Page 97 of Second Sin

I swipe my palms down the sides of my dress and check the mirror near the coat rack. I went with a deep navy wrap dress, subtle makeup, hair pulled back at the nape of my neck. It’s polished. Professional.

And a little bit for him.

Even if I won’t say it out loud.

The room starts to fill. I greet donors, thank volunteers, exchange polite smiles. People are happy. Engaged. Focused on the cause.

I’m doing what I came here to do.

But when I see him across the room—black fitted suit, crisp white shirt, no tie—something inside me knocks loose.

He’s talking to Coach. Calm. Stoic. Like he’s mastered the art of being present without being available. Like the things we whispered in the dark and held onto with desperate hands never happened.

Except I know they did.

I feel them in the way my breath catches when his gaze lifts and finds mine.

For a second, we just stare.

Then he starts walking toward me.

I brace myself.

"You look incredible," he says, low enough that no one else hears.

"Thanks. You clean up well."

A beat passes. The air between us heavy.

"You nervous?" I ask.

"A little. Fucking hate microphones."

"You’ll do great," I say softly.

He studies my face like he’s searching for something. A hint. A clue. Proof I’m still in this.

And I am. God, I am.

I just want More.

Not more time. Not more sex or sleepovers or soft mornings with coffee.

I want him.Allof him.

The parts he hides behind quiet. The weight he carries in his shoulders. The thoughts that make him clench his jaw when he thinks I'm not looking. The nightmares that leave him restless and muttering my name like an apology.

I want the things he doesn’t say out loud. The fears. The memories. The wreckage.

I want the truth—not because I need to fix it, but because I want to hold it with him. Because whatever this is between us, it’s real enough to ache. Real enough that I’m scared of how much I’ll miss him if he keeps slipping further away.

Coach steps up to the mic. The low hum of conversation softens, then stills.

He starts with a few words about the foundation—community, healing, outreach.

Around me, people begin to take their seats. Chairs scrape gently against the floor. Laughter fades into polite quiet. Wine glasses are refilled. Phones are tucked away.

Beside me, Sebastian shifts too. Straightens his jacket. Shoulders squared, jaw tight like it always is when he’s about to step into something uncomfortable.

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