I let my head fall back against the couch, eyes closing for a second. “Pretty sure Coach wants my head on a fucking platter by now.”
She lifts one hand and presses her fingers gently to the side of my face, grounding me.
“They’re worried about you,” she says. “In spite of all your bullshit attempts at pushing people away, you’ve got a lot of people who care.”
I grunt, but it’s not dismissive. Just tired. And yeah...she’s right.
“I’ll call,” I murmur. “Later.”
A pause. Then I meet her eyes again. “Right now, I just need...this.”
"Okay." She nods. No hesitation. No questions. Just that steady kind of knowing that’s become the only solid thing in my life.
Then, softer, “Do you remember the last thing you said to me?”
It takes me a second. She meansbefore—before the kid, before the fallout, before I went silent and disappeared into my own mess.
“Yeah,” I say eventually, voice low. “I meant it.”
She exhales, resting her forehead against mine. Her breath warm. Her presence steady.
“I’m still angry at you, Sebastian.”
I pull back just a little. Not far. But it’s instinct—the pressure starts to build again, tightening in my chest like a warning.
But she doesn’t let me go.
Her hands come up, palms framing my jaw, holding me in place. Eyes steady on mine.
“Not for your past,” she says. “Not for the headlines or the chaos.”
A beat. A sigh.
“I’m angry that you didn’t trust me to love you when you were at your worst.”
That undoes me.
I drop my head and let the breath shake out of me.
“You mean it?”
She lifts my chin with two fingers, gentle but firm, like she needs me toseeher.
A soft smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
"Yes, Sebastian. I love you."
It’s like getting punched in the chest—hard.
My heart doesn’t know what to do with it. It aches. Burns. Swells so fast it feels like it might tear through my ribs.
Never had this. Never let myself believe I could.
And I don’t know how to breathe through it.
Don’t know how to hold it without shaking.
But I want it. God, I want it so bad it fucking hurts.