18. Sebastian
Sebastian
“Here’s your tablet.” I reach across Flick’s nightstand to plug the charger into the wall, careful not to jostle the bed.
The soft glow from her bedside lamp catches the exhaustion etched around her eyes, and my chest tightens.
“Your phone’s right here too, fully charged in case you need anything while I’m?—”
“Sebastian.” Her voice carries that particular mix of fondness and exasperation she’s perfected over these past few days. The corner of her mouth lifts despite the pain I know she’s fighting. “I’ve got it. Thank you. Remember, I’ve been dealing with flares on my own for years.”
The words land like a gentle rebuke, and I pause mid-reach for the water glass I was about to refill. She’s right, of course. She’s managed without me before. But something about that independence, that practiced self-sufficiency born from necessity rather than choice, makes my jaw clench.
I settle onto the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. Her hand finds mine automatically, our fingers interlacing like they belong that way. “And you shouldn’t have had to,” I say quietly.
The moment the words leave my mouth, I see her shoulders tense.
She turns her face toward the window, where rain streams down the glass in rivulets.
I’ve stepped in it—triggered that guilt she carries about keeping her chronic illness private, about the support system she’s denied herself by maintaining her walls.
“I didn’t mean—” I start, but she squeezes my hand.
“I know.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “It’s just... complicated.”
And it is. We both understand she’d have more help if she opened up to others, shared more. But that choice isn’t mine to make. What I can do is be here, present and willing, for whatever she needs.
It’s a role I find myself cherishing more than I expected.
Even now, with my practice overflowing, the emergency clinic chronically understaffed, and the sanctuary deal hanging by a thread, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here on the edge of her bed, holding her hand while rain drums against the windows.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent years filling every moment with work, with purpose, with motion. Now I’m discovering the profound satisfaction of simply being still with someone who matters.
“I need to mention something,” I say after a moment, running my thumb along the side of her hand. “About the person who’s been contacting you.”
Her eyebrows draw together, creating that little crease I’ve learned means she’s processing something she’d rather not think about. “What about them?”
“I think we should file a police report.”
She studies my face, those hazel eyes searching. “You really think it’s gotten to that point?”
“I do.” I keep my voice steady, even though my pulse quickens at the memory of her fear in the coffee shop.
“The messages were concerning enough, but after what happened the other day, it seems to be escalating. I don’t want to frighten you, but I can’t shake this feeling that we need to document everything. Get it on record.”
I expect pushback. Questions. Maybe even denial that it’s serious enough to involve law enforcement. Flick has a tendency to minimize threats to herself, to power through discomfort whether physical or emotional.
Instead, she’s quiet for a long moment, her gaze drifting back to the rain-washed window. When she finally speaks, her voice is surprisingly steady. “Okay.”
I blink. “Okay?”
A ghost of her usual smile touches her lips. “Yeah, okay. If you think we should go to the police, then let’s do it. I trust your judgment.”
The simple faith in those words hits me unexpectedly hard. Here’s this fiercely independent woman who’s built walls around her struggles, who’s carved out a successful life despite chronic pain, and she’s trusting me to help protect her. It’s humbling and terrifying and perfect all at once.
“We’ll go together,” I promise. “When you’re feeling better. We’ll pick a time that works for both of us, go down to the station, and file the report. Make sure they have all the messages, dates, everything documented.”
“Together,” she echoes, and there’s something in her voice that makes the word sound like more than just logistics.
I lean down and brush my lips against hers, gentle and brief. She tastes like the peppermint tea I brought her earlier, and underneath that, something uniquely Flick.
“Text me if you need anything,” I murmur against her mouth. “Anything at all. I don’t care what time it is.”
“Even if it’s three in the morning and I’ve decided I absolutely need pickle juice and Swedish Fish?” There’s a hint of her usual playfulness breaking through the fatigue.
“Especially then. I’ll raid every gas station on the island if I have to.”
She laughs softly, then winces as the movement aggravates something. I start to pull back, but she catches my wrist with her free hand, her touch feather-light against my skin.
“Thank you,” she says simply. “For all of this. For not making it weird or... I don’t know. For just being you.”
