Page 1 of Beautiful When He Breaks

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Julian

It’s strange how quickly a house full of people can feel lonely.

I’m standing at the edge of the living room, half a bottle of Coke in my hand, watching everyone pile onto Damien like he’s just been crowned king of New York. Which, I guess, he kind of has.

Damien Moore—Thunderhawks captain, reformed playboy, our friend—is the first of us heading for the pros. The whole house is alive with that electricity, the sense that something momentous has shifted and nothing will ever be the same.

Damien’s laughing so hard he’s almost doubled over, and Roman and Luca are trying to dump a shaker of confetti over his head while Ryan films the whole thing for Instagram. Liam’s in the kitchen, flipping burgers on the electric grill and pretending he doesn’t care, but he’s got that small smile—the one that means he’s proud even if he’d rather die than say it.

I should feel more involved in this, I guess. This is family—the found kind you build brick by brick when the world offers you nothing but broken glass. But lately, I don’t know where I fit, and it’s not even because of my shattered friendship with Eli.

I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror, the bruise on my neck fading from violent purple to a sickly yellow-green color. It sits just above my collarbone, half-hidden by the collar of my T-shirt, easy to miss unless you know where to look.

I angle my chin, making sure it’s subtle enough to pass as something else. A hard practice. An accident in the weight room. I’ve gotten good at explanations no one actually asks for.

The music swells behind me, Ryan whooping as Damien ducks another handful of confetti. The smell of charred burgers and beer mixes with a sharp spark of excitement that comes when one of your own makes it out. It should feel uncomplicated.

Instead, there’s this thin film under my skin, this constant awareness of how quickly joy can flip. I tug my shirt higher, fingers brushing the fading mark. It’s almost gone. Almost like it never happened.

“Jules!” Roman calls from the living room. “You hiding back there or what?”

“Coming,” I answer, forcing brightness into my voice.

I step back into the noise, into the bright mess of it. Damien’s got Luca in a headlock now, both grinning like idiots while Killian leans against the wall, arms folded, watching the chaos with that satisfied, territorial look he gets when his people are happy. This house. These idiots. He’d burn down the world for them. We all would.

That’s the part that makes my chest tight. Because this—this loud, stupid, loyal love—is the only thing that feels steady. Everything else feels… conditional.

I drift toward the kitchen, popping the cap off my Coke with my thumb, pretending I just needed a refill. Liam glances at me as I lean against the counter.

“You good?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking once to my neck before snapping back up.

I nod too fast. “Yeah. Why?”

He shrugs, flipping a burger. “You’ve been quieter than usual.”

“I’ve had stuff,” I say lightly. “Midterms. Extra lifts. You know.”

He studies me for a second longer than I’d prefer, then lets it go. “Right.”

Stuff.

That’s what I call it in my head, too. Stuff. Not the late-night texts that aren’t really requests. Not the way my phone buzzes and makes my stomach drop before I even look at the screen. Not the tone that goes sharp and cutting if I don’t answer fast enough. Just… stuff.

Back in the living room, Damien catches my eye and raises his bottle in a silent toast. I lift mine in return. He looks different lately—lighter somehow. Noah did that. Love did that… The right kind of love.

I wonder what that must feel like.

Sometimes I think about telling them about what’s going on with me. About saying, “Hey, I might’ve made a mistake.” About admitting that what started as a secret thrill turned into something I don’t know how to step out of. But then I picture the fallout. The way Killian would go still and dangerous, how Luca’s hands would curl into fists, and how Eli would look at me—hurt and furious all at once.

I don’t want to be the problem, so I keep it to myself.

As if he knew I was thinking about him, I catch Eli’s gaze from across the room. He’s laughing at something Ryan just said, head thrown back. But when he looks my way, the laughter dies, replaced by that awkward shadow that’s haunted us for months.

It’s been six months since Celeste ghosted him and everything between us fractured. I tried to talk to him, tried to bridge the gap, but Eli won’t let me in. It stings in ways I can’t explain to anyone, especially not him.

I want to fix it. God, I’d do anything to fix it. I miss my best friend. I hate myself for noticing every little thing about him that hasn’t changed—the way he rubs the back of his neck when he’s uncomfortable or how his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.