Chapter 5: The Weight of Trust

The winter air bites at my skin as I sit by the window, the chill creeping through the cracked spaces in my old house like ice water. The snow falls in gentle, heavy flakes, blanketing the streets of Snowfall Valley in an endless, quiet white. The town is beautiful this time of year, the kind of beauty that makes you forget the world around you, or at least try to. But today, it feels like the weight of everything is pressing down on me. My exhaustion, the grief that still clings to me, the unfinished business with the Winter Wonderland project, the ache in my chest that refuses to let go.

I haven’t had a proper rest in days. The project, the bakery, and everything in between have drained me in ways I didn’t think were possible. My body feels like it’s running on empty, and as I step into the cold, the exhaustion wraps around me like a thick, suffocating blanket. I can barely keep my eyes open, my head pounding with the kind of ache that feels like it’s cutting right through my skull.

I barely make it to the couch before my legs give out beneath me, the exhaustion weighing on me like a thousand pounds. The cold seems to have seeped into my bones, and it’s hard to tell if it’s the chill outside or the lingering ache inside that’s making everything feel so heavy. I grip the edge of the sofa, trying to steady myself, but my body feels uncooperative, like I’m moving through mud.

I think about the warmth of the bakery, the comforting scent of fresh bread in the air, the soft glow of the lights inside, but even the thought of going back there feels like one more thing on a never-ending list.

I don’t realize I’ve already slumped down into the cushions until my head is between my knees, the room spinning around me. I try to take deep breaths, but each one feels shallow, like there’s not enough air in the room to fill my lungs.

And that’s when my phone starts ringing.

Celine’s name flashes on the screen, and I force myself to stand, wiping my hands on my jacket before answering.

“Selina, where are you?” Her voice is a mix of concern and irritation. “You weren’t at the bakery today. Are you okay?”

I rub my forehead, fighting the dizziness that comes with the cold and my exhaustion. “I’m fine. Just tired. It’s been a long couple of days.”

I can hear the skepticism in her voice. “Tired? You’re barely making sense. You’re not answering your phone.”

I close my eyes, leaning back against the edge of my couch, the cold from the open window creeping in. “I just need some space. I’ll be fine, Celine. Really.”

But before she can reply, I hang up, letting the phone fall to the side on the couch. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t want to explain how heavy my body feels, how my head is pounding, or how I can’t seem to gather the energy to even sit up, let alone face the world.

The next thing I know, my phone vibrates again, and it’s a text from Celine.

“Sebastian asked me for your number. He said he wanted to check on you.”

I frown, Sebastian? What does he care about me? And why does he want to check on me?

Before I can think too much about it. My phone rings again. This time, it’s not Celine. My fingers hesitate over the phone for a moment. I swipe to answer.

“Hello? Selina?” There’s a note of concern in his voice. “It’s Sebastian. I tried calling you a few times, and Celine said you weren’t at the bakery today. Are you all right?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to focus through the dizziness. “I’m fine. Just tired. I need to rest.”

“Celine also told me you weren’t answering her messages,” he says, his tone a little firmer now. “Listen, I know where you live. I asked Celine. I’m nearby, so I’m just going to swing by and check on you. You’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

 I can’t help but laugh weakly, though it doesn’t feel like anything to smile about. “I’m really fine Sebastian. I’m just running on empty.”

“I’m sure you are,” he says. “But you’re not going to convince me to let you stay there alone. I’m on my way.”

A few minutes later, I hear a knock at my door. I barely manage to get to my feet before I open it, and there he is.

Sebastian. Standing in front of me in his dark coat, looking every bit the part of someone who had somewhere important to be, though his expression says otherwise. It’s a mixture of concern and something softer. I don’t know what to make of it.

“Hey”, he says softly. “You look like you’ve been through hell and back.”

I half-laugh, but it comes out more like a cough. “I guess I have.”

He steps past me, not waiting for an invitation, his gaze sweeping across the living room, taking in the disarray. “You don’t look like you’ve been taking care of yourself.”

