Julian slept hard that night.
The kind of sleep that ca after war—deep, heavy, and absolute.
But even in that stillness, sothing clawed at him.
Sothing he had forgotten.
And when the dream ca, it wasn’t of goals or stadium lights.
It was of a figure waiting under trees.
Tress.
Julian jolted awake, sweat beading across his face, his shirt clinging to his skin. His chest rose and fell as if he had just sprinted the length of the pitch.
"...Damn." He rubbed his temple. He had forgotten. He was supposed to tell her. About everything. About leaving. About San Dimas.
But did he even owe her that? Their bond wasn’t... special. Not like that.
Still, sothing inside whispered: important.
Julian sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floorboards like a scholar staring into a scroll of forbidden spells. His mind spun circles.
And then—
Ring. Ring.
His phone buzzed violently on the nightstand. The na flashing across the screen made his brows twitch.
Tress.
He swiped it open.
["Really? You don’t even ask on a date? Or anything?"]
Julian blinked at the ssage. His lips twitched.
"...This girl."
He let out a short laugh, sharp and sudden—half amusent, half disbelief.
Hahahaha.
05:00 AM. She was texting him about a date at 5 in the morning.
Julian’s thumbs moved.
["Let’s run?"]
The reply ca instantly.
["Go. Co here."]
A location link followed.
He didn’t hesitate. He swung his legs off the bed, washed quickly, and changed into his training kit. The familiar weight of his sneakers grounded him, lacing discipline into his body like armor.
The mirror caught his reflection for a brief second—eyes still red at the edges, hair ssy from sleep.
A boy’s body, but a warrior’s stare. He tugged the laces tight, drew one last steadying breath, and stepped out.
The door creaked open.
"Where are you going?" Crest’s voice cut through the quiet, calm but sharp.
Julian didn’t break stride. He slipped past, the cool air of morning brushing against his skin as he stepped outside.
"A date," he said simply, not turning back.
Julian jogged off into the pale dawn, breath steady, the world still half-asleep around him. The streets were quiet, the air crisp with dew, and the faint blush of sunrise stretched across the horizon.
...
They t in the park.
Julian slowed as his eyes caught her.
Tress.
Her chestnut-brown hair was tied into a ponytail that swayed lightly in the breeze. Without her usual glasses, her face looked softer—clearer—but no less sharp. The running gear she wore wasn’t fancy, but sohow it made her look... more. More natural, more alive, more appealing.
But what struck Julian wasn’t her beauty. It was her expression.
Her face looked drained, shadows under her eyes betraying restless nights. She tried to hide it behind her posture, behind her light smile, but Julian had lived too long, seen too much. He could read the fatigue as clearly as he read muscle tension on the pitch.
"Hello," Julian said simply.
For a mont, the word echoed. And just like that—he felt himself pulled back. Back to a world of blades and betrayal, back to the first ti he had t her.
His lover.
His past.
A life buried but not forgotten.
"...Hai. You really are like a stone, huh?" Tress muttered, her tone half-teasing, half-frustrated.
Julian chuckled, the sound low. "I’ve got too much on my plate. The team. The matches. Our last ga against San Dimas next Friday."
They fell into stride together, jogging side by side, shoes crunching against the gravel path, their breath visible in the chill of dawn.
Every inhale carried the sting of cold air, every exhale spilled white mist into the quiet park.
The sky was still painted in faint lavender, and the city beyond seed like it hadn’t woken yet.
It was just them—the sound of two pairs of shoes drumming out a rhythm across the earth.
"Hmmm." Tress tilted her head, eyes glinting. "You’ll win?"
"Of course." Julian lifted his thumb, a rare smile pulling at his lips.
Her grin widened. "Then let’s make a bet."
Julian glanced at her, curiosity sparking. "A bet?"
"If you win, I’ll tell you a secret."
Julian smirked. "And if I win?"
"Then I get a secret and a treat. And don’t say our Lincoln star striker will fully use his power." She poked at him with her tone, teasing, playful, but underneath—there was weight. She wanted to know sothing.
Julian nodded, eyes steady. "Fine. How many laps?"
"One—no, two. And..." She tapped her chin with mock seriousness. "Give a head start. Two minutes. No... three."
Her shaless grin almost made him laugh again.
"Alright." Julian rolled his shoulders back. "Three minutes."
"Okay then. 3... 2... 1—"
Tress shot forward, her ponytail whipping behind her as she sprinted. She wasn’t a trained athlete, but in that mont, she ran like soone trying to escape the weight on her back.
Julian stayed still.
Hands on his hips.
He pulled out his phone, the seconds ticking away.
Three minutes.
Julian’s eyes tracked her as she ran, her ponytail bouncing with every stride. The seconds crawled, each one a drumbeat in his chest.
Her arms swung too high, her breathing uneven, but her determination burned. Even with sloppy form, she didn’t stop.
There was sothing raw about it—ugly, human, but stubborn in a way that made Julian’s lips twitch into the faintest smirk.
By the ti the countdown ended, Tress had nearly completed her first lap—her breathing ragged but determined, her arms pumping like she was running from sothing only she could see.
And then—
Boom.
Julian launched forward. His legs coiled, then exploded, propelling him across the path like a rocket igniting. The air tore against his ears, his stride long, powerful, rciless.
Tress glanced back—and her jaw dropped.
Julian’s figure blurred against the dawn, every motion sharp, efficient, unrelenting. He wasn’t jogging. He wasn’t racing. He was hunting.
She gasped, pushing herself harder, her chest heaving as she tried to hold her lead. Her sneakers slapped against the pavent in a frantic rhythm, but the sound of Julian’s pursuit grew louder, closer—like death’s footsteps at her back.
His eyes locked on her, piercing through the morning haze. And Tress felt it—that predator’s gaze. It burned against her skin, urging her body to move faster, even when her lungs scread for air.
Lap one. Almost two.
Julian closed the gap with terrifying speed, his breath steady, controlled, while hers ca ragged and desperate.
And yet—
She finished first.
Barely.
Tress stumbled over the finish, then leapt up, her hands flung skyward, her laughter bubbling out between gasps. She bounced once, twice—like a rabbit too giddy to hide its victory.
Then, without hesitation, she bounded into Julian’s chest.
Her arms wrapped tight around him, sweat clinging to her skin, her scent sharp and warm in the cold morning air. Julian froze for a heartbeat, her closeness stirring sothing deeper, sothing dangerous.
"Nice," she panted, grinning against him. "So... what’s your secret?"
Julian went silent. The world seed to still—the birdsong, the wind through the trees, even the distant hum of the city faded away.
Then, slowly, he spoke.
"I’ll be leaving Lincoln. After the San Dimas match."
The words dropped like a stone into still water.
The park quieted. The noise of life seed to vanish.
Tress pulled back slightly, her eyes wide.
"...What?" she whispered.
But Crest’s voice cut sharper, exploding across the morning.
"What?!"
Her shout ripped through the park, heads turning, strangers staring, the fragile mont shattered under the weight of revelation.
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