24
Sebastian
Don’t Wanna Take it Slow - Persia Holder
Brad’s pacing like a bull, tie undone, jaw locked, nerves running the show.
I’ve seen him like this before—before a big case, before the proposal, hell, even before his first date with Amelia, though at the time, we’d had no clue it was with her.
Every time, it’s the same drill. So I give him what he’s always given me. A grounding hand on his shoulder, a low voice meant to cut through the noise.
“Breathe, mate. You’ve got this,” I tell him. “You’re marrying the girl who still laughs at your bad jokes. That’s gotta count for something.”
He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough. “You think so?”
“I know you will,” I say, no hesitation. “You’ve handled worse. Remember the Cooper standoff?”
He lets out a low laugh, the kind that says he’s remembering exactly how chaotic that was. “Thought I was going to get shot that day.”
“And now you’re just getting married. Still daunting, and slightly fewer bullets.”
He smirks. “So reassuring.”
“That’s marriage for you.” I grin. “One giant emotional obstacle course.”
“And you’re the expert?”
“Nah,” I smirk, “but I’ve seen my sister go through it. That’s close enough.”
He chuckles, nerves finally softening around the edges. When he steps back, Xavier’s standing a few feet away, arms crossed, grin smug as sin.
Brad tracks it and narrows his eyes. “What?”
“Nothing,” Xavier drawls. “Just nice seeing you two getting all emotional and shit. Real touching moment.”
But that look he gives me over Brad’s shoulder says something else entirely. The photographer yells for us to line up, and I shove that thought aside. I’ve got a job to do: stand beside my best mate, and keep him calm.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of sunlight, nerves, and way too many bloody photos. The photographer had us posing fifty thousand different ways—ties straightened, jackets fixed, “one more, lads”—until my face actually started to hurt from fake smiling.
“What’s the over-under on him bolting?” Xavier asks loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Three minutes,” Michael mutters without missing a beat.
“Two,” Harrison fires back.
“I can hear you fuckers,” Bradley manages to growl out.
That sets the laughter off. For a second, it almost feels like just another Friday knock-off at the pub. Guests start to arrive in small increments, in all kinds of dresses and suits. My chest hums with something restless, a tight anticipation I can’t shake.
“Anyone else nervous as hell, or is that just me? And I’m not even the one getting married,” I mutter, tugging at the cuff of my jacket.
Truth is, my pulse hasn’t calmed since I stepped out of the car.
The heat, the noise, the goddamn thought of seeing Olivia again—it’s all blending into one slow, steady thrum under my ribs.
Bradley wipes a bead of sweat from his temple. “You’ll live.”
“Yeah, but if you faint, I’m the one stuck dragging your ass off the floor,” I shoot back. “And trust me, you’re not exactly light.” The academy never trained us for hauling full-grown grooms mid-ceremony. That earns me a smirk, which is exactly what I was aiming for.
Xavier slings an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t listen to him, brother. You’re solid. Just breathe. Pretend it’s like… lining up for footy. Except instead of a ball, you’re about to commit to eternal love and fatherhood.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Sure I am.” Xavier grins. “I’m your best man after all.”
There’s a swift music change, and before we know it, the bridesmaids are walking down the aisle—Isla first, then Imogen. Of course, both Xavier and Harrison can’t help themselves, whistling and cheering under their breaths. A friend of Amelia’s walks next. Then—
Olivia.
The entire space shrinks around me. She’s in yellow, the colour catching the light and turning everything else dull in comparison.
The fabric glints under the rays, hugging her in ways that feel un-fucking-fair.
Strong legs, toned arms, that ribbon of confidence she always carries, it’s all there.
I swallow hard, trying to find air. She lifts her eyes, just for a beat, and it’s chaos.
The noise fades, the crowd disappears. It’s just her and me. A heartbeat, maybe two, passes before she looks away, and the spell is broken. I stare down at my shoes, forcing my shoulders to loosen. Focus. Ceremony. Anything but her.
The music is loud enough to rattle the glasses on the bar. I’m on my second whiskey on the rocks. No, third? Christ. Maybe I should slow down.
Kids dart between tables, little blurs of tulle and dress shoes.
