der Träumer

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Welcome, dear readers!

I'll keep this short and sweet, as I'm not a fan of long introductions. This is a self-indulgent crossover fanfic between the John Wick and The Menu universes, where I only own my original character, Adele Cole. Please forgive any grammar mistakes, as English isn't my first language. Spoiler alert for both films!

Reviews are always welcome, but if you're not a fan, feel free to move on.

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You can find this work on these platforms: FanFiction, AO3, Wattpad or Quotev.

Passionfruit🍴Masterlist:

Hawthorne Island

The First Course

The Second Course

The Third Course

The Fourth Course

Palate Cleanser

The Sixth Course

The Assassin and the Chef

Final Course

Reborn In Flames

The Unlikely Path Forward

Eye To Eye

Hollow Spaces

Unspoken Understanding

Turning Point

Point Of No Return

Hard Truths

Between Two Sinners

Push And Pull

The clock on the far wall read 2:14 AM, but Julian barely registered the numbers.

He sat at the kitchen counter, his back hunched slightly, one hand wrapped around a half-empty glass of whiskey. The bottle beside him was nearly full; he had poured himself one drink and never made it to the second. The first sip had burned like it always did, but he hadn't been looking for warmth.

He had been looking for clarity. And he had found something else entirely.

His mind was a cluttered battlefield of things left unsaid, things he wished he could take back, things he could never change.

His father's voice echoed in the silence, sharp and biting, a scar that never truly faded.

"You're weak, Julian. Just like your mother."

The words had been carved into him so deeply that even now, decades later, he still flinched at the memory.

His father had taken everything from him—his childhood, his sense of safety, the idea that love wasn't meant to hurt. And yet, somehow, Julian had managed to keep one thing for himself.

His hands.

They had once been used to shield his ribs from the next blow. Then, later, they had learned something new—precision. His hands had become his salvation, crafting dishes with an artistry that left people in awe. In the kitchen, he had complete control. No one could touch him there. No one could hurt him there.

But outside of it? That was another story.

He had failed at marriage.

He had failed at restraint.

He had failed at being the kind of man he thought he was.

Katherine's face surfaced in his mind, unbidden. The way she had looked at him that night.

Fear.

Disgust.

Betrayal.

Julian let out a slow breath, pressing his fingers against his temple. His past was a string of miscalculations, each worse than the last. He had ruined everything he had ever touched. And now there was Adele.

She was different. She wasn't safe, but she wasn't fragile either. He could see the storm in her the same way he felt it in himself. A woman with blood on her hands and a past too heavy to put down.

A woman who, like him, was trying to be something else.

But people like them didn't get second chances, did they?

Julian exhaled and set the glass down, his appetite for the whiskey gone.

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Her knife moved against the whetstone in smooth, practiced strokes. The repetitive shhkt, shhkt, shhkt filled the quiet of her small room, a sound more familiar than her own breathing.

It was muscle memory now—this ritual. She didn't need to think about it. Didn't need to question why, after all these years, she still felt more at ease with a blade in her hand than without.

She paused, tilting the knife to the dim light, watching the faint gleam of the edge. It was sharp enough now. It had been for a while.

But she kept sharpening anyway.

Because what else was there?

Without her knives, without the skill drilled into her from the moment she was old enough to understand pain, who was she? What was she?

She flexed her fingers. The ghost of old wounds still lingered—broken bones that healed wrong, scars that mapped out a life no one else could read.

The Ruska Roma had carved her down to the core and rebuilt her into something new. Not a person. A weapon. And she had been a good one. One of the best.

Bloody Mary, they had called her. Not Adele. Bloody Mary.

A name drenched in death, whispered in fear. She had let it define her.

She closed her eyes for a moment, the weight of it pressing against her ribs.

Then John Wick had happened. One moment—one encounter—had forced her to wake up. Forced her to see that there was something beyond the next contract, beyond the next kill. But knowing it and believing it were two different things.

She wanted to believe she could be something more. That she could live without blood on her hands.

But every time she tried, she felt it—the hollowness.

The truth was, she didn't know how to be a person. She didn't know how to exist without purpose. And when the only purpose she had ever known was death—where did that leave her?

She turned the blade in her grip, watching as the dim light caught the edge.

She wasn't afraid of the things she had done. She was afraid of what came after.

Because if she wasn't a killer, she was nothing.

And nothing couldn't be loved.

The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint creak of old wood settling.

Julian didn't move when Adele entered—he didn't even look up at first. He just sat there, still as a statue, the whiskey glass untouched in front of him.

Adele hovered near the doorway, watching him, her fingers idly tapping against the hilt of her knife. She wasn't gripping it tightly—she wasn't threatened—but she wasn't entirely at ease either.

She could see the tension in his shoulders, the weight in his posture. It was a familiar sight.

She had seen it in herself.

Finally, Julian glanced up. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his voice was quiet when he spoke.

"Do you ever feel like some things can't be undone?"

Adele tilted her head, considering him. Then she let out a breath. "All the time."

He let out a quiet laugh, one that didn't quite reach his eyes.

There was a long silence. Neither of them filled it.

Adele stepped further into the room, leaning against the opposite counter. The knife was still in her grip, but she held it loose now, letting it spin idly between her fingers before setting it down.

She studied Julian in the dim light. The way he carried himself—like a man waiting for something to break.

She understood that feeling.

"You drink to forget?" she asked.

He swirled the whiskey in his glass. "No," he admitted. "I drink to remember."

Adele didn't speak right away. The words sat heavy between them.

Then, finally, she nodded. "I sharpen my knives for the same reason."

Julian looked at her then, really looked at her. And she let him.

In another life, maybe they would have been strangers. Maybe they would have never crossed paths at all.

But in this one?

The weight of the dumbbells in her hands felt reassuring. The sharp strain in her muscles, the burn of exertion—these were things Adele could control. As she finished her last set, she let the weights drop with a dull thud onto the rubber flooring of her basement gym. Her breath came in steady, measured inhales, the kind she had trained herself to maintain even when fatigue clawed at her limbs.

It had been a month. A month since she had told Julian the truth. A month since he had started pulling away.

She had told herself that she wouldn't let it get to her. That she was fine with it. That Julian would come around in his own time. But as the days stretched into weeks, as his messages became curt and his absence more pronounced, patience had begun to wear thin.

Adele moved to the underground shooting range she had built for herself, loading her pistol with smooth efficiency. The moment she took her stance, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger, she felt a sense of relief. The controlled violence of the gunshot, the precision required to hit her target—it was grounding. It reminded her that she was still herself, that she still had command over something in her life.

But no amount of training, no number of perfectly placed shots, could silence the growing frustration gnawing at her insides.

She had expected hesitation. Julian was methodical, calculated. He never made a move without thinking it through a dozen times over. But this wasn't hesitation—this was avoidance. He was shutting her out, and worse, he wasn't even telling her why.

The thought ignited a fresh wave of irritation, making her next shot go slightly off-center. Adele clicked her tongue and lowered her weapon. The distance between them, both physical and emotional, was becoming unbearable.

She had given him time. She had given him space. And now she was done waiting.

Julian had never been one to act on impulse.

Every decision he made was precise, calculated. He had built his life on control, on understanding every possible outcome before making a move. And yet, for the past month, he had felt like he was teetering on the edge of something he couldn't quite define.

Avoiding Adele had not been an easy choice. He told himself it wasn't avoidance—it was distance. Necessary distance. A chance to process, to decide whether he could afford to let her any closer.

He wasn't a fool. He had seen the expectation in her eyes that day, the way she had watched him after telling him the truth. She had been waiting to see what he would do. And that alone was dangerous.

Because the moment she had told him, the moment she had laid herself bare, a single undeniable truth had settled in his mind:

If he let her in, if he let himself get any closer, there would be no turning back.

Julian exhaled, fingers resting against the book he wasn't really reading. He had spent the past month trying to convince himself that distance was the right call, that maintaining control over the situation was more important than whatever undefined thing had started to form between them.

And yet, despite everything, Adele still lingered in his thoughts.

The way she carried herself, the way she fought against every limitation placed upon her, the way she had looked at him that day—like she wanted him to prove her wrong, to prove that he was different.

He had spent his life making logical choices, choosing paths that offered the least resistance. But Adele was not logical. She was chaos. And for the first time, Julian wasn't sure if he wanted to resist.

The kitchen was empty.

Adele stood at the doorway, arms folded, staring at the neatly arranged countertops. Everything was in its place—knives sharpened, ingredients untouched. The space felt sterile without movement, without the quiet presence of someone else.

She wasn't sure why she expected him to be here.

He had canceled their lesson that morning. A simple, curt message delivered through the usual channels. No explanation. No attempt at rescheduling. Just an impersonal dismissal.

And Adele had told herself it didn't matter. That it was nothing. That she didn't care.

Yet, here she was. And when she finally pushed open the door to the library, her voice carried a sharp edge she hadn't planned on.

"You canceled our lesson."

Julian barely looked up from his book. Seated in his usual chair, posture meticulous, he turned a page as if she hadn't spoken at all.

After a moment, he finally said, "I did."

No explanation. No apology. Nothing.

Adele narrowed her eyes. "So that's it? No more cooking lessons?"

"I've simply decided to reprioritize my time." His voice was calm, measured. He didn't even glance at her.

A spark of irritation flared in her chest.

"Right. Because you're suddenly too busy."

Julian exhaled through his nose, amused but distant. "You sound upset."

