Chapter 62 Ivy #2
Sebastian stares at the cat, then at me. “He loves you,” he murmurs.
I swallow. “He loves us.”
Mr. Pickles’ tail flicks smugly.
Sebastian remains standing for a moment, like he doesn’t trust himself to sit.
Then, slowly, he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed.
His hand stays wrapped around mine.
His gaze drops to our fingers.
He inhales. Exhales.
His voice is quiet when he speaks. “I need to tell you something.”
The words land heavily.
I nod. “Okay.”
Sebastian’s throat works. He looks like he’s about to walk into a fire on purpose.
“When you asked about my nightmares,” he says, staring at the floor now, “I lied by omission.”
My chest tightens. “I know you did,” I say softly.
His gaze flicks to me, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Tell me,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them, the man I’ve been chasing is still there—sharp, controlled, and dangerous. But the boy underneath him is stepping forward.
“My parents fought all the time,” he says, voice flat like he’s reading it off a report. “They didn’t yell. They didn’t hit.” He looks at our hands. “It was worse.”
I frown. “How so?”
“Quiet warfare,” he says. “Strategic. Calculated.”
That’s his language. That’s how he survived it.
“My mother was… the force in our home,” he continues. “Everything ran the way she wanted it to. And if it didn’t, she corrected it.”
My stomach churns.
“And my father…”
He swallows.
“He was sick,” Sebastian says. “He spent a lot of time in bed. When I was younger, I thought he had the flu. Or some kind of physical illness. I didn’t understand why he didn’t just… get up.”
“When I got older, I overheard her talking to someone on the phone. A friend. She said Dad was depressed.”
The word sucks the oxygen out of the room, making it feel smaller.
“He wasn’t weak,” Sebastian says suddenly, the emotion cracking through his tone. “He wasn’t lazy. He wasn’t—”
He stops, breath shaking.
My fingers tighten around his, showing my support. “I know,” I whisper.
He shakes his head once, like he doesn’t believe in comfort.
“My mother treated it like a failure,” he says. “Like he was inconveniencing her by not being… better.”
My chest burns.
“I was twelve,” he says, voice quieter now. “Drew was nine.”
I swallow hard. The look on his face says this story is about to get darker.
“We lived in a house where you learned to listen for what wasn’t being said,” Sebastian continues. “You learned to read footsteps. Doors. The way the air changed.”
I nod, because I understand that kind of hyper-awareness.
Sebastian’s eyes go distant.
“That day,” he says, and his voice thins. “Drew stayed after school for chorus practice. My mother went to pick him up.”
His fingers tremble in mine.
“I had soccer practice,” he says. “One of my friend’s moms dropped me off after. She asked if I wanted her to walk me to the door. I said no.”
The regret in his voice is immediate. Like he’s replayed that moment a thousand times.
“I walked in,” he whispers. “And the house felt wrong.”
My skin prickles.
“It was too quiet,” he says. “Like the walls were holding their breath.”
Sebastian swallows audibly.
“I called for my dad,” he says. “But he didn’t answer.”
His eyes flick to me, and for the first time, they shine with wetness.
“I heard a sound,” he continues. “A click. Like… like something being set.”
Mr. Pickles purrs harder, like he knows.
Sebastian’s voice turns into something raw. “I turned the corner,” he whispers.
And then he stops, unable to say it.
I squeeze his hand harder, steadying him.
“You don’t have to describe it,” I say softly. “You can just tell me what it did to you.”
Sebastian’s eyes snap to mine.
That hits him. That gives him an out.
And for a man like Sebastian, an out is mercy.
His exhale is ragged. “The gunshot still rings in my ears.”
My hand covers my mouth, eyes wide from shock.
“I stepped in right after...” He squeezes his eyes closed.
I slide closer, ignoring the pain in my ribs.
He tugs me into his arms, holding me tight.
“It made me hate my mother,” he whispers against my hair. “I blamed her for being hard on him. For pushing. For not stopping.”
His jaw clenches so tightly I can hear it.
“I blamed myself,” he says, quieter. “Because I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t understand depression. I just… thought he was giving up. And then he—”
He breaks off, breath shuddering.
“I was too late,” he finishes in a whisper.
Silence falls, thick and brutal.
I don’t fill it.
I let him have it.
Sebastian pulls back. He stares down at our joined hands like they’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the present.
“I decided something after that,” he says.
He lifts his gaze, and my heart aches at the wreckage in his eyes. “What?”
“I decided love is a trap,” he says softly. “That closeness is a liability. That if you need someone, you give them the power to destroy you.”
His voice drops, almost ashamed. “I learned to be the one who doesn’t need.”
My throat tightens.
