile and making them forget whatever problem they thought they had with me.
But this one?
She’s looking at me like I just confirmed something she already suspected. And damn if I don’t enjoy the way she’s making me work for it.
She stops just shy of the door, her gaze dragging over the hotel’s name etched in glass before sliding back to me. “You didn’t tell me we’d be going to your hotel.” She delivers it smoothly, effortlessly, but there’s an edge beneath the silk, sharp enough to nick if I wasn’t paying attention. She’s watching me like she’s waiting for me to fumble, and the challenge in her stare makes it hard not to smile.
“I didn’t think it made a difference.”
Her lips part—not in surprise, not in offense—just the smallest shift, like she didn’t expect me to play it straight.
“You didn’t think it made a difference,” she repeats. “A man invites me for a drink, and conveniently, the bar just so happens to be inside his hotel. That’s not information you thought I needed to know?”
She’s good.
Most women would’ve blushed, looked away, let me smooth-talk them out of the moment. But, she plants herself right there, chin lifted, gaze steady, waiting to see if I’ll bullshit her.
I don’t.
“Yes, I’m staying here,” I admit, voice even, unfazed. “And yes, I like their drinks. Both things can be true.”
Her brow lifts, skeptical but intrigued. “Convenient.”
I shrug. “Efficient.” That earns me something just shy of a smirk. A flicker of amusement she doesn’t mean to let slip. But I catch it.
“Still joining me?” I asked, tilting my head just enough to let her feel the weight of the question.
She watches me for another long beat, like she’s still deciding.
Then, with a slow, deliberate sigh—one I know is just for show—she steps past me into the lobby.
Damn. I like this woman.
I follow behind her, watching her move unhurried, unshaken, entirely at ease in a space built for men like me.
She takes in the dim lighting, the hushed murmur of voices, the live pianist filling the air with something soft and expensive. Luxury, understated and intentional. The kind of wealth that doesn’t need to announce itself.
If she’s impressed, she doesn’t show it. If this is new to her, she wears it like it isn’t.
And that? That does something to me.
A lot of women, when they step into places like this, either shrink or perform. Serena does neither.
She walks like she belongs. Like she was made for it.
Like she knows that when she steps into a room, the room should adjust—not her.
I like that about her.
We slide into a booth toward the back, the kind of spot where the rest of the world falls away. And maybe it’s the kiss still buzzing in my head, or maybe it’s the way she’s looking at me now, gaze steady, unreadable.
All I know is, I’m in no hurry for this night to end.
And I don’t think she is either.
I ordered a whiskey sour for myself and a shrimp po’boy for her. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just instinct.
I feel her eyes on me before I hear her speak.
Serena lifts a single brow, slow and deliberate, her lips curving with something that looks like amusement. “You always order for people without asking?”
I take my time, lift my drink, let the silence stretch before answering.
“Only for my woman.”
Her laugh is quick and sharp, like I caught her off guard. She leans in slightly, tilting her head, those brown eyes dancing as she studies me. “So, I’m your woman now?” she challenged, voice smooth, threaded with amusement. “I’ve known you what… five minutes?”
I lean in too, matching her energy, my voice low and even. “Long enough.”
She exhales, lips pressing together like she’s deciding what to do with that answer. Then, after a beat, she folds her arms, unimpressed.
“Oh really?” Her head tilts, gaze locking onto mine. “So you like control.” A slow blink. “First, you decide what I eat, and now you’re staking a claim without my consent?”
“It’s not about control.” I didn’t mean to, but my voice sounds more serious now. “It means you don’t have to worry about anything when you’re with me. It means I take care of mine.”
She doesn’t laughed now but I see the effect my words have on her. The way her fingers skim absently along the table’s edge. The way her breath hitches for just a fraction of a second before she smooths it over, like she wasn’t affected. But she doesn’t let me have the moment, doesn’t let me see too deep before she lifts her eyes again, challenge still dancing in them.
I hold her stare, letting the tension stretch. Letting her feel the way I mean every damn word I just said.
“I know I need your consent.”
My voice drops—soft, but certain. Measured. Intentional.
“I’m working on it.”
