Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A sense of dread envelops you when the invitation comes. It isn’t unexpected; you’ve known about Poppy and Ominis’ engagement for months, and you’re truly happy for them. Genuinely. Ominis is great, and Poppy’s always been a friend to you.

In your own way, you’d even helped bring them together — Poppy had always thought Ominis was cute when you’d seen him on TV, and when you’d dated Sebastian Sallow, Ominis’ best friend, you’d invited Poppy to come along to the New Year’s party he’d hosted.

(Forget the fact that the aforementioned New Year’s party was where Sebastian had told you he loved you.)

They’d kissed by the end of the night, and next morning, you’d gotten a text from Poppy saying “guess where i am.” You hadn’t expected it to be anything more, but now, two years later, they’re the ones getting married, while you’re hopelessly single.

You know for a fact that you’re Poppy’s maid of honor — hardly an issue, except for the fact that Sebastian fucking Sallow is going to be Ominis’ best man and that he’s won two fucking Oscars while your career has been dying since things ended. And that he’s dated several models when the furthest into a relationship you’ve gotten is a third date.

And that’s not even the worst of it — bitter as you are, you could manage if you’d just broken up amicably after four and a half months of bliss. 

But no. He’d cheated on you — very publicly, in a way that was hauntingly similar to what your previous ex, Eric, had done — and then released a statement a few days later claiming that you’d already broken up when the kiss happened.

At least with Eric, some fans had believed you when you’d made it clear that he’d cheated.

But for the same story to happen twice, in such a similar way, raised enough doubt to turn you into a laughingstock. Maybe if you’d gotten to write about it, you would still be relevant, but your label, not wanting to risk the hit to your PR, refused to let you release any of the songs about the situation, except for the one you’d dropped while on the freefall tour without asking them.

pathology, aside from the title track, is your least honest album.

It didn’t get nominated for a single award.

You’ve still been managing fine — money from streaming combined with some downsizing on your lifestyle has been enough to maintain a comfortable standard of living — but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss your career. A long day in the studio, the rush of performing for a crowd; they’re things you’ve set aside after the pathology tour failed to sell enough tickets.

You haven’t written a new song in months.

Not that you’re not happy for Poppy and Ominis, though. Despite his choice in friends, he’s a great guy, and you know that Poppy isn’t going to make it too difficult to be her maid of honor; she’d felt guilty enough about asking you.

It’ll be fine.

It’s a destination wedding — somewhere on the coast of Spain, where Poppy and Ominis vacationed after getting together. You can’t afford to fly privately anymore, but you’ve still splurged for first class because you are not about to see Sebastian Sallow for the first time in years when you’re clammy and gross from a middle seat where your knees touch the seat in front of you.

You get through everything easily enough — checking your bag, security, the like — but as you scan the “Departures” board, someone stops in front of you.

“Oh my god, are you MC?” she asks. Before you can reply: “I went to like three shows on the freefall tour!”

“Thanks,” you say, not really meaning it.

“freefall is my favorite album of yours,” she gushes. “I was so — ”

The rest goes unspoken: Disappointed by what followed. Sad that your next creation was completely soulless. Sorry that you and Sebastian broke up — you guys were so cute together!

“ — Never mind,” she says, shaking her head. “I just wanted to say that I’m a huge fan.”

“Thanks,” you say again. “Have a good flight.”

The fan offers you one final smile before continuing on her way, and once again, you curse Sebastian fucking Sallow.

At least with Eric, there had been red flags — arguments, belittling, things you should have looked back on and known to run. Sebastian had never been anything but good to you, and he’d still cheated and torched your career in one fell swoop.

And he’d known how Eric had fucked with your head.

He’d known what it would do to you.

“You know I’m always on your side,” Poppy had said when she’d asked you to be her maid of honor. “He’s an ass, and I’ll talk to Ominis to see if we can skip making him part of the wedding party — ”

“ — It’s fine,” you’d replied, forcing a smile. “You don’t need to fight with your fiancé just because of my ex.”

The flight isn’t bad — long, but not bad. Mercifully, when you find the exit, there’s someone holding a sign with your name written in Poppy’s handwriting.

The driver is perfect — no small talk, AC cold enough that you have to get out your jacket from the plane despite the fact that it’s April in Spain. You spend the drive mindlessly scrolling and trying your best to mentally prepare to see Sebastian for the first time in two years.

The last time you spoke, you’d been in tears. So had he — or at the very least, he’d sounded like he was, from over the phone. He’d begged you to believe him — that he didn’t kiss his ex in front of a million cameras at a premiere, that Sacharissa been the one to initiate after her fiancé had left her, that he’d just been doing the decent thing by walking her in.

I get you wanting time, or space, or a break, but please don’t — don’t end things. We’re so good, love, don’t throw it away.

He’d sounded so genuine that for a moment you’d considered it. And yet, two days later, he’d had no reservations about making you look insane.

MC and Sebastian had already parted ways before the Mycenae premiere. It was a mutual decision, and they wish each other the best, but their conflicting schedules made a relationship difficult to maintain.

Finally, the car pulls to a stop outside of a sun-warmed villa — Poppy and Ominis have rented it out for the wedding party to stay in for long enough to get adjusted for the timezone. It’s gorgeous — flower boxes in every window, an infinity pool off to one side — and also huge.

Maybe you won’t have to run into Sebastian at all. 

“You’re here!”

Poppy is a tangle of brown hair as she crashes into you, hugging you tightly despite the fact that you’ve been on a plane for ages. “It’s so good to see you!” she says, finally drawing back. “How was your flight? And the drive?”

For all of her introversion when you’d first met, the amount of energy she has under the surface is truly unmatched.

“Long,” you tell her honestly. “It’s good to see you too.”

