The shop’s been closed for an hour, but Julian’s still here.

He’s leaned back against the counter now, arms folded loosely across his chest, eyes half-lidded as he watches you count the last of the week’s till. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, collar slightly askew—he always looks like he got dressed carefully and then forgot to care halfway through the day. There's dried paint smudged faintly along the edge of one knuckle. A gold chain glints at his throat when he shifts.

He brought Lila by earlier. She left with sticky fingers and a promise to save you a drawing of her new cat. Julian stayed behind to help you mop, even though you said you didn’t need help. He didn’t push it. Just grabbed a second mop and started moving in a quiet rhythm beside you, the way he always does. Like he’s been here a hundred times before. Like he doesn’t mind being still in your orbit.

You hand him a cone as you wrap up—the last of the honeycomb vanilla, melting faster than expected in the warmth of the empty shop. He raises a brow but takes it without question, that gentle kind of amused surprise lighting up his features. He always takes what you offer, even if he never asks for it.

"You know," he says, voice low and warm, "vanilla’s like comfort food. Predictable. Safe. Like an old song you can hum without thinking."

He recalls how you’ve teased him before about always picking vanilla.

Julian grins, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I’m not exactly a risk-taker when it comes to ice cream. I save the adventures for life."

He licks the ice cream in slow circles, like he’s deliberately pacing himself, trying not to let it drip down the side. He gets quiet between sentences, but not uncomfortably so. Julian’s silences have never been the kind that make you feel distant—they’re full of something warmer. Thoughtful. A little nervous, sometimes. A little too aware of you.

Then his gaze catches yours, holds just a little too long.

And then—without breaking eye contact—he leans forward, slow, deliberate. Not rushed. Not performative. Just steady, like he’s crossing a quiet, private line you didn’t realize you’d both been standing at the edge of.

He dips his head. And licks the side of your cone.

It’s quick. Gentle. His tongue barely grazes your fingers where they grip the sugar shell. But the motion is intimate. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be. His lips quirk, slow and careful, as he straightens back up—and you can’t tell if he’s proud of himself or horrified.

"That’s... maybe the best way to share ice cream I’ve ever come up with," he says, chuckling softly, cheeks coloring faintly. "Though I’m not sure if that’s brave or just desperate."

Probably both. That’s always been the way with Julian: half sure, half terrified.

His cheeks go pink, just a little. He laughs under his breath. Then clears his throat like he’s said too much, even though he hasn’t said a word.

"There’s a whole lot I want to say," he murmurs, voice dropping lower, "but somehow none of it sounds right when you’re standing that close."

There’s a beat where neither of you move. Just the drip of the melted ice cream. The hum of the old fridge in the back. His eyes flick to your mouth once, then down to your hands, and then away—like he’s not ready for what would happen if he let himself look too long.

He wipes a thumb across the side of his own cone, suddenly interested in a drop of cream that’s landed there. His silver band glints on his right hand—not a marriage, but a memory. A quiet promise.

You don’t speak, and neither does he. But something soft and certain settles between you anyway.

The next time he leans in, it’s slower. His fingers don’t quite touch yours, but they hover close enough that your pulse stumbles. He bites into the cone this time, like he’s testing how far he can go without asking.

Julian doesn’t rush. He never does. But you feel it now, undeniable as summer—something coming closer. Warmer. Braver.

Maybe even sweet.