"Here is the oil pasta and salad set," the waitress says as she gently sets the plate down in front of Grace.
"Thank you," Grace replies, eyes briefly meeting the waitress's before shifting back to the food.
The waitress turns to Julian's side.
"And here's the seafood pasta and salad set."
"Thank you," Julian says, nodding politely.
"Have a wonderful time," the waitress adds with a warm smile before stepping away.
For several minutes, the two eat in companionable silence, the soft clink of forks and plates the only sound between them. Occasionally, Grace steals a glance at Julian, who watches her quietly, a subtle smile curving his lips.
Grace's pace is quick—she's genuinely hungry, and the rich oil pasta disappears almost too fast. Julian's own eating is slower, deliberate, savoring each bite as he observes her with a quiet amusement. His lips curl into a slight smile as he enjoys the sight of her eating so passionately.
"So," Grace begins, her voice breaking the silence as she slows her pace, "about fashion. I saw on your biography—you were a super famous fashion designer before becoming a professor. How did you get started?"
She's almost done with her plate, while Julian's remains half-full. He smirks a little at the contrast—she's slim but she certainly knows how to eat. The thought pulls a flicker of bittersweet memory from him.
That's like Hannah… he thinks quietly, a shadow of a smile crossing his face.
"Well," he says, voice softening with a hint of nostalgia, "I've always liked fashion."
"Like since you were born?" Grace asks, tilting her head with genuine curiosity.
Julian chuckles quietly, but the humor is tinged with something else—a weight of time. His mind flashes back to a distant memory, to the year 1890, the year of his birth. The smile that forms is faint, almost bitter, as the long stretch of his life presses gently against his heart.
Grace catches the subtle shift and quickly turns her gaze toward the window, watching the quiet street outside as if to give him space.
"Didn't you…" Grace murmurs, her voice trailing off as she squints out the window at the quiet street beyond.
Julian glances toward the window, his brow slightly furrowed.
"Why?"
She hesitates, then shakes her head, biting her lip.
"I mean, didn't you see…" She stops herself abruptly. "Never mind. I'm sorry."
After a pause, she shifts her gaze back to him, her voice softer now. "You know, you still seem more like that motorcycle man who saved me from the gangster than a professor, to be honest."
Julian smirks, amused but not offended.
"All right. If that's more comfortable for you," he says, his tone light but laced with something deeper.
He reaches for his cup of ice water, lifting it slowly to his lips. The cold water spirals down his throat, a sharp contrast to the warmth gathering in his chest.
"So can I just look at you like that? Not as a professor?" Grace asks, her voice soft but carrying a subtle challenge.
Julian slowly lowers the cup from his lips and fixes his gaze on her. She meets his eyes with an expression he can't quite read—half-smile, half-question—with a flicker of something intentional behind it, something daring.
For a few long seconds, they simply hold each other's eyes, the air between them charged, heavy with unspoken words.
Then Julian breaks the silence, his voice low but steady. "It's up to you, I guess."
Grace's lips curve into that same unreadable smile.
"Okay."
His heart skips a beat, then races—unsteady as it has been every time she's near. He can't put it into words, but deep inside, a small, insistent thought stirs.
Maybe he understands what she's really saying. If this tension isn't just his imagination, if it's not a one-sided feeling, then what she means—what she's truly hinting at—could be far more than the simple words they've exchanged.
Under the vast night sky, sprinkled with countless stars, Julian runs along the river park. His windbreaker flaps gently in the cool breeze, contrasting with the lightness of his running shorts and shoes. Each breath is heavy but determined, steady and strong. His feet strike the pavement in rhythm, pushing forward with a quiet intensity.
After a continuous stretch, he finally slows and comes to a stop. He lifts his gaze, catching the full moon hanging low and luminous above the water. Its pale light casts a serene glow across the rippling surface.
And then, her words echo in his mind, clear and teasing.
"So can I just look at you like that? Not as a professor?"