"I sound pissed, Julian."

At that, he finally met her gaze. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—watched her with a quiet intensity that made her want to either punch him or kiss him just to shut him up.

"Why?" he asked simply.

"Why—?" Adele scoffed. "Maybe because I thought you were different. Maybe because I let myself believe, for one goddamn second, that you wouldn't be like everyone else. But no, I tell you the truth, and suddenly you're—" She gestured vaguely at him. "This."

Julian closed his book. Slowly. Deliberately.

"And what is 'this,' exactly?"

"Distant. Cold. Like you've already decided what you think of me."

His silence stretched long enough that her pulse started to thrum. She hated that. Hated that he had this effect on her.

"You misunderstand," Julian said at last. "I haven't decided anything."

Adele frowned. "Then what is this? Some sort of test?"

He tilted his head. "No. I am simply... considering."

"Considering what?"

"You."

The way he said it made her stomach tighten. There was no judgment in his voice, no disgust, no fear—only calm assessment, like she was a puzzle he was still piecing together.

Adele's breath hitched before she could stop it. "I don't need you to analyze me, Julian."

"Don't you?" His voice was soft, but sharp. "You confessed something to me, something that would drive most people away, and yet you were watching me, waiting, as if you wanted to see if I'd still be standing here."

Adele clenched her fists. He was right, and that only pissed her off more.

"I don't need you to stay."

"No," Julian agreed. "But you don't want me to leave, either."

Her throat tightened. She had no response to that.

Julian exhaled, glancing at the book in his lap before looking back up at her.

"Tell me, Adele—what would you rather I do?"

The way he said her name made it feel like a blade against her skin—sharp, precise, and far too intimate.

The fever came in waves, relentless and cruel. Slowik had anticipated it from the moment he had first seen her wound—deep, angry, a puncture that had nearly torn through muscle and sinew. Now, as he sat beside her, the air thick with the scent of sweat and herbal poultices, he found himself caught in a battle of his own.

It had been days since she had truly woken, slipping in and out of fevered sleep, murmuring in Russian—words he barely understood, but their weight was unmistakable. Longing. Fear. Perhaps even guilt. Sometimes she clutched at the sheets, other times at nothing, her hands grasping for something—or someone—unseen. And in those moments, Slowik could not bring himself to look away.

He wiped her forehead with a damp cloth, his movements precise yet hesitant. This was not the precision of a blade against flesh, of a perfectly plated dish awaiting judgment. This was a different kind of exactness—one that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with care. And care was not something he had offered in a long, long time.

He had cared for things before, many of them wrong. Many of which he couldn't bring himself to let go of.

Ratings. Opinions. Reputation. Prestige. Success.

Adele stirred, her lips parting as if to speak, but only a hoarse breath escaped.

This was different.

She had been like this for nearly three days now, the fever unrelenting, wrapping around her like a second skin. The puncture wound was healing—slowly, painfully—but the fever refused to break. He had cleaned it, dressed it, ensured it didn't fester. And still, the heat simmered beneath her skin, her breath coming in shallow gasps as if the fever was devouring the air inside her lungs.

She murmured something, too soft for him to catch. Then, more distinctly, Russian words tumbled from her lips, fevered and half-formed.

"Ne… ostavlyay menya… net…"

He may not know Russian, but the emotions in those words made something in his chest tighten. He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to focus on wringing out the cloth, his fingers tightening around the damp fabric before he pressed it to her skin once more.

He should not be here. Not like this. Not feeling this way.

Yet it had started the moment he carried her back—weak, bloodied, half-conscious. And now, it was undeniable.

Something was happening, something he had not planned for. He had come to live under her roof out of a mutually beneficial agreement… yet now he could not ignore the shift, the way his thoughts lingered on her even when she was not in the room.

And she didn't feel the same. She couldn't. Adele tolerated him. Maybe even found comfort in his presence. But this—this unbearable, pulling weight in his chest—she did not share it. She couldn't.

He adjusted the blankets around her, ensuring she remained warm but not overheated. Her fever had spiked earlier, and he had been forced to strip her down to her shift, an act that had sent a bolt of something unnamable through him. He had done it methodically, efficiently, treating her body as he would any task requiring precision. But even now, he could not shake the way his pulse had quickened, the way his hands had hesitated for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

Damnation.

Julian rose from the chair, rubbing a hand down his face. The room was dim, illuminated only by a single candle flickering on the bedside table. Outside, the wind howled, rattling against the concrete walls of the house, but inside, it was suffocatingly still.

He needed a distraction.

His gaze drifted to the bandages wrapped tightly around her abdomen, fresh ones he had changed not an hour before. The wound was healing, but slowly. Too slowly. And the question remained—who had done this to her? What had she gotten herself involved in?

She had never spoken of it, but it had occurred to him then: There was still so much he didn't know about Adele Cole.

But Slowik had seen wounds and bruises like that before. They were not the work of mere happenstance. Not a fall, not an accident. No, someone had done this with intent, with precision. And that thought alone sent a slow, simmering rage curling in his stomach.

Who had done this to her?

The question burned, but it was safer than the other thoughts creeping in—the ones that made his fingers linger too long on her forehead, the ones that made his breath catch when she murmured his name between fevered whispers.

He forced himself to stand, moving toward the small table where he had been preparing her meals.

She had eaten little since the fever took hold, her appetite fading no matter how carefully he adjusted her meals. He kept them light—delicate broths simmered to coax warmth back into her, soft bread torn into small pieces she wouldn't have to struggle to chew, a few slices of fruit that she often left untouched. Every refusal, every barely-touched plate gnawed at him. He was used to controlling a kitchen, knowing precisely how to craft a dish to be consumed and savored, yet here, no technique could override the simple reality that her body rejected what it needed most.

It irritated him, frustrated him. And yet, when she had finally taken a few sips, he had felt something dangerously close to relief.

He ladled some into a bowl now, letting the steam rise up, filling the room with warmth. Returning to her side, he set it down carefully and reached for her shoulder. "Adele," he said, voice quieter than he intended. "You need to eat."

Her eyelids fluttered, lashes damp with sweat. She turned her head slightly toward him, eyes unfocused. "Mmm..." was all she managed, but it was enough. He slipped an arm behind her, lifting her gently, feeling the heat of her skin against his forearm. She was heavy in his grasp, strong muscles contracting under her skin as she helped him move her.

Bringing the spoon to her lips, he watched as she hesitated, then parted them just enough for the warm liquid to pass. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

As he eased her back down, she murmured something. At first, he thought it was incoherent, but then— "Why... so careful?"

He stilled. "You're hurt."

A faint smile ghosted across her lips, barely there, but unmistakable. "No, not just that."

His chest tightened. He should not engage. He should not—

"Rest," he said instead, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead, ignoring the way his fingers burned from the touch.

Her smile faded. But just before the fever reclaimed her, she exhaled—soft, tired.

"Julian..." This time, his name was clear. Deliberate. Something close to trust in the way she said it.

His fingers curled against his palm. But before he could answer, she was lost to the fever again.

But Slowik remained. Watching, waiting, struggling against the one thing he had never truly feared before.

Adele woke slowly, her body feeling like it had been through a meat grinder. At first, the world was sluggish, her thoughts weighed down by the fog of painkillers and exhaustion. Then, gradually, clarity seeped in. The dull ache of her wound pulsed in time with her heartbeat—a steady reminder of just how close she had come to death.

She forced herself to take stock of her surroundings. The sheets beneath her were smooth, crisp, and clean. The air carried a faint sterile scent, mixed with something warm—broth? Her fingers flexed against the fabric, instincts kicking in, searching for anything out of place. But what struck her most was the stillness. The quiet presence of someone nearby.

Julian.

She turned her head slightly. He was seated beside the bed, posture impeccable as ever, gaze steady. He was watching her, but not in the predatory way she was used to. Not like someone waiting for weakness to exploit. No, he studied her with an intensity that unsettled her for an entirely different reason. Because it felt like he cared.

Adele was not accustomed to being cared for.

The Ruska Roma didn't nurture. They refined. Disciplined. Sharpened until there was nothing left but a blade. Even the Director, who had shaped her life from adolescence, had done so with cold efficiency. Adele had never been delicate enough to be a ballerina, never seductive enough to enthrall her victims with womanly charm. But she had been useful in other ways. And the moment she ceased to be useful, she would be nothing.

But Slowik had tended to her wound, changed her bandages, ensured she was comfortable. His precision was unnerving. He was meticulous in all things, and this was no exception.

She exhaled carefully, testing the pain. Manageable. Her fingers flexed again, then twitched toward the bandage at her side.

"Don't," Slowik said smoothly, his voice quiet but firm. "You'll only make it worse."

Her lips quirked. "What, no monologue about how pain builds character?"

Something flickered in his gaze—amusement, perhaps, or something close to it. "You don't need a lecture on pain."

Adele let her eyes drift shut for a moment. No, she supposed she didn't. Pain had been her constant companion since childhood. It had shaped her just as much as discipline had.

But Slowik's statement wasn't a question. It was an observation. He knew. Maybe not everything, but enough. She opened her eyes again, fixing him with a careful stare. "How long have I been out?"

"Three days."

Her brows lifted slightly. "And you've been here the whole time?"

He inclined his head slightly, a non-answer that still spoke volumes.

She didn't know what to do with that. Didn't know how to process the way her chest tightened at the thought of someone staying. Of someone seeing her weak and not walking away.