It guts me the way my mind goes straight to Teddy.
He’s staying with my parents tonight—safe, happy, spoiled—yet my chest still aches like I left a piece of myself behind.
Happens sometimes. Hell, more than sometimes.
You’d think it’d get easier, but it never does.
And the whiskey in my hand? Not doing a damn thing to help.
I rest an elbow on the bar, eyes scanning the crowd. Bradley has Amelia spinning across the dance floor. Zoe and Michael—Jesus Christ—need to get a room. Then there’s Olivia. Seated at one of the round tables with Callie, Xavier and Isla’s little girl, perched on her lap.
“C’mon, Mitchell!” I hear Zoe call from the dance floor, waving her over. “Come dance with us!”
Olivia shakes her head, a smirk curving her mouth. “No thanks. His hands seem plenty full already.”
She’s not wrong. Michael hasn’t let go of Zoe since dinner ended.
The chorus starts, and Imogen, Isla, and Amelia all call Olivia’s name at once.
She rolls her eyes but gets to her feet anyway, swaying Callie on her hip as she makes her way toward the dance floor.
I don’t catch what Xavier’s mum says as she steps in with a warm smile and lifts Callie from Olivia’s arms.
My feet move before my brain even registers it. Doesn’t matter who’s watching. Doesn’t matter what it means. If she’s going to dance with anyone tonight, it’s going to be me. I come up behind her, close enough to catch the quiet huff she lets out. “And dance with who?”
“With me, Little Mitchell.”
She whips around. Her brow arches, and that wicked glint lights up her eyes. “You? Since when do you know how to waltz?”
Oh, that attitude? Sexy as hell. She has no idea.
“Since always,” I say, offering my hand. “Don’t let the badge fool you, sweetheart.”
From across the dance floor, Bradley’s voice cuts through the music with perfect timing. “Better watch those hands, Daniels!”
The whole group cracks up, Olivia included. I don’t glance away from her as I lean in slightly to whisper, “No promises.”
She stills. Just for a second. But I catch the hitch in her breath, the flicker in her eyes.
We keep just enough space between us to pretend we’re behaving, even as I draw her in.
Her hand slips into mine, and I could lie to myself and say this is just a dance.
That it’s harmless. But the second her eyes lift to mine, the rest of the world blurs, and I know better.
The song shifts to ‘Forever After All’ by Luke Combs, of course, and more couples start to drift onto the dancefloor.
Olivia glances up at me, just for a second, hesitantly, before she lets me draw her closer.
My hand lands at the small of her back, where it’s meant to stay respectable, but I’ve been toeing that line all night.
The heat of her seeps through the silk of her dress.
Slowly, deliberately, my palm slides lower until it rests just above the curve of her ass.
She stills, long enough for me to notice, then exhales, keeping up with the motion.
Across the room, Michael catches my eye and shoots me a grin.
Before I can shoot him a warning look, Zoe drags him away. Thank Christ.
Olivia’s fingers shift slightly against my shoulder, subtle and unsure. I dip my head until my words brush against her ear.
“You’re tense.”
Her mouth curves. “Maybe because you’re not exactly keeping things… professional.”
“I’m being a gentleman.”
“Oh, I’m well aware.”
I let out a low laugh and lean in again, voice lower now. “Good. Because if you’re not on duty tonight, I don’t see why I should be either.”
Her head tilts back enough to meet my gaze, and damn, those ocean blue eyes—so wide, so blue, so unfiltered. “Who are you, and what have you done with Sebastian?”
“When I’m around you…” The words leave me before I can think. “I forget who I’m supposed to be.”
Her breath hitches.
“And who exactly do you want to be?” she asks.
Yours.
It hits me hard. Unspoken. Instant. Dangerous. That’s not where my head should be, but she’s too close, and my restraint’s worn thin. I swallow hard.
“Someone who doesn’t have to pretend.”
Her mouth parts, whatever smartass remark she had lined up slipping through the cracks. The air thickens. My hand stays where it is. Her chest brushes mine, and my thumb traces slow circles against her wrist. She’s trembling slightly. So am I.
The music fades, but we don’t move. Not yet.