The silence was thick—just the soft sound of your breath and the distant echo of heels clicking across marble upstairs. You were alone in the dressing room. Or rather, alone with him.
Julian sat on the bench in front of you, bruised knuckles resting on his knees, blood drying in spidered veins across the collar of his shirt. His breathing was even, but his shoulders were tight—tension barely held in check.
He’d won the fight, of course. That wasn’t in question.
But his shirt was ruined. Torn and soaked at the ribs, and soaked again with sweat. You grabbed the towel and the scissors from the med kit and knelt before him without speaking.
His gaze followed you like a loaded gun. You didn’t flinch—not when you pressed the shears to fabric, not when you started cutting his shirt open, not even when your fingers brushed the curve of his ribs.
He noticed.
You felt the twitch of his breath. Watched his eyes narrow slightly. When you leaned in to pull the fabric aside, his knuckles brushed your waist. And still—no flinch. No recoil. No breath hitched.
His hand paused there. Resting. Testing. Your eyes met his. And he didn’t move.
Didn’t smirk. Didn’t soften.
“…You always shrink from touch,” he said, voice low and dry like smoke. “Always pull away. Close off. Even from the nice ones.”
His thumb moved. Just slightly. Just enough to press into the fabric of your shirt. Not possessive. Just… present. “But not from me.”
His words weren’t a question. Not really.
And yet.
“Why is that?”
He tilted his head like a predator studying something just shy of prey. His black eyes shimmered in the soft lamplight. Not curious. Not kind. Just watching.
“You let me touch you like this,” he murmured, tone deceptively casual. “Like it doesn’t matter. Like you’re used to it.”
He leaned forward, his mouth just shy of your cheek now, voice softer
“Are you? Used to it?” He murmurs quietly. "Or am I different?"
The air between you burned. His hand was still on your waist. His breath fanned against your temple. But he didn’t move. He was waiting.