Chapter 8 Sebastian
Sebastian
The journal weighs nothing in my hands and everything at once.
Two years of thoughts I've never shared. Words I've written at three in the morning when I couldn't sleep because she was in my head. Confessions that would give her power over me that no one else has ever had.
And I'm offering it to her like it's nothing.
Isla stares at the leather-bound book like it might bite her.
"You want me to read your poetry."
"Yes."
"About me."
"Yes."
"Why?" She asks in confusion.
Because I need you to understand. Because words on ice and in kitchens aren't enough. Because I've been hiding for two years and I'm exhausted.
"Because you asked me to prove I'm real," I say instead. "This is the realest thing I have."
She takes the journal carefully, reverently almost. Opens to the first page where I've written the date: September, two years ago. Right after that party. Right after she destroyed me.
"You don't have to read it all," I add quickly. "Just... enough to understand."
"Understand what?"
"That I've been obsessed with you since the day I saw you. That every cruel thing I did was because I couldn't figure out how to want you without hating myself for it." I sit on the edge of my bed because standing feels too vulnerable. "That you were right about me, but you were also wrong."
She sits in my desk chair, the journal open in her lap. Starts reading.
I can't watch. Can't sit here while she reads my soul laid bare in terrible verse. So I get up and pace to the window, staring out at the campus below. Lights twinkle across the quad. Students heading to parties, to the library, to wherever Friday night takes them.
Normal people living normal lives.
Not like me, waiting for the girl I've been torturing for two years to read poetry I wrote about her and decide if I'm worth forgiving.
"Sebastian." Her voice is quiet. Uncertain.
I turn around. She's on the third page, and her eyes are wet.
Fuck.
"I'm sorry," I say immediately. "I shouldn't have shown you. It's too much, too soon—"
"Stop." She looks up at me. "Just... stop talking for a second."
I stop.
She reads another page. Then another. The silence stretches so long I start to feel sick.
Finally, she closes the journal but keeps her hands on the cover.
"This one," she says, voice rough. "The one about the library. When you wrote about watching me shelve books and wondering what I was thinking about. What I dreamed about when I wasn't being crushed by expectations and bills and survival."
I remember that one. Written on a Tuesday night last semester when I'd gone to the library specifically to see her and ended up hiding behind the stacks like a coward.
"What about it?"
"It's beautiful." She traces the leather cover. "They're all beautiful. Raw and honest and so different from the person you've pretended to be." She looks at me then, really looks at me. "Why did you hide this? Why did you waste two years being cruel when you could have just... shown me this?"
"Because this—" I gesture at the journal "—is vulnerable. And Thornhills don't do vulnerable. We do power. Control. Winning." I lean against the windowsill. "But mostly because I was terrified. You saw through me once. What if I showed you the real me and you still didn't want it?"
"So you made sure I'd hate you instead." She says and I hate the words.
"At least then I knew where I stood."
She shakes her head slowly. "That's the saddest defense mechanism I've ever heard."
"I'm aware."
"You could have told me. Any time in the last two years, you could have just been honest." Her voice cracks, and now I’m scared I’ve hurt her.
"I know. But I didn't know how. Didn't know if you'd listen. Didn't know if I deserved the chance." I cross back to where she's sitting. Kneel down so we're eye level. "But I'm telling you now. Showing you now. And I'm asking you—begging you—to believe that this is who I actually am."
Isla's hand moves from the journal to my face, cupping my cheek with those her warm fingers. The touch is so unexpected, so gentle, that I freeze.
"I'm starting to," she whispers. "Believe you, I mean. And that terrifies me."
"Why?"
"Because if you're real—if this is real—then I've wasted two years hating someone who was just as scared and broken as me.
And if I forgive you, if I let this be something.
.. what happens when you remember who you're supposed to be?
When the Legacy Council and your father and all those expectations come crashing back? "
"Then I'll fight them. For you. For this." I cover her hand with mine, keeping it against my face. "I've spent my whole life being who everyone expected. I'm done with that. I want to be who you make me want to be."
"And who's that?" She asks.
"Someone worthy of you."
The words hang between us, honest and terrifying.
Then Isla does something I never expected.
She leans forward and kisses me.
It's soft at first, tentative, questioning. Like she's testing whether this is real or just another dream she'll wake up from. I kiss her back carefully, afraid of scaring her away, afraid this is a moment that could shatter if I push too hard.
But then she makes a small sound in the back of her throat, and careful goes out the window.
I stand, pulling her up with me, and kiss her like I've been wanting to for two years. Like she's oxygen and I've been drowning. My hands find her waist, her hair, pulling her closer until there's no space between us.
She kisses me back with equal intensity, her fingers tangling in my hair, her body pressed against mine. Everything I've been holding back, two years of wanting and hating and not knowing how to bridge the gap between us, pours into this kiss.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dark and unfocused.
"That was..." she starts.
"Yeah."
"We should probably talk about—"
"Yeah."
But neither of us moves. We just stand there in my bedroom, hands still on each other, the world narrowed down to this moment.
"The movie," she says eventually. "We should finish the movie."
