TWO SUGARS, NO EXPECTATIONS #2
"That was me," Julian confirmed. He raised his hand, his knuckles brushing incredibly lightly against her cheek.
It was a feather-light touch, but it sent a shockwave of heat straight to her core.
"You thanked me. You went back to your table. And the next morning, I was sitting at a café in Manhattan, nursing a hangover, when I saw you walk in. You were wearing sunglasses indoors. You ordered a large dark roast, two sugars, no milk.
You sat in the corner booth and scribbled in a notebook for an hour."
Elara was entirely paralyzed. Her lungs forgot how to pull in oxygen.
"You've... you've remembered that for two years?" she breathed, the sheer weight of his devotion threatening to crush the walls around her heart.
Julian’s eyes darkened, his hand sliding back to cup the nape of her neck. His thumb rested against her racing pulse.
"I remembered everything, Elara," Julian confessed, his voice dropping into a rough, desperate register.
"I bought every record you pressed. I watched every interview. When Declan started parading you around like a trophy, it took every ounce of restraint I had not to fly to LA and break his jaw. So when Sarah slid this contract across my desk and told me I had to fake a relationship with you..."
He leaned in, his forehead coming to rest gently against hers. The scent of his clean soap and raw, masculine heat enveloped her completely.
"...I signed it before she even finished her sentence," Julian whispered, his breath mingling with hers. "I am not faking this. I’m just playing by the rules until you realize you don't need the contract to be safe with me."
Elara squeezed her eyes shut. A single, hot tear slipped down her cheek.
It was too much. It was entirely, beautifully overwhelming.
She was a woman who had spent three years begging to be seen, begging to be prioritized by a man who only loved himself.
And now, the most dangerous, beautiful man she had ever met was standing in his kitchen, casually revealing that he had worshipped her from the shadows for years.
"Julian..." she breathed, completely defenseless.
"Drink your coffee, sweetheart," Julian murmured, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her temple. It wasn't a violation of the rules; it was an act of pure reverence. He pulled back, his hand falling away from her neck, immediately returning the space to her. "We have a social media post on stage."
The abrupt shift back to business gave Elara the whiplash she desperately needed to regain her footing. She gripped the warm ceramic mug like a lifeline, taking a shaky sip. It was perfect. Of course it was.
Julian pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping the screen. "Sarah says the internet is still having a meltdown over the Giorgio Baldi photos. The narrative is swinging in our favor. Declan’s team is panicking because they didn't expect you to retaliate with someone... bigger."
"You mean someone who actually fights for a living?" Elara asked, a weak, husky laugh escaping her throat.
Julian smirked, a dark, wicked look in his eye. "Exactly. Now, we need to prove the cohabitation clause. The paparazzi saw us arrive here last night, but we need undeniable proof that you stayed the night. We need a domestic photo."
Elara looked down at her oversized t-shirt and messy hair. "I look like a disaster, Thorne. I’m not letting you post a picture of me looking like this to twenty million followers."
"You look beautiful," Julian said instantly, the absolute sincerity in his voice making her blush deeply. "But if you want to sell the 'morning after' narrative, you need to wear something of mine."
He didn't wait for her to argue. Julian turned and walked out of the kitchen. A minute later, he returned, holding a crisp, white button-down dress shirt.
"Put this on over your shorts," he instructed, holding it out to her.
Elara set her mug down and took the shirt.
The fine cotton was incredibly soft. She slipped it on over her t-shirt.
Because Julian was so massive, the shirt swallowed her entirely.
The hem fell halfway down her thighs, and the sleeves hung past her fingertips.
She looked impossibly small, wrapped entirely in his clothes.
Julian stared at her. The air in the kitchen instantly thickened, heavy with a sudden, suffocating sexual tension.
He didn't say a word, but the feral, predatory hunger was back in his eyes, completely unleashed. Seeing her standing in his kitchen, bathed in the morning sunlight, wearing his shirt... it triggered a deeply primal, intensely possessive instinct that he had absolutely no control over.
"Roll the sleeves up," Julian commanded, his voice suddenly thick and ragged. He took a step toward her. "Let me."
He didn't wait for permission. Julian stepped into her space, his large hands grasping the cuffs of the shirt.
He gently pushed the fabric up her forearms, meticulously rolling the sleeves until her hands were free.
His knuckles dragged against the sensitive skin of her inner wrists, sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight to her core.
