The café didn't suddenly feel dangerous. That would have been easier to understand. What changed was smaller than that. Quieter. The kind of shift that settles into your chest and refuses to move, like a question you can't pretend you didn't hear.
Julian didn't rush to fill the silence. He didn't laugh it off or reach for his phone or ask me to calm down. He just sat there, hands folded loosely on the table, eyes steady on mine, waiting for me to decide how much I wanted to know.
That patience scared me more than the messages.
"Say something," I finally said.
He inhaled slowly. "Okay. But you need to promise you'll let me finish."
"I don't interrupt."
He lifted one brow. "You absolutely do."
"Fine," I said. "I'll try not to."
His mouth twitched, but it didn't reach his eyes. "The night they're referring to was about six months ago."
I nodded, encouraging him to continue even though my chest was already tightening.
"I was supposed to meet someone," he said. "I didn't."
"That's vague," I said.
"I warned you I'd need to finish."
I leaned back, folding my arms. "Go on."
He exhaled again, longer this time. "She was someone I used to see. Casually. It ended badly, mostly because we were pretending it wasn't anything serious when it clearly was."
"Used to see," I repeated. "As in before me."
"Yes," he said immediately. "Before you. Before we were… whatever this is."
That helped. A little.
"She reached out," he continued. "Said she wanted closure. I agreed to meet her. Then I didn't show up."
"Why not?"
"Because halfway there, I realized I didn't want to explain myself to someone I was already done explaining myself to."
I watched his face carefully, looking for signs of evasion. There weren't any. Just discomfort. The honest kind.
"So you stood her up," I said.
"Yes."
"And she's been holding onto that for six months," I added.
"That's my guess."
My phone buzzed again, right on cue.
Unknown number: He didn't just stand me up.
I didn't read it out loud. I didn't need to. Julian saw my expression shift and leaned forward.
"She's escalating," he said.
"You sound familiar with escalation," I replied.
"I've dated dramatic people," he said mildly. "I'm not immune to patterns."
I unlocked the phone and typed quickly.
Me: If you have something to say, say it clearly.
The response came slower this time.
Unknown number: He promised he'd explain. He promised he wouldn't disappear.
I felt something twist in my chest. Not jealousy exactly. Something closer to empathy, which annoyed me.
Julian watched me read. "I did promise to explain," he said quietly. "I just decided I didn't owe her the version of myself she was demanding."
"You don't think that looks bad?" I asked.
"I think disappearing looks bad," he said. "Staying out of guilt looks worse."
That answer landed uncomfortably close to home.
The café door opened, letting in a burst of noise and cold air. For a moment, I was aware of everything at once. The scrape of chairs. The hiss of the espresso machine. The fact that we were sitting in public, talking about things that suddenly felt very private.
"Why now?" I asked. "Why bring me into it?"
Julian's gaze didn't waver. "Because she noticed me with you."
"That's it?"
"That's enough," he said. "Some people don't like being replaced by someone who doesn't even know they existed."
I hated how reasonable that sounded.
Another message arrived.
Unknown number: Ask him why he never told you about me.
This time, I did read it aloud.
Julian winced. "Because I didn't think you needed to know about every unfinished chapter of my past."
"Do you still think that?" I asked.
He hesitated. Just for a second. "I think I underestimated how visible we've become."
That word again. Visible.
I stared at my phone, then set it face down deliberately, the way you do when you're choosing not to let something control the room.
"I don't like being dragged into unresolved stories," I said.
"I know," he replied. "And I'm sorry."
That surprised me. The apology wasn't dramatic or defensive. It was simple. Earnest.
"She doesn't know me," I continued. "She doesn't get to frame me as a warning or a lesson."
"No," he agreed. "She doesn't."
Silence settled between us again, but it felt different now. Less like a crack. More like a pause.
"I need to ask you something," I said.
"Okay."
"If this keeps going," I said carefully, "if she keeps inserting herself into moments like this, are you going to handle it, or am I going to be expected to ignore it?"
Julian didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "I'll handle it."
"How?"
"I'll tell her to stop."
"And if she doesn't?"
His jaw tightened. "Then I stop being polite."
That should have reassured me. Instead, it made me curious.
We left the café not long after, walking side by side down the street. The city felt sharper, louder, like it always does when you're slightly off balance.
At the corner, Julian slowed. "Do you want me to walk you home?"
I thought about it. About the messages. About the way my phone still felt heavier than usual in my hand.
"Yes," I said. "I do."
He smiled, relieved but restrained, like he was careful not to read too much into the answer.
Halfway to my place, my phone buzzed one last time.
Unknown number: He always chooses silence first.
I stopped walking.
Julian noticed immediately. "Another one?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to show me?"
I looked at him, really looked at him, weighing trust the way you do when you're aware it can be spent.
Then I said, "Tell me something first."
"Okay."
"When things get uncomfortable," I said, "do you disappear, or do you stay?"
He didn't answer right away.
And whatever he was about to say, I knew it would matter more than the messages ever had.
"Which do you want me to be?" he asked quietly.