The car that had been shadowing them peeled away at the next intersection, finally swallowed by the traffic. For a few steps, they walked in silence, only the echo of their sneakers against the pavement filling the space between them. Noah's jaw was tight, shoulders tense, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he wanted to bury them.
Julian wanted to ask. He wanted to press, to tell him you don't have to carry that alone. But the way Noah's fingers kept twitching, flexing restlessly inside the fabric, told him not to. Not yet.
Then Noah suddenly cut in, voice rough:
"Let's grab something to eat first."
Julian blinked at the abruptness. "Now?"
"Yeah." Noah's gaze didn't meet his. His green eyes darted over the neon signs on the street instead. "I… I can't—just—let's sit somewhere, alright?" His voice cracked in the middle, and he covered it with a low cough, shoving his curls back with a sharp hand.
Julian caught it, though. He caught everything.
His instinct was to ask again, but then he noticed Noah's fingers. They were fidgeting, restless, drumming against the fabric of his jacket pocket like they had nowhere else to go.
Julian softened. "Alright." He nodded. "Food first."
They ducked into a small, late-night Mexican restaurant, the kind with warm orange lighting and walls covered in photos of smiling families. The air was heavy with the scent of cilantro and sizzling meat, laughter drifting from a table of college kids in the corner.
Julian watched Noah's head turn slowly, scanning the room like a predator in unfamiliar territory. His shoulders stiffened under the weight of eyes that weren't even looking at him.
Julian's chest ached.
"Here," he said quietly, guiding Noah toward a corner booth tucked away at the back. It was secluded, almost shielded from view by a partition wall and a row of potted plants. Noah slid into the seat like he was grateful for the cover, exhaling hard through his nose as if he'd been holding his breath the whole walk.
Julian sat across from him. The menu sat untouched between them.
Noah's hands moved first—raking through his curls, gripping the back of his neck, then finally dropping to cover his face. His elbows pressed into the table as he buried himself there.
Julian's heart stuttered.
For the first time since they'd met, Noah Blake looked… small.
Julian leaned forward carefully, resting his forearms on the table. He kept his voice soft, steady.
"You okay?"
It was a stupid question. Of course he wasn't okay. But sometimes people needed the invitation more than the answer.
Noah didn't respond at first. His shoulders rose and fell with every harsh breath. His fingers curled tighter into his hair, as if he could hold himself together by sheer force.
Julian waited. He didn't rush. His gaze traced the trembling edge of Noah's knuckles, the way his jaw shifted beneath the cover of his palms.
Finally, Noah's muffled voice broke through.
"I can't stand it."
Julian's chest tightened. "Can't stand what?"
"Them." The word cracked like ice. He dropped his hands just enough to glare at the tabletop. His lips trembled even as he tried to force them steady. "My grandparents. Their rules. Their money. Their—" His voice faltered. His throat worked like the words themselves were knives. "They don't let me breathe, Jules."
The nickname—spoken raw, unguarded this time—twisted something deep in Julian's stomach.
Noah's hands shook as he raked them down his face, dragging at the skin like he could erase himself. His voice broke in stutters.
"You know what they told me last week? That if I keep 'acting out' they'll cut me off. Like—like I'm not even a person, just some investment they're sick of babysitting." He let out a bitter laugh that cracked halfway. "They want me to be their perfect little puppet. Straight, polished, obedient."
Julian's throat went dry.
Noah's lip quivered as he pushed on, words spilling faster, like a dam finally cracking.
"They hire people to follow me, Jules. Bodyguards, drivers—hell, spies. Did you see him? That guy in the car? He's been tailing me since I was fourteen. They call it protection. I call it a fucking leash."
His fists clenched against the table, knuckles white, but his whole frame trembled. He exhaled a shaky breath, blinking too fast. "I hate them. I hate that house. I hate—" His voice cut, sharp and painful. "I hate that I'm too fucking scared to leave."
The last words broke him. His lips pressed tight, trembling, and his fingers curled into the wood as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Julian couldn't look away.
For a long moment, there was only the hum of the restaurant around them—the sizzling from the kitchen, a burst of laughter from across the room, the faint scrape of silverware.
And then it happened.
A single tear slipped down Noah's cheek, carving a path through his flushed skin before dripping onto the table. His fingers twitched, and he tried to swipe it away, but more followed, sliding fast and unrelenting.
Noah's breath hitched, sharp, ragged. He ducked his head, hiding his face behind his palms again, as if shame could swallow him whole.
Julian's stomach dropped.
Seeing Noah Blake—cocky, reckless, infuriating Noah—fall apart like this was unbearable. It felt like the world was wrong, cracked, unfair.
And worse, Julian realized, it broke something in him.
"Hey—" Julian's voice cracked, too urgent, too raw. He shoved his chair back so fast it screeched against the floor. Heads turned briefly, but he didn't care. He didn't even think.
He was on his feet in a second, rounding the table.
Noah flinched when he felt the sudden warmth beside him, but before he could protest, Julian's arms wrapped tight around him.
No hesitation. No asking. Just holding.
Julian pressed his face into Noah's curls, one hand braced firm against the back of his neck, the other circling his shoulders.
And Noah—Noah broke.