She needed a distraction.

Adele pushed herself up slightly, ignoring the protest of her muscles. Slowik watched, unimpressed, but didn't stop her. He was waiting. He knew she had something to say.

So, she deflected. "You handle a needle well. Ever consider a different kind of kitchen?"

Slowik hummed. "Precision matters in all crafts."

Of course it did. Everything about him was measured, exact, intentional. Even now, as he studied her, it was with the same scrutiny he had once reserved for his craft. She wondered if he saw her as another failed experiment. Another Menu gone awry.

His eyes flickered to the wound at her side, then back to her face. "That wasn't an accident."

It wasn't a question.

Adele exhaled slowly. "No. It wasn't."

She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. He studied her, searching for something beneath the surface.

"How do you feel?"

"Like shit," she rasped, her throat dry. "But alive."

Slowik nodded, as though that answer had been expected. He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped together, exuding the same quiet intensity she had seen that night at Hawthorne. "What happened to you?"

Adele exhaled through her nose, forcing her expression to remain neutral. "A misunderstanding."

Slowik's lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn't a fool. "You don't move like someone unfamiliar with pain," he said evenly. "You move like someone who's fought through it before."

His gaze flickered over her scars. "Many times."

Something twisted inside her—admiration? No. Wariness. He was too perceptive for his own good. She could lie, keep deflecting. But for what? The cat was out of the bag whether she liked it or not. And more importantly, she found that she didn't want to lie. Not to him. Not when she had started to feel something for him—something dangerous. Something unfamiliar.

But how? How could she tell him what she was without driving him away? She knew of his beliefs, caught him reading the Bible a few times. How would he reconcile that with what she did? Would he see her as damned? Would he turn from her in disgust?

She swallowed, voice deliberately steady. "I kill people, Julian. For a living."

Silence stretched between them. She watched him closely, waiting for the recoil, the horror, the disgust. But none came.

Instead, Slowik studied her as though he had already suspected the truth but needed to hear it from her lips. There was no judgment in his gaze—only contemplation.

After a while, for the first time since she had woken, Slowik looked away. His fingers tapped against his knee in a thoughtful rhythm, his mind working through a labyrinth of realizations. Everything made sense now—why his Menu at Hawthorne had failed. Why she had saved him.

He should walk away. This was too much.

Yet he didn't.

Adele tilted her head slightly. "You're not shocked."

"I had my suspicions."

That intrigued her. "Because?"

Slowik's gaze didn't waver. "The efficiency with which you killed the staff at my restaurant." His voice was quiet, unwavering.

That made her pause. He saw too much.

Adele exhaled, shoulders sagging slightly. "I was stabbed on a job."

Her voice was flat. "The people who did this to me were cleaning up loose ends. I was supposed to be dead before I even reached you."

"And yet, you survived."

A wry smile tugged at her lips. "I tend to do that."

Silence again. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.

Slowik sat back slightly, his expression unreadable. "And now?"

Adele hesitated. That was the real question, wasn't it? What now?

She wasn't sure. She should be getting up, planning her next move, setting up for retaliation. But instead, she was here. With him.

And he wasn't walking away.

Slowik's fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair. "You saved me, back at Hawthorne."

She looked at him sharply. "That's different."

"Is it?"

Adele hesitated.

Slowik tilted his head slightly, considering her. "You shouldn't have interfered. But you did. And now I find myself in the position of returning the favor."

Something twisted in her chest. "You don't have to."

He studied her for a long moment, then, with quiet finality, said, "I know."

Adele swallowed. He should walk away. She was dangerous. She had no illusions about what she was.

But then, so was he.

Slowik's eyes darkened slightly, his voice taking on that same quiet weight it always did before he said something irrevocable. "Do you believe in salvation, Adele?"

A humorless smile curved her lips. "Not for people like me."

He was silent for a long moment, then said, "The Bible speaks of devils disguised as angels. But sometimes, it is the devils who reach into the fire."

She looked at him. Something unsteady shifted between them.

She should be afraid.

He should be afraid.

They had shared many evenings like this, the kitchen becoming their quiet refuge, a space where words weren't always necessary. What had started as casual lessons—Julian guiding Adele through new recipes, showing her the careful balance of heat and timing—had turned into something more. A routine. A habit. An unspoken understanding between them.

She wasn't a bad cook, not really, but she lacked the patience for it. He, on the other hand, thrived in the precision of it all. He had a way of making the smallest details feel important—how to properly hold a knife, how to tell when a sauce had thickened just right, how to trust instinct over measurements. And Adele, despite her initial reluctance, found herself listening. Watching. Learning.

Tonight had been no different. The familiar rhythm of their cooking filled the space between them—her chopping vegetables with deliberate focus, him tasting a sauce with the kind of attention most people reserved for things that truly mattered. There had been the occasional teasing, a brush of shoulders, a moment where their hands had lingered too long when passing a utensil.

Now, with the meal set between them, the warmth of the kitchen still clinging to their skin, they sat across from each other in a silence that wasn't quite uncomfortable, but not entirely easy either, the meal they had prepared together resting between them like an unspoken promise. The scent of fresh herbs and seared butter still lingered in the air, wrapping around them like something tangible, something warm. It should have been comfortable. It was comfortable. But there was also something else in the silence—something unsaid.

Julian had fallen first.

He didn't want to, didn't mean to, but it had happened anyway, creeping in like a slow burn he couldn't put out.

It started with the way he noticed the little things about her—the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking, the way her laughter was rare but genuine, the way she never backed down from him. He had always prided himself on his restraint, his ability to keep himself in check, but with Adele, it was becoming harder by the day.

Adele, on the other hand, knew she was attracted to Julian. That much was obvious. She wasn't blind to the way his forearms flexed when he kneaded dough, or the way his voice had a low, rich timbre that sent a shiver down her spine when he got serious. She'd caught herself staring more than once, her gaze lingering a little too long on the strong lines of his jaw or the way his sleeves always seemed just a little too tight around his biceps.

But attraction was one thing. Feeling something deeper? That was something else entirely.

She took a slow bite of her meal, letting the taste settle on her tongue before she spoke. "This turned out better than I expected," she admitted, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Julian watched her, his own fork hovering just above his plate. "You thought we'd fail?" he asked, feigning offense.

"Not fail," she said with a shrug. "Just… maybe burn something in the process."

Julian exhaled a quiet chuckle and shook his head. "You underestimate me."

"No," she said, meeting his gaze. "I don't."

It wasn't meant to carry weight, but it did. Julian felt it settle into his chest, warm and dangerous, something close to admiration buried within her tone. He had been so careful—so damn careful—not to let himself fall into this, whatever this was. But moments like this made it difficult.

He let himself look at her for a little longer than he should have. The glow from the overhead lights cast a soft hue on her face, accentuating the delicate angles of her cheekbones and the way her lashes framed her eyes. She's beautiful, he thought. But it was more than that.

Adele carried something with her that went beyond just looks. There was a quiet resilience in the way she held herself, in the way she spoke. She didn't try to impress anyone, didn't bend herself to fit into the expectations of others. He respected that more than he could say.

But respect wasn't the only thing he was feeling. Not anymore.

Adele, as if sensing the shift, turned her gaze down to her plate. She was aware of the way he was looking at her, and the knowledge sent a rush of something unfamiliar through her—something that made her want to fidget, to break the moment before it became too real. She busied herself with her glass, taking a slow sip of water just to give her hands something to do.

"This is nice," she said finally, her voice softer than before. "I never really... did this before."

Julian raised an eyebrow. "Cooked?"

She shot him a look. "No, smartass. I mean—this. Sitting down with someone, cooking together. I usually just do my own thing."

He nodded, understanding more than she probably realized.

Adele tilted her head slightly, watching him. There was something about Julian that intrigued her, something she hadn't quite put her finger on yet. He was meticulous in the kitchen, precise in a way that hinted at a mind always calculating, always seeking perfection. But there were moments—small, fleeting ones—where he let that control slip, where she caught a glimpse of something else. Something softer. Something raw.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to see more of it, or if she was afraid of what it might mean if she did.

"You're easy to be around," Julian said, cutting through her thoughts.

She blinked, surprised by the admission. "That so?"

He nodded, setting his fork down. "Certainly. I didn't expect it."

Adele narrowed her eyes playfully. "You thought I'd be difficult?"

"No," he said, and then smirked. "Okay, maybe a little."

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "And yet, here we are. Eating a meal we didn't ruin."

Julian nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The more time he spent with her, the harder it became to ignore the way she made him feel. He wanted to keep things simple, but it was impossible. Not when she looked at him like that. Not when he found himself memorizing the way she moved, the way she pursed her lips when she was thinking, the way she carried herself like she wasn't afraid of anything—except, maybe, this.

Because she was afraid. He could see it. Just as much as he was.

"I think we're both here, not really knowing what to expect," she said, breaking the silence. Her fingers tapped absently against her glass, a small, rhythmic motion that betrayed the tension she was trying to suppress. "But that's okay, right?"

Julian studied her for a long moment, his own thoughts at war with one another. He could ruin this. He had ruined things like this before. His failed marriage was proof of that. And Katherine—God, Katherine—was proof of something even worse. He had crossed a line once. He had let himself take and take until there was nothing left but regret. He couldn't do that again. Not with Adele.

"Yeah," he said finally, his voice quieter now. "I think that's okay."