Standing, I press one more kiss to her forehead. “Rest. I’ll check on you later.” I force myself to leave the bedroom, pulling the door partially closed behind me.
Downstairs, darkness has swallowed Flick’s living room. I flick on the table lamp, and warm light spills across the space, illuminating Cat’s small form curled into an impossibly tight ball on the center cushion of the couch. Her purr rumbles like a tiny diesel engine, steady and content.
“Move over, couch hog.” I scratch behind her ear, and she leans into my touch without opening her eyes, her purr intensifying.
I sink onto the cushion beside her, careful not to disturb her too much, and pull out my phone. The weight of the device in my hand feels heavier than usual, loaded with all the unread emails and messages I know are waiting.
These past few days with Flick have been a revelation in more ways than one.
Taking care of her, being present for her needs, has filled something in me I didn’t realize was empty.
But woven through those moments of connection and purpose is a constant, thrumming anxiety about everything else in my life that’s threatening to implode.
My chest tightens just thinking about it.
Lil wants the money for the sanctuary land two months earlier than we agreed.
One of my primary investors pulled out last week—ten thousand dollars vanishing with an apologetic email about “reassessing financial priorities.” I’ve been working every angle I can think of, calling in favors, cold-contacting potential donors, sending email after email to anyone who might help bridge the gap.
And then there’s Flick’s stalker, whose escalation has my protective instincts in overdrive. Every creak of the house, every unexpected sound from outside, has me on edge.
I take a deep breath and open my email app, bracing myself. Maybe tonight will bring good news. Maybe someone will have responded positively to my inquiries. Maybe?—
The inbox loads. Seventeen new messages.
My heart sinks as I scan through them. Spam. A reminder about a dentist appointment I’ll have to cancel because who has time for preventive care when everything’s falling apart? A newsletter from a veterinary supply company. More spam. A polite rejection from a potential donor.
Nothing. Nothing useful or hopeful or even remotely encouraging.
“Better luck next time,” I mutter, closing the email app before I’m tempted to refresh it obsessively.
Cat stretches, extending one paw to rest against my thigh, and I absently stroke her soft fur. The repetitive motion is soothing, grounding me in this moment instead of letting my mind spiral into all the ways I’m failing.
The truth is, I’m burning out. Have been for months, maybe longer. But admitting that feels like admitting defeat, and I’ve never been good at that. I’ve always been the one who handles things, who pushes through, who finds solutions.
Except now I’m running on fumes, and I can feel myself starting to crack.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I tense until I see it’s from Rach:
Everything’s fine at the clinic. Stop worrying and focus on your girl.
I smile despite myself. Rach knows me too well.
Another text follows:
Seriously, Sebastian. The island won’t collapse if you take a few hours off. We’ve got this.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I’ve built my entire identity around being needed, being essential, being the one who never says no. The one who works the extra shifts, takes the difficult cases, pushes himself past reasonable limits because the work matters.
Sitting here in Flick’s quiet living room, with Cat purring against my leg and rain pattering against the windows, I’m forced to confront an uncomfortable truth: I don’t know who I am when I’m not in motion.
The emergency clinic is in full chaos mode when I walk through the door an hour later. The waiting room overflows with worried pet owners, their animals in various states of distress. The familiar scents and noises ground me, and despite my exhaustion, something in me shifts into gear.
This is where I know myself. Where the decisions are clear-cut and the purpose is unquestionable.
“Room one,” Rach calls out the moment she spots me, not even pausing her phone conversation. She holds up a piece of paper with one word scrawled across it: “Chocolate.”
I nod and head straight for the exam room, already mentally running through chocolate toxicity protocols. Inside, a yellow Lab lies on the floor next to his owner’s feet, panting and anxious.
“He got into my daughter’s Halloween candy,” the woman explains, wringing her hands. “At least a few of the fun-size bars. I didn’t know how serious?—”
“You did the right thing bringing him in,” I assure her, already beginning my examination. The Lab, whose collar reads ‘Buddy,’ gives me a hopeful look that clearly says he’d do it again given the chance.