For the first time in years—maybe ever—I don't feel like I'm on the outside looking in. I don't feel like the odd one out, the man who doesn't fit anywhere, not on the ranch with my family, not in the sterile perfection of my apartment.
Standing in Mia's cluttered, plant-filled living room, I feel something I'd almost forgotten was possible.
I feel home.
Chapter 22
Mia
I'm halfway through explaining how Fitzwilliam once survived two weeks without water during my emergency rotation when I catch Sebastian's expression. He's watching me with a curious intensity, head slightly tilted, eyes warm and focused in a way that makes my stomach flip. The words die in my throat as heat floods my cheeks. What am I doing? Introducing my plants like they're old college friends? I sound like a crazy plant lady.
"—and anyway, that's why he gets extra misting on Sundays as a reward for his resilience," I finish lamely, my voice trailing off. My hands, which had been gesturing animatedly, drop awkwardly to my sides. Tugging at the hem of Sebastian's shirt, I’m suddenly aware of how ridiculous I must look wearing nothing but his button-down waxing poetic about the emotional fortitude of a houseplant.
Sebastian's eyebrows pull together. "Why'd you stop?"
I shrug, trying for casual but landing somewhere closer to mortified. "Just realized I've been rambling about my plants for..." I glance at the clock on the wall, "Shit, almost fifteenminutes straight." My fingers twist nervously in the fabric of his shirt. "It's silly."
"Is it?" He takes a step closer, those dark eyes never leaving mine. "What's silly about caring for something? About giving it a name, a personality, a place in your life?"
My heart does that stupid little flutter again. "Most people don't name their plants," I point out, tucking a wild strand of hair behind my ear. "Most people don't talk to them or give them backstories or..." I trail off again, heat crawling up my neck. "I sound like I need therapy."
"Most people," He murmurs, closing the remaining distance between us. "Aren't you."
His hands come up to cup my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones with a gentleness that steals my breath. For a moment, he just looks at me like he's memorizing every freckle, every fleck of color in my eyes. Then his mouth is on mine, and I forget all about embarrassment, about silly plant names, about anything that isn't the press of his lips and the heat of his hands.
The kiss is slow, deliberate, and almost reverent. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, asking rather than demanding, and I open for him with a soft sigh that he swallows hungrily. My hands find his bare chest, palms flat against warm skin and solid muscle.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing harder, and my embarrassment has been replaced by something molten and heavy in my core. Sebastian's eyes are dark, pupils wide with desire, but there's something else there too, a warmth I'm not used to seeing from him.
"Nothing you say is silly," he tells me in a low rumble. "I like that you name your plants. I like that you talk to them. I like that you've created this whole ecosystem of life and personality around you." His thumb traces my lower lip, still sensitive from his kiss. "It's refreshing. It’s real."
I blink up at him, thrown by the sincerity in his voice. How is this the same man who spent a week pretending I didn't exist, who terrifies residents with a single raised eyebrow, who maintains control with the same dedication most people reserve for breathing.
"You're staring at me like I've grown a second head." The corner of his mouth twitches upward.
"Just trying to reconcile this version of you with the man who made Kim cry last Tuesday because he couldn't recite the complete differential for Behçet's disease from memory."
His smirk widens into something closer to a genuine smile. "That was professional. This is..." he gestures between us. "Something else entirely."
"Clearly," I murmur, letting my fingers trail down his chest to the waistband of his unbuttoned jeans. "So, Dr. Walker likes crazy plant ladies. Who knew?"
Instead of the sharp comeback I expect, his expression softens even further. His fingers trace idly along my collarbone, following the line to my shoulder and down my arm. "I grew up with a father who named every horse on our ranch," he says. "Not just names, but personalities. Histories. That one's stubborn because his mother was stubborn, he'd say. This one's skittish because she was born during a thunderstorm."
My breath catches at this freely offered piece of his past. Sebastian never talks about his family, about the ranch he mentioned in passing once or twice. His fingers move from my arm to his side, absently tracing the scar I'd kissed last night.
"I was ten when I got this," he continues. "Trying to fix a section of barbed wire fence that had come loose in a storm. Dad told me to wait for him, but I wanted to prove I could do it myself." His mouth twists in a rueful smile. "Slipped on wet grass, fell right into the barbs. Took twenty-seven stitches."
I want to ask more, but I'm afraid to break this spell of openness. Instead, I cover his hand with mine where it rests on his scar.
"Bradley, my brother, he's three years younger. Always knew what he was doing on the ranch.” His voice is quiet. “He’s a natural, like my father."
His hand turns under mine to interlace our fingers. There's something fragile about this moment, as if one wrong move might cause Sebastian to retreat back behind those walls he's so carefully constructed.
"Your brother still works at the ranch?" I ask, keeping my tone casual.
Muscle working in his jaw, he nods. "Bradley and my father run it together now. Walker Ranch."
I try to picture it—wide open skies, horses, and rugged landscapes. Sebastian in boots and a Stetson instead of his tailored shirts and designer shoes. The image doesn't quite fit, but I'm starting to understand why.
