17. Mariana
Mariana
T he dough beneath my hands was too warm. Too sticky. Too much of a damn mess. I gritted my teeth, kneading harder, trying to work it into something salvageable, but it wasn’t cooperating.
Neither was my body. The stiffness in my fingers had started earlier. A dull, familiar ache spread through my joints, making every movement feel heavier than it should. I ignored it. I had work to do, things to fix, recipes to perfect.
The pain wasn’t the worst part. No, it was the fatigue. That creeping, marrow-deep exhaustion that wasn’t just tiredness. It was a shutdown. A refusal. My body’s way of reminding me I wasn’t in control of it anymore. I hated it.
I hated that even after everything, even after I’d worked so hard to rebuild myself, my own body was still working against me. Simple things—kneading dough, rolling out pastry, lifting a bag of flour—tasks that used to be second nature now drained me completely.
The things I used to do without a second thought, the things that once felt tedious, now felt impossible. Every movement stole a little more of my energy, like my body was hoarding it, rationing it out like I wasn’t capable of deciding for myself.
The way it chipped away at me wasn’t just physical—it was mental.
How do you come to terms with feeling trapped in your own body?
How do you not resent the fact that the things that once took zero effort now demand everything from you?
The exhaustion isn’t just something you feel—it becomes part of you, shaping your days, your choices, your future.
I leaned my weight into the dough, pressing down harder, fighting against the growing tremor in my hands. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t fragile. I could handle this. I could handle anything. I always did.
The bakery was quiet, just the hum of the ovens and the occasional creak of the old pipes. I should have gone home an hour ago, but I wasn’t ready to face the silence there. I wasn’t ready to sit alone with my thoughts.
Sebastian. I could still feel the almost kiss hanging between us, the way his breath brushed against my skin, the way my whole body had locked up like I’d been yanked in time.
I hadn’t meant to flinch, but I had, and he noticed. I hated that the memory made my chest feel tight, like my ribs were pressing in too hard. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t about him. But I knew Seba. He’d be thinking about it. Overanalyzing each moment. Picking every second apart.
The front door chimed, and I jolted, my hands still buried in the dough. For a second, I assumed it was Analyse, only she would ignore the “Closed” sign like it didn’t apply to her.
But when I turned, it wasn’t her…it was him. Seba stood in the doorway, I exhaled, keeping my hands moving. Or, I guess, two people. “You’re supposed to be home.”
“So are you.” Seba’s voice was calm, but I knew him well enough to hear the undercurrent beneath it. The quiet concern.
I didn’t look up. “I’m working.”
He was silent for a bit. Then, the sound of footsteps, slow, deliberate. I could feel him watching me, studying me, waiting for me to crack first.
I kept kneading. The dough was warm, but my fingers were stiff and uncooperative. I could feel the staring, the way my knuckles resisted every moment, but I gritted my teeth and kept going.
Then, Seba reached out and stilled my hands. Not rough or demanding, just gentle, sure, impossible to ignore. “Mariana.” His voice was quieter this time. “You’re in pain.”
I tensed, the words cutting straight through me. I didn’t like that he could tell. I didn’t like that he saw something I hadn’t even said out loud. I pulled my hands from his grip and wiped them on my apron. “I’m fine.”
Seba exhaled, slow and even. “You always say that when you’re not.”
My jaw locked. “And what, you think you know better than me?”
His expression didn’t change. “I think you’re stubborn.”
I huffed, turning back to the dough, “That’s not news.”
“Mariana.”
The way he said my name was low and steady, not giving me an inch of space to run from it. It made something shift in my chest. I swallowed. Kept kneading.
“Did you eat today?” he asked,
I didn’t answer, not out of stubbornness, but because I couldn’t remember.
Seba sighed, stepping around the counter and closing the space between us.
“You do this, you know. Work yourself into exhaustion and then pretend like it’s fine.
Ignore your body until it forces you to stop.