Her smirk comes slow, a knowing thing, like she’s enjoying the way I’m chasing something she hasn’t decided if she’ll give.
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“Not in my DNA.”
I let the words settle, thick and sure, let them rest between us like a bet placed on the table. She’s studying me now, drumming a single finger against the wood, watching, calculating.
“And what if I’m allergic?” she tests, her voice smooth, taunting.
There’s no hesitation.
“You’re not.”
Her smile deepens—just enough to let me know she likes the way I play this game. But those eyes? Still unreadable. She’s up to something. And I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
That almost never happens.
I’ve always been able to read people. Even as a kid, I could catch the shifts—the stiffening of shoulders before a lie, the way hesitation creeps into a voice, the stretch of silence that gives too much away. People tell on themselves without ever meaning to.
But not her.
Serena is a locked door with no key, a puzzle with missing pieces. A story she’s letting me read one slow, deliberate line at a time. And damn if I don’t want to turn the page.
She lifts a brow, her gaze flickering with something playful. “Oh, so now you’re clairvoyant?” Her fingers toy with the stem of her glass, the movement unhurried, deliberate. “I could take a bite, break out in hives, whip out an EpiPen, and then sue you for emotional distress.” She said it so damn seriously, I almost believe her.
I narrow my eyes, the corner of my mouth twitching. “You’d really sue the man who just saved you from a creep on the street?”
She holds my gaze—unblinking.
“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”
I shake my head, exhaling a low chuckle. “Bet. Take a bite—I got lawyers.”
Her hand hovers over the sandwich, her gaze locked on mine, holding, stretching, waiting.
The air between us thickens, something slow-building, simmering beneath the surface.
Finally, she picks up the sandwich, takes a bite, and leans back with a satisfied look.
She’s making a show of it, and I don’t mind being the audience.
“So?” I asked, not even sure what I’m waiting for.
She takes her time, swallows and dabs at the corner of her mouth. Then, a casual shrug. “Not bad. For someone who didn’t ask.”
Smart-ass.
She knows exactly what she’s doing. That mouth of hers, slick and sharp. I’m already thinking about what else it can do. My gaze lingers as she lifts a perfectly manicured finger, swiping at the corner of her mouth slow and effortless. Then, she licks it clean.
Goddamn.
My grip tightens around my drink, and for a second, I swear she hears the shift in my breath. I don’t look away.
“Enjoying the view?” she asked, one brow arched, daring me.
“More than you know.”
She doesn’t shy away. Just picks up a shrimp with her fingers, holds my gaze, and takes another bite.
Suddenly, violently, she starts shaking.
Her shoulders tremble, body convulsing, a sharp, jerky movement that has me standing before I can think. I reach for her, my pulse kicking up, but then she leans back and laughs. A real, rich, unapologetic laugh. One that fills the space and spills into me before I can be mad about it.
People at the bar glance over, but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t shrink herself. I throw a napkin at her and laugh even harder.
“You play too much,” I said, shaking my head, but my mouth betrays me with a smile.
Tilting forward onto her elbows, eyes bright and warm. It’s like she’s lit up from the inside. “You should’ve seen your face.”
I lean back against the booth, watching her.
She’s still laughing, shaking her head, completely unguarded in a way I don’t think she realizes. Suddenly, I realized this was my first good look at her tonight. The light catches her face, and her smile owns the moment like it belongs to her. I knew she was beautiful when I first saw her. But like this?
She’s something different.
For a second, there’s something quiet in the space between us.
Something real. Something softer beneath all the sharp edges and quick-witted banter.
And it’s the kind of moment that makes a man forget why he was trying to impress her in the first place.
Because right now, in this tucked-away booth, watching her laugh, really laugh, listening to the way she says things like she doesn’t care if they land right or wrong…
This is the freest I’ve felt in a long time. Didn’t realize how much I missed it. Because when you give a man your blood, your sweat, your years, and when you break yourself open, piece by piece, only to have him turn around and hand everything you built to his bastard son?
It does something to you.
It makes every moment feel like a fight. Makes you look at people like problems waiting to happen. Makes trust feel like a liability instead of a choice.
