"There's a Girl Across the Road and It's a Problem" Pt. 2
A/N: I still got more shit to post guys! We're getting to the smut I swear!!!!! Just gonna get some tension built up and outta the way y'know. ENJOY
Female Reader x Julian
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She kicked off her shoes without thinking, letting them thud somewhere behind her as she drifted barefoot into the center of the room. The floor was cool beneath her soles, grounding her just enough to keep her upright, but her pulse still rattled through her veins — not just from the fight, or the drive home, or even the sharp slam of the car door behind her.
The kiss still clung to her mouth like static, electric and unwelcome and unforgettable. She could still feel the shape of his hand on her jaw, the way his fingers curled around her like he was scared to let go, but too scared to hold on. The press of his chest against hers in that dim car, the sound of his breath catching when he almost, almost let himself feel something real.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew he wasn’t indifferent. No one kissed like that if they didn’t care. No one looked at her the way he did , like she was a risk and a lifeline all at once, if they were really trying to stay away.
But he was running. Walls up, guard raised, voice like ice as he told her he wasn’t the kind of man who made lives better.
And maybe he believed that. Maybe he even thought he was doing her a favor by pushing her away.
But she was so goddamn tired of being the one who stayed soft.
Tired of being the one who reached out, who tried, who kept chasing after something that refused to name itself.
And hell would freeze over before she cried over it. Before she let herself sit here and fall apart over a man who couldn’t even look her in the eye when things got hard.
She turned on her heel and made her way to the tiny bathroom, her legs moving like they belonged to someone else. Each step felt heavier than the last.
In the harsh fluorescent light, she stripped out of her clothes, the work dress she’d worn all day, the cardigan that still smelled faintly of cheap coffee and VS body spray. She let them fall in a pile by the door and didn’t bother folding them.
She needed to wash the day off her skin, and maybe, if she was lucky, him too.
She twisted the hot water knob until steam filled the room, fogging the mirror in seconds. Then, reaching into the bottom drawer of the Rubbermaid organizer beside the sink, she plucked a bath bomb, one of the stupid fruity ones she usually saved for better moods.
She tossed it into the tub and watched it dissolve in a swirl of neon pink and citrus fizz.
The water was hot enough to sting.
She sank slowly beneath the foam, arms folding over her chest, head tipping back against the porcelain edge. Her eyes fluttered shut.
Let him have his silence.
Let him sit across the street in that trailer of his and pretend he hadn’t just broken something.
If Julian wanted distance, fine. She could give him distance. She could pretend she didn’t care, even when it burned.
But God, she hated how empty the silence already felt without him in it.
Julian poured another drink, the clink of the ice against the glass louder than it should’ve been in the stillness of the room.
Ricky was passed out on the couch, half-snoring, half-muttering about BBQ chips and fireworks, one hand still clutching an empty bag of Cheesies. Bubbles had gone home hours ago.
Julian didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t put on music.
He just sat there, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, glass of rum in hand, staring blankly at the wall like it might tell him what the hell he was doing. The burn in his throat wasn’t from the liquor anymore.
The image of Y/N kept looping behind his eyes, like a film reel with no off switch. The way her mouth parted in shock, voice trembling when she’d said:
“You think I’m just some little girl?”
He dragged a hand over his face and exhaled like it hurt.
He hadn’t meant for it all to come out like that. He hadn’t meant to say half the things he’d said. But she’d pushed him, not in a bad way, not even unfairly. She just, saw too much. And he didn’t know what to do with that. She looked at him like he was someone worth holding onto.
And he didn’t know how to live up to that kind of faith.
What scared him wasn’t that she wanted him. What scared him was how much he wanted her back. Not just for a night. Not just for the touch, the kiss, the rush of her against him in the car. No, he wanted her in his life. Her mess. Her stubbornness. Her quiet fire and the way she always knew when he was lying, even when he tried to lie well. He wanted to believe she could handle it, all of it. The drinking, the job he didn’t really have, the history that followed him like a bad smell. He wanted to think she’d stay, even when things weren’t easy.
But if he let her in, really let her in, there’d be no going back. And he wasn’t sure he was a man who got to have something like that. Something steady. Something real. He stared down into the rum swirling in his glass, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t take another sip.
Just sat there, drowning in the sound of everything he hadn’t said.
And knowing damn well she’d already heard it anyway.
She stayed in the tub long after the water had lost its warmth, long after the fizz from the bath bomb had vanished and the foam had retreated to the corners like it didn’t belong anymore. The silence pressed in on her , thick, unrelenting. Only the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional wheeze of the old floor vent reminded her that time hadn’t actually stopped.
Her heart wouldn’t settle. It pulsed beneath her ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. Her hands trembled faintly beneath the water, and her lips — swollen, tender. Still burned with the memory of his mouth on hers. Not gentle. Not shy. Hungry. Like he meant it.
She swallowed hard and stared at the ceiling above her, eyes wide, lashes damp. The tiles blurred a little as steam fogged her vision, or maybe that was just the tears she refused to shed.
Hated that he got to walk away, again, like it was easy. Like the damage he left behind wasn’t still sitting in her skin. She hated the way he spoke, cold and final, like he didn’t feel anything at all.
But he had. She knew he had.
That kiss wasn’t an accident. That touch, the way he cradled her face like it was something breakable, like he wanted to memorize the shape of it, that wasn’t a man who didn’t care.
Left her in the quiet with no answers, no apology, just silence.
She would call Lucy and Sarah in the morning, and pretend to laugh and say she was fine until one of them called bullshit. She’d probably yell a bit, cursing his name and the day he was born. They’d listen. They always did.
She didn’t want to speak. Didn’t want to move.
She just sat there in the cooling water, skin puckered and pink, heart cracked clean down the centre, staring at the ceiling like it might hold the answer to everything she couldn’t say out loud.