“Ominis is just inside,” she tells you, looking away for a moment to smile at the driver as she fishes her wallet out of her pocket. “Thank you so much — ”

“ — You really don’t have to…” you start, because even though Poppy organized the drive for you, you’re perfectly capable of paying for it yourself.

She waves you off, handing a bill to the driver. “I insist,” she says, raising a brow at you. “Sebastian isn’t supposed to get here until late tonight, so you won’t have to deal with him for the rest of the day.”

You wince at the mention. She clocks it instantly. 

“And Ominis knows there’s still shit between you, so he already talked to Sebastian,” she finishes. “He won’t be starting anything, and if he does, then he’ll have me to answer to.”

“And me.”

You smile at Ominis as he emerges from the villa. For all the nasty rumors about Gaunt Entertainment, he’s easily one of the kindest people you know in Hollywood. Even so, you know he doesn’t hold back when it comes to Sebastian — when you’d been dating, he’d always complained about how Ominis ‘never takes any shit’.

“I appreciate it,” you say, grabbing the handle of your bag to roll it in. “But I’m not going to make you guys play relationship counselor. It’s your wedding — it’s not about me. Or Sebastian.”

All true, technically. But you can’t really be blamed if you want to strangle him by the end of the week.

The villa is just as gorgeous on the inside as it is outside — tile floors, huge windows, a spacious kitchen, everything you could possibly need.

You spend the rest of your one day without Sebastian catching up with Poppy and Ominis — his latest premiere, her upcoming album, anecdotes about producers and sound engineers that belong to a world that you’re no longer part of.

It would make you sad if you didn’t love them both so much.

* * *

The next morning, you wake up late — jetlag is a bitch — and follow the smell of coffee downstairs.

You’re not expecting him yet.

You’re not prepared.

And yet, Sebastian fucking Sallow is standing at the island, barefoot in sweatpants and a t-shirt, sipping a cup of coffee.

You’ve seen photos of him, of course, but they couldn’t have prepared you for the real thing — for the fact that even though it’s been two years and his hair is a little longer and there are more prominent crow’s feet by his eyes — he still looks unfairly attractive.

Yet another reason you can be sure karma doesn’t exist.

“Morning,” he says, as though he didn’t ruin your entire fucking life. “Ominis and Poppy went out to get some food from a bakery. They’ll be back soon, I think.”

You don’t reply, brushing past him to get to the coffee maker. He never was a morning person — yet another reason you know he’s lying, or at least acting, in some way right now.

“It’s sort of finicky,” he says, turning around to lean against the island. “You have to — ”

“ — You do it, then,” you reply quickly, raising your hands and brushing past him. How you’re going to make it a week like this is beyond you. Two minutes in and you’re ready to bail.

Sebastian fucking Sallow obliges. You can’t bring yourself to thank him when he hands you the mug of coffee.

“It’s…” he starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. “How was your flight?”

“Fine,” you say, deadpan. You’re not about to put any effort into this conversation. If he wants to make small talk, he can carry it.

“You — ” he falters for a moment, as though choosing his words carefully. “You look good.”

“Mm.”

He swallows hard. Good, you think viciously. Let him be uncomfortable. “I listened to pathology,” he says.

Right. He’d always been a fan of your music — or at least acted like it. That was why you’d put out pathology — the song — when you did. You’d needed him to hear what he’d done to you.

“The song or the album?”

“Both,” he says. “It was good.”

“And in a cruel twist of fate, you’re the only one who thinks so.”

Sebastian sighs. “I — ”

“ — If you’re about to tell me that you’re sorry or try to explain, skip it,” you say. “I’m here for Poppy. That’s all.”

His lips part like he wants to say something more, but then he shakes his head slightly, thinking better of it. “I’ll do my best to stay out of your way, then,” he finally says.

“Good,” you say under your breath, just as the sound of the front door echoes through the house.

“We’re back!” calls Poppy, and you can hear the grin in her voice. “Loads of croissants!”

A smile tugs at Sebastian’s lips. 

You can’t take it.

“I’m gonna get some air,” you mutter, heading for the patio.

The infinity pool is cool and refreshing when you dip your legs in — from here, you can see the kitchen, where Ominis is saying something to Sebastian that gets an eye roll in return. Poppy glances out of the window and then heads over to meet you.

“I’m really sorry,” she says as she steps outside, holding a croissant. “I swear Ominis told him to behave.”

“That was the problem,” you mutter as you accept the pastry, kicking your feet and watching the pool ripple. “He told me I looked good.”

“Ugh.”

“And that he listened to pathology.”

Poppy winces as she sits next to you, dipping her feet in the pool. She knows how much you hate that album, aside from its single genuine track.

You glance inside as you take a bite of croissant — Sebastian is holding the edge of the counter as though to steady himself, staring at the floor while Ominis says something to him, eyes narrowed. 

“Anne’s on your side too, if that helps,” Poppy says.

You can’t help but smile at that. When you’d dated Sebastian, Anne had been nothing but delightful — from her not-so-gentle prodding before you were a couple to her smile at the New Year’s party when you’d told her that things between the two of you were official.

Not that you’ve seen her since Sebastian cheated on you.

“Is she a bridesmaid?” you ask.

“Groomsman,” Poppy replies. “Or groomswoman — what are you supposed to call a woman on the groom’s side?”

“Groomswoman sounds right,” you say. “Not sure what you’d call a man on the bride’s side though.”

She ponders for a moment. “Bridesbutler? Bridesman?”

You shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

Poppy leans her head on your shoulder. “Thank you for being here,” she says. “I know this sucks for you.”

“It’s your wedding,” you reply. “I wasn’t about to miss it.”

“If he tries anything, I’ll murder him.”

