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I stay silent, prompting him to continue. “Sterling Defense has government contracts, making us a target for some shady organizations and countries. We’ve faced threats and spies before.”
I frown, glancing over my shoulder at the muffin timer ticking away. “What’s this got to do with us?” It feels like it’s not just the muffins that are on a countdown but us, too.
Julian’s eyes are intense, a storm of worry and resolve. “That’s why I want to keep us under wraps for now until things settle down. Someone’s after our weapon designs. The CIA’s on it, but until then, I can’t risk you becoming a target. Once it’s safe, we can go public and speak to HR and resolve things," he hesitates, sadness shadowing his eyes, "if you're still interested in me.”
My heart skips a beat.
“I know it’s a lot, so if you need time, I understand. And if you want to keep things professional, then we can do that too.”
“You’re safe, right? This threat is just against the company?” I ask, trying to suppress the memories of past threats that still haunt me. The fear from those days feels almost tangible, stretching the nights into endless worry. The last thing I want is for Julian, or anyone I care about, to be wrapped in that kind of fear.
It makes me think of Andrew, that party, and the cascade of loss that followed – my brother, my relationship with Henry, everything.
“Don’t worry about me,” Julian says, but it’s a hollow assurance.
"Is someone after you?"
He licks his lips, "Someone is always after me. I'm a soldier." He stiffly grins, trying to be playful but missing the mark.
Knowing he is in danger makes me want to cling closer to him in order to try to protect him, which is comical because my best defense is currently the huge bottle of wasp spray Harper got me.
I don't want to lose anyone else. I don't think I could survive it again.
The muffin timer dings, slicing through the tension. I quickly pull away, stand, and walk to the kitchen. I spot some flour still on the floor, and a sudden urge to get my mop out and start cleaning overtakes me. I wish problems were like spilled milk—they would be much easier to wipe away. Instead, they are like the flour spilled on my floor; you think you've cleaned it all up, but you keep finding reminders all over the place.
As I move around the kitchen, making spiced hot chocolate and plating the warm pumpkin muffins, I can feel his eyes following my every move and waiting for my answer.
“Don’t you dare tell Harper about this,” I say as I open my freezer and pull out a jar of Pumpkin Spice ice cream.
Julian watches me, then mimics locking his lips and throwing away the key. I scoop the ice cream next to the muffins.
“Sometimes I eat odd things,” I confess with a half-shrug. “After my parents passed, dinner turned into a culinary free-for-all. My brothers’ cooking skills were, let’s say, creatively minimal. We lived off cereal and milk. It was our go-to meal for survival during the ‘can’t cook, won’t cook’ phase.” I pause, wondering why I'm spilling these quirky family secrets to Julian. It's like my mouth has no off-switch around him.
“You're right,” I say, a bit bemused. “For some weird reason, spilling my guts to you feels as easy as breathing.” I can't help but smile at the absurdity of it all. Talking to Julian feels like peeling back layers of an onion — without the tears. Instead of mourning my past, I want to share the good memories.
He smiles and accepts the spoon I hand him and dives into the odd combination. “Food is food,” he says, his eyes locking with mine again. "I haven't been able to practice my culinary skills, but I will for you. I promise cereal and milk will always be my backup in case you can't swallow what comes out of my kitchen."
A rush of warmth floods through me. I take a huge bite of ice cream to cool me off. I keep filling my mouth with my muffin to prolong my response to his initial statement. When my spoon scrapes the plate clean, it's time for me to confess.
“So, we keep it professional at work and date here?”
Julian nods, his spoon frozen mid-air, a hopeful glimmer lighting up his eyes. "Yes," he says, his voice tinged with anticipation. "So, is that a yes? Will you unofficially go out on a date with me?"
I bite my lip, feeling its softness press under the tension of my teeth. "This isn't what I want," I murmur.
"It's not what I want either," Julian responds earnestly, leaning forward, his intensity tangible. "I want everyone to know not to touch you because I want to be the only one to touch you." His words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken promises.
I feel my cheeks flush a warm shade of pink.
"But this is the safest option for now," I reiterate, the words feeling like a heavy cloak I'm reluctantly donning.
He nods. “I promise you it won’t always be like this.”
Am I going to be burdened with a secret again?
My hormones insist on it.
"Ok," I finally say, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth despite the turmoil within. "But our first unofficial date better knocks the socks off my feet, Julian."
