Bea’s POV
There’s a special kind of panic that hits when someone says, “It’s just dinner with my family,” like that magically cancels out the fact that it’s their mother, their sister, their childhood living room filled with photo frames and expectations. Julian didn’t even try to dress it up. No flowers. No warnings. Just a simple, “Come if you want. No pressure.”
But I came. And now I was standing outside his family’s townhouse with a lemon tart from a bakery that charged more for one dessert than my entire outfit. I rang the bell before I could change my mind.
Julian opened the door in a navy sweater that made his eyes bluer and his edges softer.
“Hey.” “Too late to fake the flu?”
His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Definitely. But you look incredible, so I’d say you’re winning already.”
I stepped inside, where warmth and the smell of rosemary hit me like a wall. His mom appeared in the foyer like a movie entrance—lipstick, pearls, and a stare that saw everything. Then she smiled.
“So you’re the chaos he couldn’t shut up about.” Julian groaned from behind me. “Mom.” She waved him off like a gnat. “Don’t mind him. Come help me plate the appetizers. You like olives?”
“Sure,” I said, following her to the kitchen. The space smelled like comfort—lemon and garlic and something roasted low and slow. She handed me a spoon and started talking like we were already old friends. I tried to keep up between laughing at her stories and not dropping the ceramic bowl she gave me.
Then came the whirlwind. A girl burst into the kitchen, eyeliner fierce and energy chaotic. “You’re Bea?” she asked, eyes wide. “You’re the chaos he couldn’t shut up about!” “Tessa,” Julian groaned again, appearing behind her.
“You hush too,” she grinned, hugging me like I belonged. “You’re staying, right? You better be staying.”
Dinner was loud and fast and a little unhinged—in the best way. They were quick with sarcasm, generous with seconds, and not once did I feel like I was being examined. Julian sat next to me the whole time, his hand brushing mine under the table. Steady. Quiet. When I laughed too hard, he looked at me like that was the only sound he needed.
After dessert, Julian offered to walk me home. I didn’t say yes—I just grabbed my coat and followed him out, our steps falling into sync like they’d done this before.
The night air was cool but not cruel. The kind of evening that made everything quieter, softer. We didn’t talk for the first few blocks. Just walked. His pinky brushed mine once. I didn’t pull away.
“They love you,” he said after a block. “They don’t even know me.”
He looked sideways at me. “They know enough.” I laughed, but it came out shaky. “Tessa practically adopted me.”
“She doesn’t do that often.” We walked in silence for a while. Not awkward, just full. The kind of quiet that lets thoughts rise to the surface, even the ones you didn’t plan on saying out loud.
“I used to hate this part,” I said. “What part?” “The walking after,” I murmured. “The space where it’s just you, and someone else, and all the pretending fades.”
Julian didn’t speak. He just slowed his steps. “I never felt like enough growing up,” I continued. “Too loud. Too weird. Too… me. Every time someone looked at me, I’d try to shrink. Fit into something smaller. Tighter.”
Julian stopped under a streetlamp. His expression was soft, but intense.
“You were always a masterpiece,” he said. “The world just has shitty lighting.”
That sentence cracked something open in me. Not like a break—more like a window being pulled up for the first time in years.
I looked at him. Really looked. The man who once made me cry in a stairwell now stood in front of me like he’d carry my truth without dropping it.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I whispered. “It’s just the truth,” he said, like that was the simplest thing in the world.
We walked the next few blocks slowly. Not touching. Not talking much. But everything felt… seen.
When we reached my place, I stopped on the steps. “I had a good time.” “So did I.”
“Your mom is terrifying.” “She’ll love that.” “And your sister might be plotting to steal me as her new best friend.” “She already texted me: I claim her.”
I laughed, and it wasn’t forced. It came from somewhere lighter than I’d been in weeks. Julian looked at me like he wanted to say more—but didn’t. And I didn’t need him to. Not tonight.
“Goodnight, Wolfe,” I said, turning toward the door. “Goodnight, Bea.”
Upstairs, I made tea just to hold something warm. I didn’t drink it. I didn’t need to. I sat on the edge of my couch and let the night play again in my head—Julian’s mom calling me chaos like it was a compliment, Tessa clinging to me like we’d known each other forever, and Julian… soft, steady, sure.
He didn’t try to kiss me tonight. Didn’t push or pull. He just listened. Let me say the ugly things I usually swallow. And that sentence—God, that sentence. It was going to live in my chest rent-free for a long time.
I walked into my bedroom, slipped off my shoes, and stood in front of the mirror. Not to judge. Not to criticize. Just to look. I didn’t flinch. Not tonight. I wasn’t fixed. I wasn’t fearless. But I was finally starting to believe that I wasn’t broken either. And maybe—just maybe—that was enough for now.