“I’ll be surprised if you beat me to it.”

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you too,” you reply.

Despite all of it — the fact that you’re cohabitating with your least favorite ex, a title that takes genuine effort to earn considering the people you’ve dated, the million-degree heat, the fact that everyone in the wedding party is a million times more successful than you are — you mean it.

Chapter Text

Ominis is talking.

Sebastian stopped listening the second you left the room. He can see you out of the window, now, your feet in the pool, Poppy’s head on your shoulder.

If he didn’t know you, he would think you look happy, but the crease between your eyebrows tells him otherwise.

(Not that he’s had the privilege of knowing you in years.)

“Are you even listening to me?” Ominis demands. His glare doesn’t meet its target’s eyes — glares from Ominis rarely do — and yet Sebastian can feel it as though he is a specimen on display.

Sebastian tears his gaze away from you. “Not really, no,” he replies truthfully.

“I told you to behave,” Ominis snaps. “If you aren’t going to tell her the truth — ”

“ — I was going to.”

“And how, exactly, did that go for you?”

Sebastian sighs, folding his arms. “She didn’t want to hear it.”

“So you didn’t get a chance to mention that the reasons she’s hated you for two years are entirely unwarranted?” Ominis asks. “Honestly, Sebastian, if this is another of your self-loathing — ”

“ — She told me she didn’t want an explanation,” Sebastian replies, cutting him off. “And regardless of why, she has every right to hate me.”

“For what?” Ominis replies, scoffing in disbelief. “A statement you didn’t release and an affair you didn’t have?”

“It doesn’t matter what I did or didn’t do,” Sebastian snaps, shoving a hand through his hair. “It’s not like I stopped it.”

He glances back outside. You’re smiling now, and you turn towards the window.

For just a moment, your eyes meet his.

“I let the whole world believe she was insane. I didn’t tell Imelda to take back the statement, all because it would have ruined my chances for a tiny golden statue,” Sebastian continues quietly, tearing his gaze away to look back at Ominis. “She doesn’t want to hear it, so I won’t tell her. Either way, I deserve her hatred.”

Ominis scrubs a hand over his face. “You’re an idiot,” he says.

“I’m a lot of things,” Sebastian replies, not denying it.

Idiot. Coward. Fool.

It doesn’t matter which — they’re all true.

* * *

You disappear from the villa around 10 am, which is probably for the best — Sebastian’s not sure how he’ll make it a week without dying inside if you’re constantly around. You only reappear at noon, when the rest of the wedding party arrives.

“It’s so good to see you!”

Anne brushes past him before he can say hello to her, embracing you in a hug. “How have you been?” she asks, not letting go just yet.

You smile over her shoulder, but when your eyes meet Sebastian’s, there’s something tired in them. “I’ve been good,” you say.

Anne lets go and looks back over her shoulder. “And I see my idiot brother is here as well,” she says, narrowing her eyes at Sebastian. 

He knows it isn’t entirely a joke — she’s been just as incessant as Ominis when it comes to her insistence that he tell you everything.

Why should he bother when it won’t change anything?

“I’m going to put my stuff inside,” Anne says — you follow her wordlessly, likely glad to have an excuse to get away from him.

Not ten minutes later, Poppy’s bridesmaids all arrive at the same time — there’s Lenora Everleigh, fellow pop darling (Sebastian knows this primarily because of the buzz about how she’s the New MC — not that anyone could ever replace you) and Constance Dagworth (an acclaimed producer who has worked with both you and Poppy in the past).

The last person out of the car makes his stomach drop. 

It’s Natty.

Natsai Onai, technically. She’d gotten her start in music videos, but now, she’s on her way to being a household name.

He knows this because she’d directed your music videos for freefall. Music videos he’d been your costar in.

Music videos that had led to you meeting.

Natty’s eyes meet his, and she squints at him, her lips quirking like she’s debating saying something. Before she can, though, Lenora and Constance drag her along into the villa.

Not half an hour later, the rest of the groomsmen arrive. 

The first out of the car is Isaac Cooper — he’d played a side character on Shadows, the show where Sebastian and Anne had met Ominis. For all of their arguments as teenage actors, he’s mellowed out a lot as an adult.

He nods at the sight of Sebastian. “Good to see you, mate.”

The sound of Ominis’ cane on the driveway makes Sebastian turn before he can reply. “Is Garreth here as well?”

Sebastian tries not to wince — Garreth Weasley is perfectly nice, and he’s a great comedian. Sebastian knows this. He also knows that Garreth and Ominis have become unlikely friends.

But that’s not the only thing. Sebastian remembers that Garreth Weasley hosted the Grammys two years ago.

The Grammys where you’d won four times for freefall.

The Grammys where Sebastian had been your date.

The Grammys where he’d been so impossibly proud of you that he’d scared himself with it, just a little.

Not a moment later, Garreth emerges from the car, grinning ear to ear. “Sallow!” he yells in joy, either very enthusiastic or not entirely sober (most likely both).

Before Sebastian can reply, he’s swept into a hug that lasts approximately five seconds too long. “Good to see you, too,” he gets out, patting Garreth on the back.

Anne has emerged from the villa, and when Garreth turns his enthusiasm on her, she glares at Sebastian over his shoulder.

Right.

This ought to be fun.

* * *

In all fairness, the rest of the day doesn’t pass horribly. With more people around, it’s less awkward for you and Sebastian to keep avoiding each other. 

Even if nearly half of the people here knew the two of you as a couple.

Still, it’s not bad.

At least, not until after dinner. Everyone is gathered in the living room, sipping on drinks of choice and engrossed in conversation.

For a moment, he debates not doing it. 

This is about Poppy and Ominis, he reminds himself. It’s for them.

