chapter 19
JULIAN POLE
When we finally pulled into his driveway, I got out without waiting for him to open the door like he usually does.
He followed behind quietly. I know his passcode by heart, but I waited for him to punch it in anyway.
When the lock clicked open, I walked straight inside, pretending like I owned the place, even though my heart was trying to break through my ribs.
I went straight to the table he got for me when we first started the tutoring sessions—my spot.
I unpacked my bag, took out my notes, and sat cross-legged on the floor like always. Routine. Familiar. Safe.
When I finally looked up, he was standing at the entrance to the living room, fingers tugging nervously at his tie.
He was fidgeting.
Jace. The man who terrifies everyone with a single stare, standing there like a boy caught doing something wrong.
Oh my god.
He looked… soft. Like a giant puppy who doesn't know where to put his paws. It's strange how someone so tall, so intimidating, can look so small all of a sudden.
I guess that's what love does to people.
Does he love me?
I shove the thought away before it can bloom into something dangerous
Come here," I said softly.
He came without hesitation, like an obedient boy.
There's something about how Jace moves when it's just us. The man who commands rooms and silences chaos suddenly becomes quiet, almost fragile.
Around me, he's all warmth and hesitation; outside, he's cold steel.
I don't ever want to take advantage of that, but I can't lie—I like it. The control. The tenderness. The way he lets me see him when no one else can.
He sat down beside me, close enough that his knee brushed mine.
His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for me but wasn't sure if he should.
I closed the gap first, sliding my hand toward him, and he caught it instantly, his much larger fingers wrapping around mine, squeezing tight, like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.
He still wouldn't look at me. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere on the floor, his jaw tense, and that hurt more than I expected.
"I don't know what I did," he whispered—barely audible, like the words were scraping his throat. His voice cracked at the edges, and I could tell he was holding back tears.
"I don't feel good when people I like stay mad at me," he said, inching closer until our knees brushed. He took my hand and pressed a soft kiss against my skin. "What did I do wrong?" Finally, his eyes lifted to meet mine, and it nearly broke me.
"You ignored me today," I managed to say, my voice smaller than I intended.
Am I overacting?. Maybe I am.
He looked confused, so I went on. "When I saw you this morning, I waved and smiled—you ignored me. In class, you didn't even look at me. You kept turning me down every time I raised my hand, like I wasn't even there. I was hurt, I thought maybe you didn't really like me."
He sighed, his brows knitting together. "I'm not guilty of that last part," he said quietly. "But the rest? Yeah, I am."
"I see you." He whispered.
"Before you even notice me. My eyes find you first, every damn time. I can smell your scent from across the room, and it drives me crazy. I kept stealing glances at you in class, hoping you wouldn't catch me. But I was scared, scared I'd stare too long, lose control, and do something you wouldn't like."
He squeezed my hand tighter. "I'm sorry. I was selfish."
"No, you're not," I said, surprised by how small my voice sounded. "You were just thinking better of me."
I didn't even know what to say.
Everything he'd just said hit deeper than I expected.
All this time, I thought he was being cold, distant—but no.
He was thinking about me.
About how I'd feel.
About what I might think of him.
He was holding himself back for my sake, and now I just sat there, lost in the realization.
"I'm sorry," I finally said, my voice small, almost shy.
"No, no, no," he whispered, moving even closer until his breath brushed my skin. It felt like he wanted to bury himself inside my warmth, like being near me was the only thing keeping him together.
"I made assumptions," I murmured, feeling the guilt crawl up my throat.
"It's okay," he said softly, brushing his thumb across my knuckles. "I would have, too, if you ignored me." Then he leaned down and kissed the back of my hand again, slower this time, and smiled against my skin.
I nodded, my heart thudding like it wanted out.
"So…" he tilted his head, eyes hopeful, voice almost boyish, "are you no longer mad at me?"
A tiny smile tugged at my lips, one of those that creeps up without permission, and I gave it to him. My best smile. The one that says, You're forgiven, even before you asked
"I wasn't mad," I confessed. "I was just… sulking. Which is so stupid, considering how you put me first."
That earned another quiet kiss on my hand. Then he chuckled. "You looked so cute while we were driving here. All pouty, arms crossed, pretending you didn't care."
"You saw?" I asked, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. I wasn't a kid, but next to Jace, tall and broad and solid, I felt so small, almost fragile.
"I see everything about you," he said, voice low, a spark lighting in his eyes.
"Let's start," I said quickly, clearing my throat before it betrayed me. "Before we do something stupid."
"Mmm," he hummed, that dangerous smirk curving his lips. "And what kind of stupid are we talking about?
I think I'm in hell. Because I'm heating up with the way he's looking at me.
Heat and something else rush through my body, curling low in my stomach and settling lower, which is not good.
I think… I think I'm having a tent in my trousers—
and I swear he saw it.
I jerk back, clearing my throat like it'll clear the air too.
"Let's start, Jace."
He groans.
Oh my God.
"Say that again," he says, eyes falling shut, voice low and almost broken.
"What?"
"My name."
"Jace?" I whisper, unsure.
"Again."
"Jace."
He inhales, deep and heavy, and pulls me back toward him, tucking his face into the crook of my neck. His breath hits my skin, hot and shaky, and it sends a shiver racing down my spine.
"I'm going to miss you," he murmurs into my neck.
"What?" I whisper, confused.
"I'm going out of town for the weekend," he says, brushing his lips against my skin with a sigh. "I won't be back until Tuesday."
Oh.
I wanted to invite him to my art exhibit. I wanted him to see me in that space, under those lights.
Guess I can't now.
"Oh," I exhale, trying to sound neutral but failing miserably.
He lifts his head, cups my face in those big, careful hands.
"Is there something wrong?"
"No," I smile, small and soft. "I just thought we might hang out this weekend."
"We can," he says, smiling faintly, "when I come back. I promise."
I nod.
He leans in and kisses me, gentle but certain, and when he pulls back, his thumb traces my lower lip like he's memorizing it.
Then he smiles.
And I smile.
And for a few seconds, it's just that—two smiles, hanging between us like something fragile and almost too beautiful to touch.
Who could have guessed that behind these beautiful smiles lies a price to pay.