Chapter Twelve
If there's one thing I know how to practice, it's strategy.
That's why I feel so lost.
This time, there's nothing calculated about what I'm going to try, nothing clever about trying to corner her into forgiveness she isn't ready to give.
This is different. It has to be. It must be precise, about consistency, and about showing up in ways that don't demand anything in return.
It's about becoming someone she can trust without asking her to trust me first.
It's about earning my way back to her, piece by careful piece and hoping she'll accept me when I ask her for forgiveness for my carelessness and cruelty.
I wake before the rest of the house, which isn't unusual for me. The task before me is technically unnecessary. No one expects it. No one would question it if I stayed in bed a little longer and let the morning come to me instead of meeting it head on.
But this isn't about what's necessary. It's about my bond, and the person who matters most to me in this world.
The house is still dark when I step into the kitchen, the quiet thick and undisturbed in that early morning way. For a moment, I don't move. I just stand there, letting myself settle into it, grounding myself in the stillness before the day begins.
The bond hums low in my chest, soft and steady.
She's asleep. There's a peace to the feeling of her lost in dreams, something loose and unguarded that she never lets me feel when she's awake.
I smile and do my best to keep my emotions from trickling over so she can rest.
Then I set to work.
Coffee comes first.
I move through the kitchen with practiced ease, pulling what I need from cabinets and drawers without making a sound, every movement deliberate and slow like a whisper. Eggs, bread and fruit. Nothing complicated, no grand gesture. Just simple, thoughtful choices that don't demand attention.
This isn't about impressing her.
It's about taking care of her in the smallest, most consistent ways I can. If she'll let me.
I plate everything neatly, paying more attention than I probably should to the placement, to the balance of it, to whether it looks like something she might actually want to eat.
It's a lot harder than I realized when I sat down at expensive restaurants with high end security clients.
I add a second plate without thinking, muscle memory from a life that used to include her in my family without hesitation.
I pause after that, staring at the counter for a second before reaching for a container.
Lunch.
Because if I'm going to do this, I'm doing it right. Not halfway or when it's convenient.
I'm running the whole marathon.
By the time the house starts to wake, everything is ready. Breakfast plated, lunch packed, coffee poured and waiting.
I lean back against the counter and let myself be still again, hands resting loosely at my sides, attention fixed on the hallway.
Waiting and hoping.
She appears about ten minutes later, and the sight of her hits me harder than I expect.
Her hair is pulled up in a loose, messy knot, strands slipping free around her face, and there's still sleep softening the edges of her expression, making her look younger and gentler.
She looks unguarded in a way I haven't seen since the morning we woke up in a warm bed, holding each other like a lifeline.
She steps into the kitchen and stops so abruptly it makes me smile.
Her gaze moves slowly over the counter, taking in the plates, the coffee, the packed lunch, and then lifts to me.
She does not look pleased. She looks suspicious. She fees suspicious. I curse myself immediately.
"Oh no," she says.
I keep my expression neutral. "What?"
She gestures vaguely at everything. "This feels like a trap."
I look at the covered counter top, bewildered how I could mess even this up. "It's breakfast."
"It's a trap breakfast," she corrects with a raised eyebrow.
"It's eggs and toast?"
"That's exactly how it starts."
Behind her, Anna walks in, takes one look at the scene, and immediately backs up like she's avoiding collateral damage.
"Nope," she mutters. "I'm not getting involved in whatever this is."
Kade appears a second later, glances between us, and exhales quietly. "Jesus."
"Right?" Claire says, pointing at him like he's just validated her entire argument. "Thank you."
"It's just breakfast," I repeat, because I need her to understand that this doesn't come with strings attached.
She narrows her eyes at me like she doesn't believe that for a single second.
I'm starting to feel a little grumpy.
"You've never made me breakfast," she accuses.
"That feels like an oversight on my part," I say, hoping she hears me.
"That seems like manipulation."
I sigh. The food is going to get cold and she won't like it. It will be gross and she won't ever let me take care of her again. "That seems like you're overthinking eggs."
She hesitates, then starts toward the counter with the cautious, measured steps of someone approaching something that might strike out at her.
"This is for me," she says, stopping just short of the plate.
"Yes."
She leans in slightly, studying it like she's trying to find the catch. "Why?"