And maybe that’s why this feels different.
Serena doesn’t know any of that.
She doesn’t see the man locked in a war with ghosts that refuse to stay buried. She’s not watching me like I owe her something. Not waiting for a misstep, another favor, a fight.
She’s just here.
And so am I.
And I didn’t realize how much I needed that.
This feels like standing too close to an open flame. Knowing better. Still reaching.
Because as I watch Serena now, there’s something in her eyes...a flicker of heat, a spark of challenge, daring me to step closer.
And I want to know how far she’ll let me go.
Her eyes squinted, making a cute expression. “Where’d you go?”
“What?”
“You drifted off for a sec there.”
She picks up her sandwich, takes a bite, and moans a soft, effortless sound that lands low in my stomach and settles deep.
My jaw flexes.
Damn.
“Guess I did well for my picky eater,” I said, voice even changing the subject, but my body’s already betraying me.
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the way her tongue flicks out to sweep a stray crumb from her lip, slow and precise, like she knows I’m watching. Like she likes it. She knows exactly where I’m drifting off to.
Shit.
“You’re insufferable,” she said, reaching for a fry, popping it into her mouth before she’s even finished chewing the last. “And you’re really just gonna sit there and watch me eat alone?”
She flicks a glance at my drink, her eyes lingering. I let her take her time. She said she doesn’t drink; now I wondered what was on her mind.
“I’m on a strict diet,” I said, slow and easy. “Everything here is drenched in oil or packed with starch.”
Her gaze drags over me at my words, slowly taking me in, measuring, like she approves.
She tilts her head, lips curving slightly. “Couldn’t be me.”
Then, with a lazy shrug, she pops another fry into her mouth, chewing like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
“I’d never skip a meal.”
I chuckled, watching her eat without hesitation. A lot of women pick at their food, self-conscious under someone else’s gaze. But Serena? She tosses back three more fries like she couldn’t care less.
“What?” She grins. “I’m a hardworking woman. I should be draped in jewels, stretched out on a velvet couch, with half-naked men feeding me grapes and fanning me.”
I lift a brow. “Let me guess, you’re the spoiled type?”
She tilts her head, considering, her eyes locked onto mine. “Depends…”
“On?”
A slow, knowing smile curves her lips. “On who’s doing the judging. If you’re not used to what I’m used to, you’d probably think I’m spoiled.”
I take a slow sip, letting her words settle. “Sounds like something a spoiled woman would say.”
She lifts a brow, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips, and I swear it’s got me locked in tighter than I care to admit. “And you’re telling me you’re not a little spoiled yourself?” Her gaze dips, taking in the sharp lines of my suit, the cut of my sweater. “That’s not off the rack. And this…” She reaches out, running her fingers along the fabric, her touch lingering longer than necessary. “Cashmere?”
I shrug, keeping my voice even, but her words land deeper than she realizes. “Guess you’ve got a good eye for quality.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “I do. In more ways than one.”
My jaw tightens slightly, and before I can stop myself, I break eye contact, adjusting my sweater—an old habit, something I haven’t done since I was a kid.
It’s unsettling, the way she looks at me, not like a woman impressed, not like someone trying to figure out what she can get from me. No, she looks at me like she already knows exactly who I am. Like she’s already made up her mind.
I lift my glass, let the weight of it sit in my palm as I watch her across the table.
Serena is impossible to ignore.
The way she moves, the way she carries herself, like she doesn’t ask for attention, but it always finds her anyway.
She tilts her head slightly, watching me, those sharp brown eyes flicking over my face like she’s deciphering something.
“I’m good at reading people,” she said, tone smooth, self-assured.
I smirk, taking a slow sip before setting my glass down, the ice clinking. “Oh yeah?” I meet her gaze head-on, letting the moment stretch. “And what’s your read on me?”
She exhales, like she’s already figured me out. Like the answer is too easy.
Leaning closer, her eyes narrowed, not suspiciously, but calculatingly.
Like she’s unlocking something I didn’t even realize I had hidden.
I chuckle, mostly out of disbelief. “What, you got some kind of psychic ability?”