Eventually, she climbed out. Towelled off slowly, like her body didn’t quite belong to her anymore. Every movement felt like it took effort, like she was underwater, still trying to surface. The cardigan she’d worn earlier was crumpled on the bathroom floor. She didn’t pick it up.
She walked into her bedroom on bare, damp feet and slipped beneath the covers without turning on a single light. The sheets were cool against her skin, the air still thick with the scent of citrus and salt. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and curled in on herself, small and still. Her eyes drifted to the curtains, drawn shut, like they could keep him out. Like they could keep anything out.
They just sat there, unmoving, separating her from the trailer across the street.
From the man who kissed her like he’d never stop and then left her like he never started.
But the ache in her chest settled deep.
And sleep, when it finally came, felt more like surrender than rest.
Julian sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, a full glass of rum in his hand. He hadn’t touched it. Ricky was long gone. Bubbles hadn’t been by. It was just him. And the dark shape of her trailer across the street.
The lights were on when he dropped her off.
That, he noticed. Because her curtains were never closed. Even when she was just dancing around folding laundry or vacuuming in her socks, the blinds were always cracked. Just enough light for the rest of the world to see how soft her space was. How lived in. How her.
But now there was nothing. Her trailer remained sealed off, and he knew she was shutting him out.
Julian rubbed a hand over his face and muttered, “Fuck.”
He didn’t even know what he was doing anymore. Trying to protect her? Or just pushing her away because he was scared of how much she made him feel? Either way, he’d wrecked something.
And for once, he didn’t feel justified for it.
The world hadn’t changed. Birds still chirped. Ricky still cursed at the empty fridge. Bubbles still walked his cats like it was the most normal thing in the world. But Y/N’s curtains stayed closed.
Julian noticed it the second he stepped out for his first smoke of the day. He stood on his porch, unlit cigarette between his fingers, watching the morning sun bathe the street in gold.
No vacuum hum. No radio. No shadow dancing in the living room.
He didn’t like how much it bothered him.
Julian lit his smoke, took a long drag, and muttered to himself, “She’s just cooling off. That’s all.” But the tension in his jaw said otherwise.
Y/N sat at the kitchen table in a La Senza lounge set, spooning cereal into her mouth without really tasting it. She stared at the closed curtains like they’d personally offended her. Yet, despite the burning feeling in her chest, y/n had managed to get up early and curl her hair, even put on a bit of mascara, and put on something cute. There was no sense losing herself in someone who kept trying to keep her away.
Still, part of her wanted to crack open the curtains, just enough to catch a glimpse of him outside, sunglasses on, drink in hand, pretending like nothing ever touched him.
But that’s what always happened.
He got to walk away. Be cold. Be untouchable.
And she was left pacing the kitchen like a little girl with a crush and a gut full of glass.
Let him feel what distance really tasted like.
Bubbles noticed before anyone else.
Julian was quieter than usual. Focused, sure, but distracted.
“Something on your mind?” Bubbles asked, gently nudging a kitten out of his toolbox.
Julian didn’t answer at first. Just tightened the bolts on a rickety shelf and stared at the wall. Bubbles looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “That girl’s still got her blinds shut.”
The curtains didn’t move.
Y/N didn’t open the door.
But they both felt the weight of it.
Every time he glanced across the road. Every time she paused by the window. Every time one of them stepped outside and caught the faintest trace of movement from the other’s trailer, but did nothing.
And maybe they both thought they deserved it.She sat curled up on the couch, knees drawn tightly to her chest, the pale flicker of the TV casting shifting shadows across her face. An old romantic comedy played quietly in the background, its clichéd jokes and predictable moments filling the silence in the room, but she wasn’t really watching. Her mind was tangled in the sound of his voice, replaying over and over in her head like a broken record, every word weighted with meaning she couldn’t shake. She remembered the way his voice had sounded just before he shut down completely - low, almost rough, laced with something raw and painful.
“Once I touch you the way I want to, you’re mine.”
Those words echoed, haunting her. They weren’t promises. They were warnings. Then there were the others, dark and resigned.
“I’m not the kind of man who makes your life better.”
“I’m the guy people barely survive knowing.”
She tried to understand. Why did he keep coming back if that’s how he saw himself? Why did he build her bed, piece by piece, as if staking some claim? Why did he fix her creaky cabinet pulls? Why did he kiss her like he meant it, like it was the only real thing in his life, and then flinch away as if it cost him blood?
Her throat tightened, and tears pricked painfully at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them away stubbornly, swallowing hard. She told herself again to be strong, to stay tough. If he wanted to keep his distance, if he chose to shut her out, then she could do the same. She could build walls around her own heart just as firmly.
But no matter how fiercely she tried to convince herself to let it go, there was a raw ache underneath it all, one she’d never admit aloud, that it was killing her inside, slowly and completely.
Julian stepped out onto his porch just as her car turned the corner at the end of the park road, its taillights disappearing between the scraggly pines lining the lot. He stared after it, jaw set, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. Too late. Again. That made three mornings in a row now. Three mornings where he’d stepped outside just a second too slow, catching only the exhaust in the air and the hollow ache of her absence.
Everything about her daily routine was the same on the surface. Y/N still left for work at the same time each morning, like clockwork. She still came home in the early evening, right around sunset, sometimes with groceries or takeout bags clutched in one hand, her worn leather tote slung over her shoulder. She still wore those soft little cardigans, colourful, frayed at the sleeves, over dresses that made Julian's brain stall out, the way they hugged her frame, the way they always looked just a little too delicate for a place like Sunnyvale. But that was where the familiarity ended.
