Page 46 of Back to You
The front door chimed, and I jolted, my hands still buried in the dough. For a second, I assumed it was Analyse, only she would ignore the “Closed” sign like it didn’t apply to her.
But when I turned, it wasn’t her…it was him. Seba stood in the doorway, I exhaled, keeping my hands moving. Or, I guess,twopeople. “You’re supposed to be home.”
“So are you.” Seba’s voice was calm, but I knew him well enough to hear the undercurrent beneath it. The quiet concern.
I didn’t look up. “I’m working.”
He was silent for a bit. Then, the sound of footsteps, slow, deliberate. I could feel him watching me, studying me, waiting for me to crack first.
I kept kneading. The dough was warm, but my fingers were stiff and uncooperative. I could feel the staring, the way my knuckles resisted every moment, but I gritted my teeth and kept going.
Then, Seba reached out and stilled my hands. Not rough or demanding, just gentle, sure, impossible to ignore. “Mariana.” His voice was quieter this time. “You’re in pain.”
I tensed, the words cutting straight through me. I didn’t like that he could tell. I didn’t like that he saw something I hadn’t even said out loud. I pulled my hands from his grip and wiped them on my apron. “I’m fine.”
Seba exhaled, slow and even. “You always say that when you’re not.”
My jaw locked. “And what, you think you know better than me?”
His expression didn’t change. “I think you’re stubborn.”
I huffed, turning back to the dough, “That’s not news.”
“Mariana.”
The way he said my name was low and steady, not giving me an inch of space to run from it. It made something shift in my chest. I swallowed. Kept kneading.
“Did you eat today?” he asked,
I didn’t answer, not out of stubbornness, but because I couldn’t remember.
Seba sighed, stepping around the counter and closing the space between us. “You do this, you know. Work yourself into exhaustion and then pretend like it’s fine. Ignore your body until it forces you to stop.” His eyes flicked to my hands, then back to my face. He saw too much. He always had. But I wasn’t fragile. I wasn’t someone who needed to be saved.
“I don’t need you to take care of me,” I muttered.
Seba’s jaw ticked. “I never said you did.”
The words hung between us, thick and heavy. I should tell him to leave. I should turn away, but for some reason, I just can’t. I won’t. Instead, I sighed, pressing the heels of my palms into the counter. “I was diagnosed with lupus after Andrew died.”
The words were quiet, but they hit the air like a crack of thunder. Seba stilled. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t want to see whatever was written across his face.
“I started feeling off months before,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Fatigue and joint pain, but I ignored it. I thought it was stress taking its toll on my body.” I exhaled sharply. “Then I collapsed one day while at work, and landed myself in the hospital, and gave everyone a scare. That’s when they figured it out.”
I finally turn to meet his eyes. They were steady, unreadable. Waiting. “So yeah.” I crossed my arms. “I have lupus. No, there’s no cure.”
My arms tighten across my chest, the words leaving me automatically, practiced—I've said them a hundred times before.
“I just have to live with it. I take it day by day.”
Seba didn’t say anything right away. He just watched me, and it made me feel like I wanted to crawl out of my skin.
Please, please, please, don’t pity me. Don’t change what you think about me. When I couldn’t take any more of the silence, I snapped, “What? The word came out sharper than I intended, edged with frustration, but I didn’t care. I just need him tosaysomething.
His head tilted slightly. “I was just wondering how long you were going to carry that by yourself.”
I blinked. My throat went tight, “I’m not-”
“You are.” His voice wasn’t accusing. He was just being him, honest, factual. My pulse thrummed, too fast, too loud.