Before he can change his mind, he stands, pulling up the slideshow on his phone.

“Can I have your attention, please?” Sebastian asks, flicking his finger against the edge of his glass.

The room quiets, and he grins. 

He doesn’t look at you. 

“As best man, I believe we all know it is my job to embarrass the happy couple, so…” He presses the power button on the remote, waiting a moment for the TV to pair to his phone.

When the first slide appears, it’s to groans from the couch. 

“‘Poppy and Ominis’ relationship timeline: Or, two idiots’?” Isaac reads aloud, squinting at the TV screen.

“I’m not wrong, am I?” Sebastian shoots back, raising his eyebrows before moving to the next slide, full of photos from that fateful New Years’ party. 

He’d had to crop most of them just to find Poppy and Ominis in the background — all that he has from that night are pictures of you and memories of the exhilaration of telling you he loved you.

His gaze drifts to you, and he hates the way you tense as your eyes roam over the photo in the bottom right corner of the screen. It’s the only one he hadn’t cropped; a group shot that Anne had sent him. Poppy and Ominis are next to each other on the couch, and she’s leaning into his side. Beside Ominis is Sebastian, who is looking at you instead of the camera  — you’re halfway in his lap, looking over at Poppy, mid-conversation.

The other pictures, mercifully, only have a glimpse here or there — part of your face in the foreground from a photo he’d cropped to capture Ominis and Poppy kissing in a secluded corner, the print of your lipstick on Sebastian’s cheek in a photo of him and Ominis together.

“So, as we all know, it all began with a New Year’s party,” Sebastian announces to the room.

“It actually began when I saw him in Pride and Prejudice,” Poppy corrects him from the sofa.

“Can confirm,” you say from your spot next to her. For once, your smile is a real one.

(A memory flashes into Sebastian’s mind, of you next to him on his couch — “I don’t know what it is, but Bingley in that movie…” you’d said.

He’d leaned back, mock-offended. “You don’t know what it is?” he’d replied. “I’m Bingley, love.”

“I know that,” you’d laughed, pulling him closer. “That’s why Poppy and I watch it all the time — she loves Ominis as Darcy.”)

Sebastian realizes abruptly that he hasn’t said anything and he’s been staring at you for the last fifteen seconds. “Sure,” he concedes quickly, feeling his face heat. “But it all came to fruition that night.”

Under his breath, Garreth mutters something about how that wasn’t the only thing, and Anne elbows him. 

Sebastian clears his throat. “The party ended, and the next morning…” Slide two — a screenshot of your text thread with Poppy, one that you’d sent to him when you were still together. “The fateful text.”

“‘guess where i am,’” Lenora reads aloud. “Concise.”

“Which was then followed by six agonizing months of ‘casual,’” you say.

Poppy grins, lifting her glass. “Not that I’m complaining, seeing as the experience got me a Grammy and a soon-to-be-husband.”

“Pretty sure it was your songwriting that got you the Grammy,” Constance says. “But sure.”

Out of the corner of his eye, you tense, and Sebastian flips to the next slide — side-by-side text threads. Yours with Poppy, which is filled with panic, and his with Ominis, which is essentially the same.

Poppy leans into Ominis’ side, reading the texts to him — when she gets halfway down his side of the screen, she bursts out laughing. “You asked Sebastian for relationship advice?”

Sebastian folds his arms, glaring at her playfully. “To be fair,” he begins, watching you deflate at the prospect of him acknowledging your relationship, “ — never mind.”

Ominis twines his fingers with Poppy’s. “To be fair,” he says, pressing his lips to the back of her hand, “love makes me do stupid things.”

Awws echo around the room. 

“Right,” Sebastian says. “So then there was the big dramatic moment.”

He flips to the next slide, which is full of tabloid headlines about the VMAs that year. 

You hadn’t gone. He knows this because pathetically, he’d watched them with Ominis, hoping to catch a glimpse of you either accompanying Poppy or, by chance, winning an award you hadn’t even been nominated for. 

“Ah, yes,” Ominis says, nodding. “The speech.”

“It was very romantic,” you say, meeting Sebastian’s gaze and narrowing your eyes. “At least I thought so. Grand public gestures, and all. Clearing the air, letting people know the truth.”

Natty, clearly detecting the something buzzing in the air between you, clears her throat. “It was a good speech,” she agrees. “It was not subtle though.”

Poppy flushes pink. “It wasn’t that bad,” she says. “I didn’t name him.”

“And everyone knew anyway,” Isaac says. 

Sebastian, now wanting very badly for this to be over, flips through the rest of the slides quickly. “Right. And now they live happily ever after, forever and ever, amen.”

“Right,” you agree too quickly, standing from the couch. “I’m going to — get a refill.”

Without another word, you leave for the kitchen.

When you’re out of earshot, Ominis raises his eyebrows. “Well done, Sebastian.”

“I didn’t — ” he starts, but an eyebrow raise from Anne has him pocketing his phone. “Fine. I’ll talk to her.”

You’re not in the kitchen when he gets there — at a glance out the window, he sees you by the pool again. True to your word, you’re holding a refill of your drink.

At the sound of the sliding door, your head snaps over to him. “What,” you say. 

“I just…” he starts, trying to find the words to explain. “I’m sorry. I should’ve — ”

Before he can finish that sentence (how, he doesn’t know), you shake your head, scoffing. “ — I told you, I don’t want to hear it,” you say. “I don’t want an explanation.”

“I wasn’t trying to — ” Sebastian begins, then stops, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve asked you about the slideshow. I didn’t mean to… catch you off guard.”

You sigh, looking away from him. “Wouldn’t have gotten it anyway,” you reply quietly. “I blocked you ages ago.”

