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Ever since moving to America and clearing his name, Julian has gotten his life back together.
Sure, it wasn’t *perfect* there, but he was happy.
He lived in a run-down apartment "basement" for a month and a half, providing for two stray dogs half-way through the month.
When some company that he didn’t catch the name of decided to renovate the apartment complex, they politely threw him and his mattress and small suitcase of clothes out of the door.
It was fine. He didn’t expect things to stay the same. Nothing did.
He was jumping jobs, finding places to sleep on the streets and narrowly avoiding most conflicts with other people that wanted to give him drugs for money.
He finally found a decent-paying job at a café. Not enough to pay the rent anywhere, obviously, but enough to provide actual food for his dogs, and then himself (sometimes).
He was perfectly content. For the most part, that is.
When he was washing a countertop at the café, the door chimed. Julian looked up, expecting to find a decent-looking woman that immediately tried to jump his pants. Instead, he met eyes with a black-haired man with broad shoulders and brown eyes.
Unlike the women that came in and decided that they were going to give it their all to make him like them, the guy was polite. He held himself up with firm arms, a grumpy-looking expression—Julian wasn’t much better—and a calm attitude.
Julian came to remember the guy, Simon’s order. He even got a little sad when Simon didn’t arrive daily, which was a little strange, until he realized that he was in love.
For any other person, love is a beatiful thing, but for Julian, he did not want to fall in love.
He was a wreck in relationships. He cared too much, didn’t want to give touch, forgot to check his phone, the list goes on.
Simon was beautiful. His head tipped back when Julian made a joke. His eyes half-lidded when he was tired. Julian wanted to lay awake at night and watch him sleep, smooth out that wrinkle near his eyelids.
It was dangerous.
He wanted it.