Julian didn’t interrupt her.

He stood beside her on the balcony, the cold air moving around them, and let her words land the way she offered them—unrushed, without needing to catch or correct them.

His fingers stayed laced with hers, his grip steady but not tight, thumb brushing once across the back of her hand like a quiet acknowledgment that he’d heard everything she wasn’t making a performance out of.

When she called it beautiful, he glanced at her—not quickly, not checking—but taking the moment in. The way her composure had softened. The way she wasn’t managing the impression. Just… seeing it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

Not agreement for the sake of it. Recognition.

When she added that it wasn’t trying to impress anyone, something in his expression shifted—barely, but enough that it warmed. That mattered to him. That she saw that.

“That’s the point,” he replied, voice even. “It’s just… mine.”

He didn’t dress it up. He didn’t apologize for its simplicity. He let it stand the way she had.

And when she said she liked that he wanted her to see it—like he was letting her into the shape of his life—his gaze held on her a second longer.

There was no hesitation in it.

“I did,” he said.

Simple.

Certain.

Not something he needed to qualify.

His hand tightened slightly around hers at her squeeze—not to hold her there, just a quiet answer. A mirror. He shifted his stance just enough so his shoulder brushed hers more fully, the contact natural, unannounced.

The cold had started to bite at her cheeks, turning them pink, and he noticed. Of course he did. His eyes tracked it the same way he tracked everything about her—subtly, without making her feel observed.

When she mentioned stealing a chair, his mouth curved faintly.

“Try,” he repeated, echoing her word, a quiet challenge threaded into it.

He let the silence stretch again after that, comfortable in it. The water moved faintly below, the horizon steady, the muted music drifting out behind them like a memory of the room they’d just left.

Then, after a moment, he shifted closer—not pulling her inside yet, just angling slightly so his body blocked some of the wind from her without making a show of it.

“You’ll have a favorite spot out here in about two days,” he said, tone calm, observational. “You’ll decide it’s seasonal. Possibly time-of-day dependent.”

A glance at her, warmer now.

“And then you’ll start reorganising it in your head anyway.”

There was no accusation in it. Just quiet understanding.

His thumb moved again across her knuckles, slower this time.

“We can get chairs you actually like,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Ones you’d choose. Not just… tolerate.”

Not an offer dressed as a favor.

A matter-of-fact inclusion.

He leaned his forearms lightly against the railing then, still close, still keeping her hand in his, gaze drifting back out over the water for a beat before returning to her.

“You don’t have to try not to change things,” he said quietly. “If you want to.”

Not a request.

Not pressure.

Just the same steady openness he’d been giving her since she walked in.

The kind that didn’t demand anything—but didn’t pretend she didn’t matter either.

He stayed there beside her, grounded, attentive, letting the moment breathe instead of pushing it forward.

Isla didn’t answer him straight away.

She kept her gaze on the water, on the thin winter light turning everything silver and restrained, and let his words settle in the quiet space between her ribs and her throat. It wasn’t the chair comment that landed—not really. It was the tone underneath it. The casualness of inclusion. The way he said we can as if her preferences were already part of the equation, not a request she had to earn.

Chairs you actually like.

Not tolerate.

Isla’s mouth curved, faint and self-aware, as if she’d just been handed something that should’ve felt too big and instead felt… inevitable.

She glanced down at their linked hands. His thumb moved over her knuckles slowly, like punctuation. Like a promise that didn’t need to announce itself.

“I hear you,” she said finally, voice low and even. Calm. Confident. “And I’m trying not to be unbearably pleased about it.”

A beat.

“But I am.”

She let the dry humour sit there, then softened—only a fraction, only enough to be honest.

“It’s strange,” Isla admitted, not making it dramatic. “To be somewhere that feels like it can… make room.”

She didn’t say the words she didn’t want to say yet. She didn’t name the future as if it were a contract. But her eyes flicked back to the balcony, the railing, the quiet chairs that weren’t there yet, and the idea of them existing here in different weather—different light—didn’t feel like a joke anymore. It felt like a line already drawn faintly in pencil.

She shifted her stance slightly, closer to him, letting his body block the wind the way he’d done without comment. She didn’t thank him for it. She simply accepted it like it was natural.