The tension lingered between them, thick and unspoken. Neither of them moved closer, but neither of them pulled away either. The night stretched on, the weight of everything unsaid pressing against their chests like a vice.

Neither of them said anything about it.

Neither of them had to.

But they both knew.

And that was the scariest part of all.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The hum of the television filled the living room, low and steady, casting flickering shadows along the walls. Julian sat on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, a glass of whiskey resting on the table beside him. The day had been long, but the stillness of the evening was welcome. It had become a quiet ritual—this time alone, the soft glow of the screen keeping him company.

Then he heard it.

A sound too faint at first, almost lost beneath the murmur of the television. A sharp inhale. The shuffle of unsteady steps.

Julian turned his head, brow furrowing. Adele shouldn't be back yet from her extended trip.

And then he saw her.

Adele stood in the doorway, swaying. Julian was on his feet before he could think, meeting her half-way.

"Adele." His voice was tight, rough with something dangerously close to panic.

She took another step forward, her knees buckling beneath her.

"Shit," he breathed, one arm wrapping around her waist, the other gripping her wrist. He could feel how badly she was shaking, could see the pain carved into every line of her face.

She let out a strained breath, barely above a whisper. "I—I'm fine."

"Bullshit." The word came sharper than he intended, but he couldn't help it. Fine was the last thing she was.

Her weight slumped against him, and for a terrifying moment, he thought she might lose consciousness right then and there.

"My room," she rasped, her fingers curling weakly into his sleeve. "Help me—just—"

Julian swallowed hard. He had never been to her room. It had always been her space, a boundary unspoken but understood. But none of that mattered now.

"Alright," he said, voice softer now. "Come on."

He adjusted his grip, careful but firm, guiding her toward the hallway. Every step she took sent another droplet of blood onto the hardwood floor. He could hear the slight hitch in her breathing, the barely contained whimper when she shifted the wrong way. He didn't ask her who did this. Not yet. Right now, all that mattered was getting her somewhere safe.

The door to her room was slightly ajar. He nudged it open with his foot, helping her inside. The air smelled faintly of her—something warm, familiar. Books lined the shelves, clothes draped over the back of a chair. A desk lamp cast a soft glow over the space, making it feel strangely intimate, even now.

Julian guided her toward the bed, lowering her onto the mattress as gently as he could with her help. She winced, a sharp hiss slipping through her teeth.

"You need a doctor," he said, standing beside the bed, his eyes scanning over her wounds.

She let out a dry, humorless laugh. "No doctors."

He exhaled, jaw clenching. "Then let me help."

Her good eye flickered to his, searching, hesitating—then, finally, she gave a small nod, "Med-kit. In my bathroom."

Julian nodded, already moving toward the bathroom, searching for it. It was hidden in a cupboard under the sink.

He returned with the med-kit in hand, his heart pounding against his ribs. He had never seen Adele like this—stripped of her usual composure, her body marked by suffering. She sat on the edge of her bed, wearing nothing but her sports bra and undergarments, her skin marred by dark bruises and open wounds. The worst of them, a puncture just below her ribcage, was still bleeding sluggishly.

She barely looked up as he set the med-kit down beside her, splaying out its contents. "Do you know how to sew?"

The question was so casual it almost startled him. He frowned. "No."

Adele let out a slow breath and, with a quiet sort of determination, reached for the suture kit herself. "I'll show you."

Before he could protest, she steadied her left hand against her stomach and, with her right, guided the needle through her own flesh.

Julian stiffened. "Adele—"

"It's fine," she muttered, threading the suture through with practiced efficiency. "You just have to—ah—keep the tension even. Otherwise, it'll scar ugly."

He watched, transfixed. Her hands moved with a steadiness that should have been impossible given the pain she had to be in. The needle pierced her skin, pulling the wound together, stitch by stitch. It was clinical, methodical—yet deeply intimate in a way that unsettled him.

She didn't wince. Not at first.

But as the minutes passed, her fingers began to tremble. Her breath came out shakier. When she reached for the next stitch, the needle slipped from her grasp.

Julian caught it before it could hit the floor.

Adele cursed under her breath, clenching her jaw.

For a long moment, he hesitated. Then, swallowing hard, he knelt beside her.

"Let me," he murmured.

She looked at him, something unreadable in her expression. Slowly, she exhaled and gave a small nod.

His fingers weren't as steady as hers had been, but he followed her example, threading the needle through carefully. The sensation of flesh yielding beneath his touch sent a strange shiver down his spine. This was nothing like plating food, nothing like the precision of a perfect dish. This was raw, real, and alive.

Adele said nothing, just watched him as he worked, her breathing slow and measured.

"You trust me to do this?" he asked quietly.

She gave a small, tired smirk. "I don't have much choice, do I?"

"That's not an answer," he murmured.

Her eyelids fluttered, exhaustion tugging at her. "Yeah," she said finally. "I do."

Julian didn't know what to say to that.

All he knew was that, as he tied off the last suture and secured the bandage over her wound. Many questions he had never been more in awe of anyone in his life.

Julian exhaled, only now realizing how tense his shoulders had been. He sat back on his heels, fingers still tingling from the strange, visceral act of stitching her skin together. His gaze flickered up to her face. Adele was watching him, exhaustion dulling the sharpness in her eyes, but there was something else there, too—something softer.

"You did good," she murmured, softly.

He swallowed. "You shouldn't have had to do this yourself."

Adele huffed a tired laugh, leaning back slightly against the headboard. "Maybe not... but you picked it up fast."

He wasn't sure why, but the compliment settled in his chest, warm and unfamiliar.

She shifted, wincing as the movement tugged at her wound. Julian instinctively reached out, but she raised a hand—wait.

"I'm fine," she assured him, though her voice had lost some of its usual edge. "Just... need to sleep."

He hesitated. Leaving her alone like this felt wrong. Vulnerable. But Adele had never been one for admitting weakness, and pushing the issue wouldn't get him anywhere.

Still, he couldn't walk away entirely.

Carefully, he stood and gathered the bloodied gauze, the needle, the emptied antiseptic bottle, tidying up without being asked. When he finished, he lingered by the door, fingers ghosting over the frame.

"Adele."

She cracked an eye open.

"You shouldn't have had to do this alone," he said again, quieter this time.

A beat of silence. Then, softer than he expected:

"I know."

That was enough.

He switched off the bedside lamp, leaving only the faint glow of the hallway to cast long shadows across the room. As he stepped out, he left the door slightly ajar.

The air carried the rich, earthy scent of damp soil as Julian knelt beside the raised garden bed, carefully running his fingers through the leaves of his basil plants. The morning rain had left everything damp, the moisture clinging to the greenery in shimmering beads, and he brushed a few droplets off the delicate leaves before pinching off a sprig. The scent was unmistakable, bright and sharp with a depth that reminded him of summer kitchens and freshly made pasta sauces. He had nearly forgotten how much he loved working with fresh ingredients.

Gardening had not been something he had planned to take up, but Adele had suggested it one evening over dinner, offhandedly remarking that he might enjoy growing his own herbs and vegetables. He had scoffed at the time—there was a part of him that still resisted the idea of enjoying things just for the sake of it—but something about the suggestion had settled in his mind. A few weeks later, he had gone out, purchased supplies, and started planting.

As he pulled up a few sprigs of thyme, his thoughts drifted back to Hawthorne. They had a garden there, too—meticulously maintained, perfectly curated, every leaf and stem placed with purpose. It had been a source of pride, a place where ingredients were grown not just for their flavor but for the philosophy they represented. Everything was intentional. Everything had meaning.

This garden, though, was different. Smaller. Imperfect. There was no grand vision here, no carefully measured aesthetic, just him and the plants, growing as they pleased. He found that he didn't mind the difference. Maybe, in a way, it was better this way.

Julian stood, feeling his knees pop, then brushing dirt from his hands before gathering the herbs into a small bundle. He turned toward the house, already thinking about how he might use them, but the scent of something acrid in the air made him pause.

Smoke.

He stepped inside quickly, following the smell to the kitchen, where he found Adele standing at the stove, waving a dish towel frantically in front of the smoking pan. Whatever had been cooking was beyond saving—blackened, unidentifiable, and now filling the air with a sharp, burnt scent.

Adele turned at the sound of his footsteps, looking both guilty and defiant at once. "I had it under control," she said before he could even open his mouth.

Julian raised an eyebrow, setting the bundle of herbs down on the counter. "Clearly. What exactly were you trying to make?"

"Dinner," she said, as if it should have been obvious. "I thought I'd try something more complicated than pan-seared chicken."

His gaze flicked over the mess—what appeared to be a failed attempt at pan-seared chicken, a pot of pasta that had boiled over, and a cutting board littered with unevenly chopped vegetables. She had tried. She had genuinely tried.

And she had failed spectacularly.

Something about that realization softened him.

She had never needed to cook, not with him around. She had hired him for that exact reason—or so he had thought. But now, as he looked at the disaster in front of him, he realized the truth: it wasn't just about convenience. She had hired him because she didn't know how to cook. She had relied on him completely, not out of preference, but necessity. And tonight, she had tried to change that.

Julian stared at the disaster in the pan. "Do you not... know how to cook?"

There was a beat of silence before she sighed. "Not really. I usually get by on very simple things or takeout."

It was a strangely disarming admission.

"Okay," he said, exhaling slowly. "Let me show you."

Adele looked up at him, surprised. "You want to teach me?"