” His eyes flicked to my hands, then back to my face.
He saw too much. He always had. But I wasn’t fragile.
I wasn’t someone who needed to be saved.
“I don’t need you to take care of me,” I muttered.
Seba’s jaw ticked. “I never said you did.”
The words hung between us, thick and heavy. I should tell him to leave. I should turn away, but for some reason, I just can’t. I won’t. Instead, I sighed, pressing the heels of my palms into the counter. “I was diagnosed with lupus after Andrew died.”
The words were quiet, but they hit the air like a crack of thunder. Seba stilled. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t want to see whatever was written across his face.
“I started feeling off months before,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“Fatigue and joint pain, but I ignored it. I thought it was stress taking its toll on my body.” I exhaled sharply.
“Then I collapsed one day while at work, and landed myself in the hospital, and gave everyone a scare. That’s when they figured it out. ”
I finally turn to meet his eyes. They were steady, unreadable. Waiting. “So yeah.” I crossed my arms. “I have lupus. No, there’s no cure.”
My arms tighten across my chest, the words leaving me automatically, practiced—I've said them a hundred times before.
“I just have to live with it. I take it day by day.”
Seba didn’t say anything right away. He just watched me, and it made me feel like I wanted to crawl out of my skin.
Please, please, please, don’t pity me. Don’t change what you think about me. When I couldn’t take any more of the silence, I snapped, “What? The word came out sharper than I intended, edged with frustration, but I didn’t care. I just need him to say something.
His head tilted slightly. “I was just wondering how long you were going to carry that by yourself.”
I blinked. My throat went tight, “I’m not-”
“You are.” His voice wasn’t accusing. He was just being him, honest, factual. My pulse thrummed, too fast, too loud.
“I don’t need a caretaker,” I whispered.
Seba exhaled, shaking his head. “That’s not what I’m trying to be.”
“Then what are you trying to be then, Seba? Enlighten me, please.”
His eyes held mine. Unwavering. “Mariana, don’t you get it?
I want to be everything for you. I want to be the person who cares for you.
The one who takes care of you, not because you need me, but because I need you.
I want to be the one who holds your secrets, your safe place, the man you can count on.
There isn’t a single damn thing I don’t want to be for you.
If you just let me. If you just open up and admit that what we had didn’t end the night you left.
That we’ve been frozen in time, waiting for each other.
Let me be everything for you, Mariana. Please. I beg you. Let me be yours.”
And that undoes me. Tears begin streaming down the sides of my face. “Seba, there’s more that I need to tell you.”
Seba watches me, his hands resting on the counter, his body still, like he knows if he moves too fast, I might bolt. What he doesn’t realize is that I can’t bolt. I’m rooted here. With him. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says quietly.
My throat closes. I don’t know how to say what I need to say—what he needs to know if this is ever going to become anything. I don’t know if he’ll look at me differently once he does. God, I hope not. But I know that I have to tell him.
I’ve spent so long pretending it wasn’t real, ignoring the memories when they surface, convincing myself that if I just keep moving, it can’t catch me. But it’s here now. Waiting. Seba doesn’t speak. He just waits. Patient. Gentle. Unmoving. The most patient, gentle, loving man.
I exhale, slow and shaky, pressing my palms against the counter. “My ex-husband…” I don’t realize how hard it is to say it out loud until I do. The words sit in the air like lead. Too heavy. Too real. “He used to hurt me.”
Seba goes still. Not just physically, but something in him sharpens, locks into place. But he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t do anything that might stop me from finally saying the words I have never said out loud.
“At first, it started out small,” I whisper. “He’d want me home by a certain time. Want me to keep my location on, just so he could ‘feel safe.’” I let out a brittle laugh. God, how many times did I believe that lie?
Seba doesn’t move, but I feel his pulse thudding through the air between us.
“After I married him, it got worse. He began to isolate me from everyone, claiming that it was to keep our marriage sacred. That the outside world wouldn’t understand a love like ours, that they’d be jealous, that they’d try to break us up.
