"Then what is it like?"
He runs his good hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. "I don't think about it that way. The money doesn't feel real to me. I grew up eating ramen three nights a week, watching my mom work herself to the bone. Then suddenly I've got this massive bank account because some man I barely remember decided to ease his guilt with a check. My mom was livid."
"Your mom was livid?"
"Furious. She said he owed us that money thirty years ago, when we actually needed it. When she was cleaning other people's houses and waitressing double shifts just to keep me fed." His voice roughens. "I tried to buy her a house. Small place, nothing crazy. She won't take a dime."
"Because it's his money."
"Yeah."
I lean back, studying him. The leather jacket, the silver rings, the brownstone—it all makes sense now. But also doesn't.
"He must've felt guilty," Julian says quietly, staring at his water glass. "For abandoning us. For leaving when I was a baby and never looking back. Not a birthday card, not a phone call. Nothing."
His voice stays level, controlled, but I catch the edge underneath it—the hurt he's buried so deep it's calcified into something harder.
"Then suddenly I'm twenty-five and some lawyer's calling me, telling me my father's dead and I'm inheriting millions. Like money could fix it. Like it could replace all those years he wasn't there."
I reach for his hand again, threading our fingers together. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He shakes his head. "I've made my peace with it. Mostly. I use the money for things that matter—my mom, evenif she won't accept it. My sister, when she needs it. My nephew's college fund. And yeah, taking my girlfriend to nice dinners."
"Your girlfriend, who's been worrying about your finances for weeks."
"My girlfriend, who shouldn't have to worry about anything." He squeezes my hand. "I didn't tell you because... I don't know. People get weird about money. They see you differently. Treat you differently."
I think about Daniel and his three rental buildings, how he'd flaunt his wealth while simultaneously making me feel small for not having enough. How he'd offer to buy me clothes but only if I'd stop thrifting, stop being myself.
Julian's never done that. Never made me feel less-than.
"I don't care about the money," I tell him truthfully. "I care that you've been carrying this alone. That you've been worried about me worrying."
"So we're both idiots."
"Apparently."
A smile tugs at his lips. "Order the crème brûlée."
"Fine." I pick up the menu again, feeling lighter somehow. "But only because you're forcing me."
"Such a hardship."
When the waiter appears, Julian orders two crème brûlées: the blueberry vanillaandthe chocolate raspberry; he knows I'll want to taste both.
As the waiter walks away, I study Julian across the candlelight—this beautiful, complicated man who hides a fortune but shares his heart so freely.
"Thank you," I say softly.
"For dessert?"
"For trusting me with this."
His expression softens, and he lifts my hand to his lips. "Always."
The cue ball spins smoothly down the table, knocking into a stripe and sending it swirling toward the pocket. Almost—almost, but not quite. I cluck my tongue in mock sympathy, leaning on my cue.
"You're getting better," I tell Jenna, trying to stifle a smirk.
