Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
Candace
"I still think the nose is crooked."
Sebastian followed my line of sight to the framed puzzle hanging on the wall opposite his bed—three hundred pieces of golden retriever, finally complete and mounted behind glass.
The fluorescent lights caught the glossy surface, the dog's eyes gleaming with judgement.
Rosie had brought the frame last week, insisting that anything requiring that much suffering deserved to be preserved.
"The nose is fine, Candace," Sebastian said. "You're just mad because I placed the last piece."
"You stole it out of my hand."
"I strategically intercepted it." His grin was slow and irritating. "There's a difference."
"There really isn't."
He shrugged, entirely unrepentant.
My mouth betrayed me—the smile pulling free before I could stop it.
The golden retriever stared back at us from the wall with its slightly crooked nose and patchy fur—a monument to weeks of terrible hospital coffee, worse hospital pudding, and conversations that had somehow become the best part of my day.
My phone buzzed in my purse.
Then again.
And again.
I didn't reach for it.
I already knew who it was—the same person it had been for weeks now, his messages growing more frequent, more frantic, with every day I didn't respond.
I'd stopped reading them somewhere around day ten.
But they hadn't stopped.
The door swung open, and Dr. Jefferson stepped through with a clipboard and an expression I couldn't read.
Sebastian straightened against his pillows. I watched his knuckles go white around the bed rail—the same tell he'd had since the first week, whenever a doctor entered and he braced for bad news.
"Mr. Holt." Dr. Jefferson flipped a page. "Your vitals have been stable for seventy-two hours. Labs came back clean this morning." She looked up, the corner of her mouth twitching. "How do you feel about going home today?"
"Today?" His voice cracked. "You're serious?"
"I'm serious. We'll need to go over discharge paperwork, outpatient follow-ups, physical therapy schedule—but yes." She smiled fully now. "You're going home."
I was moving before I realized it—out of the chair, across the small space, arms wrapping around him in a too-tight hug.
Sebastian's arms came around me, pulling me closer, and I felt his exhale shudder through his body.
"Thank you," he murmured against my hair. "For being here. For all of it."
Then his lips brushed my forehead.
Light. Brief. Barely there.
I pulled back, smile already in place, and found Sebastian frozen. His arms had gone rigid around me. His face was pale—paler than it had been in days—and panic flickered in his expression, quick and sharp.
"Sebastian?" Dr. Jefferson glanced between us. "Should I give you two a minute, or would you like to start on that paperwork?"
He dropped his arms, shifting in bed.
His voice was quiet, uncharacteristically so. "I'd love to start the paperwork."
"I'll get it started," she said, already turning toward the door.
"Holy shit," I said when we were alone. "You're going home."
He huffed a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair—a gesture straight from Damien's book. "I can't believe it."
"You're going home," I repeated, grabbing his arm and shaking it. "No more hospital pudding. No more nurses waking you up at three a.m. No more—"
"No more you."
I froze. "What?"
"I mean—" He waved a hand, a grin stretching wide. "You'll finally be free. No more babysitting duty. You can go back to your life. Your influencer empire. Your…" He gestured vaguely. "Yoga stuff."
"Pilates."
"Same thing."
"It's really not."
He laughed, but his fingers picked at the edge of the blanket.
"Sebastian." I lowered myself back into my chair. "What's going on?"
"Nothing." Too quick. "I'm thrilled. Ecstatic. Over the moon. Pick your cliché."
"You're scared."
His hand stilled.
The silence stretched—different from our usual comfortable quiet. This one had teeth.
"Seb—"
"It's nothing." He shook his head, the smile threatening to crack. "Just drop it."
"No."
His brows furrowed, small faltering.
"You've been in here for weeks," I said, steady. "You nearly died. And now you're going home, and instead of being happy, you look like you're about to crawl out of your own skin." I leaned forward. "Talk to me."
His fingers resumed their picking, the edges of the blanket fraying into tiny strings.
The mask slipped.
"I'm an addict, Candace."
The words hung between us.
"Cocaine, mostly. Pills when I couldn't get it." He laughed, brittle. "That's why I'm here. That's what the overdose was."
"I thought you fell."
"I did." A sigh. "After the overdose."
He stared at the ceiling.
"The hospital's been easy, in a sick way. Controlled environment. No access. No temptation." His voice cracked. "But out there? I don't know who I am without it. I've been using since I was fifteen."
He looked at me then, fear bare in his eyes. "I'm terrified."
Not a lie.
"Well." I straightened, summoning my brightest tone. "I suppose I could visit you at Rosie's. A check-in here and there. I'll have to pencil you in though. My schedule is very demanding. Photo shoots. Brand deals. Extremely important debates about whether Edward or Jacob was the better choice."
Sebastian opened his mouth. "Jac—"
"Edward," I added firmly. "Obviously. I will not be taking questions."
He chuckled, the blanket falling from his fingers. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm delightful. There's a difference."
"There really isn't."
His smile came back—wobbly, imperfect, real.
"Thank you, Candace." Softer now. "Really."
"Please." I waved him off. "Someone has to keep your ego in check. Consider it community service."
He leaned back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. His smile grew wide.
"My mom's going to be elated."
"About you coming home?"
"About you coming with me." He shot me a glance. "She's been asking about you every day. I think she likes you more than she likes me."
I leaned back. "Smart woman."
"She's already planning Sunday dinner." His grin sharpened. "I heard her talking about seating arrangements."
Heat crept up my neck. "I don't know—"
"You're coming," he said. Absolute.
I shot him a look. He raised his hands in mock surrender.
"Blame Rosie, not me. Once Rosie Holt decides something, it's already done." He grinned. "You might as well start practicing your Italian."