The blinds on her trailer, once perpetually open to let in the light, now remained closed. Always. Drawn tight like a wall he wasn’t allowed to see past anymore. The life she used to live so openly had shuttered itself away in the space of one fight. No more humming drifting through the windows, no more glimpses of her twirling across the kitchen floor with bare feet and a glass of wine. The clothesline that used to flap with her laundry, bright little tees and soft cotton sheets, now hung empty. She didn’t pass by his place on the gravel path anymore, didn’t slow down, didn’t look over, didn’t offer one of those soft, casual hellos that used to make his chest tighten with a need he never voiced.
She was still here. Physically. Her car was in the driveway, lights flickering on in the evening, the soft murmur of her television barely audible on quiet nights. But it felt like she had vanished anyway. Like she had packed up her laughter, her warmth, her presence, and taken it all with her. Julian could feel the distance like a bruise, tender and stubborn, pressing against him with every step she didn’t take toward him.
She was there. And yet she wasn’t.Julian sat slouched on the couch, only half-listening as Ricky launched into yet another rambling rant. Julian’s gaze, however, kept drifting toward the window. He wasn’t really hearing Ricky. Not when his focus was outside waiting, watching. His foot tapped restlessly against the floor, matching the quiet storm brewing in his chest. A car rolled slowly down the street, headlights flashing briefly through the blinds. Julian stood before he realized it, crossing to the door and pulling it open in one motion. But she was already halfway to her front steps. She didn’t look over. Didn’t wave. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. His jaw tensed, and with a quiet breath through his nose, he shut the door hard enough for the frame to shudder. Across the street, in the muted evening glow of her trailer, Y/N stepped inside with no ceremony. She dropped her keys into the ceramic dish by the door with a familiar clink, kicked off her shoes like she was moving through a script she’d done too many times before. She didn’t bother with the blinds. Didn’t turn on the stereo. She went straight to the fridge, pulled out a half-wilted salad container from the deli, and ate it standing at the counter, chewing absently. There was no need to look out the window to know he was watching. She felt it, the weight of his attention across the street. But she didn’t give him the satisfaction of a glance. Not this time. Let him feel it, what it was like to want something and not reach for it. To hesitate, to push away, and realize too late that you meant it. Julian sat on the porch not long after, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, staring at her darkened windows. The curtains were still drawn, and behind them, a soft glow spilled faintly across the glass. No movement. No silhouette. But he knew she was there, just like he knew his rum was poured too heavy tonight, his hands wouldn’t stop twitching, and his mind refused to wander anywhere that wasn’t her. He hadn’t seen her face properly in three days, but the absence felt louder than any fight they’d had. It pressed into his ribs like a weight he couldn’t shift. By the fourth morning, the silence still lingered. Bubbles wandered by with a shopping cart rattling under the weight of scrap and stray cans, pausing to adjust his thick glasses. “Y/N brought tuna last night,” he offered casually, like he was talking about the weather. “Said the cats deserved the good stuff.” Julian didn’t look up from the toolbox he was rearranging for no reason other than needing something to do. “Yeah?” he muttered. “Yep,” Bubbles said, lingering. “She came by around 9:30. You were out back, I think.” Of course he was. Always somewhere just behind the moment. Julian exhaled through his nose, frustration tightening his shoulders, but he didn’t say another word. Bubbles, sensing the tension, moved on without pressing. That night, she pulled into her driveway later than usual. Her headlights swept briefly across his trailer before fading. Julian stood at his kitchen sink in the dark, lights off, the curtain pulled back just enough to see. Y/N stepped out of the car slowly, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. Her hair was twisted up, her cardigan draped over one arm. She didn’t look over. Didn’t linger. Just walked up the steps and slipped inside, the door closing softly behind her. Curtains still drawn. Lock still clicking. Julian’s hands clenched the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. He had told her to stay away, and she was listening. Too well.
It had been eight days since their last fight, eight days of silence, of distance, of him catching only glimpses of her from across the street like some stranger instead of the woman he’d once kissed like she was the last good thing in his life. Julian sat stiffly on the edge of his porch, a screwdriver clenched in his hand, twisting idly, aimlessly, doing nothing to fix what was broken. His eyes were locked across the way, burning holes into Y/N’s trailer behind his shades. The place that had once felt like a refuge, and now looked more like a place he was no longer welcome.
The morning sun hit her front steps just right, casting a golden haze over the dust motes dancing through the air. She was out there, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled into one of those loose, careless twists that let soft tendrils fall around her face like a halo. She moved with quiet determination, her motions confident and smooth, and for a second, Julian just stared. She hadn’t looked that calm in days. Not since him. Not since their voices had turned sharp and their eyes too tired to hold each other’s gaze. But now, now she looked lighter. Like someone who’d set something heavy down.
Corey and Trevor hovered nearby, crouched by the creaky front step with hammers and nails in hand, like two eager little brothers trying to impress the older kid. Y/N handed Corey a hammer with a teasing smile that cracked right through Julian’s chest. “Careful with that,” she murmured, her voice soft and playful. “Don’t want you smashing your thumb again.”
Corey laughed, that open, dopey grin stretched wide across his face. Trevor cracked a joke about Corey’s “clumsy-ass hands,” and Y/N’s laugh rang out, bright and warm, unbothered. It rolled through the air like it had every right to be there, and Julian hated how much he missed it.
She crouched beside the railing, brushing sawdust from her palms, and looked up at Trevor as he steadied a loose plank. “You’re doing great,” she said, reaching out to squeeze his arm, quick, casual, but enough to send something sharp straight through Julian’s gut. Trevor looked at her for just a moment too long, and Y/N smiled, not the kind she used to save for Julian, but real enough to twist the knife.
Corey grinned, hammer raised. “Thanks for dragging us into this mess, Y/N. But seriously, you make hard work look easy.”
She laughed again, shaking her head. “Well, somebody’s gotta keep you two out of trouble.”
