The Conservatory Garden in Central Park was Ava's quiet place. Nestled away from the city's relentless pulse, its three distinct sections—Italian, French, and English—bloomed with seasonal flowers, whispering a kind of calm that felt like exhaling after a long-held breath.
She'd chosen it for the same reason she chose her words carefully: it was safe. Controlled. It offered no corners for chaos to hide in. And after the whirlwind of her last few weeks with Julian Reed, she craved just one moment of solid ground.
But when she saw him waiting near the iron gates, his hands tucked into the pockets of a camel coat, her heartbeat did the exact opposite of calming down.
He spotted her and smiled. Not the smirk he wore during meetings. Not the teasing one from the bar. This one was quieter. Sincere.
"You're early," she said, coming to a stop beside him.
"I didn't want to risk being late."
She studied him. "Is that a thing you do? Being late?"
"No," he admitted. "But it matters to you. So I'm adjusting."
Her stomach did an unhelpful little flip. "Nice coat."
"Thanks. You said somewhere neutral. I figured dressing like a gentleman might help my case."
"Your case?"
He offered his arm. "Convincing you I'm not a threat to your perfectly organized world."
Ava hesitated for a second. Then slid her hand through his elbow.
"Lead the way, lawyer."
They walked in companionable silence for a while. The early spring sun filtered through the trees, casting soft shadows across the winding paths. Flowers bloomed in delicate defiance of the lingering winter, a metaphor Ava didn't want to read too deeply into.
"So," Julian said as they passed a stone bench under a blooming cherry tree, "we're not talking about work."
"Correct."
"That leaves… what? The weather? Awkward small talk? Or are we skipping to the good stuff—favorite childhood traumas?"
She laughed. "We could start lighter. Books, movies, embarrassing stories?"
He nodded. "Alright. Embarrassing story. When I was ten, I tried to impress a girl by doing a skateboard trick in front of her house. I broke my arm and cried in front of her whole family."
"Oof. What happened to the girl?"
"She signed my cast… and then dated my best friend."
Ava winced. "Brutal."
"Your turn."
She thought for a moment. "In eighth grade, I wrote a love poem and slipped it into a boy's locker. Misspelled three words and accidentally signed it with my full name."
"Please tell me you still have the poem."
"God, no. I burned it. Twice."
Julian chuckled, and for a few minutes, the world narrowed to just them—two imperfect people trading stories like currency.
They walked through the French garden, its symmetry sharp and soothing. Ava stopped beside a low stone fountain, trailing her fingers in the water.
"Why here?" Julian asked, watching her.
She glanced around. "Because it's the one place in the city that doesn't ask for anything. It just… is."
"That sounds like a place you need."
She nodded. "I've spent most of my life trying to outrun chaos. This helps."
He didn't press. Just stood quietly beside her, watching the way light danced on the water's surface.
After a beat, he said, "Can I ask you something real?"
She looked up. "Depends on the question."
"Why do you keep pushing me away?"
Ava's breath caught.
He wasn't angry. He wasn't even accusing. He was just… asking.
She sat on the bench by the fountain, staring at the neat rows of tulips in front of them. "Because I don't trust easy. And because I've worked too hard to build something solid in a world that keeps trying to knock it down."
Julian sat beside her, not touching, but close. "I get that."
"Do you?"
He nodded. "I grew up in a storm. My dad was a gambler. We moved every year. I never unpacked fully until I was twenty-one."
Ava turned to him. "Is that why you chase stability now?"
"No," he said. "It's why I try to build it. But it's also why I recognize when someone's trying to hold the pieces together with tape and prayer."
Her throat tightened. "You think I'm fragile?"
"No," he said quickly. "I think you're strong. I just think maybe you're tired of having to be."
That stopped her.
He stood, pacing a few steps, then turned back. "I don't want to be another weight you carry, Ava. But I do want in. Even if it's messy. Even if it's slow."
She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw none of the arrogance she feared. Just quiet, steady conviction. And something else.
Hope.
"You're dangerous," she said softly.
"Because I want you?"
"Because you make me want things I've spent years convincing myself I don't need."
His jaw tensed. "And what if you let yourself need them?"
A long silence passed.
Then she whispered, "I don't know."
He stepped closer. "Then let's find out. Together."
She didn't speak. Didn't move.
So he gave her space. Let her breathe.
They wandered again, this time into the English garden. It was wilder here, less structured. The pathways curved instead of cutting straight through. It reminded Ava of how she used to feel when she first moved to New York—curious, wide-eyed, a little lost.
Julian touched her hand gently. "Can I tell you what scares me?"
She nodded.
"You," he said simply. "You scare me. Because for the first time in a long time, I care about how this goes. I care about saying the wrong thing. Losing something that hasn't even fully begun."
Her heart ached. "Then don't say the wrong thing."
He laughed, quiet and sharp. "That's the problem. I never know what that is."
Ava looked at him, vulnerability threading through her resolve. "I'm not asking you to be perfect, Julian. I'm just asking you to be careful."
He took her hand. This time, she didn't pull away.
"I can do careful," he said.
They stood there, palms touching, the garden blooming around them.
And for a moment, Ava allowed herself to believe it was possible—to want, and to be wanted back. To let go of the script. To feel instead of flee.
They left the garden an hour later, but neither wanted to say goodbye.
They walked aimlessly down Fifth Avenue, stopping for a coffee, then a bookstore, then a sidewalk cart where Julian insisted on buying her a pretzel despite her protests.
"I'm not hungry."
"It's tradition," he said, tearing off a piece and holding it out.
She bit into it without taking it from his hand. "This doesn't mean anything."
"No?" he said, eyes warm. "Then why are you smiling?"
She rolled her eyes, but didn't answer.
When they reached the subway steps, she paused. "I'm this way."
Julian nodded. "And I'm that way."
A beat of hesitation.
"Dinner?" he asked. "Tomorrow?"
She chewed her lip. "No work talk?"
"Scout's honor."
She studied him, then nodded. "Okay."
He leaned in—just enough to test the air, not enough to cross it.
She didn't kiss him. But she didn't step back either.