Chapter 30 - Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
The first thing I notice when I get home is Drew.
He’s standing between the living room and the stairway, eyes wide and wild—like he’s ten toes down in an unwilling battle I know nothing about.
His head jerks to me the second I walk in, and his shoulders straighten. Like I caught him doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.
“Hey,” he says, voice a notch higher than usual.
I pause just inside the doorway, keys still in my hand.
“Hey,” I reply.
He watches me like he’s waiting for something. A reaction. A question. A confession.
I set my keys down slowly. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” He nods several times like he’s trying to convince himself. “Just—long day.”
That makes two of us.
I head for the fridge. Drew shadows me, close enough that I can feel him there without looking.
“How was work?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“What did you do?”
“Meetings.”
“What kind?”
I stop and glance at him. “Why are you interrogating me?”
“I’m not interrogating,” he says too quickly. “I’m… engaging.”
That’s not a word Drew uses.
He swallows hard. “You know, brotherly bonding.”
My muscles tense. This is not at all Drew-like. This is an alien version of my brother.
I pull a bottle of water from the fridge and twist off the cap. Drew leans against the counter, arms crossed, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.
“You’re usually home later on Mondays,” he says.
“I told you my schedule changed.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Of course. I just… noticed.”
I take a long drink, studying him over the rim of the bottle.
His jaw is tight. His eyes dart around the room. He’s talking fast, filling the space.
He’s nervous.
About what, I have no idea.
“I’m going to change,” I say, stepping closer to him.
His head snaps up. “You don’t have to.”
I stop.
“What?”
“I mean, you can,” he adds quickly. “Obviously. You live here. But maybe wait? We could talk. Eat something.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you trying to keep me out of my bedroom?”
“No,” he says immediately. “That would be insane.”
I nod. “It would.”
I take a step left.
Drew shifts with me.
I go right.
He moves right too.
I go left—fast—and slip past him before he can recover.
“Sebastian—”
I’m already halfway down the hall.
He follows, panic bleeding into his voice. “Just—hang on a second.”
I race up the stairs and down the hallway, Drew’s footsteps trailing me.
I reach my bedroom door and push it open.
And freeze.
Something’s wrong.
It takes my brain a second to place it.
The bed.
I made it before I left.
Now it’s rumpled. The pillow moved. The comforter pulled back, displaying wrinkled sheets in wide, careless arcs.
Like someone rolled on my bed.
Like someone was in here, lingering.
I don’t breathe.
Behind me, Drew stops short.
“That’s—” he starts. “I can explain.”
I turn slowly.
His face is flushed. Guilty. Too earnest.
“What,” I ask evenly, “happened in my room?”
He swallows. “I—I was cleaning.”
I stare at him.
“You cleaned,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“You don’t clean my room.”
“I thought I’d help,” he says, hands lifting helplessly. “You’ve been… busy.”
I glance back at the bed. “I made it this morning. You made it worse.”
He winces. “I’m out of practice.”
I look at him again. Really look.
He’s lying.
And he’s bad at it.
I nod once. “You need more practice.”
Relief floods his face too fast. “I do. I’ll… work on it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Now leave so I can change.”
He exhales. “You’re not mad?”
I turn away, moving toward the dresser. “No.”
I just want him out of here so I can check my camera feed.
Drew hesitates, then backs out of the room like he’s afraid sudden movement might set something off. He pauses at the doorway.
“For what it’s worth,” he says carefully, “nothing bad happened.”
I don’t look at him. “Good.”
He leaves.
I wait until I hear his bedroom door close.
Then I close and lock mine.
My hands are steady as I cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed. I don’t touch the sheets or the comforter. I don’t need to.
I already know who did this.
I pull my phone from my pocket and open the camera feed, scrolling back to earlier today.
At first, all I see is my empty room.
But then I stop when the doorknob turns.
My breath hitches.
And there she is.
Ivy enters my room.
Then she sits on my bed.
I watch her nudge my discarded shirt with her foot.
She pauses.
Then—deliberately—she turns the sleeve so it lies flat instead of twisted.
She wants me to know she was here.
My chest goes tight.
Ivy lies back on my bed like she belongs there—rolling, stretching, and tangling herself in my sheets like they were made for her. She presses her face into my pillow, breathes me in.
I scrub a hand over my face and keep watching until she’s gone.
My bedroom door opens. Even though he didn’t step inside, I know Drew saw her.
And likely agreed not to tell me.
I watch it again, studying every movement.
And when the screen finally goes dark, one thought settles in with terrifying clarity: she wanted me to know she was here.
And I have.
A smile curls my lips.
She wanted me to know she was here.
Game on, Ivy.
It’s my turn to play.