Julian’s fists clenched around the screwdriver. The way they hovered around her, the way she let them, it wasn’t just about fixing a broken step. It was something more. It was connection. It was warmth. It was everything he’d spent the past week aching for, and none of it was his anymore. She hadn’t looked over once. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. She was right there, but it felt like she was miles away.
The screw slipped from his hand, bouncing across the porch with a small, sharp clatter. He didn’t move. The cigarette between his fingers had burned nearly to the filter, forgotten. All he could do was watch. Watch as she smiled. As she laughed. As she touched someone else. And he stood there like a ghost, invisible in the space he used to fill.
The curtain on her window was still drawn. Just like it had been for eight days. Just like her heart, closed off, locked up tight. Julian stared at the laughter he couldn’t reach, the warmth he wasn’t welcome to touch anymore. A storm churned in his chest, jealousy, regret, longing, but all he did was stand there, frozen on his own porch, while the only thing he really wanted slipped further out of reach.A fortnight had passed since they last spoke. Fourteen long, echoing days of silence and stolen glances. Y/N stood alone in front of the cracked full-length mirror on the back of her bathroom door, fingers adjusting the slim straps of her halter top with quiet determination. The top was new, skimpier than anything she usually wore, the neckline dipping lower than she was used to, but she didn’t mind the look of it. The low-rise bootcut Wranglers hugged her hips in all the right places, worn denim softened from age, and she gave herself a faint smile in the reflection. It wasn’t about impressing anyone, not tonight. It was about proving to herself that she could still feel good, still turn heads, still move forward. The loneliness that had curled in her chest for the past week hadn’t vanished, but it had dulled. Three glasses of cheap white wine helped, warming her skin and blurring the edges of her thoughts just enough to make the idea of dancing and noise and laughter feel inviting instead of overwhelming. Her coworkers were waiting downtown. The night was hers if she wanted it. Outside, Julian leaned against the railing of his porch, a fresh cigarette forgotten between his fingers as his eyes locked on the glow spilling from her trailer. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving only the porch light to cast gold across the gravel. He didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t watching. When a familiar truck pulled up and idled at the curb, his jaw tightened on instinct. It was one of her coworkers. One of the few guys Y/N worked with. The one she always mentioned offhand, like he was nothing, even though Julian had started recognizing a pattern. There was no doubt in his mind this guy had the hots for y/n. And tonight, when he stepped out of the driver’s seat with a too-easy smile and walked up to her porch, Julian’s gut twisted like a warning siren going off in his chest. Then she appeared, Y/N, flushed and radiant. Her smile looser than usual from the wine, her body wrapped in a new sexual confidence that looked almost unfamiliar. Her hair caught the light just right, and for a second Julian forgot how to breathe. The guy’s grin widened, and before Julian could fully process what was happening, he saw the man reach across the cab and pop the door for her. She smiled up at him as she climbed into the passenger seat. She didn’t seem bothered, didn’t act like anything was wrong. He saw the way the guy’s eyes lingered when they shouldn’t have, the way they paused to chat in her driveway for a second too long. Julian’s stomach burned. That familiar fire, the same one he’d tried to choke down for days, flared up with full force. Y/N didn’t see it. She didn’t recognize the kind of man who smiled like that. She was being her usual self, kind, open, unguarded. Too trusting. And Julian knew if he stormed across the street now, she’d only get defensive. She’d tell him it was nothing. That he didn’t get to have an opinion. And she’d be right. Julian stood in the growing dark, cigarette long dead between his fingers, jaw clenched and eyes shadowed with something deeper than anger. It wasn’t just jealousy, it was regret. It was need. It was the aching awareness that she was slipping further away from him with every passing night. And he still hadn’t done a damn thing to stop it.
The club pulsed with light and noise, a chaotic blur of bass, laughter, and heat that wrapped itself around Y/N like a heavy coat she hadn’t asked to wear. The air smelled like sweat, cheap cologne, and too much perfume, clinging to every movement and every breath. She leaned against the bar, shoulders bare beneath her tiny halter top, the cool metal of the counter a sharp contrast to the warmth blooming beneath her skin. The low-rise Wranglers hugged her hips snugly, making her feel more daring than she had in months, maybe even years. A little dangerous, a little free. The wine she’d downed before leaving, paired with the drinks her coworkers had coaxed her into, left her floating just above herself, detached, buzzed, looser than she usually allowed herself to be.
She was laughing. Smiling. Pretending that everything was fine.
A guy had approached her earlier. Mike, or Mark, or something like that. Older, rugged in the kind of way that might’ve been attractive if it weren’t for the way he looked at her like she was already his. He wore a weathered leather jacket and carried himself with an easy sort of confidence, and when he offered to buy her a drink, she hesitated only briefly. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe not. She’d spent the last week drowning in silence, avoiding Julian’s porch across the street, the ache of their last conversation still a bruise she couldn’t seem to touch without flinching. The loneliness was getting to her, chewing holes in her chest. And in the haze of neon and noise, this—Mike, the drink, the attention—felt like a possible way out. Just for a night.
She clinked glasses with him and gave a strained smile. “To new friends,” he said. She didn’t really respond. It wasn’t about him anyway. It was about feeling seen. About proving to herself she could move on. That she didn’t need Julian to breathe.
But minutes later, things shifted.
They’d moved closer to the dance floor, and Mike’s voice had dropped into something lower, more intimate. “You wanna get out of here?” he asked, his grin widening. “I’ve got a place nearby. We could keep this going.” At first, she tried to brush it off with a soft smile and a shake of her head. “I’m good here. Just out with friends.” Her tone was light, easy, meant to keep things friendly without giving him the wrong idea. But Mike didn’t back off. His smile twisted, more persistent now. “Come on. Don’t be shy,” he said, leaning in. His fingers grazed her arm again, lingering longer than before.
