His purr vibrates through my ribs, and it hurts a little. But it also grounds me.
Sebastian stares at the cat, then at me. “He loves you,” he murmurs.
I swallow. “He loves us.”
Mr. Pickles’ tail flicks smugly.
Sebastian remains standing for a moment, like he doesn’t trust himself to sit.
Then, slowly, he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed.
His hand stays wrapped around mine.
His gaze drops to our fingers.
He inhales. Exhales.
His voice is quiet when he speaks. “I need to tell you something.”
The words land heavily.
I nod. “Okay.”
Sebastian’s throat works. He looks like he’s about to walk into a fire on purpose.
“When you asked about my nightmares,” he says, staring at the floor now, “I lied by omission.”
My chest tightens. “I know you did,” I saysoftly.
His gaze flicks to me, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Tell me,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them, the man I’ve been chasing is still there—sharp, controlled, and dangerous. But the boy underneath him is stepping forward.
“My parents fought all the time,” he says, voice flat like he’s reading it off a report. “They didn’t yell. They didn’t hit.” He looks at our hands. “It was worse.”
I frown. “How so?”
“Quiet warfare,” he says. “Strategic. Calculated.”
That’s his language. That’s how he survived it.
“My mother was… the force in our home,” he continues. “Everything ran the way she wanted it to. And if it didn’t, she corrected it.”
My stomach churns.
“And my father…”
He swallows.
“He was sick,” Sebastian says. “He spent a lot of time in bed. When I was younger, I thought he had the flu. Or some kind of physical illness. I didn’t understand why he didn’t just… get up.”
“When I got older, I overheard her talking to someone on the phone. A friend. She said Dad was depressed.”
The word sucks the oxygen out of the room, making it feel smaller.
“He wasn’t weak,” Sebastian says suddenly, the emotion cracking through his tone. “He wasn’t lazy. He wasn’t?—”