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile.
Just stares.
That looked deep, unrelenting, peeling me apart layer by layer.
And fuck if I don’t feel it.
I shift slightly, rolling my shoulders, adjusting my watch. Something to ground myself.
Because she’s seeing too much, and I don’t like being seen.
I glance down at my empty glass, caught off guard by my own reaction. When was the last time anyone made me feel like this?
“Control.”
Her voice is quiet, but the weight of it presses against my chest.
My head snaps up. “What?”
She holds my gaze, steady, sure. “You like control.”
I let the word sit between us, roll it over on my tongue. “Because I ordered your meal?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Just studies me. Her lips part, but she hesitates, like she’s deciding whether I’m worth the explanation.
Then she sits back, arms folding over her chest, voice like silk but sharp as a blade.
“You’ve got kind eyes,” she said slowly, deliberately. “But I can tell they go cold when they need to. You move like a gentleman, but not because you are one, because you choose to be. And underneath all that patience?” She tilts her head. “You’re the kind of man who doesn’t wait for what he wants.”
Shit.
I exhale, a low chuckle slipping out. “And that makes me controlling?”
She nods. “A little.”
There’s something smug in her expression, something amused that I don’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed by.
“It means you like having the upper hand,” she continued, tapping a single finger against the table, watching me like she’s testing a theory. “Not just in this conversation. In everything.”
I don’t respond right away.
Because she’s not wrong.
But I don’t like that she figured it out so fast.
I let the silence breathe, let the tension stretch, watching her the way she’s watching me.
“Don’t we all have two sides?” My voice is smooth and steady. “Matter of fact, layers?”
She hums, unimpressed.
“Sure, people have layers,” she said, her tone easy, almost casual. But her eyes? They don’t match. They’re cutting through the space between us.
“But people with sides—like a coin?” She lets the words settle, slow and intentional. “That’s different. That’s a little more dangerous. Makes you wonder how much of the other side they’re hiding.”
I smirk. “And what side do you think I’m hiding?”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to.
The way she watches me says it, she doesn’t trust me.
I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice. “Are you afraid of me, Serena?”
Her body doesn’t shift, or tense. She just watches me, gaze unreadable.
Then, finally, she said, “Not really.”
But there’s a flicker behind her eyes. Something that makes me press my forearms against the table, letting her feel the weight of my presence.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
She tilts her head. “I fear all men to a certain extent.”
I blinked, surprised not by what she said, but by her casual tone.
Matter of fact and unapologetic. She picks up her drink, swirling the liquid slowly before taking a sip. “I’d be na?ve if I didn’t.”
I become serious, leaning closer slightly. “You afraid of me, Serena?” She doesn’t answered right away, she sitting in the silence.
I don’t know why that lands the way it does. Maybe because she doesn’t say it like an accusation. Doesn’t dress it up to make it easier to swallow. Just states it—like it’s fact.
Fear like that isn’t born, it’s taught and pressed into you, moment by moment, until you stop questioning it one day. Until it becomes instinct. Someone, somewhere, made her learn. That stays with you. The honesty in her words catches me off guard.
I stare at her, the weight of what she said settling deep in my chest. “People can break you so badly, it makes you fear an entire demographic.” Her expression shifts. The teasing flicker in her eye dims, that sexy, knowing smirk fading into something quieter, guarded.
Her brows pull together slightly. “I’m not broken.”
I don’t flinch or backtrack, watching her closely.
“Maybe not.” My voice stays even, easy. “But we’ve all got broken pieces—jagged edges that cut if you get too close. That’s just being human.” Her shoulders eased a little.
I watch her as I swirl the whiskey in my glass, letting the silence stretch. Letting the heat between us settle into something thick and charged.
“What do you do?”
She lifts a brow, visibly intrigued at the shift in conversation. “For work?”
I nod. “I’m curious. You seem to have men all figured out.”
That slow smirk tugs at her lips, the kind that says I just walked into something I won’t walk out of the same.
She lifts her glass, takes her time sipping, unrushed. Making me wait. Then, setting it down with a soft clink, she tilts her head, eyes gleaming.