A tight knot of unease began to form in her stomach.
She laughed, but it was forced. “No, really. I’m fine.”
“You’re just saying that,” he said, and this time when his hand brushed her again, it wasn’t casual. It was deliberate.
Part of her wanted to shove him off, to walk away without looking back. But another part of her, so tired, so painfully lonely, just wanted the night to keep going. To not feel invisible anymore. She glanced through the crowd, searching for her daycare coworkers, but they were lost somewhere in the haze, drunk and laughing and oblivious. She was alone.
Mike stepped closer again, voice rougher now. “Let’s go. I can show you a good time.”
“No,” Y/N said, firmer this time, her body tensing.
His hand closed around her wrist like a vice.
“Don’t be like that. Just one night.”
Her smile vanished. Her pulse roared in her ears. The club’s lights flashed across his face in disjointed intervals, but all she could see was the way his grip wouldn’t let go.
She pulled back harder. “No.”
Everything hit at once: the pounding bass, the dizzy swirl of liquor in her bloodstream, the tightness in her chest. Her heart stuttered as panic surged through her veins. Her free hand fumbled in her purse, digging blindly for her phone, the desperation making her fingers clumsy. She finally got it out with shaking hands, opened her contacts. Julian. She pressed Call. The phone rang once—
Then Mark reached over and ended the call.
She stared at the screen, stunned. Her heart plummeted. “What the hell?” she gasped, but Mark just gave a tight smile, smug and unwavering.Back in Sunnyvale, the night had gone still, heavy with the kind of quiet that settled over the park when everyone else had turned in or passed out. Julian stood alone on his porch; eyes fixed across the road at Y/N’s darkened trailer. It had been that way for over an hour now, no movement, no lights, just silence. He hadn’t moved much himself, only shifting his weight now and then, a glass of rum sitting untouched in his hand. Ricky had yelled something to him earlier, Bubbles too, but he hadn’t responded. He barely heard them. All his attention was trained on that trailer, on the empty driveway, on the ache in his chest he wouldn’t name. When his phone buzzed in his pocket, he didn’t hesitate. His hand snapped to it like a reflex, already bracing for disappointment. But then he saw it, her name glowing on the screen, cutting through the dark like a match struck in a storm. For a split second, everything in him surged, relief, hope, maybe even a little panic. She was calling. After a week of silence, after nights of nothing but distance and unanswered questions, she was reaching out.
No second ring. No voicemail.
Julian froze. The air around him seemed to go still, as if the whole park was holding its breath. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t how she called, not when she meant to talk. And it wasn’t like her to hang up like that, not without at least a few more seconds, not unless something had gone wrong. His instincts flared hot and fast, years of reading people, of knowing when shit was off, kicking in all at once. His chest tightened. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t give a damn if she was drunk or if it was accidental. He knew. Something was wrong.
Without a second thought, he dropped the glass onto the porch railing, letting it thud heavily as he turned and grabbed his keys. Every step he took down the stairs was sharp, purposeful, like a storm gathering speed. He didn’t know exactly where she was, but she’d mentioned it once in passing. some downtown club her coworkers liked, one she wasn’t sure about but had agreed to try anyway. That was enough. He could find her.
He got in the car, shoved the keys into the ignition, and peeled out of the driveway with tires that squealed just enough to wake the street. But he didn’t care. He wasn’t thinking about consequences. He wasn’t thinking about himself. All he could see was her name disappearing from his screen. All he could hear was the silence that followed. All he could feel was the kind of dread that settled deep in his gut when he knew someone he cared about was in trouble.
Across town, in the pulsing chaos of the club, her world had started tilting.
Her voice had cracked with the weight of fear as she tried to hold herself together, as the alcohol and noise blurred her thoughts but sharpened her panic. Her fingers clutched the phone like it was the last thing tethering her to safety, to reality, to someone who might actually help. No friends near, no bouncer in sight. Mike had started to try to dance with her again. She staggered back, still held fast by the grip on her wrist, heart pounding hard enough to drown out the music. All she could do was hope, hope Julian could somehow read her mind. Hope he hadn’t stopped caring. Hope he would come. Because right now, she wasn’t sure how to get herself out of this.
Inside the club, the air was thick, choked with bass-heavy music, strobing lights, and the chaotic tangle of bodies moving in every direction. The scent of sweat, alcohol, and perfume clung to everything. Julian shoved through the crowd with single-minded focus, every nerve in his body strung tight as he scanned the room. His eyes swept the chaos in sharp, focused bursts, until he saw her.
Y/N stood near the edge of the dance floor, locked in a struggle that made Julian’s blood run cold. Mike had his hand clamped around her wrist, his grip visibly tight, his posture aggressive and too close. Y/N’s face was drained of colour, her eyes glassy and wide with fear, her body angled away like she was trying to escape. She tugged back, weak from the alcohol and adrenaline, but Mike wasn’t letting go.
He shoved through the crowd, not giving a single fuck who he bumped or knocked aside. Drinks spilled. People cursed. Someone tried to grab his shoulder and got shoved hard enough to stumble. He had one target—and when he reached him, he didn’t hesitate.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” he barked, voice like a crack of thunder over the music.
Mike barely had time to turn before Julian grabbed him by the collar and slammed him backwards into the wall so hard a picture frame rattled off nearby. Y/N stumbled free and into a nearby chair, gasping. Mike swung a fist, but Julian dodged, jaw dark with fury. He landed a punch to Mike’s gut, then another across his face. Blood sprayed, and Mike sagged.
“You think that shit’s okay?” he spat, slamming Mike again. “Grabbing her like that? Scaring her? You fucking coward.”
Mike choked out something, hands flailing defensively, but Julian drove his forearm into the guy’s throat, pinning him in place. His knuckles were split, blood dripping from the cut across them, and his breathing was ragged, barely held back.
