Aftermath

The drive home was quiet. Too quiet. My hands gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to the world I still technically belonged to. Every red light made me flinch, imagining Sebastian’s eyes on me again, the weight of his presence lingering like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

When I walked through the door, my boyfriend looked up, smiling warmly. “You’re back earlier than I expected.”

I forced a smile. “Traffic wasn’t bad.” My voice sounded flat even to me.

He reached for my hand, casual, familiar, trusting. And I froze.

I wanted to pull away. I wanted to feel his warmth without guilt. But my body remembered something else—someone else. I let him take my hand anyway, just to keep the lie alive.

He kissed my cheek softly. “Missed you today.”

I nodded, swallowed, and felt a pang of shame. I had missed him, in a way, but not in the way he thought.

I went to the bedroom, shutting the door gently behind me, my phone lighting up immediately.

Sebastian: Back so soon?

I didn’t reply. Couldn’t. My heartbeat was loud enough that I was sure he could hear it through the screen.

Every touch, every glance from my boyfriend now felt like a reminder of what I had—and what I couldn’t have.

I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and realized: coming home to him didn’t feel like home anymore.

It was just a pause before the next time I would see Sebastian Crowe.

It didn’t take long for him to notice.

Not the dramatic “I know what you’re doing” kind of notice—more subtle, more dangerous. A pause in my laughter. A hand lingering a second too long on my shoulder. The way he studied me over breakfast, like he could see the thoughts I tried to bury.

“You’ve been… distant,” he said one evening, voice low, careful. “Is something bothering you?”

I froze mid-bite. My fork hovered above the plate. Every instinct screamed to confess, to tell him the truth, but the words wouldn’t come. They were trapped under the weight of Sebastian’s shadow that followed me everywhere.

“I’m fine,” I said instead. Too quick, too smooth. I felt the lie vibrate against my teeth.

He nodded slowly, but I knew he didn’t believe me. He never did. And yet… he trusted me anyway.

Later, when the house was quiet, my phone buzzed.

Sebastian: He suspects something.

A shiver ran down my spine. I wasn’t supposed to feel relief at that, but I did.

Me: What do you want me to do?

Sebastian: Nothing. Not yet.

I bit my lip. His control was suffocating, thrilling. I realized I was waiting for him—every glance at my phone, every vibration made my pulse jump.

And then:

Sebastian: Tomorrow. 8 p.m. Same place.

I couldn’t breathe. My stomach tightened. My hands shook. Every rational thought told me to stay away, to protect what little normalcy I had left. But another part of me—the part that remembered his touch, his presence, the certainty in his voice—was already planning the route, already imagining the way I would surrender, piece by piece.

When my boyfriend came to kiss me goodnight, I kissed him back, and I hated myself for it. Every second of the kiss reminded me that I was lying. That the person I craved more than anything in the world

was waiting for me elsewhere.

And Sebastian knew it.

Because he didn’t just take what he wanted with touch. He made me want it first.

The next day dragged.

Every second felt stretched, like time itself was conspiring against me. At work, I couldn’t focus. My computer screen blurred into unreadable lines while my mind replayed the last time I’d been with him—the press of his fingers, the way he’d leaned close without touching, the way his eyes claimed me even from a distance.

By the time evening rolled around, my body was humming with anticipation, nerves coiled tight like spring. I told myself I was going for answers. For clarity. For nothing more.

But I didn’t believe myself.

I checked my phone one last time before leaving.

Sebastian: See you soon.

No emojis. No words. Just certainty.

I stepped into the night, heart racing. The city felt different after dark, shadows stretching longer, corners sharper. Every honk, every passerby made me flinch, imagining he was already there, watching, waiting.

By the time I reached the Crowe building, the air felt heavy, charged. The doors loomed above me like they were daring me to enter.

I hesitated. For the first time, my mind screamed to turn back. To run home, to hide in the life I still technically had.

But before I could move, a door on the side opened. He was there.

Sebastian Crowe. Calm. Dark. Waiting.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. He just stepped closer, and the temperature around me shifted. My stomach knotted, my chest tightened, my hands grew clammy.

“Late,” he said softly, as if noting the time was more important than anything else.

“I…” I started, but no words came.

He lifted a hand, slow, deliberate, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. Not enough to touch me fully, just enough to make me tremble.

“Shh,” he whispered. “Relax. You’re here. That’s enough for now.”

And that was it—my knees weakened, my heart pounding, every thought I had about leaving home or staying faithful to someone else crumbling. I wanted to pull back. I knew I should.

But standing there, under his gaze, I realized something terrifying.

I wasn’t planning to leave.

I was planning to stay.