He nodded. It felt... right. He had spent so long without purpose, without direction, just floating through the motions of this strange, quiet life she had given him. But here, in this moment, he had something tangible to offer. It wasn't just about food. It was about agency, about finding something he could do for her in return.

She stepped aside as he took over, sliding the ruined off the pan and starting fresh. "Cooking isn't about following rules," he said as he cracked new eggs into the pan. "It's about understanding the process. Knowing how things react to heat, how flavors blend. You need patience."

Adele crossed her arms, watching him closely. "I'm patient."

Julian smirked faintly. "Not with food, clearly."

She huffed but didn't argue. Instead, she listened as he walked her through simple techniques—how to properly heat the pan, how to season the chicken without overdoing it, how to let it sear without moving it too soon. He talked as he worked, his hands moving instinctively, muscle memory guiding him through motions he had performed thousands of times before. And somewhere in the back of his mind, an old memory surfaced—

He was thirteen, standing in a tiny apartment kitchen, the scent of onions and garlic filling the air. His mother had been exhausted from work, barely holding herself upright at the dining table as he plated the food, unsure if it was good enough, if it was anything more than just an experiment. But then she had taken a bite, and her tired face had softened, a smile breaking through the weariness. She had told him it was the best thing she'd ever eaten. He hadn't believed her, not really, but in that moment, it had felt like something. Like purpose.

He blinked, pushing the memory aside as he guided Adele's hands, showing her how to test if the chicken was done. When she finally plated the meal—simple, but properly cooked—there was a quiet satisfaction in her expression that made him pause. He had given her something tonight, something small but meaningful.

They sat at the table together, their plates between them. Adele took a bite, considering. "It's better than my first attempt."

"That's a low bar."

She smirked, nudging him with her foot under the table. "Let me have my moment."

He allowed it.

He watched her as she ate, something warm settling in his chest. This was different. This was the first time he had actively reached for connection rather than passively existing within the one she had given him. It was a shift so subtle he almost didn't recognize it, but it was there. He wanted to teach her, to share something with her, to see her improve at something under his guidance. It wasn't obligation. It wasn't just something to do. It was... care.

That thought shook him more than he wanted to admit.

Adele, for her part, felt something shift as well. Julian had always been guarded, existing within his own walls, but tonight, he was different. He was engaged, invested in her in a way she hadn't seen before. Watching him teach her, seeing his focus, his patience—it made her realize just how much she valued his presence, how much she enjoyed having him here.

Adele set her fork down, looking at him. "Thank you."

He met her gaze. "For what?"

"For teaching me. For not laughing. For being patient. For... this."

For a moment, he didn't know what to say. So he just nodded, letting the moment settle between them, warm and quiet.

As the days passed, Julian began to settle into the quiet rhythm of his new life. There were no reservations to prepare for, no critics to impress, no investors scrutinizing his every move. He had the freedom to cook whatever he wanted, and for the first time in years, he was cooking without expectation. There was an odd relief in it, though he was hesitant to acknowledge that feeling.

It felt almost like betrayal—this sense of peace. For so long, his life had been dictated by the relentless pursuit of perfection. Every plate that left his kitchen was a statement, a reflection of his ambition, his discipline, his worth. The idea of cooking without stakes, without validation, was foreign to him. If no one was judging the meal, did it even matter? Did he still matter? He wasn't sure he liked the answer.

Adele never asked him what he planned to make. She wasn't picky, and she had made that clear early on. She enjoyed most meals but disliked anything overly spicy, olives, and mushrooms. Other than that, she left everything up to him. The lack of direction, which once would have unnerved him, now felt oddly liberating.

He noticed small things—how she enjoyed simple flavors, how she never rushed through meals, how she seemed content just to let him do what he did best. It was strange to have this much autonomy, but the absence of pressure allowed him to appreciate cooking in a way he hadn't in years. Still, there was a quiet war within him.

If he wasn't chasing the next great dish, the next accolade, what was he doing? What was left of him?

His initial discomfort with not being the provider still lingered, but it had dulled in the peacefulness of Adele's home. The space, the quiet, and the lack of expectations had given him something he never realized he needed: time.

Time to breathe, to reflect, to exist without purpose for a while. But that, too, was unnerving. His life had been dictated by purpose—one so consuming that he wasn't sure who he was without it. He told himself this was temporary, that he was only here until he figured out his next step. But with each passing day, he wasn't so sure.

In the mornings, he woke early, out of habit more than necessity. The house was silent, save for the faint rustling of trees outside. He padded into the kitchen, the familiar weight of a knife in his hand grounding him in a way he couldn't quite explain. He experimented, trying things he had never had time for before.

Sometimes he kneaded dough for fresh bread, other times he tested out combinations of flavors he had never dared to serve in his restaurant. There was no fear of failure here—no looming presence to judge the results. If a dish didn't turn out, he simply moved on.

And yet...

The absence of scrutiny felt both freeing and hollow. He had spent so long proving himself that he had forgotten what it felt like to simply create.

Adele always ate what he prepared, and not out of politeness. She enjoyed food in a way that was quiet but appreciative. She didn't critique, didn't suggest changes, didn't ask for adjustments. She simply ate, savoring each bite. It was a foreign experience for him—to cook without the expectation of performance, without the need to impress. And yet, a part of him braced for critique, for the moment when she would push the plate away and say, "This isn't right."

But she never did. And that terrified him.

At night, after dinner, they sometimes sat in comfortable silence. He would linger in the kitchen, cleaning up, and she would settle in the living room with a book. The television was rarely on. Music played softly on occasion, something unobtrusive, barely there.

The quiet was strange, but not unwelcome. He had never realized how much noise his life used to have—orders being shouted, knives clattering, the constant hum of expectation pressing down on him. Here, the quiet wasn't suffocating. It was... peaceful. But how long could he allow himself to enjoy it before it slipped away? Before he ruined it, like he ruined everything else?

Adele watched Julian closely, though not intrusively. There was a change in him, small but noticeable. He wasn't as tense. The furrow in his brow wasn't as deep. He moved through the kitchen with less hesitation, more instinct. She never told him what to make, and she suspected he was surprised by that. It wasn't that she didn't care—she just didn't feel the need to dictate. Besides, she trusted him in this regard, even if he didn't quite trust himself yet.

She had her preferences, of course—no spicy food, no olives, no mushrooms—but otherwise, she ate whatever he prepared without question. It seemed to ease him, this freedom. It gave him something to focus on without pressure, a way to engage with the world at his own pace. But she also sensed something else beneath the surface.

A wariness. A fear of settling in too deeply. As if he believed this quiet life was something he wasn't allowed to have.

She made sure he was comfortable in other ways, too, though she did so subtly. A warm blanket left out when the evenings grew colder. A quiet presence when he seemed lost in thought. She didn't push. She didn't demand. But she hoped, in time, he would let her in just a little more.

Sometimes she watched him when he didn't realize it. The way his hands moved when he prepared ingredients—measured, precise, yet almost absentminded. There was a grace to it, a quiet elegance in the way he interacted with food. He still carried tension, still held something in his shoulders that refused to fully relax, but there was a softness emerging, a gradual unwinding of something tightly coiled within him.

She wondered if he noticed the way he was changing. How he lingered a little longer in the mornings, how his movements had lost that rigid edge of control. How he was beginning to find small moments of peace in the simplicity of their daily routine. He didn't speak much about himself, and she didn't pry, but she listened—to the way his voice shifted when he talked about food, to the rare instances when he allowed himself to express something close to contentment.

One evening, after dinner, he surprised her. He lingered in the kitchen even after everything was cleaned, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You don't really ask for anything," he said eventually, his voice quiet, as if the realization had just occurred to him.

She looked up from where she was seated, tilting her head slightly. "Should I?"

He exhaled a small breath, something almost like a chuckle, but not quite. "Most people do."

"I'm not most people."

The silence in Adele's house wasn't just quiet—it was alive. It followed him, pressed into the corners of every room, filled the space between breaths. In the kitchen, he could drown it out with the rhythmic chop of a knife, the hiss of butter in a pan. But outside of that? The silence swallowed him whole.

The house was too big.

Julian had lived in a lot of places—small apartments, cramped kitchens, the suffocating quarters of staff housing in high-end resorts—but never anything like this. Adele's home was sprawling, elegant in a way that felt old but not outdated. Warm, polished wood stretched across the floors, heavy curtains softened the edges of the tall windows, and the entire place smelled faintly of citrus and something floral he couldn't name.

It wasn't a house meant for a man like him.

But here he was.

He spent the first few days moving through the rooms in slow, aimless strides, learning the layout with the dull awareness of someone trying to kill time. Adele hadn't given him a list of expectations. There were no rules beyond basic respect for personal space and the unspoken agreement that he would cook. It was an easy arrangement, too easy, and that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Because what was he supposed to do when he wasn't in the kitchen?

When he wasn't kneading dough or trimming herbs, when there was nothing sizzling in a pan and no sharp blade in his hand, he felt like a ghost. The silence pressed in on him, thick and unbearable.

The worst part was the kindness.

Julian had learned long ago that kindness had a price, especially from employers. It was never free, never without expectation. A favor repaid in sweat and exhaustion. A soft word masking a debt yet to be collected. But Adele never asked for anything. And that made him nervous in a way he couldn't quite name.

When she was home, Adele didn't hover. She wasn't intrusive. But she was present.

