AVERY'S POV
Julian didn't respond to my photo message.
He canceled his Toronto trip.
And now it was just the two of us, alone in this house for the next three weeks until Mom came home.
Three weeks of this impossible tension that was either going to break us or burn us alive.
I sent the photo two days ago. Since then, Julian had been avoiding me like I was contagious. He left for work before I woke up. Came home after I'd gone to bed. Left notes on the counter about being busy with a big case.
Coward.
He could run all he wanted. Eventually, he'd have to face me.
That moment came at dinner on Wednesday night.
I heard his car in the driveway at six-thirty—earlier than usual. My heart jumped. I'd been making pasta, wearing cutoff shorts and a loose t-shirt, my hair piled on top of my head.
Normal. Casual. Definitely not planned.
(Okay, maybe a little planned.)
Julian walked through the door, saw me in the kitchen, and froze.
"Hi," I said, keeping my voice light. "You're home early."
"I... yes. Finished earlier than expected." He loosened his tie like it was choking him. "I didn't know you'd be cooking."
"I live here too." I stirred the pasta sauce. "There's enough for two if you're hungry."
I watched him war with himself. Leave and prove he was running from me? Or stay and face this thing between us?
"I'll just change," he said finally.
Victory.
Dinner was torture. The beautiful, agonizing kind.
We sat across from each other at the small kitchen table—the big dining room felt too formal, too empty. Just the two of us with pasta and salad and enough tension to strangle.
Julian had changed into jeans and a simple black t-shirt. I'd never seen him look so... human. Not the powerful lawyer in expensive suits. Just a man trying very hard not to look at me.
But I caught him looking anyway.
When I reached for my water glass, his eyes followed my hand.
When I tucked hair behind my ear, his jaw clenched.
When I laughed at something dumb on my phone, his knuckles went white around his fork.
My phone buzzed. I glanced at it—Elena asking about plans this weekend—but Julian's whole body went rigid.
"Derek?" he asked, his voice tight.
"No. I blocked him, remember?" I set down my phone. "Why? Would it bother you if it was?"
"No."
"Liar." The word slipped out before I could stop it.
His eyes snapped to mine, dark and dangerous. "Excuse me?"
"You're lying. It would bother you." I leaned forward, and my shirt dipped lower. "It bothered you that night. When you saw his hands on me. You looked like you wanted to kill him."
"Avery—"
"Admit it."
"This isn't appropriate—"
"Since when do we care about appropriate?" I reached for the salt shaker in the center of the table, leaning forward more than necessary.
Julian's eyes dropped to my neckline for one heartbeat. Just one. Then he jerked his gaze away, breathing hard.
But I'd seen it. That flash of hunger he couldn't control.
"Can we just eat?" he said roughly.
"Sure." I smiled and went back to my pasta, feeling powerful for the first time in days.
He wanted me. He'd said he loved me. And no amount of avoiding or running would change that.
We ate in loaded silence. I was hyperaware of everything—the way he gripped his fork too tight, the muscle jumping in his jaw, how his leg bounced under the table like he was barely holding himself together.
I'd never felt more alive.
"How's work?" I asked, because the silence was getting ridiculous.
"Busy."
"That case you mentioned? The big one?"
"It's... complicated."
"Everything's complicated with you lately."
His eyes met mine, and the look in them made my breath catch. "You have no idea."
"Then tell me."
"I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both." He set down his fork, barely having eaten anything. "This was a mistake."
"What was? Dinner? Coming home? Admitting how you feel?"
"All of it." But he didn't move. Didn't leave. Just sat there looking tortured and beautiful and so conflicted I wanted to climb across the table and kiss him until he stopped thinking so hard.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was Derek—he'd texted from a different number.
Unknown: I miss you. Can we talk?
I deleted it without responding, but not before Julian saw Derek's name flash on the screen.
Something in his expression shifted. Darkened.
"He won't leave you alone," Julian said quietly.
"I don't want him to. I want you."
The words hung between us like a confession.
Julian pushed back from the table. "I'll clean up. You should go."
"I cooked. I'll help clean."
"Avery—"
"I'm not scared of you, Julian." I stood and grabbed my plate. "Stop trying to protect me from something I want."
We cleaned in silence, moving around each other in the small kitchen like dancers who knew every step. I washed dishes. He dried. The mundane domesticity of it felt intimate in a way that made my heart ache.
This could be our life. Simple dinners and shared cleanup and comfortable silence.
If we were brave enough to reach for it.
I handed him a clean plate. Our fingers touched.
Julian jerked back like I'd electrocuted him, the plate clattering into the sink.
"I can't do this," he muttered.
"Can't do what? Wash dishes?"
"Be near you." His voice came out raw. "Stand this close. Smell your shampoo. Watch you move around my kitchen like you belong here."
"I do belong here."
"Not like this. Not the way I want you to."
My heart hammered. "How do you want me?"
He looked at me then—really looked—and the hunger in his eyes stole my breath.
"In ways that would destroy us both," he whispered.
Then he walked away. Just left me standing there in the kitchen, soapy water dripping from my hands, my whole body trembling.
I heard his study door close. Lock.
I stood alone, heart racing, finally understanding something crucial:
Julian wasn't avoiding me because he didn't want me.
He was avoiding me because he wanted me too much.
And his control was hanging by a thread.
I dried my hands slowly, mind racing. Three weeks until Mom came home. Three weeks to figure out if this thing between us was real or just forbidden fantasy.
Three weeks before we'd have to bury this forever.
My phone buzzed. Another unknown number.
I opened it expecting Derek again.
Instead, I found a message that made my blood run cold:
Unknown: I know what's going on between you and your stepfather. Everyone's going to know soon. You should be ashamed.
Below it was a photo—grainy, taken from outside our house through the kitchen window. Me leaning forward at dinner. Julian staring at me with unmistakable hunger in his eyes.
Someone was watching us.
Someone knew.
And they were threatening to expose everything.
My hands shook as I stared at that photo, at the evidence of our forbidden feelings captured forever.
I ran to Julian's study and pounded on the door.
"Julian! Open up! Now!"
The door flew open. He took one look at my face and his expression shifted from irritation to alarm.
"What's wrong?"
I thrust my phone at him, unable to speak.
He read the message. Saw the photo. And went absolutely still.
"Who sent this?" His voice was deadly calm.
"I don't know. An unknown number."
He looked at the photo again—at the undeniable evidence of what we were to each other—and I saw fear flash across his face for the first time since I'd known him.
"Someone's watching us," I whispered.
Julian's jaw clenched. "And they're going to try to destroy us with it."
He looked at me, and I saw him make a decision in real time.
"Get your coat," he said quietly. "We're leaving. Now."
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere we can figure out who's doing this. And how to stop them before they ruin both our lives."
He grabbed his keys, his phone, his wallet.
And for the first time since this started, we weren't running from each other.
We were running together.
From someone who wanted to tear us apart.