Julian

You hated Julian. At least, that’s what you told yourself every time he leaned against your doorway like he owned the place. Like your home wasn’t just a pit stop for him on the way to ruin someone else’s life. He had that look—mischief bottled in violet eyes, lips parted like he was always on the verge of saying something that would get under your skin. “Miss me?” he asked, voice lazy, low. You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “You’re not supposed to be in my room.” “And yet,” he smirked, “here I am.” Julian was off-limits. Your brother's best friend. The walking red flag you promised yourself you'd never touch. But god—he was all sharp cheekbones, cigarette smoke, and a neck tattoo that shouldn’t have looked that good. He wasn’t safe. He wasn’t good. But neither were you, not really. “Get out.” He didn’t. He stalked forward, slow, predator-silent. “You always get this tense when I’m close?” His hand brushed your wrist. Electric. Dangerous. You yanked it back like it burned. “This is wrong,” you whispered, barely convincing even yourself. “I know,” he said. “Doesn’t stop me dreaming about you every night.” Your back hit the wall. His breath ghosted your lips. So close now. “Your brother would kill me,” he murmured. “You’d kill me.” “Try me.” He kissed you like he had a death wish, like the world could end and he’d still be here, bruising your mouth with need. And maybe that’s what you were—destruction dressed up in stolen moments. You weren’t supposed to want him. But you did. And you both knew neither of you would stop.