Chapter 38 Sebastian
Sebastian
Iwake before Mia, just as the first light of dawn filters through the cabin's curtains.
For nearly a week, we've existed in this bubble of pine-scented air and starlit nights.
I watch her sleep, red curls spread across the pillow, face peaceful in a way it wasn't when we arrived.
My chest tightens at the thought of leaving, of returning to the reality waiting for us back in the city.
But we can't hide forever, even if part of me wishes we could.
Carefully, I slide out of bed. Mia stirs slightly but thankfully doesn’t wake as I move to the window.
The ranch stretches out before me, dew-covered and glowing in the morning light.
This place has always been beautiful, but I've never felt its beauty quite like this, never really allowed myself to.
Strange how it took bringing someone else here to make me see it through new eyes.
"You're thinking too loud again," Mia's sleepy voice comes from behind me. I turn to find her watching me, hair tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep.
"Just admiring the view," I tell her, returning to bed. I brush a curl from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. "Last sunrise at the ranch."
Her lips curve into a smile that's both sad and content. "For now," she says, and the simple acknowledgment that we'll return someday makes something unfurl in my chest.
We dress and pack in comfortable silence, moving around each other with ease.
I watch Mia fold her clothes with careful precision before tucking them into her bag.
The raw grief that haunted her face when we arrived has softened.
Not gone—I'm not naive enough to think a week away could heal wounds that deep—but she's steadier now, more herself.
The walk to the main house feels different from the countless times I've made it before.
Usually, I carry a subtle tension with each step, bracing for the undercurrent of disappointment that always seems to flow beneath my interactions with my family.
Today, my shoulders are loose, my breathing easy.
The scent of coffee and Ruthie's signature cinnamon rolls greets us as we push open the door. Inside, the dining room buzzes with familiar morning energy—Dad at the head of the table with his newspaper, Bradley pouring coffee, Hailey setting plates, Ruthie fussing over something in the oven.
"There they are," Dad says, looking up from his paper. The warmth in his eyes catches me off guard, like it has every morning of our stay.
Breakfast unfolds with an ease that feels miraculous given our history.
Dad tells stories about my childhood that should mortify me but somehow don't when they make Mia's eyes light up.
Bradley and I fall into the rhythm of brotherly banter without the edge of resentment that's tainted it for years.
Even Ruthie seems different, her usual fussing softened by the genuine pleasure of having the family table full again.
Later, as Ruthie wraps leftover cinnamon rolls for us to take, I study the kitchen walls.
The faded marks tracking Bradley's and my heights as we grew, the sun-bleached photos pinned to the corkboard, the slight dent in the doorframe from when I slammed through it too fast at thirteen.
For the first time in years, these memories don't ache.
Outside, with our bags loaded in the trunk, the goodbyes begin. Ruthie hugs Mia first.
"You take care of yourself," she instructs, holding Mia by the shoulders. "And him too. He needs someone like you."
Mia nods, her eyes suspiciously bright. "I will. Thank you for everything, Ruthie."
When Ruthie turns to me, her hug is so tight it nearly cracks my ribs. "Don't be a stranger," she says against my shoulder. "This place needs your laugh."
"I won't," I promise, and it doesn't feel like the empty words I've offered before.
Hailey's goodbye is quick and friendly, a brief hug for Mia, a handshake for me that turns into an unexpected half-hug. "Safe travels," she says, stepping back to Bradley's side.
Bradley approaches next, his usual stoicism softened. He pulls Mia into a quick hug that seems to surprise her. "You're good for him," he says, quiet enough that I only just catch it.
Then he turns to me, and for a moment we just look at each other. All the years stretch between us—the fights, the silences, the calls I didn't return, the resentment on both sides. Then he reaches out and pulls me into a hug that feels like forgiveness.
"Don't wait so long next time," he says gruffly.
"I won't," I tell him, meaning it like I never have before. "I promise."
Dad is last, leaning on his cane as he approaches. He surprises me by hugging Mia first, patting her back affectionately. "You're welcome anytime," he tells her. "With or without him."
