His heart beats faster just replaying that moment. He had been ready to say it too — to finally give her the words that had been sitting on the edge of his heart for far too long. Even now, a soft smile tugs at the corners of his lips despite the formal setting.
Right beside him, Lena is diligently scribbling notes in her small leather notebook, her handwriting neat and fast. On the surface, she looks as composed as ever, but beneath that, irritation stirs quietly. She's been replaying that moment too — Grace stepping out of Julian's office, the glance they shared, the subtle electricity between them. It wasn't lost on her. Not in the least.
Out of the corner of her eye, Lena glances at Julian, studying the faint grin playing on his lips. There's a softness in his features that she hasn't seen in a long time. He's not smiling at the presentation. He's somewhere else entirely.
Someone else entirely.
The two hours crawl by, the weight of unspoken things thick in the air.
Finally, the meeting draws to a close. Papers rustle, chairs scrape the floor, polite murmurs rise as faculty members begin filing out. Julian stands, stretching slightly, rolling his shoulders. His deep gaze is still distant, lost in thoughts not related to international conferences, design collaborations, or curriculum schedules.
I should call her, he thinks. Right now.
But just as he turns toward the aisle to leave, a voice breaks through the low hum of departing conversations.
"Julian," Lena calls after him, a little too quickly, a little too sharp.
He stops mid-step, turning his head.
"Oh… Lena."
For a brief second, he feels guilty — not for anything he's done, but for forgetting she was sitting next to him the entire meeting.
She steps toward him.
"Do you have a minute?" Her voice is calm, controlled, but with a thread of urgency woven into it. "Can we talk?"
Julian hesitates. His thumb almost twitches toward his phone. Grace's number is already queued up in his mind, the sound of her voice so fresh it's as if she's right there beside him again.
"Can we talk later?" he asks gently, careful not to sound dismissive, though his heart is already leaning toward the conversation he wants to have — with Grace.
But Lena presses.
"It's something I really want to ask. Now, if possible. Are you busy?"
There's something in her voice that makes it difficult to refuse outright — something unresolved, something insistent.
Julian breathes out softly through his nose, steadying his mind.
A little while, he thinks. Just a little.
"All right," he replies finally, nodding once. His voice is kind, but distant.
Even though he's standing in front of Lena, his heart is somewhere else entirely.
The two of them sit in one of the quietest corners of the faculty lounge, surrounded by the soft hum of distant conversation and the occasional clinking of teacups from nearby. The large windows let in the fading light of the afternoon, casting gentle golden streaks across the polished wooden floor.
Julian sits comfortably, one arm resting on the arm of the chair, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp with focus. A small, polite grin plays on his lips, not mocking, not dismissive — just a calm signal that he's prepared to hear whatever Lena has to say.
Lena, on the other hand, is far from composed. She keeps fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric. There's tension on her brow, and despite her practiced poise, it's clear she's weighing every word before she speaks.
"I've just…" she starts, her voice slightly tight, "I've just been curious, you know. Especially after that whole… incident. The photo of you two at the hotel going around, and… I don't believe it's what people are making it out to be. I don't. But…"
She bites her lip for a second before continuing.
"So… do you two… like… date?"
Julian pauses. He doesn't look away from her; he doesn't squirm or hesitate in discomfort. He just gives himself a second to breathe before answering.
"No," he says evenly. "We're not dating."
Lena nods quickly, almost too quickly, her head bouncing slightly as if that answer brings her some relief. But there's something else behind her eyes — something sharper, unfinished.
"All right," she says softly, almost like she's reassuring herself. "Then… is it… one-sided? Like… is it just her?"
Again, Julian takes his time. And when he speaks, his voice is steady — not defensive, not dramatic — just calm and honest.
"No. It's not one-sided."
Lena's lips part slightly as her breath catches.
"What?" Her voice is a whisper, not of disbelief but of realization.
And then it happens — the words that break the fragile tension completely.
"There's no reason I need to explain this," Julian says, gently but firmly, "but since you asked — yes. I like her. I like Grace."
