Page 118 of Second Sin

The night’s cooled down since dinner. She pulls her jacket tighter with her free hand, but keeps the other looped through mine. Doesn’t let go.

“You barely touched your food after that guy came over,” she says, her voice low but direct. Not accusing—just knowing.

I grunt. “Wasn’t hungry.”

“You were before.”

“Some things just ruin your appetite.”

“I don’t know how you get used to that,” she says after a beat. “People walking up like they own a piece of you. Like they can say whatever the hell they want.”

“I don’t,” I mutter.

She glances up.

“Get used to it,” I clarify. “I don’t. I just…deal with it. Part of the job.”

Her fingers slide into mine. Not gentle. Certain.

“Like concussions and getting chirped by twelve-year-olds online."

She rolls her eyes, then looks up at me. "Doesn’t count as a joke if you’re using it to dodge the truth.”

We hit the crosswalk just as the light turns red, and she leans into me.Her fingers brush my wrist. Not holding. Just resting there. Bare skin on bare skin. Quiet. Certain.

“Ever wish you’d gone for something simpler?” she asks, a smile tugging at her lips. “You know, normal, boring. Like…accounting or data entry. Something with a desk and zero chance of a concussion.”

I snort. “You think I could sit still long enough to balance a spreadsheet?”

“You’re pretty focused when you want to be,” she says, teasing as we start to walk again.

“Focused, yeah. Patient? Not so much. I’d be the guy getting fired on day three for punching the copy machine.”

“I don’t know,” she says, chuckling. “I think I could see it. Button-down shirt. Glasses. Desk plant you keep forgetting to water.”

I glance down at her, one brow arched. “That’s your fantasy? Me in khakis, slowly losing my mind in a cubicle?”

“No,” she says, grinning up at me. “But it’s a fun visual.”

I’m about to tease her back when I hear it.

A voice behind us, quiet and unsure.

“You’re Sebastian Wilde, right?”

I don’t turn right away. My jaw tics. It’s always like this—on the sidewalk, in restaurants, even mid-conversation. But it hits different when I’m with Olivia. When I’mhere. Because I don’t want to share this version of me with anyone else. Not anymore.

I know she feels it—my shift. The tension that folds itself into my shoulders like a reflex. Her thumb brushes the inside of my wrist.

Grounding. Steady.

But the spell’s already broken.

We turn. A young woman—maybe twenty, wearing jeans, an oversized coat, and a nervous kind of energy threading her posture.

I nod slowly. “Yeah.”

She shifts, then says, “I’m Hannah Durant.”

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