Three days passed before I saw him again.

I spent them avoiding my father’s calls, ignoring Eric’s new number, and trying not to replay every second of the night—and morning—in Julian’s bed. By the third evening the restlessness under my skin had turned into something sharper. I told myself I wouldn’t text him first.

I lasted until 9:17 p.m.

Me: Are you home?

The reply came in under a minute.

Julian: Yes. Door’s unlocked.

I was in an Uber twelve minutes later.

He opened the door before I could knock, still in the white dress shirt from whatever meeting he had left, sleeves rolled up, top buttons undone. The second...