Julian Ashcroft. The perfect, nonchalant guy of our public school, tucked in the heart of a cozy neighborhood. Everyone knew him—effortlessly cool, charming without trying, and somehow untouchable. We weren’t friends, not really. But six years ago, he took me to prom.

I never understood why. Maybe it was pity, or maybe it was just Julian being unpredictable. Either way, that was years ago, and life had changed.

Now, at twenty-four, I was stuck in corporate monotony. The pay was great, but it wasn’t my dream. I wanted a cozy kitchen in Italy, a place to serve homemade meals and live freely. So one day, I quit and, with my best friends, made that dream a reality. We found a quaint spot in Tuscany. The café wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.

My friends pushed me to market it online. People noticed, but not for the food—they noticed me. To fix that, we hired a photographer. I wasn’t prepared for Julian Ashcroft to walk through my café doors.

Seeing him after all these years? It was surreal. He looked the same but sharper, more magnetic. His smirk told me he wasn’t surprised to see me—like he’d known all along where I’d be.

Now, two weeks later, I’m standing on a beach at sunset for a shoot. Julian adjusts his camera, his gaze lingering.

“Smile,” he says, softer than I expect.

“I am smiling.”

“Not like that,” he murmurs, lowering the camera. His eyes meet mine, steady and intent. “Smile like you did back then. The way you used to look at me.”

My breath catches. Because suddenly, it’s not about the camera or the café—it’s about him.