“You say I don’t have to try not to change things,” she murmured, gaze still outward, “as if you’ve already decided you’re going to let me.”

There was humour in it, but it was gentle. Fond. Almost incredulous.

Isla turned her head then, looking at him properly.

He leaned against the railing like he belonged there—because he did—quietly steady, not performing, not trying to win. He looked like a man who had already made peace with wanting something and wasn’t embarrassed by it.

Her expression softened again. Not because she was losing control of herself. Because she didn’t have to keep it so tightly held.

“You’re not doing this like a favour,” she said, direct. “You’re doing it like… of course.”

She paused, watching him for a moment longer, as if she were mapping the shape of him in her mind the same way she mapped rooms. Where he stood. How he moved. What he meant when he said mine and then said we.

“And it’s… very you,” Isla added, her voice quieter now. “To make space without making me feel like I’m taking it.”

She leaned her shoulder into his, just slightly, and let the contact sit there. The cold air kept moving around them, the distant music still drifting from inside, softened by walls. The flat behind them was warm and lived-in. The balcony was sharp with winter. The combination made everything feel real.

Isla’s mouth curved again, dry humour returning like muscle memory.

“If you buy chairs I actually like,” she warned, “I’ll start thinking you’re trying to keep me.”

A beat. Her eyes flicked to his mouth, then back up—flirtation tucked neatly into sincerity.

“Which,” she added lightly, “isn’t a complaint.”

She looked back out over the water, letting the horizon steady her.

“And for the record,” Isla continued, calm and honest, “I’m not here to stamp my name on anything. I’m not trying to make your home unrecognizable.”

She glanced at him again, eyes warm.

“I just… like the idea that when I walk in, it doesn’t feel like I’m visiting.” The words were simple, delivered without drama. “It feels like I’m coming back.”

She let that sit, then breathed out softly—half a laugh, half a release.

“So yes,” Isla concluded, the dry edge returning just enough to save her dignity, “we can get chairs.”

She lifted their joined hands slightly and pressed a quick kiss to his knuckles—small, private, unshowy.

“Just don’t let me pick them unsupervised,” she added, deadpan. “I’ll choose something aggressively chic and completely impractical out of spite.”

Then she leaned into him again, content to stay on the balcony a little longer, letting the morning remain what it was—quiet, crisp, and suddenly full of a future that didn’t feel hypothetical at all.

Julian didn’t step away from her right after the door closed.

The warmth settled back into the room around them, soft and immediate, and he kept his hand at her lower back for a moment longer—feeling the shift as her shoulders eased, the cold leaving her slowly. His thumb moved once, absent, grounding, before his hand dropped.

He didn’t rush the next moment.

He never did with her.

The music drifted back into full clarity, the soft pulse of it filling the space they’d just stepped into, and for a second he just looked at her—really looked. The faint color still in her cheeks from the cold, the way her hair had shifted in the wind, the quiet steadiness in her expression now that she was warm again.

His hand lifted without thinking, brushing a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear—fingers lingering just a fraction at her jaw before easing away.

“You always look like you belong in both,” he said quietly. “Out there and in here.”

A small, thoughtful pause.

“Most people pick one.”

His gaze held hers for a moment longer, then softened—not pulling away, just settling.

He moved then, not away from her, but alongside—guiding her back toward the living space with an easy familiarity, like it was already something they did. His hand found hers again naturally, fingers threading without ceremony as they walked.

The flat felt different now.

Not changed.

Just… shared.

He let go of her hand only long enough to pick up her mug from the table and pass it back to her, the gesture quiet, practical. His fingers brushed hers again, brief, intentional.

Then he leaned back against the edge of the sofa, watching her—not studying, not measuring. Just present.

There was something he’d been holding—not heavy, not urgent. Just waiting for the right space.

This was it.

“One day,” Julian said, tone easy, like he was offering something small, not asking for anything in return, “you’ll bring Wren here.”

He didn’t rush past it. He didn’t dress it up.

He let it sit exactly where it belonged.