Sebastian isn’t sure whether to be sad or relieved at that — that you never got his pleas to reconsider or best explanations in the months after everything imploded.

“Look, I…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I know you don’t want an explanation, or an apology, or anything, but — ”

You narrow your eyes at him, and he knows he’s chosen wrong. “No but,” you snap. “You broke my heart and sabotaged my career. I don’t care why, and I don’t care if somewhere in that tiny heart of yours, you regret it.”

For a moment, you look as though you’re considering pushing him into the pool.

“You’ve had two years. If you really wanted me to hear it, you could’ve found another way,” you say, and Sebastian’s mind flashes to the stage of the Oscars, to his thoughts as he accepted the award.

To wondering, just for a moment, whether you’d hate him more or less if he apologized publicly. 

“I’m not here so you can clear your conscience,” you say. “I’d appreciate it if you left me alone.”

Sebastian doesn’t have a reply for that, so without another word, he turns, retreating back inside.

When he reaches his room, he collapses on top of the comforter and picks up his phone, scrolling down and down and down until he lands on your contact. 

It’s embarrassing, honestly — the amount of times he’s reread them, the fact that your contact, even two years later, has the same name.

love of my life <3

It had ended his most recent relationship — Charlotte Morrison, a model.

They’re always models. Or actresses. Never musicians — he’s hurt you enough already.

Charlotte had been nice — he’d liked her. But it wasn’t love. It never is.

Not like it was with you.

When she’d found your contact, that had been the end of things. 

Sebastian clicks on the thread, scrolling up and up and up past his pathetic pleas, none of which you ever bothered to read.

When he reaches November of two years ago, he does the most pathetic thing ever: he stops and rereads it all — the “I miss you”s and offhanded questions and middle-of-the-night “I love you”s, messages he knows by heart — until the words blur before his eyes. 

Four and a half months, and it wasn’t enough. 

It never will be.

Chapter Text

Sebastian’s words don’t leave your mind.

I’m sorry. I should’ve —

You shake your head as you make your way downstairs, trying to forget the look on his face last night.

At least there are more people now — you can avoid talking to Sebastian fucking Sallow without things being nearly as awkward. Not to mention — thank god — that there are no scheduled group activities for the day.

Or at least none that you have to participate in. You’re pretty certain that Ominis’ side of the wedding party is planning on a bachelor party, or bar crawl, or something like it — Anne mentioned it to you yesterday, rolling her eyes.

Once again, you’re grateful you already did Poppy’s bachelorette party back stateside. Sebastian, apparently, didn’t plan as meticulously for his best man duties as you did for yours as maid of honor.

The addition of the rest of the wedding party makes today’s breakfast infinitely better than yesterday’s. Constance starts telling a story about a client at the studio who pushed his bassist to tears with how many takes he’d insisted on, and that leads Garreth to complain about the worst stage manager he’s dealt with, which of course reminds Anne, Sebastian, Isaac, and Ominis about the guest director they’d had for an episode of Shadows once.

“God, do you remember — ” Isaac starts.

“ — The yelling,” Sebastian says, throwing his head back as he runs a hand through his hair. Turning to the rest of the people at the table, he shakes his head. “Anne’s character was meant to be in critical condition, and none of us could pretend to cry, because she kept making faces — ”

“ — I did no such thing,” Anne insists. “Not my fault you couldn’t manage to cry.”

“We were all, like, thirteen at this point, mind,” Sebastian continues. “He yelled until we were all in tears.”

“Never directed another episode, thank god,” Ominis says, taking a sip of coffee.

You think you know the episode they’re talking about. As a teenager, you’d been obsessed with Shadows — particularly due to Sebastian’s character, and over the years, it became a sort of comfort show. When you’d dated, you’d forced Sebastian into watching it with you, getting to hear all of the behind-the-scenes information.

You haven’t seen it since he cheated, because, apparently, it wasn’t enough to ruin your life — he had to go and ruin your nostalgia too.

“What about you?” Lenora asks, turning to you. “You’ve been around for a while — you’ve got to have a good story.”

You blink, stunned by the sudden attention. You don’t have any recent stories — other than your label having muzzled you — but you doubt that would go over well in present company.

So instead, you go for an old one. “My first ever gig, the soundtech I assumed I was a groupie,” you say. “Told me to ‘go find the merch table’ instead of hanging around the unloading area.”

You pause, taking a sip of your coffee. “I was the opener.”

Poppy grimaces, and Garreth boos loudly, already buzzed from the mimosas he’s had.

“Did you do anything about it?” Lenora asks. “Did the main act know?”

“Well, I made it clear that I was the opener, and I received no apology,” you said. “So I played my set, and at the end, I told the crowd what had happened.”

That gets another few laughs, but Isaac’s brow furrows in confusion. “Why not start with the story?”

“The soundtech is meant to make you sound good,” you say. “You don’t insult them at the beginning of the set unless you want them to take it out on the audience.”

“Fair enough,” Isaac says.

The conversation shifts away from you — Natty tells a story about a mishap with a Great Dane on set once — but you can still feel Sebastian’s eyes on you, watching. You’re only half-listening, but when someone suggests swimming, everyone agrees. After all, the pool is gorgeous — you can see the Mediterranean from it — so there’s no point in wasting it.

You’re already sitting on the edge in your swimsuit, dangling your feet in the water, when Sebastian comes out. 

Garreth wolf-whistles. “Didn’t know you had abs, mate.”

Sebastian glances down, like he’s forgotten that they’re there — pompous ass. “Suppose I do,” he replies, chuckling. “They were just for a film, though. I expect they’ll be gone by the end of the week.”

Damn him, you think. You know for a fact that Sebastian has a sweet tooth, and while he’s not un-muscular — broad and strong, just from what you remember — you don’t remember him having abs when you were together. 

