Page 65 of Back to You
By the time I made it to the front door, headlights were cutting through the darkness. Sebastian didn’t say anything when he saw me. He just held out his hand and waited. I took it.
He helped me into his car, his hand warm and steady against my back, his presence grounding. The drive to his house wasquiet—no pressure, no expectations, just the soft hum of the radio and the occasional glance from him, checking on me.
Sebastian kept the heat on low, knowing the cold made my joints worse. His fingers tapped idly against the steering wheel, matching the rhythm of the music playing through the speakers.
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. Even in the dim glow of the dashboard, I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his brows furrowed like he was thinking too hard. He didn’t ask me what was wrong. He didn’t need to.
Instead, he reached over at a red light, wordlessly adjusting the blanket he’d brought for me onto my lap. That was Sebastian. Always paying attention, always knowing exactly what I needed before I did.
When we got there, he made me drink water and wrapped me in a warm blanket, his touch gentle, his presence unwavering. He held me close, his fingers threading through my hair in soothing strokes. I fell asleep listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Warmth. That was the first thing I noticed when I woke up. Not just from the blankets wrapped around me, but from the air itself—soft, lived-in. It felt safe here.
The space beside me was empty, but his presence was still everywhere. His scent lingered on the pillows, woodsy and familiar. I let my fingers drift across the sheets, still warm from where he’d been.
On the nightstand, a bottle of water and my pain meds sat neatly beside my phone—plugged in and fully charged. He must have done that before he left the room.
The faint rustle of movement drifted in from the kitchen. The low hum of a song—some old reggaetón tune he probably didn’t even realize he was singing along to.
I exhaled slowly, shifting under the covers. The worst of the flare-ups had passed, thankfully. I should be relieved. My body didn’t ache nearly as much as last night.
My fingers still felt stiff, but not as bad. But there was something creeping in now. Something that had nothing to do with lupus.
I was getting used to this. That realization settled into my chest, heavy and sharp, because this wasn’t supposed to be easy. Loving someone, needing someone, wasn’t supposed to feel safe.
And yet, with Sebastian, it did. I swallowed hard and forced myself to sit up. My body protested the movement, but I ignored it. I needed to shake this off.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, planting my feet on the floor. If I just got up, if I just focused on anything else, this feeling would pass.
But before I could take a single step, Sebastian appeared in the doorway, barefoot, hair still damp from his shower, wearing nothing but sweatpants hanging low and a knowing smirk.
“Morning, princesa.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach at how good he looked so damn effortlessly. Damn, this man is fine.
I sank into a chair, wrapping my hands around the coffee mug he placed in front of me. “Tell me you didn’t burn the house down making breakfast,” I teased.
“Excuse you,” he said, feigning offense. “I happen to make an incredible breakfast.”
“Uhuh.”
He let out an exasperated gasp. “Rude. I cook all the time, you know.”
I snorted. “You grilled burgers last weekend.”
“And they were fantastic,” he shot back. “But this morning, I outdid myself. You deserve a good morning, Mariana.”
Something in my chest pinched. It was the way he said it. So simple, so certain, like I deserved this without question.
I took a sip of the coffee, letting the warmth settle inside me. Sebastian reached out, brushing his fingers along my wrist, his touch light and deliberate.
“You’re stiff,” he murmured, his brows furrowing slightly.
I hated how easily he could tell. “I’m fine,” I said quickly.
He didn’t argue. He just took my hands in his, his thumbs tracing slowly, careful circles over my knuckles. The way he touched me—gentle, focused, and completely attuned to me—made my throat go tight. I didn’t stop him, but I should have. Because every time he did this, it became harder to remember how to be alone.
I pulled my hands back, flexing them. “See? Good as new.”