“We’ll make breakfast,” he continued, glancing briefly toward the kitchen, already seeing it. “Nothing impressive. Something she’ll actually eat.”

A faint shift of a smile.

“I’ll get overruled on at least two decisions. Probably three.”

His eyes came back to Isla, steady, certain—but gentle in it.

“We’ll go out there,” he added, nodding lightly toward the balcony, “when it’s warmer. Let her decide which chair is hers.”

No pressure.

No timeline.

Just a possibility offered like it already made sense.

He stepped a little closer then, not closing the distance entirely—just enough that it was felt. His hand rested lightly at her waist again, familiar now, unforced.

“I’m not in a rush,” he said, voice low. “I know that’s not just you.”

A beat.

“You come with her,” he added simply. “I understand that.”

Not tolerance.

Not negotiation.

Understanding.

His thumb moved once against her side, grounding both of them in the present again.

“So when you’re ready,” Julian said, gaze steady, “we do that.”

He didn’t say if.

He didn’t say eventually.

Just when.

Then his expression softened, the edge of something warmer returning—easing the weight of what he’d just offered.

“But I’m still choosing the chairs,” he added lightly. “I refuse to be outvoted by both of you.”

Isla took the mug when he handed it back to her, but she didn’t drink.

She held it for the warmth, fingers wrapped around the ceramic while she watched him talk like he was painting a future with the same calm practicality he’d used to make tea. No drama. No grand announcement. Just a quiet, matter-of-fact this makes sense that landed in her chest far heavier than it should’ve.

When he brought up Wren, Isla’s expression didn’t change much—she was too practiced for that—but something in her eyes softened. A small, private easing she didn’t bother hiding because there was no reason to. Not with him.

It mattered that he said her name like she belonged in the room.

Not as an afterthought. Not as a complication. Not as something to tiptoe around or pretend wasn’t part of Isla’s life. He folded her into the picture with the same steadiness he gave everything else, and Isla felt the care in the way he did it—the patience, the lack of pressure, the fact that he was offering possibility without asking for access.

She’d always been selective. Protective in a way that wasn’t negotiable. Wren didn’t meet people just because Isla liked them. She met people when Isla trusted them, when the timing was right, when it was safe and true and not confusing for a child who didn’t deserve adults making promises they couldn’t keep.

Julian seemed to understand that without being told.

He said when you’re ready like it was obvious that the pacing belonged to her.

Isla’s mouth curved faintly, more warmth than humour at first.

“You’re very… considerate,” she said softly. Direct. Honest. Not gushing. Just the truth. “I notice.”

Then his line about getting overruled drew a quiet laugh out of her—short, genuine, and unexpectedly fond.

“Oh, you will,” Isla murmured, the dry humour returning with a little sparkle. “You’re cute to think you stand a chance.”

She lifted her brows at him, mug still cradled in both hands.

“You’ll be outvoted immediately,” she continued, deadpan. “Not because we’re cruel. Because democracy is important.”

Her gaze held his for a beat longer, the teasing easing into something warmer underneath.

“And I… appreciate that you’re not rushing it,” she added, quieter now. “Or trying to make it something it isn’t. I don’t let just anyone into her world.”

She didn’t say the rest—how much it meant that he wasn’t treating Wren like a barrier between them. How it softened something in Isla that had been braced for years. She let it sit in her eyes instead, steady and grateful and a little undone.

Julian stepped closer, his hand returning to her waist, and Isla let herself lean into it this time. Not because she was needy. Because she wanted to. Because she liked the way his touch felt familiar already, like a constant her body had stopped arguing with.

“You can choose the chairs,” she allowed, tone light but sincere. “Just be prepared for your authority to be… largely symbolic.”

She tipped her head, meeting his gaze over the rim of the mug she still hadn’t sipped.

“And if you try to enforce it,” Isla added, voice lowering slightly, “I’ll remind you that you invited two very opinionated people into your life. That’s on you.”

The last bit came out with a soft smile, affectionate rather than sharp.

She set the mug down carefully on the table beside her, freeing her hands. Then she lifted one to his chest—flat palm, gentle pressure, grounding him the way he’d been grounding her all morning.

Her voice softened.