"Because you need to eat," I say quietly.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting," I say and immediately want to bang my head against the countertop. Nice Julian. Dumbass.
She holds my gaze for a long moment, searching, pushing, trying to find the angle I'm not giving her.
Then, finally, she picks up the fork.
Takes a bite and chews.
And for half a second, just a fraction of one, her expression softens and I feel a thread of softness whisper through the bond.
It's gone almost immediately, replaced by suspicion again. But I saw it, and I felt it, the way the bond shifted with her, the way something in her eased before she could stop it.
She swallows and points at me like she needs to reestablish control.
"This doesn't mean anything."
I shake my head, "Of course not." This is just the beginning.
"This is just food."
"Obviously."
She takes another bite anyway.
"Very good food," she mutters.
I would probably learn how to cook anything in the world if it meant hearing her say that again.
She notices the lunch next. My hand twitches in an instinctive reaction to avoid another interrogation.
"What's that?"
"Lunch."
"For who?"
"For you."
She blinks slowly. "No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"Julian."
"Claire."
"This is excessive."
"It's just practical."
"I pack my own lunch."
"You don't have to today."
She stares at the container like it personally offended her, then looks back at me, searching again for something I'm not giving her.
Then she grabs it.
"Fine," she says. "But I'm still suspicious."
"Noted." But she took the lunch. I smile to myself as I cut into my own breakfast.
She turns toward the door, then pauses and points at her eye with two fingers, then turns them to point at me with them.
"I'm watching you."
"I would expect nothing less."
I don't follow her into the school. That would be way too much. But I do show up around ten.
There's more I can do and another thing I have for her.
Lisa spots me first, her reaction immediate.
Her eyes widen, then narrow. "Oh no."
I ignore that. "Morning."
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
"Dropping something off."
"For Anna?"
"For Claire."
She presses her lips together, eyes narrowing. "I'm not sure she'd want that."
Claire walks in mid conversation and stops when she sees us.
"Why are you both looking at each other like that?"
Lisa points at me. "He's doing things."
Claire's eyes narrow. "What things?"
I lift the bag slightly. "For your class."
She freezes.
"Oh my God."
"It's just supplies," I immediately defend in case she thinks I've brought her more food.
"What kind of supplies?"
"Things you mentioned needing."
Her gaze flicks to Lisa, then back to me.
"You remembered that."
"Yes."
She takes the bag, slowly pulling it from my fingers. When she opens it and looks inside, I watch the exact moment it hits her.
"Julian," she says quietly.
"Yes."
"This is... very nice," she gives me a smile that's not professional. It's not her normal brightness but I'll take it.
Success.
"Thank you."
She looks up again, suspicion snapping back into place like armor.
"Still suspicious."
Lisa snorts. "I told you."
The rest of the day follows the same pattern. I give her small things and try to put in quiet and consistent effort without overwhelming her or pushing her.
I just show up.
And every time, she reacts the same way. With suspiciousness. But she's amused. I feel it through the bond. She resists and interrogates me everytime but she always ends up taking whatever I offer.
For now, that's success.
By the time school lets out, I'm already there, leaning against my car. Waiting for her. When she walks out, the sun catches her hair and her headband. I smile.
She spots me immediately and stops, hands on her hips.
"Are you still here or back?"
I smile, "I'm giving you a ride."
"I have a car," she deadpans. Please follow the pattern. Resist and then come with me.
"I'm aware."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I want to drive you."
She stares at me, then walks past me.
"I'm driving myself."
Damn.
I follow anyway. "I can still open your door."
"You absolutely cannot," she says, pointing at me for the millionth time today.
"I'm going to."
"If you touch my door—"
I open it.
She glares but gets in anyway.
"This means nothing," she says.
"Of course."
"I'm just tired."
"Understandable."
"And this is convenient."
"Exactly what I was aiming for." Let me take some stress off of you.
I close the door and walk to my car, and the moment I slide into the driver's seat, I feel it.
Theres a very subtle shift in the bond. It's not forgiveness or even a flicker of acceptance. But maybe there's a crack. Small and fragile. Maybe if I don't push, it will open a bit more.
I've got time to be patient.
I'm going to spend every second of it proving she's worth more to me than anyone I've ever met.