He chuckles softly, shaking his head at her boldness—Grace, always so daring, so unafraid. Yet despite himself, a slow smile spreads across his lips, stubborn and bright in the stillness of the night.
She's got some nerve…
In the quiet living room, Grace listens to a podcast, though her attention has long since drifted away from the host's voice. Instead, she gazes silently out the window at the night sky, where the full moon hangs bright and steady.
Did I really agree to this one-on-one session just because of her? The thought strikes him like a sudden jolt. He leans back slightly, a smirk curling on his lips, disbelief flashing in his eyes. What am I even doing? The question lingers, half amused, half incredulous.
His mind races for a justification. Well, he tells himself, it's actually a clever way to get closer to the students. No shame in that.
The rationalization soothes the faint sting of embarrassment gnawing at his confidence. He straightens up, shakes off the lingering self-doubt, and lets the smirk settle into something more genuine—quiet anticipation, maybe even hope.
Then her words from the pasta diner this afternoon echo in his mind, clear and teasing.
"So can I just look at you like that? Not as a professor?"
He blinks, caught off guard by her boldness.
She's got some nerve… he thinks, shaking his head in disbelief.
But no matter how much he tries to keep his composure, the smile stretching across his lips is undeniable—warm, amused, and maybe a little more than that.
"So can I just look at you like that? Not as a professor?"
She shakes her head, cheeks warming with embarrassment.
"Uhh… why did I say that?"
Curling up on the couch, she buries herself in the cushions, self-conscious about her boldness. Then, suddenly, Julian's calm reply surfaces in her memory.
"It's up to you, I guess."
A soft smile tugs at her lips.
"He said it's up to me… So does that mean I can…"
Her phone buzzes, breaking the moment. She glances down and sees a message from an unknown number—a single image attached.
"An image?" she murmurs, tapping to open it.
For a brief second, confusion clouds her face as she studies the photo.
It's from the diner earlier that day—Julian and Grace looking at each other, faint smiles playing on their lips, caught in a quiet moment.
"Who took this…? And why would someone send it to me?"
Before she can think further, another message appears beneath the photo.
Grace stares at the screen, disbelief flooding her.
"What…? Don't meet him again…?"
Grace taps the phone number on her screen. The familiar green
She hesitates, finger hovering. Her heart skips, indecision tightening her chest. Then—she taps it.
The dial tone begins to ring.
One second.
Five seconds.
Thirty.
She chews the inside of her cheek, eyes flicking to the time.
Okay, she thinks, maybe this person isn't picking up. Is this some kind of prank?
Just as she moves her thumb to end the call—
"Hello."
A voice filters through the speaker. Male. Calm. Not too deep, not too high. Perfectly neutral.
Grace freezes.
Who is this person?
She clears her throat.
"Hi. You just texted me a moment ago. Can I ask who you are?"
Silence.
The seconds stretch. No reply.
"Umm... hello?" she tries again, voice a little sharper.
Still nothing.
Her pulse begins to thrum. She grips the phone tighter.
"I don't know who you are," she says, her voice rising with unease, "but taking pictures of me without permission and sending them to me is creepy. You need to stop."
A beat of silence. Then—
"…Then you should also stop."
The words slither through the speaker. Cold. Unhurried.
A chill creeps up her spine. Her breath catches. Something dark and unfamiliar coils in her gut, spiraling like smoke into every nerve.
"What…?" Grace breathes. "What do you mean I should stop?"
A pause.
Then the voice returns, low and certain. "You should stop seeing him. Or anyone."
Grace stares at the floor, her mind racing, unable to process the words. She blinks.
"Wait—who are you? Is this supposed to be some kind of sick joke? Because I really don't have the energy for—"
"I never joke," the man interrupts, his tone razor-sharp.
The words slice through her, silencing her completely.
He continues, calm but with a disturbing edge. "Stop seeing him. I'm warning you."