"My mother died when I was four years old," he continues, surprising me with the voluntary information. "After that, it was just my father, Bradley, and me. And the ranch. And Ruthie, of course."
My heart squeezes at the simple statement. Four years old. A few years older than I was when I lost my own mother. I want to tell him I understand, that I know what it's like to have that emptiness where a mother should be, but I hold back. This is his story to tell.
"Dad threw himself into work after she died. Bradley too, when he was older. They found... peace in it, I think. The physical labor, the connection to the land." He lets out a breath. "It just never was in my blood."
I nod, imagining a young Sebastian—bright, analytical, and so detail-oriented—trying to fit into a world of physical rather than intellectual challenges.
"I fumbled with rope," he continues, a rueful smile touching his lips. "Missed nails. Horses sensed my hesitation and bucked harder. I wasn't soft..." He shakes his head. "But I wasn't them either."
He traces small circles against the back of my hand. "While Bradley wore the ranch like it was his skin, I spent nights hunched over anatomy books. More comfortable peeling back layers of flesh than reading the sky."
There's no bitterness in his voice, just a quiet resignation, an acceptance of difference. I wonder how long it took him to reach that acceptance, how many years of trying to fit into a mold that wasn't shaped for him.
"On the ranch, control came through force," he continues. "But what I wanted was precision. Stillness. It didn't make sense there, but in medicine..."
"It was perfect," I finish for him.
Nodding, his gaze returns to mine. "I got my acceptance letter to pre-med at the University of Washington and just left."
I can see the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders, the regret etched into the lines around his eyes.
"I didn't go back," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Not for holidays, not for birthdays. Nothing."
My heart aches for him, for the young man so desperate to find his place that he cut himself off from the only family he had. But I don't offer platitudes or tell him I understand. Instead, I simply listen, giving him the space to unburden himself at his own pace.
"I went back a few months ago," he continues after a moment of silence. "First time in almost twenty years."
I watch his face carefully, noting the tightness around his mouth, the way his gaze slides away from mine. Whateverhappened during that visit, it wasn't the homecoming either side had hoped for.
"That's a long time," I say softly.
"Too long." The words come out clipped, tinged with something that might be guilt or regret. His hand tightens slightly around mine, then relaxes with deliberate control. "My brother wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me. We fought," he adds, eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder. "Bad enough that my dad collapsed."
His gaze finally meets mine again. "Atrial fibrillation, he’s okay now. But for a minute there, it felt like everything I touched was going to fall apart.” He exhales slowly. “We’re speaking again. My dad and I. Even Bradley. But it took that scare to make it happen.”
I want to tell him it’s not his fault. That showing up, even messy and broken and late, is still showing up. But I don’t. He doesn't need absolution from me for choices he's still wrestling with himself.
So instead, I let my fingers trace the length of his scar again, this physical reminder of the life he left behind. "Thank you."
His eyebrows pull together in confusion. "For what?"
"For telling me. For letting me see this part of you."
He presses my palm flat against his scar.
"It's strange," he says quietly. "I never talk about this. With anyone."
I offer him a small smile. "Well, apparently my plant-naming habit makes people want to share deep personal secrets. I should put that on my resume."
It's a gentle attempt to lighten the moment, to give him an escape route from the emotional vulnerability if he needs it. His lips quirk upward, a hint of that smirk I've come to know so well.
"Maybe it's not the plants," he murmurs, his voice a deliciously low rumble. "Maybe it's just you, Mia."
And oh, the way he says my name, like it's something precious, something sacred, makes my breath catch in my throat.
I don't think about it, I just move. One moment I stand there, the next, I wrap my arms around his waist and press my cheek against his chest. It’s impulsive, this hug, born from something protective that wells up inside me when I see the shadows behind his eyes.
Sebastian's body goes rigid against mine, muscles tensing beneath my cheek. For a terrifying second, I think I've overstepped, crossed some invisible boundary in this undefined thing growing between us. Physical desire is one thing but this emotional comfort is another entirely. I'm about to pull back, apologize, when his arms slowly lift to encircle me. The embrace is tentative at first, as if he's forgotten the mechanics of offering comfort rather than claiming passion. Then something gives way, and he's holding me properly, one large hand splayed across my upper back, the other resting at the nape of my neck.
