His brow tightens, confusion bleeding into concern. “Olivia—”
That’s the third time now. It’s not sweetheart. Not Trouble. Just my name. Cold and clinical.
“It was never about the money,” I manage, and my voice finally breaks. Just a fraction, but enough. Something flickers across his face—regret, maybe, or something closer to guilt. That familiar haunted look, like he’s trying to fix a problem he created with hands that only know how to destroy. He shifts like he’s going to reach for me, but I take a step back before he can. Because if he touches me now, even the smallest brush of his hand, I’ll fall. I’ll crumble right in front of him. And I can’t let that happen. Not tonight. Not like this.
“I should go,” I say, softer this time. More to myself than to him. “It’s been a long night.”
He breathes out hard, like he’s wrestling with the same instinct—to say something, to do something, to close the space between us and make it all disappear. But there’s nothing left to say that won’t hurt. Nothing that’ll soften the truth.
“I meant what I said earlier,” I whisper, my voice cracking again as I look up at him. “About you.” His chest rises and falls heavily. “You don’t see it, but you’ve been surviving for so long, you don’t even know how to live anymore. And maybe that’s why this”—I gesture between us, at the ruins of what we could’ve been—“was never going to last.”
And that’s the part thatreallybreaks me. Not just that I believed in him, but that I said it out loud. I let the words passthrough my lips, let them take shape and grow. I told my mum about him. Not just in passing. Iconfidedin people. And now it was all for nothing.
That’s what guts me.
Because my family doesn’t hear much about the people I let in. Not unless it’s real. Not unless I’m already halfway gone. I told my mother, and she smiled like she knew I was falling, and now I get to explain why he wasn’t what I thought. How I got it wrong. Again.
There’s a slow, rising burn under my skin, something ugly and furious that coils in my stomach and claws its way up my spine. But I keep my expression even. Because I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t give him that piece, too. Still, I can’t ignore the ghosts of all the nights I stayed too late. The ones where I tucked Teddy into bed and stayed curled up on the couch with Sebastian, talking about everything and nothing until he pulled me into him like he couldn’t sleep without me there. I can still feel the shape of him, the heat of his breath on my neck.
All of it… for what? Just somethingtemporary.
Deep, deep down, I knew that though. I’m not naïve. I’m not some starry-eyed girl who thought love would fix everything. But God, I still let myself hope. In the smallest, stupidest way, I believed maybe the way he looked at me wasn’t just lust. That maybe the way he touched me, the way he held me when he thought I was asleep, meant something. Maybe he was falling too.
But maybe doesn’t mean a thing when someone still chooses fear over you.
Sebastian looks at me now, and for a second, the mask slips. I see the man beneath it. The one I’ve been holding on to.
“Happy birthday, Bash.”
Then, because I’m too soft, because part of me still stupidly cares, I lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. His skin is warm under my lips. Rough. Familiar.
When I pull back, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe, it seems. His eyes close for half a second, his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for something that’s already hit. My gut is telling me he doesn’t want this—not truly, no—but that he’s drowning in his own head, stuck between want and fear, between what he feels and what he’s convinced he’s only allowed to have.
That assumption doesn’t make this easier. It just makes it sadder.
Because loving someone doesn’t mean waiting around for them to learn how to love you back. It doesn’t mean shrinking yourself to make room for their damage. It doesn’t mean suffering quietly while they figure out whether they’re brave enough to choose you. So, before he can say anything else, before he can step closer or whisper another apology I won’t survive hearing, I turn away.
Because if he can’t choose this? Us? Then I have to choose myself.
34
Olivia
NEED ME - SIENNA SPIRO
The morning air bites a little sharper than usual.
I tug my jacket tighter around my ribs and step out onto the dirt path, boots crunching over loose gravel as I make my way to the shed. The familiar clang of metal, the low hum of the radio spilling from inside, it’s all comfortingly predictable. But it still doesn’t quite reach the ache sitting heavy behind my sternum.
“Look who’s up early,” Xavier calls from where he’s crouched near the fence post, a drill in one hand and a rusted bolt in the other. “No drop-off today?”
I pause, then force a smile that barely makes it to my eyes. “No. Sebastian’s off now. Annual leave kicked in.” I try to sound casual, convincing, but my voice betrays me. Xavier’s eyes flick up from the bolt. He studies me, really studies me, and for asecond, I think he might push. Ask something. Say something. But he just nods, dragging the back of his glove across his brow.
“Right. Well, the southern trough’s blocked again. Probably some gum leaves caught in the filter. And the hay needs moving before the rain tomorrow.”
“I’ll get to them.”
“You sure?”