“Thank you,” Isla said simply, the words carrying more weight than the syllables. “For… seeing all of it. And still choosing it.”

She didn’t give him time to turn it into anything heavy. She didn’t want speeches. She wanted this—the quiet, the steadiness, the way the room felt like it had room for truth without turning it into spectacle.

So she rose onto her toes and kissed him.

Warm. Slow. Unhurried.

A kiss that was equal parts gratitude and want, threaded through with the kind of affection that made her chest ache in a way she didn’t resent. Her hands slid up his sweater to his shoulders, keeping him close without clinging.

When she pulled back, she stayed close enough that her breath brushed his mouth.

“And for the record,” Isla murmured, eyes bright with a hint of mischief returning, “if you get outvoted, I’ll pretend to feel bad for you.”

A beat.

“Briefly.”

Julian didn’t move when she thanked him.

He felt the weight of it in her palm against his chest before he processed the words. The warmth of her hand through his sweater. The steadiness in her voice.

For seeing all of it. And still choosing it.

His hand at her waist tightened—not possessive, not reflexive. Just firm. Present.

“I’m not choosing around it,” he said quietly, after a beat. “I’m choosing it.”

No drama. No grand declaration.

Just correction.

When she rose onto her toes and kissed him, he met her halfway this time. Not to take control. Just to close the distance evenly. His hands shifted—one steady at her waist, the other sliding up her back, fingers spreading slightly between her shoulder blades as if to anchor her there.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. He let it deepen by degrees, slow and warm, his mouth answering hers without urgency. His thumb traced once along her spine through the fabric of her sweater, deliberate and grounding.

When she pulled back but stayed close, he didn’t chase the space.

He let it hover.

Her breath brushed his mouth. Her eyes brightened with that returning mischief.

He watched it happen in real time—the shift from vulnerability back into confidence, the guard sliding back into place just enough to keep her balanced.

“If I get outvoted,” he murmured, voice low, “I’ll accept it with dignity.”

A small pause.

“Publicly.”

His hand moved from her back to her hip, thumb brushing lightly over the fabric there as his gaze held hers.

“Privately,” he added, faint warmth returning to his mouth, “I’ll campaign aggressively.”

He leaned in, pressing a softer kiss to the corner of her mouth this time—shorter, but just as intentional.

Then his forehead rested lightly against hers.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing brave about wanting the right things.”

His hand slipped down from her hip to lace with her fingers again, grounding the moment back into something steady instead of letting it tip too far into intensity.

“And I like that you don’t let just anyone into her world,” he continued, voice even. “That’s not something I’d want you to compromise.”

He brushed his thumb over her knuckles once more.

“When it happens,” he added, calm and certain, “it’ll be because it makes sense. Not because it’s convenient.”

The music hummed softly around them, playful and warm again.

He pulled back just enough to look at her properly, expression open but steady.

“And for the record,” he said, faint smile returning, “I don’t expect sympathy when I lose.”

His hand tugged lightly at hers, a small pull back toward the sofa.

“I expect alliance negotiations.”

And he let the teasing carry them gently forward, keeping the moment light while holding the weight of what she’d given him without making it heavy.

Isla’s laugh came out soft and bright, the sound easing the last of the tenderness into something warm and easy. She let him tug her along without resisting, fingers still laced with his as they drifted back toward the sofa like it was the most natural path in the world.

“Alliance negotiations,” she echoed, eyes glinting. “How charmingly optimistic.”

She let herself be guided, shoulder brushing his as they walked, the room still full of that dreamy pulse from the record. His grip on her hand was steady, familiar—she liked the way it made everything feel simple.

Then she tilted her head, expression turning mock-thoughtful.

“I did say democracy is important,” Isla admitted, voice light. “But in my defence…”

She lifted her brows, a playful warning.

“I was raised under a monarchy. Some instincts don’t disappear just because I’ve learned to pretend I’m progressive.”

Her mouth curved, affectionate and a little wicked.

“So you can try to negotiate,” she continued, squeezing his hand once, “but it won’t work. Queen Wren tends to win on precedent alone.”

She didn’t say it with any heaviness. It was fond, almost amused—protective without sounding defensive, like she trusted him with the reality of her world rather than guarding it behind careful language.