The confession is not laced with apology or hesitation. It's the truth, offered plainly, like the steady stream of a river, unconcerned whether it shocks the one listening.
For a moment, Lena just stares at him, blinking. Her expression shifts — confusion giving way to disbelief, then something bordering on betrayal. It's as if something she had quietly hoped for is slipping through her fingers.
"But… you do realize she's your student?" she finally manages, her voice thinner now, pressed against the tightness in her throat.
Julian exhales softly, like someone accepting a burden they've already carried for a long time.
"Yes. I know."
"And that doesn't change anything for you?"
Lena presses, leaning forward slightly, her fingers curling into her palm.
Julian looks at her, his deep eyes steady, unwavering.
"No. It doesn't change how I feel about her. I've thought about this more than you probably realize, Lena. I'm not confused. And I'm not pretending it's simple. But I've stopped denying it to myself."
The honesty of his words feels like a door closing. Clean. Final.
Lena leans back slightly, folding her arms across her chest, defensive now, scrambling to pull reason around her like armor.
"Julian… you can't date her. Do you know what kind of mess that's going to create? People are already assuming things with that stupid photo. If you actually start seeing her, it'll just… confirm everything they think. Even if you explain it, no one's going to believe you. Not really. And it's not just your reputation on the line. It's hers too. You could ruin her."
Her voice cracks slightly on that last part, frustration curling at the edge.
Julian stays silent for a moment. Deep down, everything she's saying… he's already considered. The rumors, the twisted narratives people will spin, the way perception devours truth like wildfire devours dry grass. The thought of Grace being dragged through makes something heavy settle in his chest.
He hates that Lena is right — not because she's trying to hurt him, but because reality itself seems determined to throw every obstacle between him and the one thing that feels real.
"I know," he finally says, his voice quieter. "I know exactly what it looks like. And I know what it could cost."
Lena's expression softens just slightly, thinking she's finally getting through to him.
But Julian lifts his gaze again, and what she sees there makes her heart drop. Because despite the weight, despite the hesitation, there's something in his eyes that's unshakable.
"But knowing that doesn't change how I feel," he says simply. "And I don't intend to pretend otherwise anymore."
Lena stares at him, both stunned and strangely hurt, though she can't quite say why. Somewhere deep down, she knows this conversation was never going to change his mind. And yet she'd hoped — foolishly, maybe selfishly — that it might.
"Julian…" she says, her voice softer now. "This is not going to be easy."
"I'm not looking for easy," Julian replies gently. "I'm just… looking for what's real."
That night, under the soft wash of moonlight, Julian is running by the river.
The world is quiet except for the rhythmic pounding of his shoes against the worn trail, the low hum of the city in the far-off distance, and the steady rush of the dark water beside him. The cool breeze cuts against his face, his breath sharp in his throat, his windbreaker fluttering lightly with each stride.
But no matter how fast he runs, the ache in his chest doesn't ease.
He knows Grace is probably waiting for his call.
He can almost see her in his mind — maybe sitting by her window, maybe curled up with her phone in hand, wondering why he hasn't said anything yet, wondering if she made a mistake confessing her feelings. And that thought alone twists inside him like a blade.
He wants to call her. He wants to tell her that he feels the same — that the moment she walked out of his office earlier that day, something inside him shifted permanently.
But with every step, fear keeps pace beside him like a shadow.
What if this only brings her pain? What if standing by her side means dragging her through the worst of people's suspicions, their ridicule, their small, malicious words whispered in the hallways or splashed recklessly online?
He presses his hand against his chest, feeling the weight of both his racing heart and the suffocating responsibility crashing into each other.
Please, Lord... please...What should I do?
His silent prayer falls between breaths, carried into the cool night air like smoke dissolving into the wind.
He keeps running. Faster. Harder. As if outrunning the decision itself.
Then—
A buzz against his wrist.
His Apple Watch lights up. The soft, familiar vibration feels louder than the pounding of his feet. He slows just enough to glance at the screen.
A message from Grace.