Elara stared up at his face, her heart hammering wildly. He was so focused, his brow furrowed in concentration. The intimacy of the act—dressing her, adjusting his own clothes on her body—felt infinitely more dangerous than a kiss.
"There," Julian whispered, his hands lingering on her forearms for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. He stepped back, pulling his phone up. "Sit on the edge of the counter. Hold the mug."
Elara hopped up onto the black marble, pulling her knees together. She brought the black ceramic mug to her lips, offering a soft, entirely unscripted smile as she looked at him through her messy dark hair.
Julian snapped the photo.
He looked at the screen, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face. "Perfect."
"Let me see," she demanded, reaching for the phone.
Julian handed it to her. Elara looked at the image.
It wasn't a highly produced, glossy PR shot.
It looked raw. It looked real. The sunlight caught the golden flecks in her whiskey eyes, and the oversized white shirt made her look incredibly soft and fiercely protected.
She didn't look like a heartbroken rockstar.
She looked like a woman who was profoundly, deeply loved.
"What are you going to caption it?" she asked softly, handing the phone back.
Julian didn't hesitate. His thumbs flew across the screen, typing out a single sentence. He hit send.
A second later, Elara’s phone buzzed on the counter beside her. She picked it up. A notification from Instagram flashed across her lock screen.
@JulianThorne19 tagged you in a post.
She opened the app. There was a photo of her, sitting on his counter, drinking his coffee. The caption was simple, devastating, and entirely devoid of PR spin.
"Two sugars. Exactly where she belongs. @ElaraVance"
Elara stared at the screen as the like counter instantly began to spin out of control. Ten thousand likes in the first ten seconds. The comments were an absolute bloodbath of fans losing their minds over the domestic intimacy of the shot.
“He gave her his shirt! I am screaming!” “Declan is crying and throwing up right now.” “The captain is OFF the market, ladies.”
Elara looked up from her phone. Julian was watching her, his arms crossed, waiting for her reaction.
"You didn't run that caption by Sarah," Elara noted, her voice trembling slightly.
"Sarah doesn't dictate my feelings," Julian replied smoothly. "And I don't care what the PR playbook says. The world needs to know that you are mine, Elara. Not for a photo op. Not to save a tour. Because you belong here."
Elara closed her eyes, fighting the desperate, overwhelming urge to slide off the counter, wrap her arms around his neck, and kiss him until neither of them could breathe.
The "no kissing" clause was a massive, concrete wall between them, but Julian was systematically tearing it down, brick by brick, without ever crossing the line.
"We have to go," Elara whispered, entirely unable to handle the emotional weight of the room anymore. "Sarah scheduled a paparazzi walk in West Hollywood at noon. We need to get dressed."
Julian’s jaw tightened in frustration. He hated the cameras. He hated sharing her with the world. But he was a man of his word, and he had signed the contract.
"Go get dressed, sweetheart," Julian said softly, stepping aside to give her room to leave the kitchen. "I’ll call Leo to bring the car around."
The transition from the secluded, intimate fortress of Julian’s home to the chaotic, sun-baked streets of West Hollywood was a brutal shock to the system.
Sarah’s mandate for the afternoon was a "casual, affectionate coffee run." It was designed to look spontaneous, but the route was carefully mapped out to ensure maximum exposure to the paparazzi stationed near the trendy boutiques on Melrose Avenue.
Elara had changed into a pair of high-waisted black denim shorts, a vintage graphic tee, and her signature combat boots. Julian wore dark jeans and a plain gray Henley that stretched tight across his chest, his dark sunglasses hiding his eyes.
The moment they stepped out of the black SUV onto Melrose, the swarm descended.
"Julian! Elara! Over here!" "Is the Instagram post real? Are you guys living together?!" "Elara, did Declan call you after he saw the picture?"
Julian’s arm clamped around Elara’s waist like a vice. It wasn't the gentle, protective hold from the night before. This was an aggressive, unyielding possession. He pulled her flush against his side, forcing her to mold her body to his as they walked down the crowded sidewalk.
"Keep your head down. Don't engage," Julian ordered, his deep voice slicing through the frantic shouting of the crowd.
Elara kept her eyes fixed on the pavement, letting Julian dictate their pace. His sheer size was a physical barrier against the aggressive photographers. Every time a lens got too close, Julian subtly shifted his massive shoulders, blocking the angle entirely.