He watches me closely as I speak, the intensity softened now by genuine interest.
“I remember hovering over the post button for almost an hour,” I say. “My hands were shaking. It was my first big critique, and I knew the artist had powerful friends.” I smileruefully. “The moment I hit publish, I thought I’d ruined my life.”
“And?” he prompts.
“And the backlash was immediate,” I continue. “Threats. Lawsuits that went nowhere. Anonymous emails telling me to retract or else. One artist showed up outside my apartment building, screaming my name.”
Sebastian’s mouth curves. “Charming.”
“I was terrified,” I admit. “But at the same time….” I pause, searching for the word. “It was freeing. I realized I couldn’t be controlled if I refused to lie. And once I understood that, there was no going back.”
He studies me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“You’re braver than most,” he says quietly.
“I don’t know about that,” I reply. “I just hate dishonesty more than I fear consequences.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “That’s hot.”
I laugh, heat blooming in my cheeks despite myself.
I won’t lie to myself—the date turns out to be the most beautiful one I’ve ever been on.
Conversation with Sebastian is effortless. He asks questions, real ones. Thoughtful ones. He listens to my answers instead of waiting for his turn to speak. He doesn’t monologue about his wealth or his success the way most wealthy men do, using stories like currency.
He lets me talk.
And when I ask him things, he answers plainly. No preamble. No performance. Just truth, offered like a gift.
By the time dessert is cleared and the city below us has dimmed into a field of lights, I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Disarmed. Grounded. Seen.
Too seen.
Later that night, when he drops me off outside my apartment building, he walks me to the door. The city is quiet, the air cool against my skin.
He takes my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
“Good night,yarkaya,” he says.
Then he steps back.
No hesitation. No lean-in. No attempt to steal a kiss. He doesn’t ask for my number. Doesn’t suggest seeing me again. Doesn’t even linger.
He turns and walks away.
And for days after, I wait.
I tell myself it’s fine. I said one date. I meant it. This was clean. Controlled. Over.
So why does his absence feel louder than his presence ever did?
How dare he—how dare he—take me on a date like that, dismantle my defenses with conversation and restraint and sincerity, and then vanish? How dare he be disciplined when I expected indulgence? How dare he leave me wanting when I was the one who set the terms?
Days melt into weeks.
I’m distracted. Irritable. Restless. I reread critiques I’ve already published, unable to focus. I replay moments from the night—the way he listened, the way he looked at me like I was something rare, the way he walked away without asking for anything.
I feel ridiculous.
