Chapter 23 Penthouses And Paper Walls #3
"Are you at least happy to keep your job?" I ask softly. "The modeling, the investments—all of it. Are you relieved that our arrangement means you can continue?"
He thinks about it—actually thinks, not just deflecting or dismissing. His fingers trace the stem of his wine glass, the motion precise and repetitive.
"Why does it matter?" he asks finally.
"Because..." I move back to the espresso machine, resuming my work as I speak.
The familiar motions help me find the right words.
"If it's your true passion, I hope you're relieved to be able to continue.
I hope this arrangement—whatever else it is—at least means you get to keep doing something that makes you happy. "
Silence.
I glance over my shoulder. Julian is staring at me with an expression I can't quite read—somewhere between confusion and something softer. Like my words have genuinely thrown him off balance.
Has no one ever asked him if he's happy? Has everyone just assumed he works for the success, the money, the image—and never stopped to wonder if he actually enjoys any of it?
He doesn't respond. Not verbally. But something shifts in his expression—a crack in the armor, a tiny fracture in those impossibly high walls.
I finish the coffee in comfortable silence, pouring the lavender honey oat milk latte into two ceramic mugs that probably cost more than my phone. The foam art isn't my best work—unfamiliar equipment—but it's recognizable as a heart. Fitting, given the occasion.
"Here," I say, sliding one mug across the marble toward him. "Quality control test, as requested."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Not quite, but closer than I've seen from him before.
We eat together as evening falls completely outside the windows. Julian lights the candles—methodically, precisely, each flame catching in perfect sequence. The wine flows. The charcuterie disappears bite by bite. The chocolate is rich and decadent, pairing perfectly with the coffee.
We don't talk much, but the silence isn't uncomfortable. It's... companionable. Two people sharing space without the need to fill it with noise.
This is different from Tank's cabin or Elias's firehouse.
Those were warm and chaotic and full of energy—crackling fires and howling firefighters and the comfortable chaos of found family.
This is quiet. Controlled. But there's something intimate about it too—about being allowed into Julian's carefully curated space, about seeing the cracks in his perfect facade.
About being trusted with pieces of his story.
The candlelight flickers across his features, softening the sharp lines of his jaw, the severe arch of his eyebrows. He looks younger in this light. Less guarded. Almost gentle.
Three Alphas. Three different dates. Three very different men. And somehow, in less than a month, they've all managed to work their way past defenses I spent years building.
Tank with his wilderness and his trauma and his need for someone to hold on through the dark nights. Elias with his sunshine and his found family and his hero complex that extends to everyone he meets. And Julian—Julian with his walls and his control and his desperate fear of being used again.
They're all broken in their own ways. All carrying wounds from people who should have protected them.
All afraid of something—vulnerability, rejection, betrayal.
And yet they opened their doors to me. A stranger.
A runaway. A temporary arrangement that's starting to feel less temporary with every passing day.
And somehow, impossibly, I'm finding myself wanting to help them heal. All of them. Not because I have to. Not because of our arrangement. But because they've shown me glimpses of who they really are beneath the armor, and I like what I see. I like it a lot.
Julian catches me staring and raises an eyebrow—not the intimidating one he uses on Uber drivers, just curious.
"What?"
"Nothing." I take a sip of my coffee, hiding my smile behind the mug. "Just thinking."
He doesn't press, just returns to his chocolate with the methodical precision he applies to everything. Breaking each piece into exactly equal halves. Pausing between bites. Even in indulgence, he maintains control.
I wonder if I'll be able to help him bring some of those icy walls down. Not all at once—that would probably send him into a full panic, and I'm not trying to break him. Just... soften him. Slowly, gently, one brick at a time.
I wonder if he'll ever trust me enough to let me try.
I wonder if any of this—the dates, the conversations, the moments of unexpected vulnerability—will matter when Valentine's Day comes and our arrangement officially ends.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the stars are beginning to emerge over Oakridge Hollow. The town sparkles below us, peaceful and small. The mountains stand sentinel in the distance.
And here, in Julian's pristine penthouse with its cold perfection and hidden warmth, I find myself hoping for something I haven't let myself hope for in a very long time.
Maybe I can help him. Maybe I can reach the person hiding behind all that control and fear and carefully constructed distance. At least... just for me. If he trusts me enough.