Chapter 21
Sebastian
When I wake, my arm instinctively reaches across sheets.
But instead of Mia’s body, my fingers find nothing but rumpled cotton.
For a moment, a strange panic seizes my chest until I hear the distinctive sound of metal clanging against metal followed by creative cursing from somewhere beyond the bedroom door.
The corner of my mouth twitches upward. Of course she’d be chaos incarnate before I've even opened my eyes.
"Motherfucking piece of shit spatula," her voice carries through the apartment, followed by another clang.
A slow smile stretches across my face as I roll onto my back and stare at her ceiling.
My body feels loose, satisfied in a way that goes beyond the physical release.
I can still smell her on my skin, that citrusy floral scent now mixed with us.
It should disgust me, this human mess, this evidence of need and want and desperation.
Instead, I breathe it in deeper, letting it fill my lungs.
"Son of a bitch!" Another crash comes from the kitchen, followed by the distinct smell of something burning.
I swing my legs over the side of her bed, my bare feet connecting with the cool hardwood. Her floor is cluttered with discarded clothes and my boxers are nowhere to be seen, but at least I spot my jeans half-under the bed.
Tugging them on, I don't bother with the button or zipper, letting them hang low on my hips—I'm not planning to keep them on for long anyway.
My chest remains bare, goosebumps rising on my skin in the morning air.
It's strange, this casual state of undress in an unfamiliar space.
I've always been careful about my nakedness, my vulnerability.
But here, padding through Mia's apartment, I feel oddly at ease.
Another crash comes from the kitchen, and I move toward the sound. I stop when reach the doorway, completely arrested by the sight.
Mia stands with her back to me, wearing nothing but my button-down shirt from yesterday.
The hem barely covers the curve of her ass, revealing miles of legs that look even longer without the barrier of clothing.
Her wild red curls are a tangled mess, falling loose around her shoulders in a way that makes my fingers itch to bury themselves in those strands.
She's wielding a spatula like a weapon, jabbing at something smoking in a pan while muttering a steady stream of creative profanity.
"I will end you," she threatens the stovetop. "I will dismantle you piece by piece and sell you for scrap."
She's magnificent—a warrior goddess waging war on breakfast, wrapped in my shirt like it's armor.
I lean against the doorframe, content to watch this private performance for a moment longer.
There's something deeply satisfying about seeing her like this—unguarded, uncomposed, and completely herself.
No carefully constructed professional facade.
No defensive humor. Just Mia, fighting with eggs and losing spectacularly.
"Need reinforcements?" I finally ask.
She startles so violently that the spatula goes flying, clattering against the far wall before landing on the linoleum with a sad plastic thud. Spinning around, she clutches a hand to her chest, eyes wide and cheeks flushed pink.
"Holy shit, you scared me." She pushes her hair from her face with the back of her wrist, leaving a smear of something that might be pancake batter across her forehead.
"I was trying to… I mean, I thought I'd surprise you with…
" She gestures helplessly at the smoking pan behind her.
"Breakfast. But it turns out I can diagnose a rare autoimmune disorder faster than I can fry a damn egg. "
Unable to resist her a second longer, I cross the kitchen in three strides. Her eyes widen as I approach, tracking my movements with a mixture of surprise and heat. When I cup her face between my palms, her breath hitches and her lips part on an inhale that I swallow as I claim her mouth with mine.
The kiss is slow, deep, and thorough. A proper good morning after a night of discoveries. She tastes like coffee and something distinctly mine. I’m unable to contain my groan as my tongue explores her mouth, relearning terrain I mapped last night.
When we finally break apart, she's breathless, eyes glazed and lips swollen. I brush my thumb across that smear of batter on her forehead, wiping it away with gentle pressure.
"You don't need to impress me with breakfast," I murmur.
"You already have." My hands slide down to her waist, fingers splaying wide across her back.
"Mind." I press a kiss to her temple. "Body.
" Another kiss, this one to the sensitive spot just below her ear that I discovered makes her shiver.
"And all the delightful trouble in between. "
She makes a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as her body melts against mine. Then she shoves me away.
"As much as I appreciate that sentiment, we still need actual food." Her eyes drop to my unbuttoned jeans, then back up to my face with a deliberate slowness that makes my blood heat. "Not whatever you clearly have in mind from that kiss."
I smirk, making no attempt to hide the intent behind my eyes. "You sure about that? I can think of several appetizing alternatives to burned eggs."
"I'm sure you can." She taps my chest with one finger. "But some of us need actual protein and carbohydrates to function. Especially after..." Her blush deepens. "Last night."
