Page 34

OLIVIA

T he shirt I slept in smells like Sebastian.

Warm cotton. A faint trace of cologne. And something else—something only him, like ice and heat that’s settled into the fabric.

I tug it down over my hips and pause at the edge of the bed.

My thong’s halfway across the floor, abandoned somewhere between late-night laughter and the ridiculous excuse for a dinner we tried to cook.

I step into it, smooth the waistband into place, then run my fingers through my hair and breathe.

I open the bedroom door and slip into the hall.

At the stove, shirtless, sweatpants riding low on his hips, Sebastian stands with his back to me, hair sticking up like he fought sleep and lost. Morning light slants across his shoulders, casting warmth along the muscular lines of his back and arms.

I lean against the wall, arms folded. “You’re really tempting fate with that stove.”

A glance back, a slow rake of his eyes over me, a smile tugging at his mouth. “I figured eggs and toast were in my skill set.”

Muscles shift beneath golden skin as he turns back to the pan. The curve of his spine disappears into those low-slung sweats, and something slow and hot curls in my belly.

I pad across the tile, toes curling against the cool floor.

Two plates land on the counter, one after the other. He sets them down and steps in, hand finding my hip—warm, easy, like he’s done it a hundred times.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice low, gaze steady.

“Yeah.” Better than okay. The kind of good that settles into your bones and stays.

A soft kiss lands just beneath my jaw. “Good.”

I slide onto the stool as he moves past, his hand trailing along my side. The heat of it lingers. Without asking, he pours my coffee—black, the way I like it—and slides it over.

We eat side by side. Knees brushing with every small shift. His thigh pressed solid and warm against mine, like an anchor I didn’t ask for but can’t seem to pull away from.

His palm rests on my leg—broad, casual, like it belongs there. His thumb moves once, a lazy stroke just above my knee, and my breath hitches before I can stop it.

Every inch of me is aware of that touch. Of him.

My body responds in a way it never has with anyone else—like it recognizes something I haven’t caught up to yet. Like it’s already his.

And for a flicker of a second, it feels like a betrayal.

Because Ethan and I had something steady. Easy, quiet, real. But it was never this. Never heat curling under my skin or want that bordered on hunger.

And maybe it’s not fair.

To compare.To take what I had with Ethan—years of trust and rhythm and gentle love—and hold it up against this wild, consuming thing I don’t even have words for yet.

A hand lifts to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering.

“You’ve got that face again,” he murmurs.

“What face?”

“The one that says you’re thinking too much.”

The truth presses up hard against my ribs—sharp, insistent.

“It’s just been a long time since anything felt this good. That’s all.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at me—really looks at me. Like whatever he was about to say might ruin everything if he says it out loud. His jaw tightens. His throat works like he’s trying to swallow it down.

Then his fingers squeeze gently on my thigh. Not possessive. Just...grounding.

A quiet nod.

He glances at the clock on the stove. “Shit,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve got to leave in twenty. Flight to Winnipeg.”

“Right. Forgot you’ve got an away game.”

He shifts, turning just enough to face me. One hand lifts, sliding to the back of my head, fingers weaving through my hair with a kind of deliberate care that makes my pulse stutter.

Our mouths meet in a kiss that’s deep and unhurried. He moves against me with quiet intensity, like he’s not trying to convince me of anything. Just be with me. Just feel.

My hands drift to his stomach. Muscle tightens under my touch, his breath catching slightly between us. He leans in closer, deepening the kiss—not rushed, not desperate. Focused.

His forehead rests against mine when we part, both of us still breathing a little too fast. His thumb strokes the base of my neck, slow and steady.

A long beat stretches between us. His thumb keeps moving, like he’s keeping himself tethered. His jaw’s tight. Eyes on mine like he wants to say something—but doesn’t.

“Need to get ready,” he says on a sigh, then presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “I’ll drive you home on the way to the airport.”

He disappears down the hall, and I slide off the stool, rinse our plates, and load them into the dishwasher.

In the bedroom, the shower’s already running. Water hits tile in a steady rhythm, steam curling from beneath the bathroom door.

A smile tugs at my lips when I see my clothes folded at the foot of the bed. Pants, shirt, socks—stacked in a loose pile. He must’ve picked them up while I was in the kitchen.

I dress quickly. There’s a faint stain on the sleeve, orangey-red, and I brush at it with my fingers.

No luck.

“That’s not coming out,” comes his voice behind me.

