“Sure. Uh, come inside. We can go into the storeroom.”
I lead him through the shop, past the circle where everyone waves with the kind of forced normalcy that fools no one. Hannah mouths “good luck” as we pass. The storeroom door closes behind us with a soft click, sealing us into a space that smells of hope and possibility.
The overhead bulb casts harsh shadows between the metal shelving units packed with inventory. I fidget with the light switch, then force my hands still. “So. We’re finally here.”
His forehead creases in that way it does when he’s processing something unexpected.
“Remember when I said we could come back here sometime and organize yarn?”
Understanding dawns across his face like sunrise over the harbor. “Oh.” The smile that breaks through is worth the awkwardness. “Yeah. I remember.”
“That feels like forever ago.” My hands don’t know what to do with themselves—waist, pockets, crossed arms. Nothing feels natural when every nerve is hyperaware of his presence.
The space between us thrums with unspoken words. I’ve rehearsed this conversation a hundred times while dyeing yarn, while lying awake listening to Cat’s purrs, while forcing myself not to text him at 2 AM when the steroids made sleep impossible.
“Yeah, a lot has happened, and I...” His voice catches like yarn on a rough edge. “I haven’t handled much of it well. We can do that now, if you like. Organize the yarn.”
The offer hangs between us, absurd and perfect. “Is that why you came over here?”
“Um, no.” His hand finds the back of his neck, fingers rubbing the tension there. “I’m sorry. Sorry for always trying to fix things without first asking what you need. I was trying to be solution-oriented. It’s the way I’ve always been and—well, not always. Since the divorce.”
The laugh that escapes him is hollow. “My brother called me out on it, actually. And he’s right. Ever since the divorce, I’ve just been go, go, go, trying to fix everything everywhere because it... it distracts me.”
The admission lands heavy. All this time, I’d built up his divorce as something clean, mutual, processed. Like a skein wound too tight, the truth is messier underneath.
“So, when you said you had worked through the divorce...” I let the sentence dangle, an invitation rather than a demand.
“I literally did that. I put in more and more hours at work.” The self-deprecation in his voice makes my chest ache—the emotional kind, not the physical. “I just didn’t realize what I was doing at the time.”
“Realized that you were using work as a coping mechanism?”
“Yeah.” His gaze drops to the floor, studying it like it holds answers. “I turned the job that I love into drudgery, something I don’t even want to do half the time now.”
“I get that.” My sneaker traces patterns on the worn carpet runner between the shelves. “I literally feel physical pain when I work too much.”
“You shouldn’t have to live like that.” The softness in his voice undoes something in me.
I meet his eyes, finding understanding there instead of pity. “I know. I’m slowing down. I really mean it. I’m also going to therapy to... learn better ways to cope with my situation.”
“You are?” His whole face transforms, genuine joy replacing the uncertainty. “Flick, that’s great.”
The salt of it burns—that he can be happy for me even after I pushed him away with both hands. What was I thinking, letting fear drive away something this real?
“I don’t think I’m opening the sanctuary.” The words burst from him like water through a dam.
My eyes go wide. “What?”
“I want to help animals. Of course I do, but—maybe that path isn’t for me. I already have the main practice and the emergency clinic, and...”
Guilt rolls off him in waves, completely undeserved.
“Sebastian.” My hand finds his arm before I can stop it. “It’s okay. I agree with that. You can’t help every single animal in the world, and the thinner you stretch yourself, the less you’ll be able to give to your patients.”
The touch sparks between us, electricity gathering where skin meets skin through the thin fabric of his scrubs. I pull back before I’m pulled under completely, but the phantom warmth lingers.
“Thank you.” His voice drops to that register that used to make me forget my own name. “I don’t want to be stretched thin anymore. I need to support myself more, I know, and I... I want to support you better. I’m sorry, Flick.”
The wave of emotion crashes over me without warning. My eyes burn, tears threatening to spill. I blink hard, trying to hold the dam, but one escapes anyway, tracking hot down my cheek.