“I work in lingerie.”
I pause. I didn’t see that coming. I was expecting something political. Journalism, maybe. Corporate. Anything but that. A single beat where the words settle between us, light but charged. Like she’s waiting for my reaction. I should play it cool. Nod, ask a polite follow-up, move right along.
But my gaze betrays me.
It flickers to her hands.
Soft pink nails, tapping against her glass—delicate and feminine. And now I’m wondering if it matches the possible lace beneath her blouse. If it clings to her like a second skin, something silky soft and meant to be touched. I drag my eyes back up before I linger too long, but she’s already watching me, a knowing tilt of her lips.
I exhale, shaking my head, a quiet chuckle slipping out. “Lingerie?”
She shifts slightly, gaze flicking downward—right where my eyes had been a second ago. Right on her breast, she caught me. My jaw flexes, but her smirk only deepens.
“That’s funny to you?”
I let my arm drape over the back of the booth, taking my time with my answer. Letting her feel the way I’m watching her.
“Nah,” I said finally, voice smooth. “Didn’t expect you to make a living making men thirsty.”
She hums, swirling the last of her drink in her glass, gaze heavy-lidded and unreadable. “Oh, I don’t make them thirsty,” she murmured, her voice like the slow drag of silk. “They do that all on their own.”
I bite my tongue, interested to know where she’s going with this.
“They like to think they’re in control.” She said making a point to nod in my direction. Her voice is soft and unhurried. Like she’s sharing a secret meant only for me. Her eyes locked on mine. “But they never are.”
I arch a brow, intrigued. “No?”
She shakes her head once, slow and deliberate. “Men are visual creatures.”
Her voice is smooth, almost absentminded, as if she’s speaking a truth so simple, so undeniable, it doesn’t even need further thought. Her gaze flicks downward to the glass in her hand. Only ice remains.
She plucks a single cube between her fingertips, rolling it, watching the way it catches the dim light. Studying it like it holds secrets.
“It doesn’t even have to be something obvious.”
Her voice dips, quiet and contemplative, like she’s sharing a secret. One she already knows I’ll understand.
I shouldn’t be watching her fingers that closely. But I am.
The ice glistens against her skin as she turns it, lets it melt slightly, lets it slide between her fingertips like she’s testing the sensation.
Then, she lifts it to her lips.
Presses it there.
A slow drag. A shimmer of moisture left behind. And suddenly, the most innocent motion isn’t innocent at all. It’s something slower. Hotter. Something meant to be watched.
My grip tightens around my glass.
Whatever she’s doing, she knows exactly what it looks like.
And fuck if I’m not locked in.
I flick a glance around, half-expecting to find another poor bastard caught in the same spell. But there’s no one close enough to notice.
This is just for me.
She tilts her head slightly, eyes flicking up, studying my reaction beneath thick lashes. The ice still balanced between her fingers, just barely brushing her lips.
“The second an image is planted,” she murmured, voice a slow, teased drag of silk, “a man will do anything to bring it to life.”
Her words settle, thick and charged.
And then—slowly, excruciatingly slowly—she presses the cube fully to her lips.
Lets the cold bite into them.
Lets the anticipation linger.
And then—her mouth parts, just enough.
The ice slips past the curve of her lips, disappearing inch by inch until it’s gone, her tongue flicking against it before she pulls it fully into her mouth.
My jaw flexes. My pulse kicks up.
And she sits there, watching me, like she didn’t just set my blood on fire with nothing but a damn ice cube.
Fuck.
Now, I had the image of her on her knees—lips parted, eyes locked on mine—giving me the same slow, deliberate treatment as that ice cube.
“It’s getting hot in here, isn’t it?” her brown eyes dancing with mischief. She’s not playing fair, and she’s enjoying every minute of it. Her words sit between us, thick in the air, charged in a way that makes my fingers itch against the glass. I study her, watching how she owns this moment—like she already knows how it will play out.
“And you?”
Her brows lift slightly. “What about me?”
I tilt my head, considering her. “What does it take to get you to lose control?”
