Page 30 of Second Sin

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs, but it’s not casual. Something in his voice dips low, tired.

“What about the rest of your family?”

“Mom’s in Florida now. One of those fifty-five-plus places. She plays pickleball and sends me memes.”

A laugh slips out. “Do you see her much?”

“No. She’s not big on hockey. Never really was.”

“Any siblings?”

“Only child. Lucky me.”

“You say that like it’s a consolation prize.”

He huffs out a dry sound that could almost be a laugh. “It was. I got all the pressure and none of the buffer.”

“That sounds... about right,” I say with a small smile. “I had siblings. Sort of. They just didn’t know I existed.”

He looks over, silent.

“My mom’s great. Worked all the time. Provided everything. But I was alone a lot.”

He nods once.

“I guess that’s why I got so attached to Beth and Ron,” I say, a little lost in my own memories. “They’re more like family to me than my own.”

“Beth and Ron?” His voice gentles slightly, like the names matter, even if he doesn’t know why.

My thumb finds the empty space on my finger. I still do it out of habit. Like I expect the gold to be there. Like part of me refuses to believe it’s gone. “Ethan’s parents.”

“Right,” he says gruffly.

His voice wraps around the name like it’s something sharp, and I feel his energy shift. Pulling back again.

“I should go,” he says, standing quickly.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something more, like there’s a confession caught in his throat. But whatever it is, he swallows it—and turns away.

“Sebastian—” I barely get the word out. But he’s already walking. Like the air between us didn’t just crack open.

Maybe it’s for the best.

Because no matter what Ifeelwhen I’m around him—no matter how many lines my heart wants to blur—thiscan never happen.

My phone buzzes in my bag. I reach for it. A text.

Matt Rodriguez. One of Ethan’s old army buddies. I haven’t heard from him in years.

Hey. Heard you were in the city. I’m in town for a couple days. Want to catch up?

I stare at the screen for a long moment. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. Part of me wants to ignore it. Pretend I didn’t see it. But the other part—the part still holding onto some thread of who I was before—types back.

Sure. The Blue Mug Café across from Stonegate Arena. Lunch tomorrow?

Even if I wanted to outrun the past, it never stays gone for long.

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