He’s leaning against the doorway, towel slung low around his waist, hair damp and a little messy like he barely bothered with it. His chest is still flushed from the shower, drops of water sliding down his stomach.

God, he’s sexy.

It hits low and hard—immediate. No build-up. Just want curling through me like it’s got nowhere else to go.

I clear my throat, eyes dropping to the stain. “Well. At least the shirt had a good night.”

He chuckles and leans his shoulder against the doorframe. “You could always leave some stuff here. Just makes sense.”

I glance at him, smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Practical,” I say lightly, like my heart didn’t just trip over itself.

He nods once, like that settles it, then pushes off the doorframe and disappears back into the bathroom.

In the foyer by the elevator, I slip on my shoes, run a hand through my hair in the mirror, and catch my reflection looking softer than I remember.

Duffle over one shoulder, keys in hand, he rounds the corner. Tailored slacks, crisp button-down, blazer sharp across broad shoulders. His collar’s damp. Hair not quite dry.

God, he looks good.

And lighter, somehow. Like whatever weight he usually carries on his shoulders got left behind with the steam in the bathroom mirror. There’s still something sharp in him—but it’s quieter now. Unarmed.

He presses the elevator button and doesn’t say anything, just steps close enough that our arms brush.

The doors slide open. We step inside.

He leans in and presses a quick kiss to my temple, hand settling at the small of my back like it’s instinct. I turn toward him, and his mouth finds mine again—slow and soft.

The elevator hums as we descend to the parking level.

The doors part, we step out, and his expression shifts in an instance. Jaw locking. Shoulders going tight.

I follow his gaze.

Oh my God.

His matte black Audi R8 is completely trashed.

Red spray paint scrawled across the hood: ASSHOLE. More stretched along the side in angry, uneven strokes: SNAKE. DIE.

Tires slashed. Windshield cracked, a spiderweb of shattered glass catching the light.

“Your car,” I whisper.

His jaw ticks. Eyes like ice. The silence is loud.

“Fuck,” he says finally.

I glance around. “There have to be cameras, right? No one gets down here without clearance.”

His phone is already in his hand. Thumbs moving fast. Somewhere else now.

Without a word, he turns and walks back into the elevator. I follow.

The doors slide shut. The soft hum of the elevator rising is the only sound between us.

Whatever he’s feeling, it’s buried. Locked behind those storm grey eyes.

“Kane’s on his way,” he says finally, voice clipped. “He’ll get me to the airport. Barely.” He exhales through his nose. “I’ll order you an Uber.”

“I can do it myself,” I say. “But…your car. You need to?—”

“It’s fine,” he mutters, gaze fixed straight ahead.

But it’s not.

His jaw keeps ticking. Hands curling into fists. The lightness that was there just a few minutes ago is gone.

We step into the lobby—glass and marble and money polished to a shine. The concierge glances up from his desk, expression flickering when he sees him.

He walks over, calm on the surface. Voice low. I don’t catch the words, just the tone—measured, detached, guarded.

When Sebastian returns, whatever warmth lingered between us in the elevator—it’s gone.

His walls are back up. The quiet kind. Impenetrable.

I move beside him, voice quiet. “Who would do something like that?”

He exhales through his nose. “I don’t know.”

“Has anything like this happened before?”

His jaw tightens. “No.”

I hesitate. “Do you think this was personal?”

That’s when he snaps. Not loud—but sharp, raw.

“I don’t fucking know, okay?”

The words land hard. Not shouting—but enough to sting.

I flinch. The hurt isn’t sharp. It’s quiet. Low in my chest. Heavy.

There’s nothing to say to that, so I don’t. Just nod once, more to myself than to him, and take a step back.

My phone’s already in my hand. Fingers moving fast across the screen—more for something to do than any real urgency. The Uber’s on its way.

Several minutes later, a black Cadillac Escalade pulls up to the curb. Kane acknowledges me with a small wave, eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

Sebastian opens the back door and tosses his bag inside. Doesn’t get in right away—just shuts the door and turns toward me.

“I’ll text you later.” Clipped. Distant. Like he’s already halfway gone.

“Are you…okay?” I ask, cautious. Like the wrong tone might make him shut down completely.

His eyes meet mine for the briefest second. “Yeah.”

But it’s the kind of yeah that says: don’t ask again.

He steps in close and presses a kiss to my forehead—quick, distant. More reflex than affection.

Then he circles to the passenger side, gets in, and the door shuts with a final, hollow thud.

And just like that, he’s gone.