It’s slight, so slight I almost miss it. That flicker of hesitation. Her fingers still against the table before she shifts, recovering smoothly. But I caught it. She exhales, gaze flicking to her glass before landing back on mine.
“You have to work to find out.”
***
I glance at my watch and realize we’ve been talking for over two hours. We moved from the booth to the bar. After Serena finished her meal, she convinced me to try a po boy, and then she even had the nerve to pick some of the shrimp off it. If she was anybody else, she wouldn’t be able to get away with that shit, but so far, I can’t deny this woman of anything, and that’s a dangerous game.
I liked sitting at the bar with her; it felt intimate, like we were in our own little world.
The bar lights made her look even prettier.
I picture how sexy it would be, her lips slightly parted and her face lost in pleasure as I stroke deep in that pussy, hearing her chant my name like a prayer.
Her body was so close I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, and she was turned to face me, fully engaged—a good sign.
I looked down and saw her skirt was hiked up, giving me a peek at her thick thighs, my gaze traveling down her toned legs and black fuck me heels, sharp and sexy. Every detail, from her curves to her confidence, is just one big tease.
She’s had my dick so hard I could hardly think straight.
Neither of us was drinking. So I can’t even blame it on the liquor. I’d started ordering Shirley Temples for both of us, figuring it felt rude to drink when she wasn’t. It turns out that sipping cherry soda while she laughed at my jokes wasn’t so bad.
We’ve talked about everything—favorite R she hasn’t seen most of the movies I suggested, so it shouldn’t be a shock that she hadn’t seen it, but I like getting under her skin as much as I want to make her laugh.
Moments like this, just kicking back and seeing her smile, feel rare—comfortable in a way that’s hard to find. She’s easy to talk to, sharp, and funny, and suddenly I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed someone’s company like this.
“Are you going to tell me what it’s about?” she sucks her teeth, clearly annoyed.
“Nope. I’d rather you go in blind,” I said, tossing her words from earlier right back at her. The look she shoots me is priceless. It’s the same look she gave when I dared to call Love Jones boring—blasphemy, apparently. She nearly lost her mind when I admitted I’d fallen asleep in the first fifteen minutes the only time I tried to watch it.
“What’s it about anyway?” I’d asked her, which earned me a full lecture about culture, romance, and why my opinion didn’t count anymore.
With her glare growing ever more intense, I can’t help but smile. It’s only fair to return the favor.
While we’re laughing about one of her favorite movie scenes, I catch her eyes drop to my arm as I roll up my sleeves. Her gaze lingers on the tattoo inked on my inner forearm—a triangle with a smaller one at the apex.
“Is that a mountain?” Her voice is softer now, curious.
I glance at the ink on my forearm—a triangle with a one smaller at the apex—and feel my stomach tighten. I forget it’s even there most days. The easy rhythm between us stumbles, like a needle scratching against vinyl. “Nah.” The word comes clipped, my voice lower, rougher than I meant it to be.
She notices.
Her brows pulled together slightly, sensing the shift. She didn’t say anything right away, studies me like she’s deciding whether to push or let it go. She waits a moment, her intrigue tangible. “Then what is it?”
I didn’t mean to go quiet for this long. At first, I was just turning the words over in my head, figuring out how to say them. But then the silence stretched, and I let it. This was my first tattoo, one of the only things inked into me permanently, and I never talked about it. Not really. Most people never asked, and the few that did got the same quick, rehearsed response—a couple of words, a half-truth, just enough to move the conversation along. But sitting here with Serena… it feels easy. Too easy. And I don’t know if I like that.
The thing about silence? It shifts, morphs. First, it’s comfortable. Then, it turns weighty. It becomes something else entirely, especially if you let it sit too long.
The way Serena’s body shifts just slightly, like she’s recalibrating, deciding if she’s overstayed in a moment I clearly didn’t want to share. She exhales, smooths her hand down her thigh, and reaches for her purse. Before I could think twice, I reach out. Not hard or possessive, enough that she stills. Her gaze flicks down to where my fingers rest lightly against her wrist, and her gaze meet mine. I exhale through my nose, my jaw tightening as I drag my hand away.
“My mother left when I was eleven,” I said, testing the words out loud.