“If she ever so much as sees you again, I swear to God I’ll bury you under this fucking club.”
Julian didn’t spare him another glance. Y/N hadn’t moved. She stood tall just a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest, watching the whole thing with eyes that were wide, but not scared. Her pulse was racing, yeah. Her body was humming with adrenaline. But the relief that poured through her as Julian stepped in, fists flying and fire in his eyes, was matched by something else.
He’d come. He’d fought for her. And not like some jealous asshole, he saw the line Mike had crossed and didn’t let it slide. Julian fucking handled it.
When he reached her, he didn’t ask if she was okay.
She didn’t speak, just let him take her hand and lead her to the door. Security was too slow making it to them as they peeled out of the parking lot.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, every nerve on edge, body lit with adrenaline, but beneath the chaos, beneath the sharp rush of what-ifs and almosts, there was something else blooming deep in her chest.
Julian had come. No hesitation, no questions, no waiting around to see if she’d figure it out on her own. He saw what was happening and tore through the crowd like a goddamn storm, fists flying and rage in his eyes. Not because he was jealous. Not because he was trying to control her. But because he saw the moment Mike crossed the line, and he didn’t let it slide.
That mattered more than she could say. Not just because someone had finally stood up for her, but because he had. Because even after all the silence and distance and mixed-up emotions between them, Julian still gave a damn. Still had her back when it counted.
Watching him fight for her, really punch a guy, lit something in her chest that had nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with how much she’d missed him. But she wasn’t ready to forgive him just yet, let him back in. He’d have to earn it back.
Julian had driven her back to her trailer when she’d asked, quiet between them except for the hum of the engine. She didn’t say much, just leaned against the window, eyes half-closed, trying to keep herself together.
When they pulled up, she didn’t want him to come inside. She just wanted to get through the night without falling apart. So Julian stayed by the driver’s side, watching her until the door shut and the lock clicked behind her.
The next morning, sunlight spilled unevenly across the worn floorboards of Y/N’s trailer. She lay sprawled on the sagging couch, tangled in a thin blanket, head pounding like a drum.
She cracked the curtains just a sliver, enough to let a sliver of pale light creep in, but not enough to let the world stare back. Her skin felt raw, and her mouth tasted like old cigarettes and regret.
Every movement made her stomach twist, so she stayed low, nestled in the cushions, half-lounging, half-curling in on herself. The silence felt heavy, but safe.
Outside, she could hear the faint sounds of the trailer park waking up, a distant lawnmower, the low murmur of a car starting, birds chirping somewhere in the trees.
She didn’t want to think about Julian. Didn’t want to think about what had happened the night before. But the ache in her chest told her she was already tangled up in it.
Her fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of the blanket, heart pounding with the weight of everything she hadn’t said.
Julian’s fist hovered for a moment, then knocked softly on Y/N’s trailer door. He waited. The quiet stretched, thick and uneasy.
Seconds passed before the door creaked open just a crack. Y/N’s tired, glassy eyes peeked out at him, wary and guarded.
He didn’t wait for an invitation.
Before she could pull the door closed, Julian slipped inside, the faint scent of last night, smoke, cheap perfume, and something else clinging to the air.
Y/N sagged against the doorframe, vulnerable and raw, but said nothing. Julian didn’t push.
Instead, he moved toward the small kitchenette, the wood worn and scratched from years of use. He pulled a battered coffee pot from the shelf and filled it, the soft gurgle of the coffee maker breaking the silence.
He reached for the Tylenol bottle, quietly clicking two tablets into his palm, then found a glass, filling it with water from the tap. The sounds were small, careful—like he didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile calm held the room together.
When the coffee was ready, he poured a steaming cup and carried it over to where Y/N sat wrapped in a thin blanket on the couch.
He offered it without a word. She took it with shaky hands, the warmth seeping into her palms.
Julian crouched down beside her, setting the glass of water and the pills on the low table within reach. His eyes searched her face—softened by worry but still distant.
“You look like hell,” he said quietly, almost a joke, but there was no bite behind it.
Y/N blinked, swallowing hard, her throat too dry to speak easily.
He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
“I’m not good at this, getting close to people” Julian admitted, voice low. “But I want to be. For you.”
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to reach out, to let him in. But the fear still held tight, tangled with the pounding in her head and the ache in her chest.
Instead, she just nodded, eyes fixed on the swirling steam rising from the coffee cup in her hands.
Julian stayed there, close but careful, as if trying to bridge a gap neither of them was ready to cross just yet.
Would you like me to keep going with this slow, unspoken dance between them?
Certainly! Here’s the revision with Y/N clearly saying he hurt her, keeping the fragile tension and deeper detail:
Julian remained crouched beside her, his fingers barely brushing the worn fabric of the blanket, careful not to disturb the fragile calm. The quiet in the room was heavy, thick with all the things left unsaid between them.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Y/N broke the silence.
“You hurt me,” she said simply.
The words landed softly, but with undeniable weight.
Julian’s throat tightened painfully. That day, the fight, the distance, the cold walls they’d built, was a wound that hadn’t healed. Hearing her say it aloud made it impossible to pretend otherwise.
He swallowed hard. “I know.”
A long pause stretched between them, filled only by the faint steam rising from the coffee in her hands.
“I fucked up,” he admitted, voice rough with regret. “Big time.”
She didn’t look up. Instead, she stared down into the swirling coffee, fingers trembling slightly.
Julian wanted to reach out, to offer something, anything, to heal the cracks. But he held back, afraid of pushing her further away.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said quietly, voice thick with an almost pleading honesty.
Her gaze slowly lifted, meeting his. No anger, just raw, open hurt. A flicker of something fragile, maybe hope.
Julian’s heart ached. He edged closer, his fingers brushing her arm with delicate care. “I don’t know how to fix this all, but I want to try.”