” I swallow hard, my nails digging into my palms. “He had people follow me.”
Seba’s breath hitches.
“He would tell me where I’d been, who I’d spoken to. And if he didn’t like my answer…” My voice catches.
Seba stiffens.
I force the rest of the words out. “He constantly called me names, told me no one would ever want me. That I was disgusting, a pig. A waste of space.”
Seba’s hands curl into fists.
I should stop now. I should stop because if I keep going, if I say the rest of what I have to say, there’s no taking them back. But I can’t stop, because he has to know. “Then, he began to hit me.”
Seba’s entire body locks up. Like he’s been frozen solid. Not a twitch, not a breath, not a single sound. The anger rolls off him like waves crashing against the rock.
He doesn’t shout, doesn’t swear, doesn’t throw anything. He just stands there, still, silent—like he knows that if he moves, if he speaks, he will break something.
“And I stayed,” I whisper.
Seba squeezes his eyes shut.
“I stayed for years. Even when it got bad.” I stare at the countertop, shame creeping up my throat. “I thought it was my fault,” I admit. “I thought if I just stayed small enough, quiet enough, obedient enough…it would eventually stop.”
Seba shakes his head. A slow, subtle movement. Like he can’t bear to hear it, but he forces himself to listen anyway.
“But it never stopped,” I murmured. My fingers curl against the counter. “It only got worse, so much worse. To the point where I didn’t know how I was going to survive.” I swallowed hard, my voice barely above a whisper. “And then…he died.”
Seba’s eyes snap to mine.
“He went out drinking that night,” I say, voice hoarse.
“I was so relieved to have some space from him—but also terrified because I knew what it meant. Drinking always made it worse, and in the morning, he’d play it off like he didn’t remember, like he wasn’t himself when we both knew that wasn’t true. ”
I swallow hard, “But that night, he overdid it. Drank too much. And, of course, he didn’t call an Uber—he never would. He was too proud of that. So he got behind the wheel, rammed his car into a pole, and died on impact.” Seba exhales, slow and measured.
I take a trembling breath. “Thank goodness he didn’t hurt anyone else.”
Seba doesn’t speak. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t tell me that I should’ve left or that I should’ve known better. I have spent so long pretending that I was fine, that I could handle everything, that I was strong enough. And yet, the moment I was finally free of him? My body stopped pretending.
I let out a hollow laugh, one that doesn’t quite feel like my own. “Isn’t that ironic?”
Seba’s brow furrows.
“All those years I spent with him, convincing myself it was fine,” I whisper. “That I could handle everything, That I could take it, that eventually he’d stop.” I exhale sharply. “And the second I was free? My body gave up on me.”
Seba’s jaw tightens. But he doesn’t argue or dismiss it. Because he knows this is my truth.
“Mariana,” His voice is softer now. Like he’s afraid of breaking me. My stomach twists. I don’t want pity. I don’t want to be looked at like something fragile.
“I’m not broken,” I bite out.
Seba moves before I can stop him. His hands come up, framing my face, thumbs brushing against my cheekbones.
“I know,” he murmurs.
That’s when I break. He doesn’t pull me in, he doesn’t press, but he’s there, waiting. He’s letting me decide, and so I do—I close the space between us, lifting onto my toes, pressing my lips to his.
The second I do, everything crashes, the grief, the fear. The weight of everything I have held in for so long. Seba exhales against my mouth, his hands sliding into my hair, holding me steady as I shatter.
The kiss is slow, deep, aching. Like a promise, like a new beginning. He moves with me. Not demanding or forceful. Just there, holding, reassuring, unraveling every tightly wound thread inside me.
I don’t know how to do this. How to love without fear. But with Seba? It doesn’t feel like fear at all. It feels like coming home.
Seba presses his forehead to mine, his breath warm, steady. “You’re safe,” he murmurs.