Julian didn't leave that night.
They sat in the café until the chairs were stacked and the lights dimmed, the hum of the espresso machine fading to silence. The barista gave them a look—half-annoyed, half-curious—but said nothing as they stepped into the wet night together.
Neither of them spoke as they walked.
The city was quiet, the streets slick with rain and strewn with flickering puddles of light. Ava's heart beat louder with each step, not from fear—but from the growing knowledge that whatever this was between them…it was no longer casual.
They reached her building, and she turned to him beneath the awning.
"Do you want to come up?"
The question lingered. Not suggestive. Not rushed. Just honest.
Julian hesitated, then gave a slow nod. "Only if you're sure."
"I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't."
Her apartment was small—bookshelves overflowing, half-written notes taped to the fridge, the faint scent of eucalyptus clinging to the air. It was the kind of space that belonged to someone who hadn't planned to live alone for so long.
Julian walked in like he was afraid to disturb anything.
"You live like a writer," he said, brushing his fingers across a stack of pages by the window.
"I used to be," Ava replied. "Now I just fix other people's stories."
"You don't strike me as someone who needs fixing."
"I don't?" She smirked. "That's a first."
He turned to her then, slowly, deliberately. "No," he said, softer. "You strike me as someone who's still writing hers."
The silence between them stretched again—but this time, it was heavy with something unspoken. Need. Fear. Heat.
Ava stepped closer. "Why did you really call me tonight?"
He met her eyes. "Because I was scared. And you were the only person who made me feel like I wasn't alone."
She reached out, fingers grazing the side of his face. His skin was cold from the rain, rough with stubble. "You're not alone."
Their lips met—gently at first, like they weren't sure if the moment would hold. But it did. And then it deepened.
Hands in hair. Breath against skin. Months—years—of silence crashing into heat and want.
Later, as they lay tangled on the couch beneath a throw blanket, the soft rise and fall of his chest against her back, Ava turned slightly.
"You have another scar," she said, fingers brushing his left shoulder.
Julian didn't move. "Knife. Istanbul. Wrong place, wrong time."
"Your life before this city… it was dangerous, wasn't it?"
He didn't answer. And somehow, that was answer enough.
"But you're not that man anymore," she whispered.
"I'm trying not to be."
She curled closer. "Then stay. We'll figure it out."
Julian exhaled, and for the first time, let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he didn't have to keep running.
But across town, in the back of a parked black sedan, a man lit a cigarette with gloved hands.
He scrolled through photos on a burner phone—one of them taken just hours ago. Julian. At the café. With Ava.
He smiled.
"Found you," he murmured.