When they reached the sofa, Isla slowed, still holding his hand as she turned to face him. The playful warmth in her expression remained, but there was a deliberate intent there too—like she was choosing the tone of the room the way she’d chosen her seat earlier.

“Also,” she added, glancing toward the record player, “I’m requesting a change of mood.”

A beat. Her eyes flicked back to his, flirtation threaded through the instruction.

“Put something else on,” Isla said lightly. “Surprise me. Something that fits this—” she gestured vaguely between them, the morning, the ease, “—but with a different flavour.”

She finally let go of his hand then, the release unhurried, and sat down on the sofa with quiet grace—settling into her chosen spot like it was already hers by habit. She leaned back against the pillow he’d adjusted for her, posture relaxed, eyes following him with calm attention.

“Go on,” Isla murmured, warmth in her tone. “And once you’ve done that, come back here and tell me something I don’t know about you yet.”

Julian didn’t let go of her hand immediately when she asked for a mood change.

He felt the squeeze she gave him when she crowned Wren queen, and the corner of his mouth lifted—not competitive, not threatened. Amused. Accepting.

“Precedent is a powerful tool,” he replied mildly. “I’ll prepare my campaign accordingly.”

But there was no real resistance in it. If anything, the idea of being outvoted by the two of them seemed to settle somewhere warm rather than alarming.

When she requested a change of mood, his eyes sharpened slightly—not suspicious, just intrigued. He followed the gesture she made between them, that invisible thread connecting morning light, warm air, and the quiet shape they were forming together.

“A different flavour,” he repeated.

He released her hand then—not abruptly, not reluctantly. Just a smooth slide of fingers from fingers, the last brush of skin deliberate before he turned toward the record player.

He didn’t rush.

He crossed the room with an easy, grounded pace, shoulders relaxed, one hand absently dragging across the back of the sofa as he passed. He crouched by the record stack again, thumb moving along the spines with thought instead of randomness.

He was choosing for her now.

For them.

His fingers paused. Then slid one sleeve free.

He stood, walked back to the turntable, and lifted the needle with careful precision. The soft crackle of Moon Safari faded into that tiny held silence before the next decision.

He replaced the vinyl and lowered the needle.

The opening of Sade’s No Ordinary Love spilled into the room—smooth, steady, deep without being heavy. Intimate, but not dramatic.

Julian didn’t look at her right away.

He stayed focused on the turntable for a second longer than necessary, as if confirming the choice. Then he straightened and finally turned.

The light had shifted slightly while he was moving—warmer now, catching in the curve of her hair where she leaned back against the pillow he’d adjusted. She looked settled. Not staged. Not poised for performance. Just… there.

He walked back slowly.

Not claiming space.

Just returning to it.

Instead of sitting immediately, he stopped in front of her, one hand resting lightly on the back of the sofa near her shoulder. His other hand brushed briefly along the edge of the cushion near her knee—an unconscious grounding motion.

“That flavour enough?” he asked quietly.

Then he lowered himself beside her—not crowding, but close enough that their thighs brushed. His arm draped along the back of the sofa behind her, not pulling her in, just creating the option.

She’d asked for something she didn’t know about him.

He let the music breathe for a few seconds first.

Let the room settle into it.

Then he looked at her properly.

“I didn’t start playing cello because I was good at it,” he said calmly. “I started because it was the only instrument that didn’t argue with me.”

A faint shift in his expression—less guarded, not exposed. Just honest.

“When I was younger, I quit things the second I wasn’t immediately excellent. Sports. Piano. Even languages.”

His fingers absently traced the seam of the cushion behind her shoulder as he spoke, not looking away, not performing the vulnerability.

“But cello was slow,” he continued. “You don’t sound impressive for a long time. It forces you to sit in being… mediocre.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

“And apparently I needed that.”

His eyes flicked briefly to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“I’m not patient by nature,” he added. “I learned it.”

A beat.

“With music first.”

He didn’t elaborate further. He let it stand there, quiet and unadorned.

Then his hand slid from the back of the sofa to rest lightly at her waist again—not possessive. Just anchoring.

