He laughs, low and rich. "You're the beautiful one."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Stop."
"Never." His foot brushes mine under the table.
My breath catches.
"So boxing," I say quickly. "How'd that happen?"
"Survival." He leans back. "I grew up in a rough neighborhood. Hung with a rough crowd for a while, but I never quite fit. Too soft. Too into music. Got my ass kicked for playing piano instead of breaking into cars."
"Assholes."
"Yeah." His smile turns wry, that dimple appearing in his cheek again. "My mom was terrified I'd end up dead in an alley somewhere. So she scraped together money she didn't have and put me in this boxing gym downtown. Old school place—punching bags held together with duct tape, blood stains on the canvas." He pauses, lost in the memory. "Best thing she ever did for me. Taught me how to stand up for myself, how to channel everything I was feeling into something productive."
I imagine teenage Julian—lean, quiet, learning to throw punches between piano lessons. The contradiction of it thrills me.
"Do you still box?"
"Couple times a week," he says, his fingers drumming lightly against his wine glass. "Usually early mornings before gigs, or late at night when I can't sleep. There's a gym not far from my place—nothing fancy, but it does the job. Keeps me centered, you know?"
"I'd like to see that."
His eyes darken. "Would you."
The air between us crackles.
"Julian." My voice drops. "Are we moving too fast?"
He sets down his fork, reaches across the table. His hand wraps around mine—warm, strong.
"I've been waiting my whole life for you, Liza." His thumb strokes my knuckles. "This doesn't feel fast. It feels right."
My heart stumbles.
I take a shaky breath, suddenly feeling exposed under the weight of his gaze. "I've never had this before," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. I pause, trying to find the right words for what I'm feeling. "No one's ever really looked at me the way you do, Julian. Not like this."
"How do I look at you?"
"Like I'm something precious."
His grip tightens. "You are."
The brownstone's quiet hum wraps around us as Julian leads me to the piano. His hand hasn't left the small of my back since we walked through the door.
"Play something for me,” I ask.
He settles onto the bench, fingers hovering over ivory keys. "Any requests?"
"Something you've never played for anyone else."
His gaze locks on mine—intense, vulnerable. Then his hands descend.
The melody unfolds like a story. Haunting. Achingly beautiful. Minor chords bleed into major, creating something between melancholy and hope. Each note reverberates through my chest.
I can't breathe.
"What is it?" I whisper.