She made sure there was always a fresh set of clothes left neatly folded in his room—soft, expensive fabric that didn't feel like it belonged to him. She stocked the kitchen with everything he could possibly need, from rare spices to high-grade cuts of meat. Occasionally, she'd check in with a simple, "How's the kitchen working for you?" or "Let me know if you need anything."

And that was it. No demands. No pressure.

It should have been a relief. Instead, it gnawed at him.

He was used to working under pressure, to being needed in a way that left no room for self-realization. But here, there was space. Too much of it.

He started cooking more than necessary.

At first, it was just the basics—dinners in the evening, simple meals Adele could eat at her convenience. But soon, he found himself filling the kitchen with things that weren't requested. Fresh bread in the morning. Handmade pasta drying on racks. Sauces simmering for hours, their rich scent curling through the hallways.

One evening, as he plated a dish—seared fish, delicate ribbons of fennel, a drizzle of lemon reduction—he felt Adele's presence before he saw her.

"You're making enough to feed an army," she said, leaning against the doorway.

Julian didn't look up. "Force of habit."

She was silent for a moment, watching him. Then, with a quiet nod, she stepped forward and pulled out a chair at the kitchen island. She didn't ask if she could stay. She just did.

It became a pattern after that.

She never pried. Never pushed. But every now and then, she'd sit and eat whatever he made, offering the occasional comment about the balance of flavors or a memory of some dish she once had in another part of the world.

And Julian, despite himself, started to listen.

He still felt like he was floating through someone else's life, still carried the weight of everything that had happened before. But for now, the kitchen gave him something solid.

For now, it was enough.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The house felt different with someone else in it.

Adele had grown used to solitude. It wasn't loneliness, exactly—she had built a life that allowed her to keep people at arm's length, engaging on her own terms. But Julian's presence was something else entirely. He didn't demand space, nor did he invade hers. He simply existed within the walls of her home, a silent figure moving through the rooms like a ghost trying to remember what it was to be alive.

She wasn't sure how to reach him.

Not that she was trying to fix him—she didn't believe in that. People healed in their own ways, on their own time, if they healed at all. But still, she watched. Not out of pity, not out of obligation, but because she wanted to understand him.

She noticed how he lingered in the kitchen even when there was no meal to prepare, hands skimming over the polished countertops as if grounding himself. She noticed the way he kept his movements efficient but never truly at ease, as if waiting for a command that would never come. And she noticed how he never quite settled in the other parts of the house, as though the walls were too wide, the ceilings too high—like the space itself unsettled him.

So, she gave him something smaller to focus on.

She left fresh clothes in his room, made sure the pantry was stocked with ingredients he might reach for without thinking. She didn't press him with conversation, didn't push past the distance he maintained. Instead, she let the house do the speaking. She made sure it was warm, that the air carried the scents of fresh herbs and citrus rather than sterile emptiness.

She watched as he started to fill the kitchen with food he hadn't been asked to make. Bread, soups, sauces that took hours to simmer. Meals for two when she had only expected him to cook for himself.

The first time she sat at the kitchen island while he worked, he didn't acknowledge her at first. But he also didn't send her away.

"You're making enough to feed an army," she observed lightly.

He kept his eyes on the plate he was assembling. "Force of habit."

Adele nodded but said nothing more. She pulled out a chair, tearing off a piece of bread, still warm from the oven, its crust cracking under her fingertips, crumbs scattering onto the marble countertop. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable, but it was thick—filled with things neither of them were ready to say.

Over the following days, it became a quiet ritual.

She would sit, eat whatever he placed in front of her, and occasionally make a comment—a note on the seasoning, a memory of a meal from her travels. He listened, even if he rarely responded. That was fine. She had patience.

Julian wasn't whole. Maybe he never would be. But for now, he was here, and he was creating something, even if he wasn't sure why.

And for now, that was enough.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The house no longer felt foreign. That was the problem.

Julian had gotten used to the way the floor creaked in certain spots, how the afternoon light filtered in through the tall windows, how the distant sound of Adele's voice carried through the halls when she was on the phone. The once-overwhelming space had settled around him, familiar now, but familiarity bred something worse than discomfort.

It bred boredom.

He followed the same routine every morning: wake up before sunrise, shower, and meticulously tend to the scars that ran like fault lines across his skin. His hands knew the motions too well—gently massaging ointment over the taut, uneven tissue, the slight wince of pain something he had come to expect rather than dread. Then came breakfast, though he rarely ate much of it, more focused on keeping his hands busy.

By midday, he had cooked more than necessary. Adele never requested lunch, but it was always there when she walked through the kitchen, and she never questioned it. He filled the hours with kneading, chopping, reducing, basting—movements that should have felt purposeful but had begun to feel empty.

He was used to stress, pressure, the demand for perfection. Here, there was none. It wasn't just unsettling. It was suffocating.

Adele noticed, of course. She noticed everything.

One evening, as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, staring at nothing, she spoke up.

"You need something to do."

Julian let out a quiet, humorless huff. "I am doing something."

"No," she said, unbothered by his flat tone. "You're keeping yourself occupied. That's not the same thing."

She set her glass down on the counter and studied him for a moment, as if weighing whether to say what was on her mind. Then, she gestured toward the back of the house.

"The garden's a mess."

She'd told herself she wasn't trying to save him. That would be arrogant. But she knew what it was like to exist in survival mode, to go through the motions because stopping meant facing something worse. If she could give him even a small corner of stability—something to hold onto until he figured things out—then maybe that was enough.

Julian blinked at her, thrown by the sudden shift in conversation. "And?"

"And you're particular about your ingredients." She lifted a brow. "Grow your own."

He almost laughed. Almost. "You're suggesting I start a garden?"

She shrugged. "You have access to everything in this house except my bedroom. That includes the backyard." A pause. "And you could use something to care for that isn't yourself."

That last part hit harder than it should have.

He considered snapping back with something sarcastic, something dismissive. But instead, he glanced toward the window, where the backyard stretched out beneath the fading light of dusk. He hadn't paid much attention to it before—there was little reason to—but now that he thought about it, the idea wasn't entirely absurd.

Julian let out a slow breath and shook his head. "A garden."

Adele smirked. "Unless you'd rather keep making meals for an invisible army. Not that I'm complaining."

The last time he'd touched dirt like this, he was 12 years old, watching his grandmother kneel in the tiny patch of earth outside their house. "You can learn a lot about a person by what they grow," she had told him. Back then, he hadn't understood. Now, as he looked at the overgrown mess of weeds, he wondered what it might say about him.

"A garden," he repeated as if she was the one sounding ridiculous.

She leaned against the counter, amused. "If that doesn't work out, you could always pick something else—watch a movie, read a book, take up knitting."

Julian shot her a flat look. "I'd rather fight the weeds."

"Good," she said, already turning away. "Because I wasn't going to teach you how to knit."

Julian scoffed. "You don't look like someone who'd know how."

Adele glanced over her shoulder, arching a brow. "And you don't look like someone who'd know how to plant tomatoes, but here we are."

Julian let out a low chuckle under his breath, shaking his head. "Touché."

Adele didn't respond right away, just watched him as she reached for her glass of water. It was the first time she'd heard him laugh—really laugh, even if it was brief and subdued. Something about it sat strangely warm in her chest, like the first flicker of a match catching flame.

She hid the feeling behind a small sip of water, offering nothing more than a wry smile. "I'll make sure to get you some gloves. Wouldn't want you ruining those delicate chef hands of yours."

Julian rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Maybe, just maybe, the garden wasn't the worst idea.

Adele carefully entered the hospital room, her boots making a soft echo as she crossed the sterile floor. The smell of antiseptic clung to the air, mingling with the faint scent of sweat that still lingered from Julian's ordeal. The room was almost too bright, the harsh light clashing with the softness of the early evening. She pulled the curtains slightly, but not enough to block out the necessary light, her hands steady as they worked.

Julian lay motionless on the bed, hooked to various machines that beeped rhythmically, the pulse of his life captured in the simple sound of a monitor. The burns across his torso were still healing, the deep red splotches fading into pale scars. The puncture wound on his thigh was dressed, but she could still see the faint, angry line of it beneath the gauze.

She checked the machine again, running her fingers over the settings as she assessed his vitals. The heart rate was steady, pulse within normal range—nothing alarming. His body, despite the trauma, seemed to be responding well to treatment. It was the emotional side that troubled her, the quiet, distant air he had maintained since the moment she'd carried him out of that hellhole.

Carefully, she leaned over him, her gaze running over his face. He looked different now, still—so much more fragile than the man she had seen fight in the streets, his confidence and strength hiding the damage beneath. She couldn't help but wonder if he was aware of what had happened. What he'd lost. Or perhaps, what she had saved him from.

As her fingers brushed against his arm, Julian stirred, his body tensing beneath her touch.

Slowly, carefully, Julian opened his eyes. It took him a moment to focus, the blinding light making his vision fuzzy. The edges of his surroundings still blurred, but there was something familiar in the atmosphere—a presence, strong yet careful. He knew it was her before he could even confirm it. The steady, assured presence he had felt before—the one who had kept him alive when the odds seemed stacked against him.

His mind still felt foggy, as though the reality of being here in the sterile room hadn't fully set in. The weight of the burns, the puncture wound, the feeling of having narrowly escaped death all felt distant, something that happened to another person.

She didn't say anything at first, her movements deliberate and calm as she adjusted his position, checked the IV, and adjusted his sheets.