Y/N bit her lip, eyes flickering down. “You really hurt me. It wasn’t just the fight. It’s how you shut me out.”
Her words hit Julian like a punch. He swallowed again, the weight of her pain settling deep in his chest.
“I’m scared,” she whispered, voice breaking the quiet.
Julian nodded slowly, feeling the ache in his own chest. “Me too.”
The silence returned, but it was different now. Less a wall, more a thread stretched thin but holding.
Y/N shifted beneath the blanket. Julian stayed quiet, letting the space between them breathe.
After a moment, he reached out again, letting his hand rest gently over hers.
And for the first time in days, the tension between them softened—just a little.
The quiet filled the room again, steady and low like a tide neither of them could quite stand in.
Y/N sipped her coffee slowly, though it had gone lukewarm. The heat no longer mattered. Her body still felt heavy and thick with the hangover, but not just that, exhaustion curled into her bones. Emotional, not physical.
Julian stayed beside her, silent but present. He didn’t look at her much. Just at his hand, now resting over hers. The way her knuckles twitched beneath his touch. She wasn’t pulling away.
He let out a quiet breath through his nose and leaned back just slightly on his heels, the leather of his vest creaking faintly as he shifted.
Then, after a long moment, he moved his hand, slowly, and placed it on her knee.
Just a touch. Steady. Grounding.
She glanced down, not startled but surprised. It wasn’t like him.
He stared ahead at the far wall, jaw flexing like he was chewing over what to say, or maybe what not to.
“I missed you,” he said finally.
The words were low, like gravel, but they cracked the quiet wide open.
Y/N blinked, throat thick. Her fingers tightened around the mug.
Julian didn’t add anything right away. He just stayed like that, his hand warm against her knee, his voice trailing in the space between them like smoke from one of his cigarettes.
“I’m not… good at this kind of shit,” he said, quieter now. “Talkin’ about stuff.”
He shifted again, still not looking at her, just staring ahead like he was watching something no one else could see. “Lotta people’ve walked away. Over the years. From me. From the way I live.”
She felt the words slip into her skin. They didn’t sound like a ploy for sympathy. More like a truth he hadn’t said out loud before.
Y/N tucked the blanket tighter around herself. The sting in her head was starting to dull, but her chest still ached.
“I’m not them,” she said softly.
Julian turned his head then, just slightly, eyes flicking to her face. Searching it.
It wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t angry. Just broken in that quiet way he always was when he started to let his guard down. His voice didn’t shake, but something behind it did.
She didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she set the mug down on the side table and slowly leaned back into the couch cushions, just far enough that he could still touch her. Still keep his hand where it was.
“I don’t know yet,” she said honestly, almost in a whisper. “But I didn’t call anyone else last night. I called you.”
Julian looked down at his hand on her knee.
And for a long time, he didn’t say a word.
But he didn’t let go, either.
Julian’s hand lingered on her knee for a second longer than necessary before he pulled away. Not fast, not abrupt, just enough to give her space.
He stood, rolling his shoulders like he needed to shake something off. His eyes moved around the trailer, catching on details, details he already knew, but now saw like he hadn’t in weeks.
“You got a couple cabinet pulls coming loose,” he said, gesturing toward the kitchen. “And that step out front? The one Corey and Trevor ‘fixed’? Still wobbly.”
Y/N’s brows lifted faintly. “You saw them fix it?”
He huffed through his nose, walking over to the drawer by the sink. “If you can call it that. They used drywall screws. For a step.”
Julian pulled open the drawer and gave the handle a wiggle. Sure enough, it shifted in his grip. “Cabinet pulls too. You probably already noticed.”
“I’ve been meaning to get to them,” she said softly.
Her arms tightened around the blanket still draped over her shoulders. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” He didn’t look at her when he said it.
And just like that, he stepped back out to the truck. Two minutes later, he was kneeling on the linoleum with his red toolbox cracked open beside him, screwdriver in hand.
Y/N stayed curled on the couch, not saying much. Just watching.
She didn’t offer him water. Didn’t make small talk. Didn’t ask him why he was really there. Because she already knew.
This, quiet acts of service, grumbling about Corey and Trevor, trying to fix things with his hands when he couldn’t fix what he’d broken with his silence, this was how Julian let people in.
He worked methodically, tightening one drawer pull after another. The small clink of the screwdriver echoed in the quiet.
“You really think they fucked up the step that bad?” she asked eventually, her voice low.
Julian glanced up. “I know they did. I stepped on it yesterday and damn near ate shit.”
That earned a weak laugh from her, half buried under the tension in her chest.
“I’ll fix it proper this time,” he added. “Probably should’ve done it myself in the first place.”
She moved from the couch slowly, padding over in socked feet. She leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, still swaddled in her blanket.
Julian tightened the last screw and stood, tucking the screwdriver back into the box. When he turned to her, his gaze met hers, and didn’t look away this time.
“You don’t have to let me in,” he said after a beat. “I get it.”
Y/N’s fingers tightened on the edge of the blanket.
“But I’m still gonna show up,” he added. “Still gonna fix the shit that needs fixing. Whether you open the door or not.”
She looked at him, eyes heavy, voice hoarse from the hangover and something deeper. “You really hurt me that day.”
The words landed like a dropped stone.
Julian didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t offer excuses.
His jaw shifted slightly, and he exhaled through his nose, slow and rough.
No defense. No bravado. Just three low words, steeped in regret.
He glanced at her kitchen table. “You should sit. I’ll make you something. Eggs or toast or… I dunno. Something to soak up all that tequila.”
Y/N didn’t move for a moment. Then she slowly stepped out of the doorway and sank into one of the kitchen chairs.
She didn’t smile. But she didn’t stop him, either.
And Julian, still figuring out how to say what he meant, pulled open her fridge and got to work.
