Catherine’s POV
I stormed into the house, barely kicking off my heels before heading straight for Julian’s room. All I could think about was finding him and giving him a piece of my mind. That jerk actually left me at the party.
The lights in his room were dim, his bed was untouched, and the sheets were too neat for someone who’d supposedly come home.
He wasn’t around, and I almost turned to leave when I noticed the faint glow beyond the glass doors. He was on the balcony.
From the angle I saw him from, I could only see his side profile. He was shirtless, leaning against the rail, cigarette burning between his fingers, with earphones in his ears.
I was about to yell at him when something stopped me. He turned his back fully to me and that’s when I saw so many long, thin lines of scars. Some deep, some faint. It looked like someone had taken a blade to him, again and again, over the years.
The anger drained out of me, replaced by a chill that crawled up my spine.
Before I could even think, I moved closer. He still didn’t hear me approach. My hand lifted on its own, trembling slightly as I reached out and traced one of the marks with my fingers.
He flinched and in a blur, he spun around and grabbed my wrist, pinning it midair. His grip was too tight and his eyes were dark, sharp, and wild.
"Julian, wait... It’s me," I whispered.
He blinked, breathing hard. When realization hit him, his grip loosened, and he stepped back. The cigarette fell from his hand, burning out on the concrete.
"What the hell are you doing?" he muttered in a low, rough voice, laced with irritation.
"I should ask you that," I shot back, but it came out softer than I meant. "Why do you have those scars?"
His jaw tightened. "What scars?" He denied, walking in and grabbing a shirt.
I rushed after him and stopped him when he tried to put it on. "Julian—"
"Mind your business." His tone cut through me like ice. He immediately wore the shirt and turned away, reaching for his lighter like I hadn’t just seen what I saw.
I crossed my arms, standing my ground. "You can’t expect me to ignore that. What happened to you?"
He lit another cigarette and took a drag, keeping his eyes on the veranda. "How did you get back home?"
He tried changing the topic but I wasn’t letting him off so easily. "That’s not an answer."
He exhaled smoke slowly, then said flatly, "I have no idea what you are talking about."
"You think I’m a fool or something?"
He laughed quietly, a humorless sound. "I think you are being too nosy."
"I understand pain when I see it," I snapped. "And I understand you didn’t just get those from falling off a bike."
He turned, his eyes locking on mine. "You should go to bed, Catherine. Maybe it’s the alcohol from the party that’s getting to your head."
"I didn’t drink any alcohol."
For a long moment, neither of us said anything. His gaze softened just slightly, but his walls didn’t drop. They never did.
"Go to bed, Catherine," he said finally. "You shouldn’t be in my room."
He gave me that sideways smirk of his, the one that always made it hard to tell if he was amused or just hiding something. "Same difference."
I rolled my eyes and turned to leave, but before I could take a step, something stopped me.
"Julian," I said softly.
He didn’t turn. "Thought you were leaving?"
"I am sorry, but I can’t."
He exhaled sharply. "Don’t be stubborn."
"Maybe. Or maybe I just care."
That made him turn. His eyes caught mine, sharp and guarded. "Don’t," he said flatly.
"Don’t what?"
"Don’t act like you care."
I took a step closer. "Act? Does it bother you so much that someone gives a damn?"
He clenched his jaw and turned his face away again. I noticed the faint tremor in his hand. He looked like he was fighting something.
"Julian," I whispered, "you can talk to me. You don’t have to hold it in."
He laughed under his breath, bitterly. "Holding what in? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"I can see the built-up pain."
"Stop," he said again, more firmly but I didn’t. I took another step and gently reached out, my fingers almost reaching for his shirt. That’s when he snapped.
He spun around so fast that I barely had time to breathe. His hands shot out and grabbed me by the elbows, slamming me against the wall behind us.
"What the hell do you want?" he growled. His face was inches from mine, his breath warm, and his eyes burning wild.
I froze, my heart hammering so hard it hurt. His grip was very tight. "Julian, you’re hurting me," I whispered.
He didn’t let go. His nostrils flared, his jaw clenched, and for a terrifying second, I thought he wouldn’t.
"I don’t need your pity, Catherine," he said with a low, shaky voice. "Don’t look at me like I’m some wounded animal you can fix. I don’t need your sympathy."
Tears stung my eyes. "I’m not trying to fix you," I whispered. "I just want to help."
"Help?" he snapped, his voice breaking. "You can’t help me! You don’t even know me!"
His grip tightened again, and I winced, biting back a sob. "Julian—please—"
My voice cracked, and that’s when something in his expression shifted. His eyes widened slightly as if realizing what he was doing. He let go suddenly, stumbling a step back.
For a few seconds, all I could hear was my own shaky breathing. My elbows ached where his fingers had dug into my skin.
Julian dragged a hand down his face, his voice was rough when he spoke. "Get out."
"Julian—"
"I said get out!" he shouted, louder this time. I flinched. He turned away immediately, his fists clenching at his sides.
My throat burned as I swallowed back tears. I wanted to say something but nothing came, so I just nodded, quietly stepped away, and walked toward the door.