Chapter Sixteen
I wake up with a tight, restless kind of irritation sitting just under my skin, the kind that doesn't explode right away but lingers, stretching through my chest and settling somewhere behind my ribs like it's waiting for the right moment to surface.
It takes me all of three seconds to understand why.
I stare at the ceiling, unmoving, already replaying last night in pieces I don't particularly want to revisit, and before I can stop myself, I feel him.
Calm and steady.
Well rested in a way that feels deeply unfair.
My jaw tightens as I roll onto my back fully, dragging a hand over my face with a quiet exhale.
"Of course you're fine," I mutter to no one, already pushing the blankets off as I sit up, because of course he slept well, of course he isn't the one lying here dissecting every second of something that escalated far too quickly.
I stand, already bracing myself for the inevitable.
Because I know I'm going to see him and I know exactly how that's going to feel.
The kitchen is alive when I walk in, the quiet hum of morning already settled into something familiar and steady, coffee brewing in the background while Anna leans against the counter, still half asleep, and Kade scrolls through his phone like he has nowhere to be.
Julian stands at the stove, composed and focused.
Entirely too normal.
I stop just inside the doorway, my eyes locking onto him before I can stop myself, and the second he turns and sees me, something in him shifts in a way that's subtle but impossible to miss now that I know what to look for.
Careful.
"Good morning," he says.
I don't soften.
"Is it?" I reply, my tone flat enough that Anna's head lifts slightly and Kade's attention shifts in our direction with immediate interest.
"Oh," Kade says slowly, sitting up a little straighter, a little gleeful. "Something's happening."
I ignore him completely, my attention still fixed on Julian.
"Don't act like nothing happened," I tell him, crossing my arms.
His posture changes almost imperceptibly, his shoulders settling into something more deliberate.
"I'm not," he says, his voice quieter now, more measured.
"It looks like you are."
"We're in a shared space," he replies evenly. "I don't want to start something here that you might not want handled publicly."
That gives me pause, just for a second, because it isn't defensive or dismissive, and it isn't anything like what I was expecting.
"Don't get reasonable with me, Julian," I say, narrowing my eyes.
"I'm not trying to," he says. "I'm just trying to not make it worse."
Kade looks between us like he's watching a live performance. "This is incredibly unfair to me, by the way. I don't know what the argument is about, and I feel like I deserve context."
"You don't," Julian says without looking at him.
"I absolutely do," Kade argues.
Anna elbows him. "Let them argue in peace."
I hold Julian's gaze for another second, searching for something I can push against, but he doesn't give me much to work with. Just that same steady, careful attention that makes it harder to stay as sharp as I want to be.
It annoys me.
It annoys me that it works.
"Fine," I mutter finally, grabbing a mug and pouring myself coffee more aggressively than necessary. "We're not doing this here."
"Okay," he says.
Just like that.
No argument or pushing
And somehow that makes me more irritated.
Work is a blur.
Not because it's particularly overwhelming, but because my mind refuses to stay where it's supposed to be, drifting back to last night at the most inconvenient moments, replaying the way things shifted so quickly, the way it felt to be pulled into something that I didn't fully choose but also didn't fully stop.
It sits with me all day.
That lack of control, the awareness of how easy it was to lose myself to the bond. The way it would have kept going if he hadn't been the one to pull back.
That part lingers the most.
By the time I get home, I'm tired in a way that feels heavier than it should, the kind that settles into my shoulders and makes everything feel just slightly harder than it needs to be.
I step inside, dropping my bag by the door, already expecting the usual noise of the house, but it's quieter than I anticipated, the kind of quiet that feels planned instead of empty.
I take a few steps further in before I notice the light. It's soft and warm and different from usual.
It pulls my attention down the hallway, curiosity cutting through my exhaustion just enough to make me follow it, my steps slower now as I reach the guest room.
The door is open. I step inside and stop. The space feels... altered. Not dramatically or in a way that feels staged or overwhelming.
Just thoughtful.
The lighting is dimmed, candles placed carefully around the room in a way that feels more calming than romantic, and the air is warmer here, softer somehow, like it's meant to be a break from everything else.
I turn slightly, my gaze catching on the bathroom.
Steam drifts out through the open door. When I step closer, I see it.
A full bath.
Perfectly drawn, the surface of the water covered in soft bubbles, a glass of wine resting on the counter beside a neatly folded towel, everything arranged with a level of care that makes something in my chest tighten in a way I don't immediately trust.
I don't even need to ask.
I know who did this.
"You're home."
His voice comes from behind me, and I turn slowly, already pulling my guard back into place as I look at him.
"What is this," I ask.
"A bath," he says, like it's obvious.
"I can see that."
A beat passes as I study him, my suspicion settling in fully now.
"I can't do this today, Julian. I'm exhausted from all of the back and forth," I say to him. I can feel the emotional and physical exhaustion in my bones.
"I know," he says immediately.
There's no hesitation in it or attempt to soften the truth.
"I don't think this fixes anything," he adds.
"Good," I say. "Because it doesn't."
"I know."
I pause, searching his expression, waiting for the part where he tries to turn this into something more than it is.
It doesn't come.
"Then why do it?" I ask.
"Because you looked exhausted this morning," he says simply. "And I figured you might need a minute that doesn't demand anything from you."
The bond shifts faintly, something warm threading through it, but he doesn't push it, doesn't lean into it, just lets the words stand on their own.
I hate that I believe him.
I cross my arms, holding my ground anyway.
"This doesn't mean anything," I say.
"I know."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
A pause settles between us, quieter now, less sharp but still very much present.
"And just because we kissed last night doesn't mean I'm softening toward you, Julian," I add, my tone firm, unwavering.
Something flickers across his expression, brief but real, like the reminder lands exactly where it's supposed to.
"I'm aware," he says.
"Good."
"I'm not asking for that."
"Okay then."
I glance back at the bath, then at him again, my suspicion still firmly in place even as something else tries to edge its way in.
"You're leaving," I say.
"Yes."
"You're not going to hover."
"No."
"And you're not going to check in every five minutes."
"I won't."
"And you're not going to push through the bond."
He holds my gaze for a second before nodding once.
"I'll give you space," he says.
That matters more than I want it to.
I pick up the glass of wine, taking a small sip, buying myself a second to think before I speak again.
"Thank you," I say finally, the words quieter now, less guarded even though I don't entirely mean for them to be.
He stills just slightly before nodding.
"You're welcome."
He doesn't linger.
Doesn't try to say anything else.
He just turns and leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
I stand there for a moment, alone now except for the quiet presence of the bond, which feels different this time, softer, more distant, like he's actively holding himself back instead of reaching for me.
I notice that too.
Of course I do.
I glance at the bath again, at the care that went into something that isn't being used as leverage, isn't being held over me, isn't being turned into something transactional.
It's simply a draw. A peace offering.
Nothing more.
I let out a slow breath, shaking my head slightly as I set the wine glass down.
"This doesn't mean anything," I remind myself quietly.
But I still step into the bathroom. I'm tired and I do deserve a moment that feels like this.
Taking care of myself doesn't have to be tied to him.
And just because he did something right for once doesn't mean I'm ready to forget everything he did wrong.
Not even close.