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SEBASTIAN

T he grainy footage loops. Black-and-white. Timed stamp blinking in the corner. Static in the feed.

And there he is. A kid—fifteen, maybe sixteen—shoulders hunched, hoodie pulled low, moving with all the confidence of someone who’s done this before. Head down. Spray can in hand. Quick. Sloppy. Angry.

ASSHOLE.

SNAKE.

DIE.

The words slash across the side of my car in jerky, hateful strokes. I watch him cap the can, then disappear into the shadows of the underground garage.

"Slipped in with a family of four," the building manager says, tapping the monitor with a chewed-up pen. "Fifth floor. We’ve talked to them—said they didn’t know him. Kid just blended in. Took the elevator down, sprayed the car, and left the same way."

"Any ID on him yet?"

"Cops have the footage. But…"

But it’s a long shot.

I nod once, jaw tight, then thank him and leave.

It wasn’t Elise’s husband.

Wasn’t my past crawling out of the grave.

And that should be a relief.

Instead, it just makes me feel like an idiot. Paranoid. Weak.

I pulled away from her. Again.

Let ghosts dictate how I treat the only woman who’s ever seen through the wreckage and still wanted in.

Fucking brilliant.

I don’t go up to my apartment. I drive my rental car to the rink without thinking. Just muscle memory and the ache in my chest steering me. Tell myself I’m checking in. That it’s about routine. Stability.

But it’s just about seeing her .

Through the open door of her office, I spot Olivia.

Head bowed over a clipboard, pen tapping lightly against her lip.

Boxes of merch stacked to one side. Flyers fanned out like paper petals across her desk.

There’s a crease in her brow, small but deep.

She looks focused. Pulled tight from the inside.

I knock.

She glances up.

A smile tugs at her lips, but it’s not the kind that reaches her eyes. Not distant. Just guarded. Like she’s not sure what version of me she’s going to get.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey."

I shift my weight, thumb tapping against my leg. "You look busy."

"Charity prep. Coach is getting an ulcer just thinking about the logistics."

I nod. "He told me I’m speaking. Didn’t exactly ask."

"It’s a good thing," she says.

Silence stretches.

Then she stands and steps around the desk, her fingers brushing my forearm. Just enough pressure to still me.

I freeze. Not because I don’t want her to touch me, but because I do. So fucking much it’s pathetic.

She’s right there. And I can see it—that quiet fatigue under her eyes. The way her mouth tugs down like she’s carrying too much alone. I want to say something—make a joke, an apology, anything to bridge the distance I created.

But the words don’t come. They sit useless in my throat, too heavy, too late.

"You should go," she says quietly. “Before someone sees.”

I nod, but I make it three steps before the weight in my chest has me turning around, and walking back into her office, then shut the door behind me.

She turns fast. Eyes wide. Lips parting like she’s halfway to a breath or a protest—maybe both.

I reach for her face, hands framing her jaw like she might break apart if I hold her wrong. And I kiss her.

Quick. Rough. Real.

She sighs against my mouth. A soft exhale that makes my chest ache.

When she pulls back, her hands press gently against my chest. "Go," she whispers. "Before we both forget where we are."

My forehead rests against hers for a beat. Then I step back.

I open the door again, the light from the hallway spilling across the floor like a line I shouldn’t have crossed.

I cross it anyway.

Not because I’m ready to let go?—

Because I don’t trust myself not to stay.