“Thanks for the observation,” I mutter. ‘I’m just… I’ve got a lot on my plate. The bakery, the Winter Wonderland project, all of it.”

Sebastian doesn’t respond right away. When I glance over, I catch him pulling off his coat, revealing a simple, fitted sweater underneath. He stands there for a moment, watching me closely. His gaze softens slightly, and without a word, he walks over to the couch and sits down next to me, his presence steady and grounding.

“You should really be in bed,” he says, his voice calm but insistent. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

I want to argue, to tell him I’m fine, but the weight of everything hits me in that moment. The exhaustion, the grief, the overwhelming sense of loneliness that has been trailing me. My pride stings, but I know he’s right. I nod, grateful for his persistence.

When I finally sit down on the couch, I’m dizzy, my head spinning. He sits across from me, his eyes never leaving me. They’re steady. Unwavering, like he’s waiting for me to break.

I take a slow, shaky breath, the silence between us thick and heavy. Finally, I break it, my voice quieter that I intend. “I remember when I was sick. My mom used to take care of me.”

Sebastian looks at me, his gaze soft and understanding, not pushing but still present. “She would always be there when I needed her. When I felt like I couldn’t breathe properly, she would just hold me. She made it all better.” I pause, the heaviness in my heart expanding as the flood of memories continues. Her warm hands on my forehead, her quiet hum, the way she’d tuck me into bed with a gentle kiss on my forehead.

The room feels colder as I wrap my arms around myself, trying to steady the tremor in my hands. I glance at my lap, but it’s like it’s nothing can distract me from the ache inside.

Sebastian leans closer, his expression shifting from thoughtful to concerned. Without a word, he lifts his hand and gently places it on my forehead, the contact surprising me but grounding me in an odd way.

“You’re burning up,” he says. His hand moves to brush the hair from my face. I flinch slightly at the warmth of his touch, but it isn’t the kind of warmth I expect. It’s gentle, like he’s afraid to hurt me.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, but even I hear the lie in my voice.

He doesn’t respond right away, but his gaze remains steady. Then, without a word, he moves to grab a pillow form the couch and places it behind my head, adjusting it carefully to support me. “No, you’re not,” he murmurs, his fingers grazing my temple as he makes sure I’m comfortable. The simple gesture sends a shiver down my spine, though I can’t tell if it’s from the fever or something else entirely.

“Stay here,” he says, calm yet firm, a resolve threading through his tone that still somehow feels gentle. “I’ll get you something for that fever.”

He steps into the kitchen, and though the house grows quiet again, his presence lingers in a way that steadies me. When he returns, he’s holding a damp cloth, which he presses gently to my forehead. I close my eyes at the cool sensation, unable to stop myself from relaxing into his touch.

Sebastian’s careful, as though I might break if he isn’t, but it doesn’t make me feel fragile. Instead, it makes me feel cared for.

“I miss her,” I whisper, not even sure he can hear me. “Every day. Especially when I feel like this. Sick and alone.”

“You’re not alone,” he says after a moment. “Not today.”

Something about the way he says it, the certainty in his words, the quiet strength of his actions makes me glance at him. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask more questions or try to fill the silence. Instead, he just stays close, grounding me with his presence.

It’s in the small things—the way he adjusts the blanket over my legs, the way he doesn’t leave even when I tell him I’m fine. That something inside me shifts. He could’ve used this moment, could’ve taken advantage of my vulnerability, but he hasn’t. He respects the boundaries I didn’t even realize I needed.

I find myself watching him, noticing the softness in his profile, the way the soft light from the room catches the lines of his face. And for the first time in a long time, I feel the stirrings of something I thought I’d buried. Trust.

When he notices me staring, he offers a small, almost shy smile. “Get some rest,” he says quietly, though his voice carries the same steady care. “I’ll stay until you’re feeling better.”

I nod. His kindness, his patience, it’s unlike anything I’ve felt in years. And as I close my eyes, letting the weight of the day finally slip away, I can’t help but feel something bloom within me.

Something I haven’t felt in years.

Something that feels a lot like hope.