But he could feel her eyes on him, studying him more closely than anyone had in a long time. His chest tightened at the thought, though he didn't know why. He had expected the usual clinical detachment, but there was something different in the way she moved—something purposeful and careful. She wasn't just checking on him; she was assessing him.

A small part of him resented it. He wasn't some specimen to be analyzed. But another part of him—something deeper, something he couldn't explain—welcomed it. It was almost comforting, the way she moved in the space, the certainty with which she handled him. He was in good hands.

His leg pulsed with pain, the healing puncture reminding him of his fragility. He flexed his fingers slightly, just enough to let her know he was awake. He didn't know if she'd noticed, but the subtle shift in the atmosphere between them told him she had.

Adele's gaze flickered up to his face as he finally fully opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. Her face was unreadable, her lips pressed into a neutral line, but something softened in her eyes when their gazes locked. She hadn't expected him to wake so soon, he could tell. Her hand hovered over the machine one last time, checking his heart rate again, ensuring there was no new strain.

"How are you feeling?" she asked softly, her deep voice a contrast to the mechanical beeping that filled the room.

Julian tried to focus on the question, but his head still felt heavy. The burns on all over his body ached, the throbbing pain in his leg a constant reminder of how close he'd been to losing everything. He took a slow breath, forcing himself to push past the fog in his mind.

"Not dead," he muttered, his voice rough. It was the best answer he had. His throat felt dry, raw from the adrenaline and pain.

Adele gave him a brief, almost imperceptible nod, like she had expected the answer. The silence stretched between them, comfortable but heavy, as if the space could fill with everything unsaid.

There was so much to process, so much to unpack—about what had happened, about what it meant for him to still be alive, and about what she had done for him. She hadn't needed to keep him alive. He hadn't expected her to, not after everything.

But she had.

Julian swallowed, trying to shake off the grogginess as he looked up at her. His gaze lingered on her features for a moment longer than necessary, studying the way her brow furrowed slightly, the faint hint of concern in her eyes. It didn't match the hardened, almost cold exterior she'd shown in Hawthorne. She was different now, softer somehow. It made him uncomfortable, but it also... mattered.

"Thank you," he said, the words rough and unspoken, like it had cost him more than he wanted to admit. The weight of his gratitude was heavy on his tongue. He wasn't sure why he felt it now, not when the feeling was raw and confusing. But there it was, building inside him, demanding recognition.

Adele didn't respond right away. Instead, she checked his vitals once more, adjusting the drip to make sure the fluids were properly balanced. She seemed more focused on the task than on him, and maybe that was for the best. He didn't feel like himself under the influence of all these drugs to ease his pain and aid him along his recovery.

The silence fell over them again. But this time, it didn't feel suffocating. It felt like a fragile truce between two people who had survived something neither had planned, neither had been prepared for.

He wanted to ask her about what came next—whether he was going to be alright, whether his life would ever be the same—but he didn't. The question felt too big, too final for this moment.

Instead, he closed his eyes for a moment, giving in to the weariness he'd been fighting off. But when he spoke again, his voice was stronger. "I am so tired," he said, his eyes still closed as if saying it aloud might make the weight of it easier to bear.

Adele looked at him once more when he chanced a peek, her expression unreadable, but there was something in her eyes. Something that told him that, for whatever reason, she wasn't leaving him behind.

And in that moment, Julian realized that the battle ahead, the one that would push him through the next weeks of recovery, was no longer something he had to fight alone.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He didn't know how much time truly passed the next time she visited him. It might have been the same day, but he doubted that.

Julian had been awake for a while now, long enough for the initial haze of painkillers and exhaustion to settle into something clearer, something sharp-edged. The quiet hum of the hospital machines was a steady backdrop, a reminder that he was still here, still breathing, still whole—more or less.

Adele stood at the foot of his bed, arms crossed, watching him with that same measured expression she always had. He had expected her to leave after making sure he wouldn't drop dead, but she hadn't.

Which meant she wanted something.

"You've been sitting there for a while," Julian said, his voice still rough but steady. "Feels like you have something to say."

Adele tilted her head slightly, as if considering her words. "I do."

She stepped closer, boots soft against the floor, and leaned against the edge of the small table beside his bed. The way she positioned herself was deliberate—close enough to talk, but far enough that there was still space between them. It wasn't just for his sake. He knew her well enough to recognize that she was keeping her own distance, too.

"What happened to you—" she gestured vaguely at his injuries, "—wasn't random. You made a choice."

Julian exhaled through his nose.

"You chose to die," she continued, her tone steady. "You planned it. It was all part of your grand 'Menu.'"

Julian's eyes flickered with a flash of something—maybe anger, maybe regret. "Yeah, well... that didn't go as planned."

Adele's gaze never wavered. "But you also chose to survive."

He scoffed, shifting slightly in the bed, feeling the dull ache of his healing wounds. "Surviving was never the plan, Miss Cole. It wasn't about surviving. I didn't care if I lived or died. But you..." His voice trailed off, an edge of frustration creeping in. "You ruined it."

Adele nodded, as if she had expected his agitation. "I saved you against your wishes. I made the choice to pull you back from the brink. But that doesn't mean you have to continue down the path you started. You can still choose."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "And what does that mean to you?"

She was silent for a beat, then she finally got to the point.

"I have an offer for you."

There it was. The reason she hadn't left, the reason she had been watching him so carefully.

Julian let out a slow breath and met her gaze, searching for the catch. Because there was always a catch. "Go on."

"I know what you're capable of," she said, her voice steady. "You've already proven that. And I know that, right now, you're probably wondering what comes next."

She wasn't wrong. The thought had been circling in his mind since the moment he woke up.

Adele leaned in just slightly, her eyes sharp. "You could walk away, try to pick up the pieces of your old life. But I don't think that life exists for you anymore."

His jaw tightened. She didn't say it cruelly, but the truth of it still stung. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He had burned too many bridges, lost too much ground.

"Or," she continued, "you could take this as a second chance. A real one."

Julian let out a quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it. "And let me guess—you just happen to have the perfect second chance lined up for me."

She didn't deny it.

He sighed, running a hand over his face, careful not to aggravate the burns on his torso. "What's the deal?"

Adele didn't hesitate. "You work for me. You get a fresh start, real resources, and a purpose."

Julian arched a brow, a shadow flickering across his eyes—a silent reminder of what had happened to his last employer.

Had she forgotten?

"And what exactly does 'work for you' entail?"

Adele met his gaze, unwavering. "I have a very demanding profession, one that doesn't leave me much time for cooking. I would like to employ your services as a Chef. You will be provided with everything you need."

He studied her carefully, suspicion mixed with confusion. After all that happened between them at Hawthorne? The Menu, the madness, the killing. She wanted to hire him as a private Chef? Him? A Michelin star Chef, yet despite his damning pride, he was weighing the offer, the unspoken conditions, the sheer gravity of what she was saying.

"And if I say no?"

Adele barely reacted—far less than he had hoped for. "Then you are free to leave, and you figure it out on your own. No debts, no strings."

That caught him off guard. He had expected pressure, some kind of leverage. But instead, she was giving him the choice.

Real choice.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid. Julian exhaled slowly, turning his gaze to the ceiling as he let the reality of it settle.

A fresh start. A way forward.

The question was—was he ready to take it?

He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked back at Adele. "I'm gonna need some time to think about this."

Adele nodded, as if she had already expected that answer. "Take your time," she said simply.

And with that, she stood up, giving him back his space. But before she left, she glanced at him one last time.

"Just don't take too long."

The soft hum of a nearby clock filled the silence between Adele and Winston as they sat in the quiet room, its ticking almost deafening. The conversation from moments before lingered in the air, unresolved—a heavy, uneasy cloud.

Adele's hands gripped a steaming mug of tea, its warmth soothing the tension in her chest. She had failed her mission. She had let Julian Slowik, a man who could have been just another target, walk away from the fire with his life intact. She hadn't expected to save him, but once it happened, the entire situation unraveled in ways she couldn't have predicted. Was it an impulsive act? Or had some deeper part of her—one she wasn't ready to acknowledge—made the choice before she had time to question it?

Winston, ever the steady presence in her life, had been silent until now. His gaze never wavered as he studied her from across the room, his expression a mixture of concern and quiet disapproval—the same look he always wore when she made a decision he couldn't understand.

"You've let a lot of things slide before, Adele. But this... letting Slowik live... it's going to come with consequences. You know that, don't you?"

She inhaled deeply. His words echoed in her mind, a reminder of the weight of what she'd done. But she wasn't regretting it—not yet. Too many things were still unresolved.

"I know. It's not the clean end I wanted. But some things can't just be erased with a bullet."

Winston studied her, his expression unreadable. Ever since she'd chosen to follow John's example, Winston had been a father figure to her, guiding her through tough decisions, even when they didn't make sense. But this? This was different. He could sense the change in her. She wasn't the same woman who had always kept her distance, and that stirred something in him—fear, perhaps, or something deeper he couldn't quite name.

"And what do you plan to do with him now? You're not the type to let someone like that into your life."

She felt his eyes on her, searching for some hint of the Adele he knew—the one who had always preferred isolation, who had never shown interest in getting close to anyone—not romantically, not emotionally. She had been alone for so long, her solitude a second skin. It had been her choice. And yet now, the idea of letting Slowik into her world seemed... out of character.

Just like John falling in love with Helen.

But that was the thing—nothing about this situation was following the script she had expected.

"I... need a cook for the house."

The words felt foreign as they left her mouth. She hadn't realized how much she needed to explain herself until that moment.

