Page 57 of Second Sin

No, it’s not just want anymore.

It’s need. A low, aching pull lodged under my ribs that won’t let go.

And I’m sitting here, one breath away from sayingfuck everything—the rules, the lines, the job?—

Just to see what it feels like to fall into him.

I don't have the strength or energy to keep choosing what’s right over what I need.

Because this week has been hell.

Calle’s family. The locker room full of men barely holding it together. And me—pretending I’m not falling apart just to keep them steady.

The grief isn’t mine, but it clings anyway. Quiet and heavy. Unshakeable.I’ve been absorbing it like secondhand smoke.

And I’m tired.

Not just end-of-the-day tired.

Soul-tired. Pretending-I'm-okay tired.

Tired of keeping my distance. Of pretending that this ache in my chest is something I can ignore if I just focus hard enough on everyone else.

Sebastian shifts in his chair, runs a hand along the back of his neck, like he’s trying to shake something off. His gaze flicks to mine, lingers just a second too long, too deep, too full of words unsaid, touches that never happened.

“It’s late,” he says, voice rough.

I nod, but my palm smooths down the front of my thigh, slow and aimless, like I need something to do with my hands besides reach for him. “Yeah,” I murmur. “Should try to sleep.”

He stands first. Slow. Shoulders tight, hands tucked into the front pockets of his hoodie.

I follow, my movements careful, too aware of the space between us—and how badly I want to close it.

The restaurant’s quiet now. Most of the tables are empty, the servers finishing up their rounds. Lights dimmed low, the clink of glass and soft music the only things filling the space between our footsteps.

I feel him at my side, his presence warm and steady. Like a pull I’m too tired to fight anymore.

We move through the hotel lobby. Past the front desk. Toward the elevators tucked in the corner beneath the recessed lights and polished steel.

He presses the button. Doesn’t look at me.

The doors open with a soft ding.

We step inside.

Still silent.

He turns toward the panel and glances over. “What floor?”

My voice is quieter than it should be. “Twenty-four.”

He presses it. Then fifteen for himself.

The doors slide shut with a soft hiss, and we both shift toward the back wall. We don’t speak. Don’t even look at each other. Just lean back in sync, silence pressing in around us like a held breath.

His hoodie brushes against my arm—barely a graze—but it feels like contact. Real contact. My skin lights up where it lingers.

I keep my eyes fixed on the panel, watching the floor numbers glow red, but every sense is tuned to him. The faint rise and fall of his chest. The subtle shift of his weight.

---