“What about you?” he asked, voice softer now, more curious than probing. “What did you almost quit before you were good at it?”

The record swelled gently around them, warm and steady, and he stayed angled toward her—attentive, engaged, fully present in the new rhythm she’d asked for.

Isla didn’t speak while he chose.

She watched him cross the room with that quiet, grounded ease, the way he moved through his own flat like he belonged to it in every small, unremarkable way. He crouched by the records, thumb tracing spines with thought instead of indecision, and something in her chest softened at the realization that he was selecting a mood for them the way he’d selected space in his closet—calm, deliberate, already making room.

When No Ordinary Love slid into the room, it changed the air. Not loudly. Just enough. The bassline felt like warmth under the skin. The kind of song that didn’t demand attention but earned it anyway.

Julian returned to her slowly, and Isla let herself stay where she was—settled into her chosen place on the sofa, posture relaxed, eyes following him with a quiet steadiness. When he stopped in front of her, hand resting near her shoulder, she looked up at him, mouth curving faintly.

“It’ll do,” she said, dry as ever, but softened at the edges.

He sat beside her, close enough that she could feel him without having to turn. His arm along the back of the sofa wasn’t a pull. It was an invitation. Isla didn’t hesitate. She shifted just slightly, letting her shoulder brush his side, letting the contact become a normal thing rather than a decision she had to make over and over again.

Then he started talking.

The cello.

The way he described it—an instrument that didn’t fight him, a discipline that forced him to sit in being mediocre—caught her in a quiet place. Not because it was tragic. Because it was honest. Because it explained something about him she’d sensed without having words for: the patience he carried now, learned the hard way, worn so lightly you might mistake it for temperament.

Isla listened without interrupting, her gaze fixed on him, the softness in her expression deepening as he spoke. She watched his mouth shape the words, watched the small shifts in his face when he admitted things he didn’t make into a story. She liked that about him—how he could offer truth without dressing it up, like he trusted she wouldn’t mishandle it.

When he said he’d learned patience first through music, she felt the sentence settle into her as if it belonged there. She didn’t rush to respond. She let it breathe with the song.

His hand found her waist again, warm and steady, and Isla’s fingers moved on instinct—curling lightly around his wrist, a quiet acknowledgement that she was here, hearing him.

Then he asked her what she’d almost quit.

Isla’s first instinct was to deflect. A joke, something sharp, something easy.

She didn’t.

She sat with the question for a beat, eyes drifting briefly toward the window where winter light sat pale against the glass. She could feel the rhythm of the morning, the slow music, the warmth of his hand. She could feel how safe it was to answer honestly here.

Her mouth curved, small and thoughtful.

“Most things,” she said at last, lightly. “I have a terrible relationship with being bad at something.”

A beat, her gaze returning to him.

“But acting,” Isla admitted, voice low. “That one nearly did me in.”

She kept her tone steady, not dramatic. Just truthful.

“Everyone assumes it’s easy when you start young,” she continued. “Like you’re just… born knowing how to stand in the light and say the right thing.”

She let out a soft breath, almost a laugh at herself.

“I wasn’t good,” she said plainly. “Not at first. I was stubborn and self-conscious and I could feel every person watching me, waiting for me to prove I belonged there.”

Her fingers tightened gently around his wrist, then loosened again.

“There was a point where I thought I’d stop,” Isla went on. “Not because I didn’t want it. Because wanting it didn’t seem like it would be enough.”

She glanced down for a moment, as if watching the words leave her, then looked back up—steady, composed, but open in a way she rarely allowed.

“And then I realized I didn’t actually want to quit,” she said. “I wanted to stop feeling exposed.”

Her mouth curved again, a little wry.

“So I learned how to stand there anyway,” Isla finished quietly. “Long enough that it stopped being unbearable.”

She didn’t say what she could have—about how there were still days she felt too visible, too watched, too measured. She didn’t have to. The room already understood.

Instead, she let her gaze soften on him, letting the song hold the silence for a moment.

“And for what it’s worth,” Isla added, tone gentle, “I like that you chose an instrument that forced you to wait for beauty.”

Her thumb brushed once across the inside of his wrist where her fingers rested.

