It’s a stick figure drawing—simple enough, innocent, and devastatingly sweet. Teddy stands in the middle, a bright yellow smile scribbled on his face. Beside him is Sebastian, tall, with big hands, and Diesel drawn at his feet. And on Teddy’s other side, hand in hand, is me. Wearing a pink dress. A big smile. Right there, next tohisfamily.
“Oh,” I breathe, the word catching halfway up my throat. My heart squeezes painfully, and my eyes sting.
“What’s wrong?” Sebastian’s voice is immediately edged with panic.
“Nothing, nothing.” I swipe under my eyes, failing miserably. “I’m fine.” I turn to Teddy, forcing a smile. “Wow, sweets. This is such a great drawing.”
He twists his hands together. “Thank you.”
And then it happens. The tears I’ve been holding back all day come rushing forward, hot and unrelenting.
Sebastian’s words are hesitant, unsure. “Uh… Liv?”
God, the way he says my name. I could live in that sound forever. He sets whatever utensil he was holding down on the bench, crosses the room to stand in front of me, tipping my chin up with gentle fingers, inspecting me like he’s trying to locate the malfunction.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, laughing weakly through the tears. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”
“Olivia,” he says gently, “you don’t need to apologise for crying.”
My heart clenches at how calm he sounds. Like it’s okay. LikeI’mokay.
Teddy looks up at me, wide-eyed. “Why are you sad?”
I shake my head, sniffling. “I’m not sad. I’m just… really happy you drew me. It’s beautiful.”
And now I’m crying harder, which I can only laugh at, because this is so embarrassing.
Sebastian stares, clearly unsure whether to comfort or call for backup. “Are you… laughing?” he asks, bewildered. “Because I genuinely can’t tell what’s happening right now.”
A hiccup bursts out of me, half-sob, half-laugh. “Neither can I. I think I’ve completely lost the plot.”
He exhales slowly, lips twitching. “Right. Hormones, then.”
Normally, that line would’ve earned him a death stare and a strongly worded lecture about male audacity, but I’m too tired, too fragile, and honestly, too busy trying not to cry again to be mad. He’s not wrong, anyway. My mood swings could rival a damn cyclone.
I nod furiously. “Hormones.”
His lips press together in an effort not to smile. “Got it. Do you, uh… need a hug?”
That does me in. I nod again, and he’s instantly wrapping me in his arms. Big, warm, solid arms that make every bad feeling momentarily disappear. My forehead presses into his chest, and the scent of him—soap, smoke, onions, and something steady—wraps around me. His hand moves slowly up and down my back, fingers trailing through the ends of my hair.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs.
And for a second, I almost believe him. By the time I pull back, his shirt is streaked with mascara, tears, and possibly a hint of snot. “Sorry for completely ruining your shirt.”
He glances down at the mess, then back at me. “I’ve got others.”
I swipe at my eyes, where my mascara has no doubt smudged. “I probably look like a raccoon.”
The corner of his mouth curves. “Still beautiful.”
My breath catches, and my brain stutters. He can’t just say that. Not to me. Not when I’m this fragile. I shoot him a look that’s supposed to be a glare, but he doesn’t flinch. He just staresback with that grounded patience that makes me want to scream and melt all at once.
“Just being honest, Trouble.” His voice is low enough to sink beneath my skin.
Dinner ends without any major drama, which, in this house, feels like a small miracle. Once the last fork is scraped and Teddy sprints off toward the bathroom, yelling something about bubbles and pirate shampoo, I finally breathe again. The emotional wreckage of earlier has settled. Mostly. I head to the fridge, needing cold water like it might wash away everything I’ve felt tonight. I twist the cap and shut the fridge door, and staring right at me is a sticky note, slapped on crookedly.
Rookie at 8. ;) I’ll handle the snacks, and the massage you’re pretending you don’t need.
