Page 38 of Sebastian

Just going for a run with this legend. NBD.

The likes start coming in before I can even put my phone away. Fans have gone wild over our video. I’ve spent every spare second refreshing my dashboard, watching as the numbers tick up and up and up. I did some quick calculations this morning and had to swallow down a sob of grateful relief. This is going to be my most successful month ever, like, over the course of my entire freaking career. It feels like I’ve broken past some invisible ceiling and leveled up.

I’m going to be able to upgrade some camera equipment and add a few extra toys to my arsenal. If I can find a way to keep all these subscribers, I might even be able to move to a bigger apartment.

“Ready?” Christian asks.

“Yep.” We set off at a leisurely pace, winding through the park. I wait until we settle into the familiar left-right, left-right rhythm of jogging before speaking. “So, I’ve been fielding interview requests.”

“Oh right, you mentioned that.”

“They want to talk to us together. How do you feel about that?” I’d originally assumed I’d handle any media inquiries, but every single industry outlet is more interested in Chris Preacher than they are in boring ol’ Sebastian Silver. I don’t blame them. I would be too.

“Uh, okay, I guess?”

I sneak a look over at Christian and he doesn’t look thrilled with the idea. In fact, his scowl is deepening with every stride we take.

“You don’t have to, you know. I can handle them on my own. Or we can say we’re only answering questions via email rather than on the phone or with in-person interviews.”

We step off the path to jog around a couple of walking pedestrians.

“We can do that? Just over email?” Christian asks when we’re side by side again.

“Yeah, of course. I can write it up and send it to you for review. Most of their questions are going to be the same anyway, so once we have one set done, it should be mostly copy and paste.”

Christian turns to look at me and almost runs into a bench. I push him out of the bench’s way and we go stumbling off onto the grass. I end up in his arms, hands on his chest as he holds me to him.

“You okay?” I ask. My voice is breathy, because of Christian’s close call or because there’s an inch of air between our lips, I couldn’t say.

“Yeah, sorry, I got distracted.” He gazes down at me, like I’m the one who distracted him. “You’re pretty incredible, you know that?”

I’m already warm from the run and warm from being so close to Christian, but heat flashes across my cheeks. A strangled chuckle escapes my throat. “What makes you say that?”

Christian’s arms tighten around me. “Because you are.” His voice is so low it’s practically a growl and it reverberates from his chest through my whole body. “Filming, editing, distribution, social media, public relations and you’re sweet and sexy on top of that? Is there anything you can’t do?”

I stand there, stunned. His words filter through my ears and into my brain. Yeah, sure I do all those things, but only passably well. I’m self-taught. I manage. I’m faking it most of the time. The way he says it, the way he puts it all together, it feels like he’s describing someone else. Someone who has their shit together, someone who knows what the hell they’re doing.

Because, me? Most days I barely feel like an adult.

“There’s plenty I can’t do,” I say with a dismissive half-smirk and an eye-roll.

Christian cocks his head. “Sebastian,” he says in a scolding tone.

I don’t know what he wants me to say. It’s true. There are plenty of things that I should be doing, but I’m not. There are plenty of things I don’t know how to do or could do better. There are so many people out there who are more successful than I’ll ever be, who have more subscribers than I do, who make more money than I do. I’m not at the bottom of the ladder, but I’m certainly nowhere near the top. I’m solidly in the middle of the pack and even if this video with Christian bumps me up a few rungs, there is still so much more to climb.

“You need to stop with the negative self-talk.”

My smirk fades as Christian’s words slice through me. They peel me open and all my guts spill out onto the floor faster than I can shove them back in. It’s the stuff that no one’s seen before, the stuff that I do my best to pretend doesn’t exist. My stress, my worry, my anxiety. My need to be better, to be the best, to be perfect. My fear that I’ll never live up to my own standards, let alone someone else’s. My fear that no matter how hard I try, I’ll never measure up.

My eyes prickle with tears and my lungs seize up. I try to push away from Christian, but his arms have turned into bands of steel, dragging me closer. So I collapse into him, forehead on his shoulder so he can’t see the horror that must be written all over my face.

How did he know? How could he tell? My mask is normally so finely tuned that no one—not even Noel and the guys—can see past it. I’ve known Christian for, what, a few weeks, and he’s managed to dissect me right down to the bone.

“Hey, Sebastian. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He's got one hand carding through my hair and the other rubbing circles across my back.

God, he must think I’m a nut job, freaking out on him in the middle of the park because he tried to compliment me. He guides me around to the bench he almost ran into and we sit down, his arm still tight around my shoulders.

Only then do I realize I’m shaking, like during one of my anxiety attacks, but also not. It’s hard to move, hard to breathe, yes, but there’s no heavy sense of dread that ratchets up the terror inside me. This feels more like a breaking down than a bracing for impact.

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