“It suits you,” she said simply.

Then, because she couldn’t leave sincerity without a little armour, she added with quiet amusement, “Also, I’m relieved you weren’t a trumpet person. That would’ve been intolerable.”

She leaned her head slightly closer to his shoulder as the music continued, the morning around them warm and slow, and she let herself stay in it—no rush, no agenda—just the two of them in his flat, learning each other in the quiet spaces between songs.

Julian didn’t interrupt her.

He felt the subtle shift when she chose not to deflect—when the joke hovered and then dissolved before it reached her mouth. He noticed that more than the words themselves.

When she said most things, the corner of his mouth lifted faintly. He believed that. He could see it—the sharp impatience with mediocrity, the intolerance for fumbling in public.

But when she said acting nearly did her in, he didn’t react with surprise. He just watched her.

The way her gaze drifted toward the window when she was thinking. The way her fingers tightened around his wrist before she even realized she was doing it.

He let her speak.

Didn’t rush to fill the pauses.

Didn’t nod too much.

Just listened.

When she said she wasn’t good at first—stubborn, self-conscious, too aware of being watched—his thumb shifted slightly against her waist. Not soothing. Not correcting. Just present.

He could picture it.

He could picture her younger, braced under light she hadn’t learned to own yet.

And when she said she didn’t want to quit—she just wanted to stop feeling exposed—something in his expression softened in a way he didn’t try to hide.

“That makes sense,” he said quietly.

No platitudes. No reassurance.

Just agreement.

His hand slid slightly higher along her side, palm settling flatter against her ribs as if to anchor the admission in something solid. His other hand turned in her grasp so his fingers could lace through hers properly now instead of resting loosely around his wrist.

“You’re not bad at exposure,” he added after a moment, gaze steady. “You just feel it.”

A small distinction.

Important.

He leaned back slightly into the sofa, giving her room while still staying close enough that their bodies remained aligned. Her head tipping toward his shoulder felt natural; he adjusted without thinking, angling just enough so she fit more comfortably against him.

When she said she liked that he chose something that forced him to wait for beauty, his breath shifted—slower, thoughtful.

“I didn’t know that’s what I was doing,” he admitted. “At the time.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“I just knew it didn’t let me fake it.”

The music swelled softly in the background, warm and steady, Sade’s voice threading through the room like something lived-in rather than performed.

At the trumpet comment, he huffed a quiet laugh through his nose.

“Unforgivable,” he agreed. “You would’ve left.”

His fingers brushed idly along the inside of her palm now, tracing a slow, absent pattern there. Not deliberate. Just tactile.

He looked down at her briefly—at the way she’d leaned closer, how the guard she wore so effortlessly in other rooms didn’t quite fit here.

“You standing there anyway,” he said, voice low, reflective, “even when it felt unbearable…”

He didn’t finish the sentence immediately.

His thumb traced once over her knuckles.

“That’s not stubborn,” he said. “That’s discipline.”

A beat.

“And it’s why you’re good.”

Not flattery.

Assessment.

He let the silence breathe again, the song carrying the weight so neither of them had to.

Then, softer, more personal:

“I don’t think you’re nearly as exposed as you think you are.”

His hand tightened slightly at her waist—not possessive, just grounding.

“And I don’t think you ever were.”

He didn’t elaborate.

He didn’t need to turn it into a reassurance campaign.

He just stayed there with her—shoulder warm under her cheek, hand threaded with hers, the music low and steady—letting the intimacy of the moment remain quiet instead of dramatic.

Because that was the flavour she’d asked for.

And he intended to get it right.

Julian stayed quiet for a while after that.

He didn’t rush to fill the space she’d opened. He let the song carry it. Let her head rest against his shoulder. Let his thumb move lazily over the back of her hand in slow, absent strokes that had no agenda beyond contact.

He felt the rhythm of her breathing settle into something steadier. Felt the way her body leaned without bracing now.

After a minute, he shifted slightly—not away, just enough to glance down at her properly.

“You’ve barely eaten since you landed,” he observed quietly.

It wasn’t an accusation. Just a note. He’d clocked it earlier without mentioning it.

