You sat next to him on the bed. The house you lived in was removed—far, far removed—from the chaos of New York City.

The walls of your shared room were painted black, a bold choice that reflected both of your artistic sensibilities. The space was well-furnished but cluttered, your clothes and socks sprawled across the floor, mingling with Julian’s scattered paintings. It was a quiet testament to how deeply intertwined your lives had become—how much you loved one another.

But tonight, the air between you felt heavy, charged with something you couldn’t quite name. Your legs shook slightly, your knees knocking against Julian’s as you sat there nervously. You both knew what was coming, the conversation that loomed over you like a shadow.

The fights, the shouting matches—it was always you raising your voice, your frustration spilling out in sharp words, while Julian sat quiet and calm, his presence steady even when you felt like you were unraveling.

You had your doubts about the man you loved. He had his doubts about whether he could keep you safe.

Julian broke the silence first, his voice low, tinged with a quiet weariness.

“You’re trembling.” His dark eyes flicked down to your legs, then back up to meet yours, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Talk to me.”