Page 78 of Beautiful When He Breaks

That part hits me fresh now, lying over him in the low morning light.

I told him. I actually said it out loud. To his face. Then I doubled down and admitted the rest of it in pieces because apparently once I stop lying, I really fucking stop.

I never thought about it in those exact words before last night, and that’s true. I never sat down and consciously said, ‘Yes, I am in love with Julian West.’ But I obviously already knew. Some part of me had known for a while now, and maybe some deeper part had known for much longer than that.

I look back now, and there are too many signs. Too many moments that only make sense if I stop pretending my feelings for him were ever simple. The way losing him felt akin to grief, and how getting him back felt like breathing again. My body never really learned how to treat him like ordinary space, and the idea of him with someone else always made something dark and unreasonable move in me that I never understood.

I suppose I knew. I just didn’t let myself say it until I had no room left to hide from it.

Julian’s looking at me carefully, as if he’s giving me room to wake up all the way and decide whether I’m going to bolt now that the kiss is over and we’re both conscious enough to understand what happened. There’s something cautious in his face beneath all the warmth. Not guarded exactly. More like he wants this enough to be afraid of pushing one inch too hard and watching it break.

His thumb moves once against my back, a tiny stroke that feels more intimate than it should.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

I huff out a small laugh. “That’s funny coming from you.”

His mouth shifts slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

I let my eyes drift over his face one more time before I answer, because apparently, I get to do that now. “Yeah,” I say. “Actually, yeah.”

The caution in him eases by a degree. Not all the way. Just enough that I see it. But then my attention is caught by one word.

Liefling.

He called me that again after our kiss. He’s said it to me a thousand times over the years, or at least enough that it became part of the fabric of us before I ever thought to question it. It always sounded soft in his mouth, roughened by sleep or laughter or irritation depending on the moment, and I’ve just let it live there without ever properly asking what it meant.

I blink at him. “What does Liefling mean?”

To my absolute delight, Julian West actually blushes. It’s a warmth rising over his cheekbones and down the side of his neck that I probably only catch because I’m inches from his face and looking at him with the kind of attention that feels almost indecent.

“No way,” I murmur. “Did I actually manage to make you blush?”

His eyes narrow slightly, but there’s no real heat in them. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I absolutely am.” I smile before I can stop myself. “So, what does it mean?”

He lets out one slow breath and glances away for half a second like he’s considering whether he can dodge. Then he looks back at me and says, very calmly, “It means sweetheart.”

My first reaction is not even embarrassment—it’s shock. Pure, unfiltered, how-the-fuck-did-I-not-know-that-sooner shock. I stare at him while the meaning settles into all the places it should’ve settled years ago. Jules calling me Liefling in high school after football games. Julian muttering it under his breath when I was stressed over exams. The soft way he used it in the driveway after my parents. The way it always felt heavier than just a casual nickname, and I still somehow never forced myself to examine it because maybe, deep down, I knew I wouldn’t survive the answer cleanly.

“Sweetheart,” I repeat blankly.

Julian gives me the smallest, most helpless little half shrug. “Yeah.”

“You’ve been calling me that since high school.”

He squirms under me. “Yeah.”

“And I’m only finding this out now?”

He lifts one brow. “I honestly assumed you knew it meant something sappy.”

I actually laugh, because what else am I supposed to do with that? “Julian, I thought it was just… I don’t know. A thing you said.”

“It was a thing I said,” he replies dryly. “In another language. One you never bothered to ask me about until now.”

I stare at him for another second, then drop my forehead lightly to his shoulder because the full weight of my own stupidity finally catches up with me.