“And then you showed up,” he murmurs, the words almost disbelieving. “And you didn’t ask permission. You didn’t wait for me to be ready. You just…”
He swallows, his eyes on the comforter.
“You stayed,” he says.
Mr. Pickles purrs like punctuation.
I reach up slowly and touch Sebastian’s cheek, forcing him to look at me. “I stayed because I see you,” I whisper.
His breath catches.
“And because I’m stubborn,” I add, because I’m me, and I refuse to let him drown in the darkness without a rope.
A flicker of a smile curls his lips. But his eyes stay serious. “I pulled away after we—” he begins.
“After you panicked,” I correct gently.
He flinches. “After I panicked,” he agrees, like the admission costs him.
He leans forward slightly, forehead almost touching mine. “I thought if I created distance,” he whispers, “I could make it stop.”
I swallow. “Make what stop?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then goes back to my eyes.
“This,” he says.
The word is full of everything he can’t control.
Everything he wants.
Everything he’s terrified of.
I breathe in slowly.
“And what did you learn?” I whisper.
“That I’m not built for distance anymore,” he admits, voice rough.
Heat blooms in my chest, painful and bright.
“You’re not going to lose me,” I say quietly.
His eyes darken.
“You don’t know that,” he whispers.
I lean in, close enough that he can feel my breath on his face.
“I do,” I say, steady. “Because I’m not your mother. I’m not your past. And I’m not going anywhere.”
His hand tightens around mine like he’s afraid to believe it.
“Ivy,” he says, my name sounding like a confession.
I wait.
He closes his eyes for a second.
Then opens them, looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world.
“I thought I would die tonight without telling you,” he says quietly. “And the idea of that—”
His voice breaks.
“It terrified me more than anything that’s ever happened to me.”
My chest aches.
I touch his jaw, grounding him. “Tell me, now,” I whisper.
Sebastian swallows.
His voice is barely audible. “I love you.”
The words are simple, hitting my ribs like a second heartbeat.
Mr. Pickles purrs like he approves.
My eyes burn, but I don’t cry. Not yet.
I just stare at him, a smile tugging at my lips.
I’ve been waiting for him to say it. I needed him to stop running from it.
Sebastian watches me like he’s bracing for impact. Like he expects the world to punish him for being honest.
I lean forward and press my mouth to his.
The kiss is gentle. But it’s a seal. A promise.
When I pull back, I keep my forehead against his.
“Finally,” I whisper.
His breath shudders out. “That’s all you have to say?” he murmurs, voice shaky.
I smile, slow and lethal. “No,” I say softly. “I love you, too.”
He smiles, full and genuine.
I shift, happiness lighting up my insides, forgetting I’m injured. I wince as my bruises protest, and Sebastian’s eyes sharpen instantly.
“Don’t move,” he warns.
I roll my eyes. “I’m not made of glass.”
“No, you’re not,” he murmurs, and it comes out too honest. “But you’re fragile right now. And I’m going to protect you. Keep you safe.”
My throat tightens again. “Sebastian,” I whisper.
His gaze holds mine. “Stop moving,” he says, like it’s a need.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I repeat the vow, meaning it with every fiber of my being.
Sebastian’s hand slides up my arm, slow and careful, like he’s reminding himself I’m real.
He kisses my temple. Then the center of my forehead.
Then he leans back, breathing hard like that confession took something out of him.
And it did. The last wall surrounding his heart just fell, exposing it to me.
I reach down and stroke Mr. Pickles’ head absently.
He blinks up at me, smug and sleepy, and then turns his head to glare at the door like he’s daring Drew to try it.
I smile faintly. My little guard cat.
Sebastian shifts beside me, closer, like he can’t help himself now. His voice is low when he speaks again. “Drew’s going to blame himself.”
“He shouldn’t,” I say.
“He will,” Sebastian says, like it’s a fact.
I swallow. Then I look at him, my fingers still tangled in his. “We’ll deal with that,” I whisper. “Together.”
He nods once like he’s accepting the idea.
And for a man who’s spent his life building rules to avoid that word, it’s the bravest thing he’s ever done.
I settle back against the pillow, letting my eyes close. Mr. Pickles is warm on my chest. Sebastian’s warm hand is wrapped around mine.
Even though I’m sore and bruised and still shaking inside, I’m safe.
If any harm tries to come through that door, Sebastian will burn the world down.
I absently pet Mr. Pickles.
And so will my guard cat.
And my guard cat’s nemesis, Drew.
Mr. Pickles purrs like a weapon, probably plotting Drew’s death.
Drew is downstairs, probably Googling “how to cope after shooting someone” and wondering if Mr. Pickles peed on his bed again.
For the first time in a long time, life feels almost perfect.
I close my eyes and fall asleep with Sebastian’s hand locked around mine like a vow.