"I'm not good at cooking. Never was. I'm terrible at it, Winston. You know that."

Winston raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback. His lips curled into something that was part surprise, part concern. The idea that Adele—who had thrived on isolation and independence—was suddenly making room for someone else, especially a target, didn't sit well with him.

"A cook? That's your excuse? You're not that desperate, are you? You've always managed fine on your own, kept your distance. And if I'm being honest, you've never seemed interested in anyone—male, female, whatever. You've always been a lone wolf."

His words struck a chord deep inside her. He had a point—she had always been a lone wolf. But now, she found herself caught between the decision she had made and the consequences that came with it. The idea of keeping Slowik around, of tying herself to him in any way, felt like uncharted territory. Yet she had no choice.

Winston's voice broke the silence, cutting through the tension like a knife. This wasn't just about the job anymore. It was about something deeper, something he hadn't fully acknowledged until now.

"You've done it now, haven't you? You saved him. And for what? To play the savior, or is there something more you're not telling me?"

She remained quiet for a moment, her eyes unwavering. Winston had always been able to read her—he always knew when she was hiding something. But this time, she kept herself tightly guarded. He could see the flicker of vulnerability in her, and it bothered him more than he was willing to admit.

"I saved him because I had my reasons, Winston. Personal ones."

Winston let out a low, almost inaudible sigh, tapping his fingers on the table again. He had seen this before—the secretive answers, the guarded emotions. It had always been part of who Adele was, but this time, it felt different. Too much had changed, and he wondered if this was a mistake.

"And what if he doesn't understand, Adele? What will you do then? What if he's not so easily swayed by your reasons? You can't just walk away from this."

Her eyes flickered for a moment, and her lips pressed into a tight line. Winston's question had struck a nerve. He didn't trust easily, especially not with something like this. But in the back of his mind, a nagging thought lingered—maybe this wasn't just about the mission anymore. Maybe it was about something else.

"You know I don't do this for just anyone. I've helped you because I've always cared. But if you're tangled in something that's going to hurt you..."

Winston hesitated, and for the first time in a long while, uncertainty clouded his features. There was something familiar about this—watching someone he cared about make a choice that would drag them into something darker. He had seen it before. Lived it. Failed to stop it. He had failed John. He wasn't about to let history repeat itself.

"I'll help with the paperwork, the identity changes, the whole damn thing. But it'll come at a price. You've always known that, Adele. You'll owe me—again."

She swallowed, the weight of his words settling over her. She had failed her mission, and now, once again, she was in his debt. She was no longer in control. She had no answer to that, nothing but the dread of what would come next.

"Fine. You'll have what you want. I'll owe you. But don't think this is easy for me. I didn't want to get tangled up in this."

Winston leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled in front of him. There was something soft in his eyes now—something Adele rarely saw. It wasn't weakness, but concern. He wasn't just seeing her as a problem to solve; he was seeing her as someone worth protecting.

"Of course not. You never do. But you're here now. And you've made your choice. Just remember, Adele—this isn't free. You'll pay for it. In ways you haven't even thought of yet."

She didn't flinch. She was used to this: Winston's deal-making, his quiet power, the way he manipulated every situation for his advantage. She had always known he would come back for something in return.

"I'll handle it. I'll take care of him."

Winston raised an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism creeping into his expression.

"Will you? Or are you just trying to convince yourself?"

Her expression hardened, and she didn't answer. Instead, she stood, smoothing the creases of her jacket with deliberate movements.

"I'll figure it out. You'll get your due, Winston. You always do."

She turned on her heel, her footsteps sharp against the quiet of the room. Winston remained seated, watching her go, though his mind lingered on the unspoken. He had tested her resolve before, measured her choices—but this time, the stakes were higher.

And beneath her layers of control, a rare flicker of uncertainty unsettled him.

Did Adele truly understand what she was walking into?

Julian awoke to pain.

A dull, searing ache spread across his ribs, a cruel reminder of the fire. The skin felt tight, raw, stretched over wounds that refused to let him forget. Every breath was a battle, his lungs still haunted by the taste of smoke, the memory of flames licking at his body. His taut fingers twitched against the hospital sheets, feeling the sterile roughness beneath them. A sharp inhale sent another jolt of pain through his side, but he welcomed it.

Pain meant he was alive.

Yet, as his body burned, so did his thoughts.

Julian knew physical wounds could heal. He had seen it happen time and time again—to himself, to others—but the wounds inside? Those festered. The pain was not just in his flesh; it was in the memories that clawed their way to the surface. He closed his eyes, but the darkness did nothing to stop the past from rushing forward.

Waterloo. His father.

"Honor thy father and mother."

He could still hear the phone cord tightening around his mother's throat, the gasping, the choked cries. The alcohol on his father's breath, the wild, unhinged gleam in his eyes. Julian's hands had trembled that night, but not with fear. With something darker. The knife in his grip had been cold, steady, and for the briefest moment, he had considered it. Really considered it.

"Thou shalt not kill."

But he had wanted to.

Had he sinned by sparing his father? Or had he sinned by not finishing what he started? What was the greater crime in God's eyes—that he had held back, or that he had even thought to take a life at all? If he had plunged the blade into his father's throat, would his mother have been safe? Would he have been safe? Would he have been spared from becoming the man he was now?

A man incapable of true connection, of real love.

Regret sat heavy in his stomach, a weight he had carried for years. He had told himself that violence was never the answer, that he had only done what was necessary to save her. But deep down, he knew the truth. He had spared a monster. And in doing so, had let himself become one.

The burger joint. His first attempt at penance.

"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

He had tried to live small. To be humble. To find some sort of redemption and purpose in the sizzle of the grill, in the simplicity of a life not yet tainted by ambition. But humility had never been in his nature. He was not meek. He had not been created to inherit the earth—he had been made to burn.

Marriage. Another lie.

"Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church."

He had tried. God, he had tried. But love had never been salvation, not for him. He had failed his wife, his child. Had broken what was meant to be sacred. He had no right to wonder where they were now. No right to ask if they were better off without him.

He already knew the answer.

Tantalus.

Then came the rise. The fame. The island.

"You shall have no other gods before me."

And yet, they had worshipped him. He had let them. He had built his own congregation, his own altar. He had demanded reverence, obedience, sacrifice. He had placed himself above them, their prophet in white. Their god.

Wasn't that the greatest sin of all?

It had been intoxicating. The way they hung onto his every word, the way they surrendered themselves to his vision. But what had it amounted to? A last supper, a banquet of damnation. He had not led them to salvation—he had led them into the fire.

People whispered his name in reverence, but to Julian, they were all the same. They didn't understand the art, the devotion, the sacrifice. They wanted extravagance, spectacle. They wanted to consume him, to take without understanding what it meant to create.

His anger had once fueled him. It had given him purpose. But now, lying in this sterile room, he could see it for what it really was. A slow, controlled burn that had left him hollow.

And then, there was Katherine. He had wanted her. Or maybe he had just wanted something from her. He wasn't sure anymore. She had been perfect, but he had destroyed perfection before. Pushed her too far. Pushed everyone too far. There was no one left.

And when the flames finally came for him, when his flesh blistered and cracked, he had thought—This is what I deserve.

But then—

Miss Cole.

She had pulled him from the inferno when she should have let him burn. Had spared him when he had already condemned himself.

Why?

"For I desire mercy, not sacrifice."

Was that what this was? Mercy? Or had she simply refused to let him dictate his own end?

He had spent his life convincing himself he was meant for something greater. That every failure, every loss, every mistake was another test, another punishment, another step in a divine path he could not yet see. But now, lying in this sterile room, staring at the white ceiling as if it might split open and reveal some final judgment—he realized the truth.

There was no plan. No redemption.

He had been given every chance to change. And still, he had chosen blasphemy.

Like Saul, who, though anointed by God, believed his disobedience was justified and, in the end, was abandoned to his own destruction. Like Judas, who betrayed the one who offered him forgiveness but couldn't find a way back from his own guilt. He, too, had walked this path of betrayal—not of others, but of the mercy that had been extended to him time and again.

Julian exhaled slowly, the air rattling in his lungs like the dying embers of a fire that refused to go out. His fingers clenched against the sheets, the pain in his ribs grounding him, reminding him that he was still here. Still breathing. Still alive when he shouldn't be.

Because of her.

Miss Cole had made that choice for him. She had pulled him from the fire when she should have let him burn. He had offered himself to the flames, to the fate he had crafted with his own hands, and she had stolen that from him.

What did that make her? An angel, sent to drag him back from the abyss? Or a demon, denying him the peace of oblivion?

He had spent his life trying to make sense of people, to strip them down to their rawest, most primal truths. But Miss Cole? She didn't fit. She defied reason, defied logic. He had orchestrated death so many times—his own, others'—but she had ruined it with a single, unthinking act. Had she saved him out of kindness? Guilt? Spite?

Julian squeezed his eyes shut. If she had been anyone else, he might have understood. But her? It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense anymore.

He had always believed that death would be his final masterpiece, the last note in a symphony he had composed with every cut, every burn, every sacrifice. And yet, here he was, lying in a bed that smelled of antiseptic and regret, forced to face the unbearable truth:

Someone had decided he was worth saving.

He long thought he wasn't.

His dry throat tightened, his breath catching on something raw and unspoken. He had spent so long convincing himself that his life had only ever been leading toward one inevitable conclusion. And now, for the first time, the question gnawed at him: