Julian

Chapter Six

Julian

Julian knew he should stand up.

He should thank Jamie for the walkthrough, walk him to the door, and end the night like the professional he was supposed to be. He should say something neutral—good work, see you Monday—and let the moment dissolve into the fluorescent hum of the empty office.

But he didn’t move.

Jamie sat across from him, laptop now closed between them like a closed chapter. Shoulders tight. Eyes flicking between Julian’s face and the desk surface, as though he was trying to decide whether to bolt or lean in. The air had thickened—too quiet, too full, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.

Julian’s hands curled slowly into fists in his lap, nails biting into palms just to keep them still.

“You said it wouldn’t happen again,” Jamie said.

His voice was soft. Not accusing. Just… reminding. A quiet statement of fact that landed like a stone in still water.

Julian met his eyes. “I meant it.”

Jamie’s lips parted—like he wanted to argue, to push, to ask why Julian was still looking at him like that—but he didn’t speak. The silence stretched longer, tauter.

Julian stood then. Slowly. Deliberately. Each movement measured so it wouldn’t feel like surrender.

He rounded the desk.

Jamie’s breath caught audibly as Julian stopped beside his chair—close enough that Jamie had to tilt his head back to look up at him.

Too close.

Close enough to see the rapid rise and fall of Jamie’s chest beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. Close enough to catch the faint scent of his shampoo—something clean and citrus-sharp. Close enough to see the pulse ticking fast and unsteady just under the skin of his throat.

Julian shouldn’t.

He knew he shouldn’t.

Every rule he’d ever written for himself—every line he’d drawn in permanent ink—was screaming at him to step back, to turn away, to remember who he was supposed to be.

But his hand moved anyway.

Lightly—barely there—he reached down and brushed his fingers along the side of Jamie’s throat. Just once. A whisper of contact. Skin against skin. Too brief to be anything. Too charged to be nothing.

Jamie didn’t flinch.

He moved into it.

That was the problem.

He tilted his head—just slightly—into Julian’s hand, eyes fluttering half-closed, like the touch was oxygen after too long underwater. Like he’d missed it more than he’d ever admit.

Julian’s mouth went dry.

He could feel every breath in his body—shallow, unsteady. Could hear the soft hum of the overhead lights, the distant whir of the HVAC, the faint tick of the wall clock. Could count each heartbeat like gunshots in his throat.

“Julian…” Jamie’s voice was a breath, barely audible.

And God help him, Julian leaned down.

Their faces were inches apart now. Jamie looked up at him with eyes that held too much—want, caution, fear, hope, something deeper underneath that made Julian’s chest ache like a bruise. The space between their mouths felt electric, alive, dangerous.

It would be so easy to kiss him.

So fucking easy.

One inch closer and his mouth would be on Jamie’s again, and he wouldn’t stop this time. He couldn’t. The restraint he’d clung to for weeks would snap like dry twig, and he’d take everything Jamie was offering—everything he’d been denying himself—and damn the consequences.

But he didn’t move.

He just stood there. Watching Jamie. Waiting.

Needing.

And then Jamie whispered, voice cracking on the edges, “You’re going to hate yourself in the morning.”

Julian closed his eyes.

The words landed like cold water.

His hand dropped.

He stepped back—one deliberate step, then another—until the desk was between them again.

The space filled immediately with all the things he didn’t say.

“You’re right,” he said quietly, the admission tasting like ash.

Jamie stood slowly, movements careful, like he was afraid of shattering something fragile. He grabbed his laptop, tucked it under his arm, fingers white-knuckled around the edges.

“So am I going,” he asked, voice small but steady, “or are you going to kiss me and deal with it later?”

Julian looked at him.

Really looked.

Saw the flush high on Jamie’s cheekbones, the way his lips were still parted, the faint tremor in his hands. Saw the hope and hurt warring in his eyes. Saw the boy who’d trusted him once—and the man who was trusting him again, even now.

For one second—just one second—Julian almost said fuck it.

Almost closed the distance.

Almost let himself have this one thing he’d wanted for longer than he’d ever admit.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped aside. Cleared his throat. Reached for the doorknob and opened the door.

Jamie didn’t speak again.

He just walked out—shoulders squared, spine straight—leaving behind a silence that felt like the aftermath of something that never got to happen.

The door clicked shut.

Julian stood there for a long time, alone in his office, staring at the empty chair where Jamie had been sitting minutes earlier.

The room still smelled faintly of him—citrus shampoo, warm skin, the ghost of nervous energy.

Julian leaned back against his desk, head tipped back, eyes closed.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, trying to ease the ache that had taken up permanent residence there.

He hadn’t kissed him.

He hadn’t crossed the line.

But the line was thinner now—frayed, worn, barely holding.

And Julian knew—deep in the part of himself he tried not to listen to—that next time, he might not have the strength to step back.

He might not want to.

He exhaled slowly.

The office lights buzzed overhead.

The city hummed beyond the windows.

And somewhere down the hall, Jamie was walking away.

Julian stayed where he was.

Trying to pretend he hadn’t just let the one thing he wanted more than anything slip through his fingers again.

Trying to pretend it didn’t feel like losing.