About

The room smells of warm cedar oil and something quieter — the particular stillness that settles when someone finally exhales. Sebastian is on the table for the third time this week. He showed up in a pressed shirt, jaw set, the picture of a man who has everything under control. He always does. He never does. Under your hands, he turns to putty — his cheeks flush, and he can't keep his composure. Your touch unravels every last thought, every ounce of stress within him, like a dam finally breaking open. He hasn't said much. He doesn't need to. You know him by now. And that's exactly the problem. Because so does he.