His hand slipped from her waist to rest lightly against her hip, grounding.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, voice low, easy. “Or pretending you’re not because the mood is too cinematic to interrupt?”

A faint edge of amusement tugged at his mouth.

He tilted his head slightly, studying her expression for tells.

“I can make something,” he continued. “Nothing complicated. Eggs. Toast. Something warm.”

His thumb brushed once over her hip through the fabric of her sweater.

“Or,” he added, tone shifting just a shade lighter, “we can go out. There’s a café down the street that does proper coffee and absurdly serious pastries.”

He paused, considering.

“You’d like it,” he said. “Minimal décor. Overconfident menu.”

He let the option sit between them without pushing either direction.

“I’m good either way,” Julian added. “Stay here. Go out. Feed you now. Feed you later.”

A beat.

“But you’re not surviving on tea and atmospheric music.”

His hand moved up her side briefly, fingers spreading gently along her ribs in a quiet squeeze before settling again at her waist.

“Your monarchy requires sustenance,” he murmured.

And he stayed close, attentive, waiting for her answer—not impatient, not steering—just ready to move with whatever she chose.

Isla stayed still for a beat, letting his question hover in the air between them while Sade kept singing like the room had been built for this exact mood.

Hungry.

It was such a practical word for what she was feeling.

She could admit, if pressed, that she’d eaten almost nothing since London—those little almonds in a dish on the plane that tasted vaguely of obligation. But hunger wasn’t what had her attention right now. Not the kind he meant, anyway.

Julian’s hand at her waist, the slow steadiness of his voice, the way he offered options without pushing—eggs, toast, café, later—made her want to do something wildly impractical. Something that had nothing to do with pastries or proper coffee.

She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him properly.

Her expression was composed—she always started there—but her eyes were warmer now, darker at the edges with intent. The kind of gaze that made it very clear her appetite had simply… changed categories.

“You’re adorable,” Isla said softly, and the affection in it was real, even as her tone stayed dry. “Trying to feed me.”

She shifted, just slightly at first, turning her body toward him. Her hand slid from his wrist to his shoulder, then to the back of his neck—slow, deliberate, a quiet taking of permission she already knew she had.

“I’m not ignoring you,” she murmured, voice lower now. “I’m just…”

Her gaze dipped briefly to his mouth. Returned to his eyes.

“…not thinking about toast.”

Before he could adjust, before he could decide what to do with her expression, Isla moved. Smoothly. Confidently. She swung one leg over him and settled into his lap like she’d always belonged there too, knees bracketing his hips, weight balanced and sure. She didn’t rush it. She let the contact land fully—her hands at his shoulders, her breath close, the music still threading through the room like it was in on the plan.

Julian’s body reacted before his face did—an instinctive stillness, a tiny shift of his hands as if to steady her, to make sure she was supported. Isla felt it and smiled faintly, pleased.

“There,” she murmured, as if she’d solved a problem.

She leaned in, her lips grazing the corner of his mouth, then his jaw—slow, teasing. Her voice stayed soft, amused.

“If you’re insisting I require sustenance,” Isla whispered, “I’d like to propose… a different sort of distraction first.”

Her mouth brushed his again—warmer this time, more certain—before she pulled back just enough to look at him through her lashes.

“We can make something after,” she continued, calm as if she were discussing a schedule. “Eggs, toast, whatever heroic domestic offering you’re determined to provide.”

A beat, her smile sharpening.

“But right now,” Isla murmured, letting her hands slide down his chest in a slow, deliberate line, “I’m afraid you’ve chosen a song that makes me want to do something far less wholesome.”

She didn’t say the word. She didn’t need to. The way she shifted her hips slightly—just enough to make the point—did all the translating.

Her mouth hovered near his again, her tone a quiet blend of affection and mischief.

“Besides,” she added, eyes bright, “if we eat first, you’ll start being responsible.”

She kissed him then—slow and hungry in a way that matched the music, her hands anchoring him as she deepened it by degrees. When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested briefly against his, her voice warm as breath.

“Tell me,” Isla murmured, smiling, “are you going to keep trying to feed me… or are you going to let me ruin your morning schedule?”