Leaning in, I brush my lips against her ear. "If your legs are still jelly, I can think of ways to make you feel better that don't involve standing."
She shivers against me, but her resolve doesn't waver. "Food first. Then we can revisit your... treatment plan."
"Fine," I concede with a reluctant grunt, stepping back to survey the disaster zone that is her kitchen.
The smoking pan on the stove holds what might have once been eggs but now resembles a blackened science experiment.
Pancake batter drips from the counter onto the floor.
A carton of milk sits open, completely forgotten in the chaos.
"Though I'm not sure salvaging this is possible without hazmat suits. "
Mia grimaces at the mess. "Yeah, I may have gotten a little... enthusiastic with my culinary ambitions."
"A little?" I arch an eyebrow, picking up a piece of eggshell from the counter. "Did the eggs personally offend you?"
"Shut up and help me clean," she laughs, swatting at my bare chest with a dish towel.
We move around each other with surprising ease for two people who've spent most of their professional relationship in combative tension.
I take care of the smoking pan, scraping the cremated eggs into the trash while Mia wipes down the counters.
Our shoulders brush as we work side by side at the sink, her hip occasionally bumping against mine as she reaches for the dish soap.
There's something unexpectedly intimate about this—more intimate, almost, than the way our bodies connected last night.
This domestic choreography feels like crossing a different kind of boundary.
I'm letting her see me unguarded, not just physically naked but stripped of the professional armor I've worn for so long.
"So," she says, handing me a dripping plate to dry. "What's your preferred breakfast for delivery? I'm thinking that café on Third might still do their morning menu."
"The one with the disgustingly healthy green smoothies and the avocado toast that costs more than some people's hourly wage?"
She rolls her eyes. "I was thinking more along the lines of breakfast burritos and hash browns, but if you'd prefer to drink liquified kale..."
"Burritos," I say quickly. "Extra bacon."
"A man after my own heart." She grins and reaches for her phone before quickly placing an order.
As she speaks with the restaurant, I take in more details of her kitchen—the novelty coffee mugs hanging from hooks (one says Trust Me, I'm A Doctor with an illustration of the TARDIS), the bright yellow tea kettle, the refrigerator covered in magnets and sticky notes.
While she finishes the order, I wander back into the living room, drawn again to the abundance of greenery. Plants of all sizes occupy every available surface and hang from the ceiling in macramé holders. It's like standing in the middle of a very cozy jungle.
"Did you buy out an entire nursery?" I ask when she joins me.
She groans, running a hand through her tangled curls. "Ugh, they probably hate me right now. I might have gone a little overboard with the watering yesterday."
"Yesterday?"
"While I was waiting for you to text back." She gestures vaguely at a large fern sitting in the corner. "Poor Fitzwilliam got the worst of it. I was... frustrated."
I take in this information, filing it away with the other pieces of Mia I'm collecting. "Fitzwilliam?"
"The fern." She says it like it's the most natural thing in the world, like of course the fern has a name.
"And that's Penelope the pothos hanging by the window—she's dramatic, always drooping when she wants attention.
The jade plant on the coffee table is Jasper.
He's pretty low-maintenance except when he decides to drop leaves everywhere as a form of protest."
I listen, fascinated, as she continues around the room, introducing each plant with its own name and distinct personality. There's something endearing about the way she speaks of them, not as mere decorations but as living companions with their own quirks and needs.
"Why name them?" I ask when she finishes.
She looks up at me, those green eyes clear and earnest. "Because they're alive," she says simply. "And everything that lives deserves a little attention. A name means you notice them. That they matter."
Something shifts in my chest at her words, a tightness I didn't know was there loosening just slightly.
This woman, with her wild hair and her named plants and her burned eggs, sees the world differently than I do.
Where I've built walls and maintained distance, she's created connections, even with silent, green things that can't speak back.
Watching her now, animated and sincere as she fusses over a drooping leaf, I'm struck by a realization that should terrify me but somehow doesn't. Mia, in all her mess and magic, makes the world feel like it might be worth the risk.
Worth the vulnerability. Worth the potential for pain that comes with letting someone see the parts of me I've kept hidden for so long.
For the first time in years—maybe ever—I don't feel like I'm on the outside looking in. I don't feel like the odd one out, the man who doesn't fit anywhere, not on the ranch with my family, not in the sterile perfection of my apartment.
Standing in Mia's cluttered, plant-filled living room, I feel something I'd almost forgotten was possible.
I feel home.