Because if he couldn’t say everything yet, he could at least make sure the step didn’t break under her feet again.
The pan sizzled low on the stove as Julian cracked a couple of eggs into it, one-handed, like it was second nature. It probably was. He moved with the same control he did in everything, measured, careful, like even the way he cooked had something to prove.
Y/N stayed at the table, still wrapped in her blanket, elbows propped, chin in her hand. Her eyes were heavy, not just from the hangover but from everything sitting behind it. She hadn’t really looked at him yet, not fully. Not the way she used to.
When the toast popped, he moved automatically, butter, a little salt on the eggs, a glass of water refilled without asking. When he finally placed the plate in front of her, she looked up.
“Thanks,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “Eat. You’ll feel less like shit.”
She picked at the toast first, slow, methodical. He watched her take the first bite of eggs and seem vaguely surprised that they weren’t terrible.
He sat across from her, silent.
It was the first time in weeks they’d shared a table.
For a while, the only sound in the room was the occasional scrape of her fork against the plate. He didn’t try to fill the silence. He just sat there, leaning his elbows on the table, staring at the spot between them.
Finally, after she’d finished about half the plate, she broke the stillness. Her voice was soft, but clear.
“Did you mean it? That you’re still gonna show up?”
Julian looked up slowly. His brows drew together, like he didn’t expect the question, or maybe didn’t expect her to ask it like that.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
She looked down at the plate again, toying with a corner of the toast. “I just… I’m not sure what to do with you when you act like this.”
His mouth opened a fraction, no comeback, no smirk. Just stillness.
“I’m not saying I don’t want you to,” she added. “I just… it’s a lot. After everything.”
He sat back, arms crossing, but not defensive. Just—closed, like he didn’t know how to be open and stay safe at the same time.
“I don’t do this much,” he said. “The whole… talking it out thing.”
“No kidding,” she said, with the faintest trace of a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
He shrugged one shoulder. “People usually leave. Or get sick of it. Sick of me.”
Y/N looked at him then. Really looked.
She saw the wear around his eyes, the way he’d shaved this morning but missed a spot under his jaw, the tension still wrapped around his shoulders like it never really left.
“You think that’s what I’m doing?” she asked, quieter now. “Getting sick of you?”
Julian’s gaze flicked up to hers. And stayed there.
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” he admitted. “But I know I miss you.”
The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt full—with things neither of them were ready to name.
After a while, she stood slowly, carrying her plate to the sink. Her limbs were still heavy, her hangover still blooming behind her eyes, but her movements were more sure now. More grounded.
She rinsed the dish and set it in the rack, then leaned on the edge of the counter, back to him.
Watched the way she stood there like she wasn’t sure if he’d leave, or if she wanted him to.
He stood too. Moved to the door like he was going to go.
But before his hand touched the knob, he paused.
“You want me to fix that step today?”
Y/N turned halfway, not quite facing him.
“Yeah,” she said. “That’d be good.”
And it wasn’t everything.
The pan sizzled low on the stove as Julian cracked a couple of eggs into it, one-handed, like it was second nature. It probably was. He moved with the same control he did in everything, measured, careful, like even the way he cooked had something to prove.
Y/N stayed at the table, still wrapped in her blanket, elbows propped, chin in her hand. Her eyes were heavy, not just from the hangover but from everything sitting behind it. She hadn’t really looked at him yet, not fully. Not the way she used to.
When the toast popped, he moved automatically, butter, a little salt on the eggs, a glass of water refilled without asking. When he finally placed the plate in front of her, she looked up.
“Thanks,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “Eat. You’ll feel less like shit.”
She picked at the toast first, slow, methodical. He watched her take the first bite of eggs and seem vaguely surprised that they weren’t terrible.
He sat across from her, silent.
It was the first time in weeks they’d shared a table.
For a while, the only sound in the room was the occasional scrape of her fork against the plate. He didn’t try to fill the silence. He just sat there, leaning his elbows on the table, staring at the spot between them.
Finally, after she’d finished about half the plate, she broke the stillness. Her voice was soft, but clear.
“Did you mean it? That you’re still gonna show up?”
Julian looked up slowly. His brows drew together, like he didn’t expect the question, or maybe didn’t expect her to ask it like that.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
She looked down at the plate again, toying with a corner of the toast. “I just… I’m not sure what to do with you when you act like this.”
His mouth opened a fraction, no comeback, no smirk. Just stillness.
“I’m not saying I don’t want you to,” she added. “I just… it’s a lot. After everything.”
He sat back, arms crossing, but not defensive. Just, closed, like he didn’t know how to be open and stay safe at the same time.
“I don’t do this much,” he said. “The whole… talking it out thing.”
“No kidding,” she said, with the faintest trace of a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
He shrugged one shoulder. “People usually leave. Or get sick of it. Sick of me.”
Y/N looked at him then. Really looked.
She saw the wear around his eyes, the way he’d shaved this morning but missed a spot under his jaw, the tension still wrapped around his shoulders like it never really left.
“You think that’s what I’m doing?” she asked, quieter now. “Getting sick of you?”
Julian’s gaze flicked up to hers. And stayed there.
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” he admitted. “But I know I miss you.”
The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt full, with things neither of them were ready to name.
After a while, she stood slowly, carrying her plate to the sink. Her limbs were still heavy, her hangover still blooming behind her eyes, but her movements were more sure now. More grounded.
She rinsed the dish and set it in the rack, then leaned on the edge of the counter, back to him.
Watched the way she stood there like she wasn’t sure if he’d leave, or if she wanted him to.
He stood too. Moved to the door like he was going to go.
But before his hand touched the knob, he paused.
“You want me to fix that step today?”
Y/N turned halfway, not quite facing him.
“Yeah,” she said. “That’d be good.”
