“I’m here, Dad,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
“Sebastian.” His face twisted into something like relief and pain all at once. “I’m sorry.”
For a second, I thought I’d misheard him. But then he said it again, clearer this time.
“I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry.”
My eyes filled as his did. I tightened my grip on his hand, reaching over with my other to rest it on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “We’re good. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
He nodded, holding on to me like he was afraid I’d disappear. His eyes closed, and a small, tired smile curved his lips.
I swallowed hard. “It’s okay.”
By the time I got back to the apartment, the adrenaline had burned itself out, leaving me feeling stripped raw and strangely weightless.
The place was dark and quiet when I stepped inside. No lights on. No movement. I toed off my shoes by the door andpaused, listening, but the only sound was the low hum of the city filtering in through the glass. Ethan must’ve crashed—jet lag finally catching up with him.
I moved through the apartment slowly, my father’s voice still echoing in my head.
I’m sorry.
The words felt heavier now that everything else had gone silent. He’d never said them before. Not to me. And I didn’t know yet what I was supposed to do with an apology like that—offered so late, wrapped in tubes and weakness, and a hand clutching mine like a lifeline.
But it mattered.
It mattered that he’d said it. That he’d seen me. That, for once, he hadn’t looked at me like something that needed to be shaped or corrected or hardened.
I stepped out onto the terrace, leaving the door slightly ajar, and the cold hit immediately—cutting through my shirt, stealing the warmth from my skin in seconds. The city opened around me in a wash of distant sirens, traffic, and scattered light, my breath fogging faintly in the air.
The outdoor space was just as I’d left it—low couch, small table. The place I used to come when I needed air and a vice I could justify. Where we used to come out together.
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the pack I’d bought earlier and sank into the couch, crossed my ankles on the table, lit the cigarette, and took the first drag slowly, letting the burn settle into my chest. The smoke curled upward, disappearing into the night, and for the first time all day, I let myself just sit there.
Breathing.
Feeling.
Letting it all land.
My father was alive, and he was going to be okay.
“Busted.” His voice startled me.
Ethan was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, a familiar smirk in place. The low terrace light caught the sharp lines of his face, softened by the wear of the day.
I let out a quiet chuckle. “You caught me. Thought you were asleep.”
He shrugged, stepping out onto the terrace and moving to the railing. “I had a paper to turn in. Got wrapped up in it and didn’t bother turning on the lights.” He leaned back against the rail, propping his elbows on it. “And I wanted to make sure you got back okay. You need to rest.”
I took another drag, resisting the urge to close my eyes and sink too far into the familiar burn. “In a little while.” Pulling another cigarette from the pack, I held it out to him. “You want one?”
Ethan’s smile lost some of its edge, something like déjà vu flickering between us. “Yeah.”
He crossed the space and stopped in front of me. I lifted a brow, uncrossed my legs, letting the invitation hang there without words. He pressed his lips together in that shy, almost-boyish smile before nodding and stepping in, lowering himself between my thighs and settling back against me, his spine fitting easily to my chest.
This was already better than the cigarette.
I leaned forward and lit his for him, watching the way he inhaled, then exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the night.
