Page 49 of Julian

I hesitate, because I’m not even sure how to explain it. “He’s… not what I expected,” I say slowly.

“In a good or a bad way?”

I think about that… how he talks. How he listens and how he notices things most people don’t. When he made Dylan feel like the most important person in the room without even trying. “I’m honestly not sure,” I finally say.

Abby smiles, slow and knowing. “Ah. The most dangerous category: the confusing way.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I shake my head, already regretting opening the door. “I don’t know. He’s thoughtful. He pays attention. He—” I cut myself off, pressing my lips together.

“He what?” Abby prompts.

I exhale, leaning back slightly on the stool. “He makes things… easy,” I admit quietly.

Abby’s expression softens a fraction, though the curiosity never leaves her eyes. “Easy how?”

I stare into my drink for a second, watching the condensation gather along the glass. “Like I don’t have to think about every word before I say it,” I explain. “I don’t have to… manage the situation all the time. He just meets you where you are.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Abby smiles, slower this time. “That sounds suspiciously like you like him.”

“He’s a very nice employer,” I say dismissively. “Of course I like him.”

“No… you like him, like him.”

I look up at her immediately. “I don’t like him like that.”

She raises both brows. “You do.”

“I don’t,” I repeat, even though my denial is thinner now.

“Harper,” she says, taking a sip of her drink, “you just described a man who’s attractive, successful, attentive, and emotionally competent, and your takeaway is that you don’t like him like that?”

I groan, dropping my head briefly. “He’s my boss.”

“And?”

“And that matters,” I say, lifting my head again. “A lot.”

Abby watches me, then nods slowly. “Okay. Fair.”

“It’s not like I can do anything about it,” I say, quieter now. “Even if there was a spark or whatever there.”

“Mmm,” Abby hums. “But that’s not what I asked.”

I glance up at her. “You didn’t ask anything.”

“I didn’t have to,” she says.

God, I hate that she knows me this well. I exhale, long and slow, the resistance in me starting to crumble. “Yes… there are times,” I admit. “Where it feels like”—I search for the right words—“like he’s not just being nice. Like he’s… seeing me.”

Abby leans in slightly. “Go on…”

“And it messes with my head,” I say, a small, helpless laugh slipping out. “Because I don’t know if that’s real or if that’s just him. Maybe he’s like that with everyone.”

“And is he?” she asks.