Serena doesn’t react, only sets her purse back down sitting back into her seat her body facing me her warmth so closer than before. She waits patiently, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for me to be talking to her like this.
“She packed a bag, walked out, and never looked back.” I roll my glass between my palms. “Not a single phone call. No goodbye, no note…just gone.”
“This here,” I point back at the tattoo; her gaze follows. “Is a reminder,” I replied, still looking at the ink. The shape isn’t random; it’s deliberate. I chose this symbol because it’s more than a design—it’s a mantra. “To press forward,” I said, finally meeting her gaze. The weight of the words sits between us like a third presence. “No matter what—or who—happens to me.”
Something in her expression changes, like she knows exactly what I mean—knows it so well she doesn’t need me to explain. I see a glimpse of someone who’s had her share of battles and still found her way forward, the same as I did.
“I like it.” Her sharp, pink-manicured nails trace the tattoo’s outline, her touch light but deliberate, sending a rush of goosebumps over my skin. She notices—I know she does—because her palm smooths over my forearm, warm and soft, as if trying to soothe the hurt she knows lingers.
“My mom died when I was fifteen.” She said her gaze remaining on tattoo as she continued to trace it with her nail. I straighten slightly, caught off guard. It’s the first time she’s been this serious all night. The teasing, the banter, the challenges she keeps throwing my way—it’s all been walls, easy distractions. But this? This is a piece of her.
“How?” I asked, hoped the question doesn’t cause her to shut down.
To my surprise, she takes a breath and exhales slowly, and said, “Cancer.” Her fingers toyed with the napkin on the table, folding the corner before smoothing it back out. “Started as breast cancer. By the time they caught it, it had spread.”
She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, but there’s no lightness in it. “We had time. To say goodbye.” She tilts her head slightly. “But I don’t know if that made it better or worse.” I didn’t move, and neither did she.
This is something she’s had to learn how to carry, not a story she expects sympathy for. A chapter that still lives in her. A moment permanently inked into her memory, like my mother’s absence is inked into my skin. I don’t say I’m sorry. I sit there, letting the weight of her words settle between us, letting her have the silence she gave me. She looks up at me, something unguarded in her gaze, and for the first time tonight, it doesn’t feel like a game. It feels like we’re standing at the edge of something I don’t have a name for yet.
“Well,” she mused, tilting her head slightly. “That was heavier than I expected for a first date.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “This is a date now?”
She smirks. “No, but if it was, you’d be losing points.”
“Points?”
She nods, keeping her expression perfectly neutral, but I catch the flicker of playfulness behind it. “Mmhmm. Rule number one—trauma bonding does not count as flirting.”
A slow grin spreads across my face. “That a rule for all men, or just me?”
She taps her chin as if considering. “Especially you. You strike me as the type who gets away with too much already.”
I let her words settle for a second, watching her eyes hold mine, steady but teased. I’m enjoying how she doesn’t shy away. Letting the weight between us shift but not disappear.
I leaned in, dropping my voice just a fraction.
“That’s why you’re watching me so closely?”
Her lips curve, slow and knowing. “You always have this big a head, or is it just special for me?”
“Just for you,” I murmured, gaze locked on hers.
I should pull back. Give her space. But she doesn’t break, doesn’t fidget under the weight of my attention. Instead, she meets me there, holding the moment between us like she knows exactly what she’s doing with it.
“You always stare this much?” she asked, one brow lifting, teasing, but there’s something else woven in. Curiosity.
I take my time, letting my gaze drop to the curve of her lips before dragging it back up. Letting her feel me looking.
“No,” I said, voice low, words deliberate. “Most things aren’t worth looking at this long.”
Her breath catches—small, almost imperceptible—but I don’t miss it.
The air between us thickens. The bar fades—the low murmur of conversation, the clinking of ice against glass, the slow, honeyed pull of jazz weaving through the space. None of it matters. Not when she’s looking at me like that.
Like she’s already decided something. Like she’s waiting to see if I’ll follow.
Then—
“Man, y’all might wanna go ahead and get a room for the night—if you haven’t already.”
The moment shatters.
