I was already a deep fan of Ted Park, and it was his song that came on shuffle during a night of intense musical introspection.
After the affirmation I got the other night—the quiet promise from Julian that I didn't have to struggle to be loved—all I could think of was finally getting into that kind of trouble. The good kind. The deep, vulnerable kind.
I knew exactly what I wanted, but I lacked the motion.
I was starting to overthink, calculating the "right" time and the "perfect" setup, but then I remembered I had music, and while listening to songs about intimacy on shuffle, I stumbled onto Ted Park's Zeus and found the perfect lyrics, even though they were from the wrong song:
"I hear you make them sounds
I love the noise you make
Could spend a thousand hours
Inside this real estate."
He was singing about his girl, but for all I cared, I could be Julian's "girl" or he could be mine. It wasn't about labels or roles; it was about the raw, unmediated presence those lyrics demanded. It was about being so close that you hear the sounds, you love the noise, and you lose track of time. It was about losing myself in a way that wasn't painful, but profound.
The Weight of the Unspoken
It was Friday night, a week after my emotional meltdown on Julian's sofa. The weight of our mutual respect, which had been so stabilizing, was now beginning to feel like a beautiful, frustrating barrier. We had become experts in comfortable intimacy—the head resting on the shoulder during a movie, the intertwined feet beneath the coffee table, the lingering goodbye hug that promised next time. But the last barrier, the one that separates comfort from commitment, remained.
Julian was at my place. He was in his element, calmly sorting through a box of ancient vinyl records I had inherited, gently cleaning the dust from the sleeves. I was pacing, humming that Ted Park lyric under my breath, trying to summon the courage to be the one to initiate the inevitable shift. I kept feeling that old impulse: I wanted him to sweep me up, to take control, to make the decision for me.
But the Brian who had finally declared himself "priceless" knew that passive anticipation was just another form of the Hunter—waiting for external validation. This time, I had to create the moment.
The jazz record ended. The needle lifted, and the apartment fell into that profound, familiar silence.
Julian looked up at me from the floor, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. "What's going on, Brian? You've circled the coffee table eight times. Is the knitting project plotting against you?"
I stopped pacing and took a deep breath, clutching the edges of my sweater. I realized my hands were shaking slightly. This was the real fight, the real conquest: conquering my own fear of asking for what I deeply desired.
"I don't want to knit tonight, Julian," I said, my voice barely a whisper, but steady.
Julian slowly rose, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He set the vinyl record down, his attention entirely focused on me. "Okay. What do you want?"
This was it. No fanfare, no drama—just a quiet, open question that demanded my full, honest answer.
"I want the music to change," I confessed, walking the few steps that separated us. "I love the quiet, Julian, I do. But I need to know that this quiet, safe thing can also be intense. I need to know that I can lose myself with you, not just find myself."
He didn't need further explanation. Julian's genius, I realized, was his ability to read the subtle shift in the handwriting of my soul. He understood the subtext immediately.
He reached out and gently cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing my skin. His hands, the same hands that handled brittle, fifty-year-old documents with immense care, felt warm and solid against my face.
"I've been waiting for you to tell me when you were ready," he said, his voice low and rich, his eyes searching mine with a tenderness that made the intensity I used to seek feel cheap by comparison. "I wanted the invitation to come from a place of want, not need. You don't have to break your cover for me, Brian. You can just open the door."
The Noise You Make
The shift was slow, deliberate, and entirely centered on making me feel seen. It wasn't a frantic rush; it was a deepening. He didn't try to kiss me with a sudden, overwhelming force, but with a lingering, soft exploration that felt like reading a love letter written just for me.
As our first long kiss deepened, I felt the last remnants of the Hunter persona finally, completely dissolve. There was no performance, no assessment, no anxious voice calculating my worth. There was only Julian's presence: the familiar scent of cinnamon, the soft sound of his breath, the solid weight of his body pressing gently against mine.
Julian led us back toward the bedroom, but every movement was a question, an affirmation. He removed my sweater, not with impatience, but with the same archival care he used to untie a blue ribbon from a brittle document—slowly, reverently.
When the light was low, and we were finally skin-to-skin, the vulnerability was blinding. I had been intimate with many people, but always with layers of emotional armor. With Julian, every touch felt like a translation, every kiss a confirmation of the safety we had built.
When his lips traced the line of my jaw, the skin on my back tightened, a feeling so acute it was almost painful—the "real as pain" I had sung about, but experienced not as suffering, but as visceral, unburdened aliveness. It was the raw, exquisite feeling of finally letting go.
I pulled him closer, desperate to feel his skin against mine. I wanted that total, encompassing closeness.
"Say something," I whispered into his shoulder, needing the sound of his voice to anchor this reality.
Julian moved his head back just enough to look at me. His glasses were gone, and his eyes, usually magnified and intellectual, were soft and dark. "You don't need words," he murmured. "I hear the noise you make, Brian. I love the noise you make."
He had remembered the lyric without even knowing the song. It was a perfect, precise answer.
Inside This Real Estate
The act itself was a revelation. It wasn't rushed or demanding; it was a conversation conducted entirely through touch. Julian was attentive, gentle, and utterly present. He wasn't focused on conquest; he was focused on connection. He seemed to draw out every nerve ending in my body, showing me that the deepest intensity was found not in speed or urgency, but in the careful, prolonged attention to detail.
I realized that all my previous hookups had been about escape—an escape from loneliness, an escape from my own mind. This was the opposite: this was about arrival. It was about being utterly, joyously present in my own body, in my own apartment, with the man who had taught me the value of still air.
Later, lying together tangled in the sheets, Julian's head resting against my chest, the clock on the bedside table read 3:17 a.m. I had spent a thousand hours inside this real estate, both physical and metaphorical, and it felt like I had finally, truly, moved in.
I ran my fingers through Julian's soft, damp hair, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against my ribs. There was no shame, no second-guessing, and no fear of the morning after. There was only the quiet, profound realization that the intensity I had sought in drama and desperation was merely a cheap substitute for the depth I had just found in vulnerability and safety.
I thought of the Rihanna lyric again. I came to win, to thrive, to fly.
I wasn't surviving anymore. I wasn't fighting the world or conquering loneliness. I was prospering. I was thriving. Julian hadn't handed me wings; he had simply shown me that my wings, which had been bound up by years of fear and performance, were capable of flight.
And in the silence, broken only by the sound of our breathing, I finally understood the true weight of that initial desire: I only want you. Period. No caveat needed, because with Julian, the simple truth was everything.