Fast.
Crossed the space between us, grabbed the collar of my shirt, and pulled me in for another kiss—this one harder, more desperate.Less want and more need.His mouth was open, biting, breath hot.His hands slid down my sides again, rough and impatient, like he could find something in me if he just touched deep enough, fast enough.
I broke the kiss, breath catching.“Julian—”
He didn’t stop.His fingers were back at my belt, pulling, yanking.
“Stop.”Firmer now.I grabbed his wrists.“Julian, stop.”
His hands dropped as if they’d been burned.
I stared at him, heart pounding.“You’re not listening to me.”
He looked wild for a moment.Unmoored.Like he’d just woken up and didn’t know where he was.
Then, that wall slammed back into place behind his eyes.
“Right,” he muttered, stepping away.“Got it.”
“Julian—”
But he was already walking toward the stairs.
“Julian, wait—”
He didn’t.He went down without looking back.
The front door of the Healing Center opened—creaked—and then slammed shut so hard it rattled the windowpanes.
Silence.
I stood there alone in the loft, the wine untouched, my skin still buzzing from his hands.
The slam echoed longer than it should have.Not in the room—in my chest.
Because I’d seen it.Just for a second.Before the anger.Before the retreat.
A flicker.
Pain.
Not the kind you show people.The kind you build entire careers to hide.
I walked to the window and looked down.The parking lot was dark, the gravel path dimly lit by one motion-activated lantern.I glimpsed Julian’s silhouette disappearing into the woods toward the trail.
Gone.
But not really.
I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to center myself.Trying to push down the ache he left behind.
Julian wasn’t just angry.He wasn’t just horny, or cold, or cynical.
He was wounded.
And I knew that kind of pain.The kind that makes you grab someone too tightly, kiss too hard, push instead of surrender.The kind that keeps love at arm’s length because it once got too close and shattered something.
He didn’t need a hookup.