I blink, annoyance curling in my chest as I drag my gaze to the bartender. He’s older, salt-and-pepper beard, wiping down the counter like he’s seen a thousand moments like this before.
I narrow my eyes. The hell’s that supposed to mean?
Before I can say anything, he keeps talking.
“Storm came in hard,” he nods toward the doors. “Roads are already icing up. City wasn’t ready—again. No cabs, no Ubers, nothing. If you not tryna sit stuck on Peachtree all night, I’d get real comfortable.” He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Only in Atlanta.”
I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders back, forcing the tension out of my muscles. For a second, I thought the old man was about to say something out of pocket—something that would require me to check him. Not that Serena needed my help. She’d already proven she could handle herself, sharp tongue and all.
But still.
Something about her put me on high alert. Like some instinct buried deep in my bones had decided—without my permission—that keeping an eye on her was now my problem.
I glanced over at her, and just like that, I felt it. The shift.
It wasn’t obvious. Not something anyone else would notice. But I did.
Her grip on her phone tightened slightly as her eyes scanned the screen; a slow inhale and exhale, as if preparing for something.
“Damn.” The curse slipped from her lips, so soft I almost missed it. A muscle ticked in my jaw.
“Serena.” My voice dropped, low and steady. Controlled. “What’s wrong?”
A muscle in my jaw ticked. “Serena.” My voice dipped low, steady, controlled. “What’s wrong?”
She didn’t answered.
Not right away.
Her gaze flicked down to her phone, lips parting slightly, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. And then I felt it—the shift. Small, but there. The way her body tensed, the way her shoulders squared just a little too much.
She was already leaving.
I just hadn’t realized it yet.
The silence stretched, thick enough to hold the weight of something unspoken. Something neither of us wanted to name.
Finally, she lifted her gaze, meeting mine with an expression I couldn’t quite read. And maybe that was the problem. Up until now, I thought I had her figured out. The quick wit, the teasing, the push and pull of a woman who knew exactly how to keep a man at arm’s length.
But right now?
She wasn’t teasing. She wasn’t pushing.
She was slipping.
“I had a great time.”
Even. Polite. But too smooth. Too rehearsed.
Like she was already folding the night away into some compartment in her mind, tucking it into a place where it wouldn’t touch her again.
I let out a slow breath, dragging a hand over my jaw.
She hesitated. A fraction of a second too long.
And that’s all it took.
She reached for her bag, wrapping her fingers around the strap like it was some kind of tether.
“It was nice meeting you Julien.”
Without hesitation or a second glance, I watched her turn and slip past the tables and right through the restaurant doors. She walked like she hadn’t just spent the last few hours unraveling something inside me I didn’t even know was wound too tight.
I reached for my glass, letting the ice hit my lips before I took a slow sip.
What the hell just happened?
I didn’t move from my spot. I’m not chasing her. I sat there, eyes tracking her through the floor-to-ceiling windows as she stepped into the lobby, pacing, phone pressed to her ear. My own personal view of her.
She was stranded.
I could see it in the way she moved—sharper now, more tense. The way she gripped her bag like she was bracing herself. Like she needed something to hold on to.
I thought maybe she was calling another man. Maybe she had someone waiting outside, some ride she forgot to mention.
But she wasn’t walking toward a car.
She was walking in circles.
Her fingers hovered over the phone screen, her brows pulling together, her mouth moving in quiet frustration before she muttered something under her breath and called again.
She was alone.
And I didn’t know why the hell that got to me.
I tried to force my eyes away. I focused on the drink in my hand and the fact that she had walked away. She made her choice.
But then my gaze dragged back anyway.
To how she exhaled sharply, tapping her phone against her palm like she could will a solution into existence. From the way she kept looking toward the exit, I hoped she wasn’t debating whether to step into the storm alone.
Before I could stop myself and think twice, my drink was pushed aside, and I was already standing.
Not because I had to.
Not because she asked.
But because watching a woman like Serena struggle and doing nothing about it?
That wasn’t who the fuck I was.
Besides, if she thinks I’m letting her slip through my fingers, she had me all the way fucked up.