"Fuck the movie."
She laughs, actually laughs and the sound is the best thing I've heard in years.
"We're supposed to be documenting this for social media," she reminds me. "Contract requirements."
"I don't care about the contract."
"You paid a thousand dollars for this contract."
"Best money I ever spent." I kiss her again, softer this time. "But you're right. We should probably maintain some pretense of actually watching movies."
We head back to the theater room, but everything's different now. The air feels charged. Dangerous. Like we've crossed a line we can't uncross.
Isla settles back on the couch, and this time when I sit next to her, I pull her against me. She tenses for a second, old instincts, then relaxes into my side.
I restart the movie, but I couldn't tell you what happens in the next hour. All I'm aware of is Isla tucked against me, her head on my shoulder, her hand resting on my chest.
Halfway through the second movie, Sunset Boulevard, her choice, she speaks.
"I should probably take a photo. For Instagram."
"Probably."
She pulls out her phone and angles it to capture us on the couch together. I'm looking at the screen, but she's looking at me. The photo captures the moment before she realizes she's been caught staring.
She posts it immediately. Caption: Date 3/5: Movie marathon with someone who has surprisingly good taste in film noir. #ThornhillGala #OldHollywood #Complicated
"Complicated," I read over her shoulder.
"Well, we are."
"Fair point." I kiss the top of her head without thinking. The gesture feels natural. Easy. "For what it's worth, I think complicated is better than enemies."
"Much better." She pauses the movie. "Sebastian, I need to say something."
My stomach drops. Here it comes. The retraction. The realization that this was a mistake.
"Okay."
"I'm giving you this chance. Really giving it to you. But I need you to understand, if you hurt me again, if this turns out to be another game, I won't recover from it. I'll transfer schools if I have to. I'll do whatever it takes to never see you again."
The threat should scare me. Instead, it makes me more determined.
"I won't hurt you. Not again. Not ever." I turn her face toward mine. "You're the only thing in my life I've ever actually chosen. Everything else, Thornhill, the Legacy Council, the expectations, that was decided before I was born. But this? You? This is mine. And I'm not going to fuck it up."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She kisses me again, and this time the doubt stays quiet. Her mouth slows, presses with intent. I slide a hand to her waist and pull her closer. She goes easily, settling onto my lap like the choice finished forming before I touched her.
My hands trace her body, not rushing, learning her through heat and breath. She shifts, closer, knees braced on either side of mine. Her fingers hook into my shirt, tug once, then stay there as if to anchor herself.
I kiss her neck. She tilts her head, offering more, a soft sound leaving her throat. Her body answers before her mind interferes. She moves against me, deliberate, unafraid. I hold her there, palms firm, claiming the moment without words.
For tonight, belief feels solid enough to sit on my lap and breathe me in.
We don’t even know when Sunset Boulevard finishes, as we continue kissing. She finally pulls away from me.
"I should go," she says around one AM, but she doesn't move.
"You should," I agree, also not moving.
"My friends are waiting for a text. To make sure you didn't murder me."
"Smart friends."
"The smartest." She finally sits up, reluctantly. "I really do need to go. Early shift tomorrow."
"I'll drive you."
"It's late—"
"I'm driving you. Non-negotiable."
We make our way downstairs. The party in the main house has died down to a few stragglers. No one sees us leave, which is probably for the best. I'm not ready to share this, whatever this is, with the rest of campus yet.
The drive back to her dorm is quiet. Comfortable. Isla's hand finds mine on the center console, and I lace our fingers together like it's the most natural thing in the world.
When I park outside her building, she doesn't immediately get out.
"Thank you," she says. "For tonight. For the poetry. For being honest."
"Thank you for giving me a chance I definitely don't deserve."
"You're right. You don't." But she's smiling. "Two more dates, Thornhill. Don't waste them."
"I won't."
She leans across the console and kisses me one more time, quick and sweet and full of promise. Then she's gone, disappearing into her dorm building before I can process what just happened.
I sit in my car for a long time, my lips still tingling, my chest tight with something that feels dangerous like hope.
My phone buzzes with a text from Marcus: Did you survive?
I text back: Better than survive. I think I might actually have a chance.
Marcus: Don't fuck it up.
Sebastian: Working on it.
I drive back to the Legacy House in a daze. When I get to my room, I see Isla's already posted another photo, a selfie of her in her dorm, smiling genuinely for the first time in any of our date photos.
Caption: Date 3 complete. Status: Complicated but maybe in a good way? #ThornhillGala #PlotTwist
The comments are already flooding in.
OMG you're smiling for real
I ship it
Character development for Sebastian Thornhill???
I screenshot her post and send it to her: You're smiling.
Her response comes immediately: Don't get used to it.
Me: Too late.
Isla: Go to sleep, Sebastian. We both have early mornings.
Me: Goodnight, Isla.
Isla: Goodnight.
I fall asleep with my phone in my hand, her words still on my screen, and for the first time in two years, I'm not haunted by the memory of her rejection.
I'm haunted by the possibility of her acceptance and that's infinitely more terrifying, but also infinitely more worth fighting for.