Chapter 22 Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
I arrive home from work, my mood foul.
I’m already searching for Ivy when I step inside my home.
Which is ridiculous.
I don’t search for people.
Especially not a beautiful, zany stalker who climbs over my deck railing and my balcony.
Disappointment settles in my chest when I realize she’s not there.
Drew is standing in front of the stove. He turns to me with a tight smile, then returns to reheating leftovers in a pan like he’s forgotten the microwave exists. The TV is on in the living room, volume low. A distraction. For him or for me—I’m not sure yet.
He doesn’t bring her up right away. That’s how I know he’s going to.
“How was work?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say as I shrug out of my jacket.
It’s a lie. But a functional one.
He nods, stirring absently. “You already eat?”
“No.”
“Good.” He pauses. Just long enough to be deliberate. “I ran into Ivy today.”
There it is.
I don’t look at him. I don’t slow down. I move to the fridge, open it, and scan the shelves I already know by heart.
“Oh?” I say lightly.
Drew waits until I grab a bottle of water and straighten. He’s cataloging the micro-changes I’ve spent years perfecting how to hide.
“Yeah,” he says. “Grocery store. Produce aisle.”
I lean back against the counter. “You shop now?”
“I buy food for me,” Drew says. “That’s different.”
He pauses for a moment, and I can tell by the tense set of his shoulders that he’s about to say something I’m not going to like.
“She asked about you.”
My jaw tightens just a fraction.
“And?” I ask.
Drew sets the spoon down and finally faces me fully. “I told her you’ve been busy. Focused.”
My hand tightens around the water bottle. That word again.
“Accurate,” I reply.
He studies me too closely for my liking. “She said something else.”
I wait, not saying anything.
“She said when you start pushing people away, it’s usually because something matters more than you want it to.”
Of course, she noticed that. Too damn perceptive for her own good.
I laugh once. Sharp. Controlled. “Did she?”
“Yes.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “And she didn’t say it like a criticism.”
I push off the counter. “You don’t know her.”
“I know,” he agrees. “That’s what’s bothering me.”
I lift the bottle of water and take a slow drink. The silence stretches. He lets it.
He’s learning how to wait me out.
“She also said,” Drew continues carefully, “that she wasn’t going to overwhelm you.”
My fingers curl around the bottle, squeezing it.
“She said she was giving you space.” He exhales. “Which—considering everything—feels… intentional.”
I set the water bottle down on the counter a little harder than necessary. “You don’t get to analyze my life with her,” I say. “Or anyone.”
“She didn’t ask me to,” Drew replies. “I asked her.”
That lands.
I look at him then. Really look. He’s tired. Wired. Concerned in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with recognition.
“She’s not dangerous,” I say flatly.
“I didn’t say she was,” he counters. “I said she’s deliberate.”
I scoff. “So am I.”
“Yes,” he says quietly. “That’s the problem.”
I turn away, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. The house feels smaller tonight. Charged.
“She told me she wasn’t going anywhere,” Drew adds. “But that she was letting you decide how close you wanted her.”
I close my eyes.
Drew’s voice softens. “Sebastian… that’s not how people who don’t matter talk.”
I open my eyes and meet his gaze. “She’s manipulating you,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No. She’s manipulating you.” He says it calmly. Like a man pointing out I’ve been bleeding for a while and just noticed.
The silence stretches again.
I don’t deny it. I can’t.
All I can see is Ivy in that café, calm and composed. Exactly where she wanted to be.
All I can hear is her telling Aaron she’d see him on Thursday, like she was excited to see him again. Like she was making a promise.
I hate promises that don’t belong to me.
I know it shouldn’t bother me. I’ve drawn the lines in the sand between her and me.
She deserves more than a man who refuses to commit. Someone better than a damaged soul like me.
Drew takes a step closer. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I am alone,” I snap. Then quieter, more honest than I intend, I add, “I chose that.”
“And now?” he asks.
I don’t answer.
Because the truth is, I didn’t choose this. I didn’t choose Ivy noticing me. I didn’t choose to want her attention solely on me, and no one else.
And I didn’t choose the way my chest tightened when I realized she could walk away—and still control me.
Drew sighs. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
I look past him, toward the darkened balcony doors. “I won’t.”
But the certainty isn’t there anymore.
I don’t sleep.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, sheets twisted around my legs, the house too quiet to ignore. Every sound registers—the tick of the clock, the hum of the refrigerator cycling on and off, the distant rush of a car passing somewhere down the street.
I listen for her. The soft slide of the balcony door. The barely-there footfall on the floor. The familiar pause, like she’s checking whether I’m awake.
Nothing.
I shift onto my side. Then my back again. The mattress creaks faintly beneath me, betraying my restlessness.
She’s late. The thought comes unbidden, sharp and immediate. I don’t question it. I don’t tell myself she doesn’t owe me anything. I already know that.
It doesn’t help.
I know the patio and balcony doors are unlocked.
I checked it before bed.
Twice.
I try to convince myself that this is good. This is what I wanted. Space. Distance. Boundaries.
But my body doesn’t believe it.
Minutes crawl by. I glance at the clock and something tight twists in my chest.
Still nothing.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand, irritation prickling under my skin. I pull on a pair of sweatpants, moving quietly through the house like I’m the one sneaking in.
The balcony door opens without resistance.
Cool night air spills in, brushing against my arms, raising goosebumps I pretend are from the cold rather than the unease coiling low in my stomach.
I step outside, bare feet meeting cold wood.
This is how people end up in psychiatric facilities—barefoot, emotionally compromised, searching for someone who isn’t there.
I scan the deck first. Then the yard.
My gaze moves slowly, methodically, searching every shadow, every corner of darkness where she might be standing, watching me.
But nothing moves.
No rustle. No vapor of breath. No presence.
The realization hits harder than I expected.
She’s not here.
I step farther onto the balcony, leaning slightly over the railing, eyes tracing the fence line, the hedges, the path through the woods that leads to her house.
Empty.
A hollow ache settles into my chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Disappointment—sharp and unmistakable—lodges there like something I can’t dislodge with logic or reason.
I straighten and go back inside, closing the door behind me.
I return to bed, the sheets cold now, the space beside me too obvious. I lie there longer than I should, listening to the silence press in from all sides.
Ivy has never stayed away this long.
And her absence is louder than any sound she’s ever made. Which is deeply unfair, considering she was never loud to begin with.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
And I know with a bone-deep certainty that she’s doing this on purpose.