8. Sebastian
Sebastian
Every part of Flick is heaven. Her lips. Her delicate shoulders. Her soft skin.
I want to explore each inch of her body with my hands and my mouth, taking my time and memorizing every reaction, every soft sound she makes. But I keep my hands steady on her waist as we kiss, her breath intermingling with mine.
Fire sears through my body, heat pooling low in my belly. Part of me wants nothing more than to lift her up, press her against the shed wall, and let this desperate need take over.
That’s also the last thing I want.
The first time we make love—God, please let there be a first time—needs to be meaningful. Somewhere soft and safe where I can worship her properly. Not a rushed encounter at my workplace that smells like antiseptic and dog shampoo.
With her hands twisting in my shirt, though, my resolve wavers as she pulls the fabric over my head. Her palms smooth down my chest, fingernails dragging lightly over my abs. The touch shoots straight through me. I pull her closer, feeling the perfect way her body fits against mine.
She shifts her hips, pressing tighter, and I groan into her mouth, certain I’ve just experienced heaven. But then I draw another shaky breath—proof I’m still very much alive. Alive and holding everything I never knew I needed.
I find the hem of her shirt. She helps me ease it off, careful of her arms. Then she’s pressed against me, only the thin lace of her bra between us. Need spirals through me, tangling with something deeper?—
The doorknob rattles. “Sebastian!” Rachel’s voice carries through the door. “I need disinfectant for exam room three. Sorry!”
Shit.
I break away from Flick’s mouth, swallowing the curse that wants to escape. “Sorry,” I murmur against her temple.
Her face is flushed, but amusement dances in her eyes. “Occupational hazard?”
“Be right there,” I call to Rach, grateful I remembered to lock the door. My hands are still shaking.
This is what I get for thinking the supplies shed would be romantic. Private, I’d thought. Neutral ground. I forgot we actually use this space. That the clinic is still open tonight.
We fumble back into our shirts. I grab the disinfectant, trying to calm my racing pulse. “Please don’t disappear on me.”
“Where would I go?” Her fingers brush mine as I walk past.
I walk backward to the door, drinking in the sight of her—hair mussed, lips swollen, that soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I don’t know. Sometimes I worry you’re too good to be real. Like I’ll wake up and find out I dreamed you.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Too much. Too honest. But she doesn’t pull back. Instead, something flickers across her face—understanding maybe, or recognition.
I slip out before I can say anything else that reveals how far gone I am.
The clinic hallway feels too bright after the dim shed. I jog through the back entrance, past the surgery suite, and up to reception. Rachel waits behind the front desk, trying and failing to hide her grin.
“Sorry about that. I texted, but?—”
“Phone’s on silent.” I set the bottle on the counter, avoiding her gaze. “I probably shouldn’t have brought her here.”
A tabby meows from its carrier in the waiting room. Mr. Zepper’s parrot squawks from his shoulder, bright green feathers ruffled. “Need any?—”
“Do not offer to help.” Rachel points at me. “You’re officially off duty.”
“Just checking on my patients.”
“Go back to your date.” She shoos me with her free hand. “Don’t keep that poor girl waiting.”
Heat creeps up my neck at her knowing look. “I would hate to.”
I retreat before she can tease me further. My body still hums with want as I hurry back to the shed. Twice as fast as I left.
Flick sits on the bench when I return, legs stretched out, rubbing her wrist absently. The motion is small, probably unconscious, but I notice. Just like I notice the careful way she holds her shoulders. The slight tension around her eyes.
“Sorry again.” I lock the door behind me, fighting the urge to pull her back into my arms immediately.
“Really, it’s fine.” Her smile draws me across the small space.
“Work never stops.” I reach down, take her hands gently, and help her stand. She rises smoothly, but then her whole body locks, breath catching sharp between her teeth.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” My heart slams against my ribs. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, it’s...” She bites her lower lip, clearly fighting to minimize whatever she’s feeling. “My chest is sore from dyeing all week. That’s all.”
“Oh.” The explanation doesn’t quite fit her reaction. Normal soreness doesn’t usually cause that kind of pain response. “Is it the arthritis flaring up?”
“Maybe.” She shakes her head, frustrated. “I overdid it this week. Three custom orders plus restocking for the farmers market. I’ll be fine once I get home, put some heat on it.”
“Let me drive you.” I’m already reaching to pack up our leftovers.
Her hand catches mine. “Sebastian, stop. You don’t need to do that.”
I still, turning to really look at her. “I know I don’t need to. I want to.” The words come out fiercer than intended. “I really care about you, Flick.”
Something shifts in her expression—surprise maybe, or fear. She opens her mouth, closes it, then looks away. “You’re sweet.”
The sadness in her voice hits me like cold water. What did I say wrong? But pushing won’t help, not when she’s already in pain.
“Thank you. Let’s focus on getting you home and comfortable. I don’t mind taking you.”
“I’ll be okay. Walking actually helps.” She collects her purse, movements careful. “And Pine Island’s hardly dangerous. No one’s going to mug me for hand-dyed yarn.”
I force a chuckle, but worry gnaws at me. The way she’s holding herself, the careful breathing—she’s managing something more than simple soreness. And she’s doing it alone.
Just like I’ve been doing since the divorce. Pushing through, pretending everything’s fine, never asking for help because that would mean admitting how much it all hurts.
“Text me when you get home?” I sound needy. I don’t care.
She rises on her toes, presses a gentle kiss to my lips. “Promise.”
“I had an amazing time tonight.” I find her hips, careful to keep my touch light. “I want to do this again. Soon. Without the interruptions.”
“Agreed.” She laughs, but it’s strained.
I hand her the leftover containers. “Take these. And Flick? If you need anything tonight—ice packs, heating pads, company—just call.”
“Thank you. I’ll be fine.” But her smile wobbles at the edges.
I watch her go, each step measured and cautious. She pauses at the corner, glances back, waves. Then the darkness swallows her, and I’m left standing in the doorway of my supplies shed, wondering what she’s not telling me.
And what I’m not brave enough to tell her.
Like how the divorce nearly broke me. How I’ve been running ever since, filling every hour with work so I don’t have to feel the failure. How she’s the first person in years who makes me want to slow down, to risk being still.
My phone buzzes with a text from Rach.
Stop brooding and go home. Yes, I can see you from the window.
But I wait another ten minutes, just in case Flick changes her mind. Just in case she needs me.
She doesn’t come back.
When I finally lock up the shed, I’m already making a list. Things that might help with rheumatoid arthritis pain. Ways to make her life easier without making her feel weak. Because I recognize that fierce independence—it’s the same wall I’ve built around myself.
The difference is, she makes me want to take mine down.
I just hope she’ll let me help her with hers.