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OLIVIA

I should go upstairs.

Sleep.

But I’m still here.

Still watching him.

Like my body doesn’t care what the rules are. Like my heart already decided. And my head’s still pretending there’s a choice left to make.

Sebastian hasn’t moved.

He’s slouched low in his chair, one arm hanging over the side, legs stretched out, jaw shadowed and tight.

He’s been all steel since the day we met. The kind of man who builds walls thick enough to fool the world—but never quite himself. Guarded. Quiet. Shut down in the way men get when grief’s been sitting on their chest for too long and no one ever taught them how to let go.

But tonight, he let me see it.

Just a crack. Just enough to let some of the light bleed through.

And I don’t think he knows what that did to me.

I want to reach across this table and press my hand to his chest.Feel the warmth of his skin. The rhythm beneath it. Something real and steady. Something his.

God, I want him.

No, it’s not just want anymore.

It’s need. A low, aching pull lodged under my ribs that won’t let go.

And I’m sitting here, one breath away from saying fuck everything —the rules, the lines, the job?—

Just to see what it feels like to fall into him.

I don't have the strength or energy to keep choosing what’s right over what I need.

Because this week has been hell.

Calle’s family. The locker room full of men barely holding it together. And me—pretending I’m not falling apart just to keep them steady.

The grief isn’t mine, but it clings anyway. Quiet and heavy. Unshakeable.I’ve been absorbing it like secondhand smoke.

And I’m tired.

Not just end-of-the-day tired.

Soul-tired. Pretending-I'm-okay tired.

Tired of keeping my distance. Of pretending that this ache in my chest is something I can ignore if I just focus hard enough on everyone else.

Sebastian shifts in his chair, runs a hand along the back of his neck, like he’s trying to shake something off. His gaze flicks to mine, lingers just a second too long, too deep, too full of words unsaid, touches that never happened.

“It’s late,” he says, voice rough.

I nod, but my palm smooths down the front of my thigh, slow and aimless, like I need something to do with my hands besides reach for him. “Yeah,” I murmur. “Should try to sleep.”

He stands first. Slow. Shoulders tight, hands tucked into the front pockets of his hoodie.

I follow, my movements careful, too aware of the space between us—and how badly I want to close it.

The restaurant’s quiet now. Most of the tables are empty, the servers finishing up their rounds. Lights dimmed low, the clink of glass and soft music the only things filling the space between our footsteps.

I feel him at my side, his presence warm and steady. Like a pull I’m too tired to fight anymore.

We move through the hotel lobby. Past the front desk. Toward the elevators tucked in the corner beneath the recessed lights and polished steel.

He presses the button. Doesn’t look at me.

The doors open with a soft ding.

We step inside.

Still silent.

He turns toward the panel and glances over. “What floor?”

My voice is quieter than it should be. “Twenty-four.”

He presses it. Then fifteen for himself.

The doors slide shut with a soft hiss, and we both shift toward the back wall. We don’t speak. Don’t even look at each other. Just lean back in sync, silence pressing in around us like a held breath.

His hoodie brushes against my arm—barely a graze—but it feels like contact. Real contact. My skin lights up where it lingers.

I keep my eyes fixed on the panel, watching the floor numbers glow red, but every sense is tuned to him. The faint rise and fall of his chest. The subtle shift of his weight.

Then his hand moves. Just slightly.

The back of it brushes mine.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

A spark shoots straight through me—low, hot, and immediate.

His hand stays near mine. Not pressing. Not pushing. Just there .

I want to curl my fingers into his. Slide our palms together and feel what it’s like not to hold this ache alone.

The elevator slows. A soft jolt underfoot.

Floor fifteen.

The doors begin to open.

He doesn’t move.

Just stands there, eyes forward, breath shallow. Then he exhales—slow, rough—and turns toward me just enough that I see the edge of his jaw tighten.

“Goodnight, Olivia.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

He steps out.

He’s barely past the threshold when his name tears out of me.

“Sebastian.”It’s breathy. Raw. Laced with more than I meant to say.

He stops.

The doors start to close.

But his hand shoots out—fast, sure—slamming against the edge to stop them.

They slide back open.

His hand braces on the doors, chest rising and falling like he’s standing in a fight he doesn’t know how to win. His eyes find mine—and for a second, neither of us says a thing.

My throat tightens. The words are there, clawing their way up.

I don’t plan them. Don’t rehearse. I just let them slip, low and raw, before I can stop myself.

“Don’t go.”