When he turns to me, something passes between us, an understanding that transcends our complicated history.
His hand grips my shoulder, steadier than it's been in years.
"You found a good one," he says, nodding toward Mia.
He pulls me into a hug then, brief but solid.
"See you soon, son," he says as he steps back.
As we pull away, gravel crunching beneath the tires, Mia's hand finds mine over the console.
I glance in the rearview mirror, watching my family grow smaller against the backdrop of the only home I've ever truly known.
They're still standing there, watching us go, when we turn the bend and the ranch disappears from view.
"You okay?" Mia asks, squeezing my hand.
"Yeah," I tell her, thumb stroking over her knuckles. "I am."
***
The highway stretches before us, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through Montana wilderness that gradually gives way to more populated areas.
Mia sits beside me, her posture relaxed, head occasionally turning to watch the landscape slide past. The silence between us is comfortable, nothing like the heavy, grief-laden quiet of our journey here days ago when her tears soaked my passenger seat and her body curled in on itself like she was physically trying to contain her pain.
Now, her hand rests on the console between us, fingers occasionally drumming to the beat of whatever song plays on the radio.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks, catching me glancing at her for the third time in as many minutes.
"Just how different this feels," I admit, eyes returning to the road. "From when we came here."
Her hand finds mine on the gearshift. "I was a mess," she says. "I barely remember the drive."
"You slept for most of it," I tell her, threading my fingers through hers. "When you weren't crying."
She winces slightly but doesn't pull away. "Sorry about that."
"Don't be," I say, squeezing her hand. "Never apologize for grief."
We fall silent again, the rumble of tires on asphalt and the soft melody from the radio filling the space between us. Her thumb traces lazy circles on the back of my hand, and the casual intimacy of it is still new enough to send a flutter through my chest.
"Are you nervous?" I ask after a while, knowing what awaits us back in the city. "About facing everyone?"
She takes a deep breath, her free hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Terrified," she admits. "What if Henderson won't take me back? What if I've burned that bridge completely?"
I consider my words carefully, knowing she needs honesty more than false reassurance. "Then we'll build a new one," I tell her. "There are other hospitals. Other departments."
She nods, but I can see the doubt lingering in her eyes. "It's not just that," she says after a moment. "It's facing everyone who saw me fall apart. Who watched me... break."
"You didn't break," I correct gently. "You cracked. There's a difference." My thumb strokes over her knuckles. "Breaks don't heal. Cracks just need time."
Her smile is small but real. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise," I reply with mock indignation. "You were just too busy arguing with me to notice."
As the miles pass, our conversation drifts to lighter topics.
She tells me about the first time she drove cross-country with her father, just the two of them in an old pickup truck with a broken air conditioner.
I share stories about medical school pranks that make her laugh so hard she snorts, a sound so undignified and charming I try to elicit it again and again.
Eventually, her responses grow shorter, her head lolling slightly against the window. I glance over to find her eyes drifting closed, lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she fights sleep.
"Rest," I tell her softly. "I'll wake you when we get closer."
She mumbles something incoherent, already half-gone, and surrenders to sleep. Her hand remains loosely tangled with mine, a connection neither of us seems willing to break.
I drive one-handed, occasionally stealing glances at her sleeping form. A strand of hair has fallen across her cheek, rising and falling slightly with each breath. My chest tightens with a feeling I'm still getting used to, this protective tenderness that seems to grow stronger each day.
The landscape changes gradually, wilderness giving way to suburbs, then to the familiar outskirts of the city.
Traffic thickens, the peaceful quiet of our journey interrupted by honking horns and the constant stop-start rhythm of urban driving.
Mia stirs as I navigate through a particularly congested intersection, her eyes blinking open in momentary confusion.
"We're back," she murmurs, straightening in her seat. I watch the city seep into her awareness, her shoulders tensing subtly as reality encroaches on our Montana bubble.
"Almost," I confirm, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "You okay?"
She takes a deep breath, her gaze fixed on the skyline appearing through the windshield. "I will be."