Suddenly, every moment between them replays in sharper focus—the accidental touches, the glances that lingered too long, the silences that felt charged with something unspoken. The way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't watching.
For a brief, dangerous second, Julian lets himself believe it.
But then he shakes his head, sharply.
"Don't be stupid," he mutters under his breath. "She probably just sees me as a professor. Maybe even… an uncomfortable one."
And yet, as the music continues and the city lights shimmer outside his window, he can't stop wondering.
What if she doesn't?
Sunday night comes quietly, almost without notice.
After a long day filled with church service and fellowship, Grace gets a moment to herself. The streets around campus are hushed, bathed in the amber glow of old-fashioned street lamps. She pulls the hood of her black jacket over her head, her footsteps light as she makes her way toward the campus bookstore.
It's the only branch that carries the book she's been wanting—the one she saw animated in that beautifully drawn series just a few days ago. She'd told herself she'd buy the novel version if she could find it, and now here she is, quietly slipping through the automatic doors into the warmth of the bookstore.
Grace walks with intention but not urgency. The soft murmur of pages turning and distant classical music surrounds her like a cocoon. Her fingers brush along the spines of various novels as she moves toward the fiction section. She scans the shelves carefully, eyes searching for the familiar cover. But her thoughts, inevitably, drift again.
Julian…
It's almost a habit now—his face appearing uninvited in her mind when she's not even thinking too hard.
She lets out a quiet breath and whispers, "Lord, I hope he went back home, all healed now…"
That's when something in the air shifts.
A faint awareness tingles at the back of her neck, and she instinctively glances up.
Across from her, a few feet away in the architecture section, stands a tall figure clad in a black windbreaker and slim black joggers. He's turned slightly away, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other brushing the edge of a hardback. The contours of his face, the shape of his shoulders, the way his brows gently furrow in concentration—
Professor Julian…?
Her heart skips. No—it thuds. Hard.
She doesn't move. Just watches. Frozen for a moment in uncertainty.
Should I walk away? Pretend I didn't see him?
She hesitates. Her eyes remain locked on him as he shifts a little to the right, pulling out a book, skimming its back cover. Still unaware. Still lost in thought.
And then—his head turns.
Their eyes meet.
For a second, everything stills. It's as if the low murmur of the bookstore vanishes, and the only thing that exists in this world is the space between their gazes.
Before she can stop herself, Grace hears her own voice.
"Hey, Professor."
Julian's face doesn't give anything away.
No warmth. No coldness. Just an unreadable stillness as he stares back at her for a few long seconds.
What is that look…?
Grace's breath catches slightly as she murmurs under her breath, "Why is he staring at me like that…"
The pause stretches awkwardly, and then he finally gives a faint nod, a small, tight smile tugging at his lips—more polite than genuine.
"Hello," he says simply. His voice is calm, almost too calm.
Grace shifts slightly, trying to read his mood. The casts are gone. That catches her attention first.
"So… you're out of the hospital," she says lightly, folding her arms in front of her chest in a small, almost subconscious shield.
"Yeah."
Short. Dry. Nothing in his tone invites a response.
Feeling the silence settling heavier than she can bear, she nods once, already regretting saying anything at all.
"All right. Have a great night," she says quickly, turning her eyes back down to the shelf of novels.
She forces herself to study the titles like they matter.
That was so weird… she thinks, biting the inside of her cheek.
Across the aisle, Julian watches her for a beat longer. Her gaze is no longer on him—she's intently reading the back cover of some fantasy novel now, as if he were never there. Feeling something unplaceable stir in his chest, Julian lowers his head slightly and turns away.
He walks slowly down the aisle, pretending to browse, but his attention keeps straying back. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches her slip past the registers and toward the front of the store.
When he looks up again, the spot she stood in is empty.
Gone.
His eyes scan the small store—and there she is. Her familiar silhouette stands quietly in line at the cashier, holding her book with both hands, her black hood slightly lowered.
And just like that, something strange—irrational—stirs inside him.
Courage, maybe. Or foolishness. Either way, it rises too fast to stop.
With no book in hand, Julian strides to the shelf where he'd left his original pick. He grabs it—almost without looking—and walks toward the register.
Each step feels weirdly intentional. Almost theatrical. He's not sure why he's doing it. There's no reason to. And yet—
He stops a few feet behind her in line.
No words. No sounds. Just the music playing faintly in the background and the soft shuffle of books being scanned.
She hasn't noticed yet.
And now, standing there behind her, Julian feels his heart begin to beat—not fast, but steady and present. More alive than it's been in a long time.
"Do you need a receipt?" the clerk asks.
Grace shakes her head.
"It's fine. Thanks."
She snatches the book back from the counter and walks briskly toward the exit.
Julian steps up to the cashier just after her, a quiet urgency pushing his movements.
"Do you need a receipt?" the clerk asks again.
Julian glances out toward the door, spotting Grace already making her way down the street, her steps light and almost like a dance—there's a buoyancy to her that hadn't been there before.
"No, it's fine. Thanks," he replies quickly, grabbing the book from the counter.
He hurries out the door after her, his strides quick but measured, careful not to seem too rushed.
Grace isn't far ahead, her figure framed by the streetlights, moving with a carefree rhythm that pulls at something inside him.
Without thinking, Julian begins to follow, every step betraying a strange mix of hesitation and resolve.
I'm like a stalker right now, he thinks, cheeks burning with self-consciousness. This is so stupid.
Just as he's about to turn away, to shake off the strange urge that's gripping him, a soft voice stops him in his tracks.
"Professor?"
The single word cuts through the night air, gentle but unmistakable.
Julian slowly turns back, meeting Grace's eyes just as she pivots toward him. The book she had accidentally dropped moments before rests on the ground, forgotten for now. She kneels to retrieve it, her expression flickering with a curious mix—part teasing, part something deeper and harder to read.
For a moment, the night air thickens between them. The late summer breeze stirs softly, carrying the faint scent of city asphalt and distant blossoms. The street is nearly empty, the quiet only amplifying the charged silence as they hold each other's gaze.
"Were you following me?" she asks, her lips curling into a playful smile.
Julian flushes, caught off guard by the light tease—though it isn't entirely without truth. He shifts his weight awkwardly.
"No, I was just heading to the convenience store," he says, nodding toward the lit storefront across the street. "But…" His voice trails as he meets her eyes.
Grace tilts her head, eyes sparkling with amusement, clearly enjoying the moment.
Suddenly, Julian blurts out, "Well, thanks for the book."
The words surprise even him, falling from his lips before he can stop them.
Grace smiles warmly, a genuine softness spreading across her features. Then, without hesitation, she steps forward. Her pace is steady, quick even, but to Julian, time seems to slow—the way her hair dances in the breeze, the subtle sway of her silhouette against the night.
He can't tear his eyes away; his heart pounds in his chest.
Stopping just before him, she looks up—his height making their eye contact feel almost intimate. His dark-rimmed glasses catch the streetlights, accentuating the depth in his gaze. Even his tousled hair seems more compelling under the city glow.
"You seem all right," she says, her smile a balm to his restless thoughts.
"Yeah, I'm all right," he replies with practiced nonchalance. "Well, have a safe trip home."
He turns away, stepping into the night.
Grace watches him cross the street toward the car parked near the bookstore. She sees him slide into the driver's seat, start the engine, and in a blink, he's gone—vanishing into the quiet pulse of the city night.
"You could have at least asked me for a ride…" she murmurs softly, then shakes her head, dismissing the thought as nonsense.