Page 59 of Beautiful When He Breaks

I close my eyes hard enough to see sparks and let out a slow breath through my nose.

Could I really be feeling something for my best friend?

That’s the question. Not some playful, harmless version of it either. Not the kind you ask yourself once and laugh off because stress is making your brain weird. I’ve been trying to laugh it off for weeks now. That stopped working somewhere between waking up on his chest in his bed and nearly having a full-body meltdown in the locker room because I saw him naked and my body reacted before my brain could scream its protest.

Admiration, sure. That part is easy. That part’s always been there. Jules is strong; that’s just a fact. Not only in the physical sense, though obviously that too. He’s strong in the way he carries things without making them heavier for everyone else in the room. He knows how to step in when something’s going wrong and somehow make the whole disaster feel more manageable just by being there.

He’s strong when I’m falling apart, and he gets his arms around me before I even know I’m going down. He’s strong when Mila’s screaming, and I’m one second from losing my shit. He just takes over with those steady hands and that calm voice, and suddenly the world feels survivable again.

He’s kind too. That’s another fact. Not soft in some easy, sweet way anybody can see from ten feet away. His kindness is sarcastic, bossy, and hidden under swearing half the time. But it’s there in everything he does.

It’s in the way he stayed when I gave him every reason to leave. He never once made Mila feel like a burden, not for one second. He notices when I haven’t eaten, when I’m spiraling, when I’m about to miss something important because panic has me by the throat. He’s talked me through bottles and diapers and sleep deprivation without ever making me feel stupid for not knowing. Even when he makes fun of me, he’s still holding me up while he does it.

I exhale slowly and stare at the shadowy outline of the bassinet.

That’s all normal. That could still be normal.

Admiration, gratitude, love in the broad, loyal, best-friend sense, and fifteen years of history. Anybody would feel intensely about someone who’s been there through this much.

So why does my chest tighten when I think about his mouth?

No. Okay. Fine. Let’s be honest, if I’m already this far into humiliating myself. His mouth, yes. The way it curves when he’s trying not to grin. The way it goes flat and dangerous when somebody says something that hurts me. How it softens around Mila’s name and the way he says Liefling in that low voice that gets under my skin every damn time now, whether I want it to or not.

I drag a hand over my face.

This is bad.

I should stop thinking, obviously. That would be the smart move. But my brain has decided tonight is confession night, and once the thoughts start lining up, they don’t stop at safe, normal places.

Julian is beautiful. Sun-kissed skin, dark curls, those ridiculous hazel eyes that can go soft or hard in a blink, tattoos everywhere you look. I’ve always known he was attractive—anybody with functioning eyes knows that. He’s the kind of guy people look at twice even when they’re pretending not to. That’s objective, it’s not me being weird. Except lately it doesn’t feel objective… Lately, it feels personal.

I know the shape of his shoulders too well now. I know the width of his chest under a T-shirt and the way those tattoos pull the eyes lower if you let them. I know the line of muscle in his arms when he lifts Mila or leans over her bassinet or bracingly crowds into my space when I’m panicking and need him there. I know the way his stomach tightens when he laughs, and the cut of his hips in those low practice sweats. I know the dusting of dark hair on his chest, arms, and legs, and the dark trail below his navel.

My mouth goes dry at that last thought. “Fuuuck,” I groan.

I roll onto my back again and swallow hard, trying to shake off some of the tension building low within me. It doesn’t help. If anything, the movement makes me more aware of what’s happening in my briefs.

Oh, fuck.

The realization hits in layers, which is somehow worse than one clean shock: my cock is hard under the blanket and getting harder with every passing second I spend thinking about Julian West’s body.

I throw an arm over my eyes and let out one wrecked, whispered, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Great. Fantastic. I’m lying in bed with a hard-on because I was mentally listing all the reasons Julian is a good man and accidentally ended up at his abs.

No, not accidentally. There’s no point in lying to myself when my own body just gave testimony. It wasn’t an accident. The thoughts changed, and I let them because I am turned on by Julian.

I’m turned on by my best friend.

I nearly laugh, except there is absolutely nothing funny about this. There’s just me in the dark with my body reacting to a truth I haven’t wanted to name and a thousand follow-up questions slamming into me all at once.

Since when?

Since the locker room? No. Before that.

Since he stood in my room with Mila on his shoulder, and I looked at him for too long? Maybe.

Since he got in my space in the driveway after the call with my parents and held me like I was something worth catching?