Page 10 of Second Sin

Not because I’m ready.

Because I don’t have a choice.

I make my way through the hall, slow and deliberate, like I’m not two seconds from turning back around. Like I’m not already rehearsing excuses to ditch this and lose myself in the weight room instead. I tell myself it’s just another box to tick. Another way to keep Coach off my back. But there’s a weight in my chest that hasn’t let up since she looked at me in the gym like she saw too much.

I show up late. On purpose. Just enough to make it clear I don’t want to be here, but not enough to give Coach a reason to bench me.

She’s sitting behind the desk, typing something. Her hair’s pulled back today. No smile. No small talk.

“Wilde,” she says without looking up.

I grunt in response and sink into the chair across from her. I keep my gaze low, somewhere near her desk, pretending not to see the curve of her upper lip or the quiet focus she wears when she types. She doesn’t look up right away, and I’m grateful—because for some reason, meeting her gaze feels like handing over something I’m not ready to give.

A minute ticks by. Then another.

The silence scrapes at my nerves. I rub my knuckles—bruised, swollen, throbbing like they remember the hit I didn’t pull back on. It’s not just the pain. It’s what’s behind it. Restlessness. Frustration. Like I’m being cornered and asked to feel things I’ve spent years burying.

“You hurt your hand,” she says finally, nodding to the bruising.

I flex my fingers. “Nothing serious.”

“Let me see.”

I hesitate, but she’s already standing. She comes around her desk, eyes focused, calm but direct. When I finally hold out my hand, she doesn’t flinch at the grotesque mess I made of it.

She studies it, then moves to a small fridge tucked into the corner of the room. A second later, she returns with an ice pack, handing it too me.

I catch the faintest whiff of her scent—vanilla, clean skin, something subtly floral. It hits hard. Too hard. My gaze flicks down, catches on the freckles scattered across her forearms, the delicate lines of her wrist. Details I shouldn’t notice.

I grunt, "Thanks."

She doesn’t say anything—just steps away, back toward her desk.

I don’t mean to look.

But I do.

The sway of her hips. The way her skirt clings just enough. Controlled. Composed. Like the rest of her.

Even her walk is quiet confidence. No rush, no extra effort. Just natural. Unbothered.

I drag my gaze away, jaw tight.

“So,” she says, calm and steady, like always, “are you this talkative with everyone, or am I just lucky?”

The corner of my mouth twitches, almost a smile, and I hate how easy it is for her to disarm me. “Depends who’s asking.”

She exhales a quiet laugh and eases back in her chair watching me. “You don’t have to talk, Sebastian. But if you do, you might find out that you don’t have to keep hurting to feel something, either.”

It’s not what she says. It’s how she says it. Steady. No pity. Just… calm. Like if I let the dam break, she’d hold the pieces without flinching. And that terrifies me more than anything.

I stare at the floor. “You think you’ve got me figured out already?”

“No,” she says. “But I think you’re tired. And angry. And probably lonelier than you let on.”

My jaw tightens. I don’t want her to be right.

“I don’t need pity,” I mutter.

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