Now you really want to push him into the pool.

He doesn’t give you the chance, jumping in before you can stand, and only when he moves do you realize that you’d been blatantly ogling him.

Shit.

You turn your gaze to the ocean, a horizon of blue past the edge of the infinity pool, but your mind is still stuck on Sebastian. There really is no justice in the world for the man who ruined your life to look as good as he does.

Constance sits next to you, dipping her feet in the water. “Been working on anything new?”

You look away from the ocean, back at her. Truthfully, your label hasn’t been pushing work on any new album — most of your meetings are about them pushing nostalgia marketing, to see if people will stream freefall out of fond memories.

Even on the rare occasions when you’ve written songs you’re truly proud of, you know that they’d be too messy to be label-funded. 

And when it comes to affording your typical producers and musicians, label-funded is the only real option.

“Here and there,” you say. “You know how it is. They’re always pushing freefall.”

You know Sebastian is looking at you without having to check — you can feel the weight of his gaze, can hear the water splashing as he wades closer. “Not a new album?”

“I’m just glad they didn’t drop me,” you say, shrugging and doing your best to sound carefree and not like you want to throttle him. “They weren’t pleased with the reaction to pathology.”

Constance winces, then forces it into a smile. “I mean, it was…”

“ — You don’t have to compliment it,” you tell her. “It’s the result of what happens when you take a room of fifty-year-old men and have them write and produce an album about something they didn’t experience.”

“You didn’t write it?” Sebastian asks. 

You hate that he sounds surprised. He’d been a fan of your music after all — or at least claimed to be. Surely he would’ve recognized that nothing in that album was you, other than the title track.

More than anything else, you hate that you feel betrayed by him not knowing. Just yesterday, he called pathology “good,” like he had no idea how much you hate that fucking album.

“I had lines, here and there,” you say. “Got writing credits on every song, obviously. But it was out of my hands.”

“I never would’ve guessed,” he said. “I mean, ‘pathology,’ — the song — is…”

You mutter a halfhearted excuse and make your way inside before you have to listen to him dissect the song that started everything. Turns out recording and releasing a brutal breakup song without your label’s permission whilst on tour is a great way to guarantee that your next album is just going to be corporate slop.

The kitchen of the villa is, mercifully, empty. You’re partway through grabbing a glass — for what kind of beverage, you’re not sure yet — when you hear the door open again.

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line back there.”

You shut the cabinet and come face-to-face with Sebastian fucking Sallow. “Wouldn’t be unusual for you,” you say.

He grimaces but doesn’t take the bait, and you hate him for it, because it would be so much more satisfying to yell at him if he yelled back.

“I mean it,” he finally says. “I’m just doing my best to make things… normal.”

You can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes you. “Forgive me if I don’t want to act normal around the ex who ruined my life and tanked my career,” you reply. “I don’t want you to sit around and compliment ‘pathology’ when you’re the reason I wrote it.”

“I — ” he starts, but you don’t let him finish, momentum already going.

“You know what my label did after that fucking statement?” you ask, stepping closer  and glaring at him. “They hired a room of songwriters and turned an album that was meant to be mine into a load of soulless bullshit. And you had the nerve to call it good.”

“It was good,” he says quietly. “You sounded good.”

“I was dying inside,” you say, shaking your head. “And you only think that because you got away with it. That album was supposed to be the truth — which you apparently know nothing about, because you and I both know what happened with Sacharissa — ” 

He flinches at her name. 

“ — But then you undermined me,” you say. “So I had to put out an album I hated and hope it would blow over. Which it didn’t.”

You take a breath, doing your best to ignore the way your throat is tightening. “So fuck you for expecting me to be normal,” you say. “And leave me the fuck alone.”

His lips part, but you turn away, not wanting to hear it.

When you reemerge to the pool half an hour later, a book in hand, he does as requested.

* * *

The bachelor party slash bar crawl begins at 8 PM. You don’t look up from your book or wish anyone a good night, but you can overhear the conversation — Poppy urging them to remember hydration, Ominis promising they’ll be okay, Sebastian (fuck him) promising to get him home safely.

Poppy and the other bridesmaids disperse to their corners of the villa, taking their alone time while they can get it. You keep reading, but there’s something flickering at the edges of your consciousness — familiar, but uncommon recently.

You head back up to your room, setting aside your book and grabbing your notebook and pen. Then, you head to the poolside.

You didn’t bring a guitar or instrument with you, but there’s an app on your phone that can play chords, and besides, inspiration waits for no one.

Find me in the exhibit of one-hit wonders / “Do you remember her?” / “Yeah, I feel bad for her ex-lovers.”

You’ve written plenty of songs about the situation in the last two years — Sebastian cheating, your label silencing you (and because irony knows no bounds), your freefall from the court of public opinion.

This one is different. It’s bitter and resigned and calcified. You write a chorus, then verse one, then the bridge, before changing the chorus’s melody entirely and then getting stuck on verse two.

It’s not a perfect song — there are some lyrics you’re not sure about and a few things you’re sure you’ll hate tomorrow when you revisit it — but it’s something. And for your first time writing in months, you’re just glad it’s all coming back, pouring out of you like a dam has broken.

Your lower back twinges, and you look up. It’s 9:48 PM, and the sun has set entirely — it’s a miracle you’re not covered in mosquito bites.

One last time, you decide, and sing from the beginning.

You don’t get through it all the way — halfway through the bridge, you’re interrupted by the sound of a car door slamming shut and drunken voices echoing into the night.

“No — wait, easy, mate, you’ve had, like — ” (Isaac)

“ — ‘M not drunk!” (Garreth)

“I think we should all have some water. Water’s good for drunk-ness, right?” (Anne)

Lovely. The bachelor party is back early.

