The smell of coffee drifted through the apartment, rich and earthy. It mixed with the soft hum of morning traffic outside Ava's window and the low chatter from the news playing in the background.
She sat at her kitchen counter in her robe, hair loosely tied, one leg tucked under her as she stirred milk into her mug. Her thoughts weren't on the day ahead, or the string of back-to-back meetings on her calendar.
They were on Damien Blackwood.
The way he'd looked at her. The space between them that felt too heavy with something she didn't want to name. The way he said her name like he owned it, like he still tasted it from years ago.
A knock at the door broke through the fog of her thoughts.
She pulled it open to find Julian standing there, holding a cardboard tray with two lattes and a brown paper bag that smelled suspiciously like croissants.
"Do I look that terrible?" she asked, arching a brow.
Julian grinned. "No. But you sounded like you had a war hangover."
"I don't remember texting you."
"You didn't. You never do. I just know."
He brushed past her, placing the tray on the counter like he'd done a hundred times before. Ava closed the door behind him, watching as he settled in without asking.
Because that was Julian Rhodes.
The man who never needed an invitation, because he'd always been there.
They ate in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind that came from shared years, not shared words.
Julian took a long sip of coffee before setting it down and leaning back in the chair.
"Let me guess. Last night with Damien went worse than expected."
She glanced at him. "You think I expected anything else?"
He tilted his head. "I think part of you hoped he'd say sorry."
Ava's expression hardened. "Then you don't know me as well as you think."
He said nothing at first. Just looked at her in that way he had—seeing more than she wanted to show.
Then: "Do you remember what I said to you at your dad's funeral?"
Ava flinched, caught off guard by the memory. The ache of it was sharp and sudden.
"You said, 'You're not alone.'"
Julian nodded. "And I meant it."
Julian Rhodes had known Ava since they were both sixteen. His mother had been Jonathan Sinclair's personal assistant for nearly a decade, and Julian spent his teenage years running errands at Sinclair Corp., helping the office staff, shadowing Ava's father.
That's how he and Ava met.
They were never quite alike—he was sarcastic and quick with a joke; she was focused and fierce, even back then. But they clicked, especially during the year her mother got sick. Julian was the one who kept her laughing through hospital waiting rooms and late-night study sessions.
His mother passed away the year after Ava's father's company collapsed. Julian dropped out of college to take care of his younger sister and worked nights while trying to build a career in media consulting. Now, at 28, he ran a boutique PR firm and consulted for rising brands—including Easton Media.
That was how he and Ava found their way back into each other's lives—professionally at first. And then it started to blur.
But Ava didn't see it.
Or maybe she didn't want to.
"You don't talk about him much," Ava said suddenly. "Your dad."
Julian looked away, his smile fading. "There's not much to talk about. He left before I was ten."
"I'm sorry."
He shrugged. "You learn how to grow up faster without someone pretending to guide you."
Ava stared into her coffee. "We're all pretending."
There was a silence between them—heavier this time.
Then Julian said quietly, "You've changed, Ava. You walk into rooms like you expect to be challenged. Like you've already prepared your counterattack."
"Maybe I have."
He leaned forward, voice low. "But who challenges you when no one's watching?"
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, something passed between them—soft, unspoken, complicated.
Then her phone buzzed, shattering the moment.
A text from Marla:
"Meeting moved to 2 PM. Blackwood in attendance."
Ava's stomach turned.
Julian saw the screen and frowned. "He's really pushing into everything, isn't he?"
She didn't answer.
Because she wasn't sure what bothered her more—Damien's presence… or the fact that she couldn't stop thinking about him.
After Julian left, Ava found herself staring at a box tucked in the corner of her closet. One she hadn't opened in years.
Inside were old photos—her mother's smile, her father in a crisp suit, Ava as a little girl at a company picnic. There was one photo in particular she couldn't let go of.
Her father shaking hands with Damien Blackwood.
It was from a business gala nearly a decade ago. Her father had been beaming.
Damien had been calm. Focused. Almost bored.
She remembered that night. She'd been seventeen. It was the first night she noticed Damien looking at her like she was no longer just a child.
That was the first time she felt the thrill of being seen.
Now it felt like poison.
But the image stayed with her—the beginning of something neither of them could name back then.
And maybe not even now.