Seba doesn’t speak. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t tell me that I should’ve left or that I should’ve known better. I havespent so long pretending that I was fine, that I could handle everything, that I was strong enough. And yet, the moment I was finally free of him? My body stopped pretending.
I let out a hollow laugh, one that doesn’t quite feel like my own. “Isn’t that ironic?”
Seba’s brow furrows.
“All those years I spent with him, convincing myself it was fine,” I whisper. “That I could handle everything, That I could take it, that eventually he’d stop.” I exhale sharply. “And the second I was free? My body gave up on me.”
Seba’s jaw tightens. But he doesn’t argue or dismiss it. Because he knows this is my truth.
“Mariana,” His voice is softer now. Like he’s afraid of breaking me. My stomach twists. I don’t want pity. I don’t want to be looked at like something fragile.
“I’m not broken,” I bite out.
Seba moves before I can stop him. His hands come up, framing my face, thumbs brushing against my cheekbones.
“I know,” he murmurs.
That’s when I break. He doesn’t pull me in, he doesn’t press, but he’s there, waiting. He’s letting me decide, and so I do—I close the space between us, lifting onto my toes, pressing my lips to his.
The second I do, everything crashes, the grief, the fear. The weight of everything I have held in for so long. Seba exhales against my mouth, his hands sliding into my hair, holding me steady as I shatter.
The kiss is slow, deep, aching. Like a promise, like a new beginning. He moves with me. Not demanding or forceful. Just there, holding, reassuring, unraveling every tightly wound thread inside me.
I don’t know how to do this. How to love without fear. But with Seba? It doesn’t feel like fear at all. It feels like coming home.
Seba presses his forehead to mine, his breath warm, steady. “You’re safe,” he murmurs.
CHAPTER 18
Sebastian
After that kiss in the bakery, we barely made it to my house. The drive is a blur filled with stolen glances, breathless laughter, the heat of her hand in mine, squeezing, holding, like she’s afraid to let go. Like if she does, this moment might disappear.
I steal glimpses of her in the passing streetlights—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes dark with something unreadable. Wanting. Waiting.
Every second stretches between us, thick with anticipation, with everything we’ve held back for so damn long. By the time I pull into the driveway, my grip on the steering wheel is too tight, my pulse too loud, my body too aware that she’s right there.
We barely make it inside before we’re on each other again. It’s not careful or slow. It’s years of tension snapping all at once, years of wanting, years of holding back crashing into this single, undeniable moment.
Mariana’s hands are in my hair, gripping, pulling, dragging me deeper. Her mouth is urgent, searching. And I fucking let her. Because I know this isn’t just about wanting me, but about finally letting herself have something good. Something safe. Something that she wants, not something she’s afraid of.
I press her against the wall, my hands skimming down her sides, gripping her waist. She gasps into my mouth, her fingers fisting the fabric of my shirt, like she can’t get close enough.
My hands slide beneath her thighs, lifting her with ease—like they remember every inch of her, like touching her is something I was never meant to forget.
She wraps herself around me, locking her legs at my waist, fitting against me like she’s always belonged there. I begin to rub against her core. Her breath is ragged, her lips hot, reckless, demanding. Fuck, I never want this moment to end.
But then, she stills. Just for a second, but enough that I feel it, enough that I know. I slow instantly, my grip on her loosening, softening.
Her breath shudders against my lips, and I pull back just enough to see her. Her eyes are wild, dark, stormy. But beneath it all is fear. Not of me—Never of me, but of herself, of this, of what it means to finally want something again.
I cup her face, thumb brushing along her cheekbone. “Mariana,” I murmur, voice low, steady. “We don’t have to rush. We’ll go at whatever pace feels right for you. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Her fingers tighten against my chest. She shakes her head, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to stop.” Her voice is so quiet. But so damn sure. She’s not running. She’s choosing this. She’s choosing me.
I kiss her again, but this time, it’s different. It’s slower, deeper, memorizing every second of this. My hands move carefully over her, like she’s something rare, not because she’s fragile, but because she hasn’t been treated like she should be. And I’ll be damned if I don’t make her feel it now.
With shaking hands, I lift her shirt above her head, revealing her delicate curves and the soft skin of her neck. My fingers graze her collarbone and she shudders at my touch.