You stay outside as they enter the house, watching through the sliding glass door as the bridesmaids spring into action, offering water to each of the others and an ice pack to Garreth, whose injury appears to be the reason for their early return.

Even despite the fact that the evening didn’t go to plan, they all look like they’re having fun — Sebastian especially. His cheeks are flushed, a Sallow reaction to alcohol that you’d discovered before you started dating, and when Ominis leans down to hug Poppy, he tips his head back, laughing at his friend’s drunken reaction to whatever he’s just said.

Unwillingly, your mind flashes back to the first informal interaction you’d had with him — the karaoke party that Samantha, your manager, had organized to celebrate the wrapping of the first music video for freefall. Sebastian had been your costar, and it was the first chance you had to interact informally.

You’re a flirty drunk, you’d told him.

He’d just grinned at you. Try tipsy flirt.

Over time, the group disperses, lights shutting off as people return to their corners of the house. That is when you head back inside, hoping he’ll be gone.

You have no such luck, because the universe clearly hates you.

“Hi,” says Sebastian from his spot on the couch. He’s disheveled, his hair a mess and button-up untucked, loosely holding a glass of water in his hand. “Ominis told me to hydrate.”

You hum in acknowledgement, not wanting to get into another argument with Sebastian fucking Sallow today.

“Om-i-nis,” he says, rambling to himself now as he sounds out his friends name. “Omimimis.”

“You have fun with that,” you reply, rolling your eyes as you start to make your way up the stairs.

You’re halfway up the stairs when you hear a crash. 

For a second, you consider not looking, and leaving him to his misery. 

But that wouldn’t be very normal or drama-free of you, and tomorrow’s the rehearsal dinner, so you really don’t want to make things worse.

You turn back.

Sebastian is sprawled across the carpet, groaning as he sits up. The water glass is still whole, but he’s spilled the water, and the coffee table is tilted from where it was — he must’ve tripped.

“Shouldn’t be this hard t’walk,” he mutters to himself, scrubbing a hand over his face and setting the glass down on the table.

You sigh and step down, offering him a hand. “Come on, then.”

He ignores your hand and stands up himself, but stumbles again over the edge of the carpet. You catch him by the waist before he can fall, and you can feel the heat radiating off of him.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, his head falling to your shoulder, and you can feel his breath on your cheek. “Didn’t mean to.”

You swallow hard, steeling yourself. “It’s fine,” you lie. “Let’s just get you upstairs.”

It’s not an easy task — while he’s not absurdly drunk, he’s leaning on you enough to hinder your movement, and he’s a fair bit larger than you are.

Not to mention that Drunk Sebastian is also Very Talkative Sebastian, and you have very little patience for any kind of Sebastian at the moment.

Sure, you humor him when he wonders aloud who the fuck decided it was a good idea to put his room below Poppy and Ominis’ — “‘S a good thing I sleep with white noise,” — or when he pauses on one of the steps to stare into the distance.

But then, Very Talkative Sebastian has the audacity to look back at you. “Missed this,” he says. “You.”

“Shut up,” you tell him, doing your best to tug him forward.

He doesn’t move when you step up onto the next stair, and you glance back at him.

Shit.

He looks like a kicked puppy — flushed cheeks, messy hair, wide, glassy eyes. “Sorry,” he says, his eyes darting away from yours. “You’re angry.”

You feel your cheeks heating, your stomach swooping, and it makes you want to scream.

He ruined your life! you tell yourself. Do not allow yourself to be swayed!

“I’m tired,” you reply eventually. It’s not a lie, after all. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

He hums, allowing you to guide him up the last couple of steps. From there, it’s easier to get him to his room, though — the floor is even again.

You don’t technically need to be touching him anymore, but you keep an arm around his waist anyway, hating yourself for it all the while.

You pass by the door to your room, but he stops at the one across the hall from you.

Sebastian nods his head towards the left. “Here.”

You lean forward, opening the door with your free hand — only then do you let go. He stumbles forward, flopping onto the bed, his hair making a halo around his head.

There’s an empty glass on his nightstand, and you grab it, heading to the bathroom to fill it up.

“Thanks,” he says, watching you through half-lidded eyes as you set the now-filled glass back down.

“Do you have advil handy?” you ask. “You’re probably going to need it tomorrow morning.”

He takes a moment, thinking, then gestures lazily. “Backpack. Front pocket.”

You can feel him watching you as you rummage through his bag. When you find the bottle, you set it next to the water.

“Right,” you say. “You seem to be in good enough shape, so I’m gonna go.”

He nods, barely, so you turn away. 

You’re halfway to the door when he speaks.

“Wait.”

You look back at him — he’s sat up enough to look at you fully. “Yeah?” you ask.

Sebastian swallows hard, his eyes flicking to yours. “I know you’re angry,” he says. “But — could we be friends?”

No, you want to say. We can never be friends, because you ruined my life and broke my heart when you swore you wouldn’t.

But he looks so sad, and you can’t bring yourself to crush his hopes. 

“Maybe,” you say. “Goodnight, Sebastian.”

You turn away again, leaving before he can reply.

Chapter Text

Sebastian wakes to regret pounding behind his eyes, last night returning to him in flashes.

His pathetic, drunken mumble: Missed this. You.

Your hand around his wrist, pulling him forward. Shut up.

And then — 

Could we be friends?

Your eyes, darting away from his. Maybe.

He groans, massaging his temples as he — slowly, because he feels like he’s dying inside — sits up. The world is too fucking bright, and god, he really is an arsehole, isn’t he? You’ve been clear — beyond clear, really — when it comes to how little you want to do with him, and he just had to go and give you another reason to hate him.

Sebastian’s gaze drifts to the bottle of advil on the nightstand. There’s a glass of water next to it, and he can hazily remember you putting it there. He reaches for it, taking two pills before reclining back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. 

Through the floor, he can hear the others waking up — distant chatter from the kitchen and the sound of the coffeemaker grinding beans.

He’ll deal with the consequences of his actions once his head stops pounding.

* * *

When he finally makes it downstairs, breakfast is still happening.

Natty is reading out the funniest headlines, with Constance and Lenora on either side of her. Anne is nursing a cup of coffee and a cream cheese danish, groaning every time someone laughs too loudly. Isaac is gone — must still be asleep.

Ominis is slumped onto Poppy’s shoulder as she messes with his hair, and Garreth won’t stop chattering about the rehearsal dinner tonight (especially loud, because apparently, he’s immune to hangovers despite the fact that he was the most drunk out of everyone last night).

And then there’s you. Sitting next to Poppy, giggling at whatever Natty’s just said (Sebastian wasn’t listening), looking like everything he regrets losing.

“Sallow!” Garreth exclaims.

You don’t look at him. Anne groans again. “Shut up, Weasley.”

“You look better than most,” Natty remarks dryly as he makes his way to the coffeemaker. When the coffee starts pouring, the noise of it has Poppy covering Ominis’ ears.

“Advil,” he says by way of explanation.

That gets you to look at him. Sebastian feels his cheeks heat, stomach fluttering despite the fact that he’s a grown man.

Your expression is unreadable, just for a moment, before your lips turn down, just slightly. He feels like he could throw up on the spot as he picks up his coffee.

“Miracle it worked so well, though,” he continues, trying to salvage what he can of last night’s maybe, of any affection you have left for him. “My headache’s nearly gone, but I barely remember anything from last night.”

“Shots,” Ominis says. “Lots of shots.”

“There weren’t that many,” Garreth says.

Ominis groans. “Remind me to kill you when my head stops hurting.”

You look away from Sebastian. “Good thing the wedding isn’t today, then.”

“Plenty of time to recover,” Poppy agrees, twirling a strand of Ominis’ hair between her fingers

Lenora laughs loudly, making Anne glare at her. 

“What is it this time?” you ask.

“Poppy and Ominis’ relationship is clearly toxic since they invited both you and Sebastian,” Constance paraphrases, reading over Natty’s shoulder. “Neither of you should’ve come.”

You don’t laugh, and Sebastian can see just how forced your smile looks. “I liked the lavender marriage ones better.”

“And all because of that sunset dress for the Met,” Lenora adds.

Poppy shakes her head. “I just thought pink and orange would be pretty together! They all know I’m bi, anyway.”

Natty laughs. “Ah, but who would date Ominis Gaunt unless it was a cover-up?”

“I’m pretty,” Ominis mumbles, defensive.

Sebastian remembers that Met Gala, but he can’t say for certain what Poppy wore. He does remember the suit he’d worn — blue, embroidered with constellations — and the dress you’d worn, with a skirt so wide he couldn’t get very close. It had been in that before where you’d known each other — been friends, even — but he hadn’t worked up the courage to tell you just how much he wanted more.

“You clean up nicely,” you’d said, looking him up and down appreciatively. 

“Likewise,” he’d replied, glancing at the your skirt — blue and white tulle layered so it looked as though you were floating on a cloud. “You took the theme to heart.”

“I prefer your interpretation,” you said. “‘Don’t stop at the sky, go for constellations’ is far better than ‘let’s make a skirt the size of the fucking ozone layer.’”

He chuckled. “You make it work.”

Except, he’d had to go and ruin that more, once you’d given it to him. He’s reminded of it now, as you stand and announce that you’re calling the bridesmaids into session for final preparations, whatever that involves. 

As Poppy stands, pressing an apologetic kiss to the top of Ominis’ head, you glance at him again, and he is certain that regardless of whether you knew the truth, you would hate him anyway.

* * *

He doesn’t see you again until it’s time to leave for the rehearsal dinner. It’s honestly impressive that you managed to avoid him all day, but Sebastian is hardly surprised.

You’re all supposed to leave for the rehearsal dinner at five — it’s when the cars get to the villa — but it takes nearly another half hour to get everyone into the cars on the way. When you see Sebastian get in the car with Poppy and Ominis, you turn away, climbing into the other car after Garreth and Isaac.

The others are chatting as the car drives away — jokes, traditions, whether Gaunt Entertainment will be releasing a statement on the fact that one of the children of such a large corporation hasn’t invited any of his family to the wedding — it’s only when Sebastian hears his name that he realizes he hasn’t been listening.

“Everything okay?” Anne asks, raising her eyebrows at him.

Sebastian shakes his head. “Fine. Just zoned out for a moment.”

“Remind me,” Natty says, “are you doing any films after the wedding?”

“No,” he says. “Just the press tour for the latest.”

“Do you plan on keeping up your Oscar streak?”

Sebastian swallows hard — of course, people in the industry consider the fact that he’s won two Oscars in two years to be a miracle. He won’t deny that he enjoys acting, and he is proud of the performances that won him those golden statues.

But he knows how big a role PR played in them. The statement, what it had done to you, all of it — sometimes, he wonders whether he would have won them, whether Hollywood would love him as much as they do, if he hadn’t let you get thrown under the bus.

“I don’t expect to,” he finally says. “It’s a superhero film. Hardly the stuff of Oscars.”

Poppy coughs, but it sounds suspiciously like neither was Mycenae, and Ominis squeezes her hand gently — a warning, maybe. 

Sebastian can’t blame her for hating him, though. She’s heard the story from you, and you don’t know the full picture yourself.

Before anyone can say anything to make the situation in the car any worse, it stops, and the driver circles around to open the door. Then, it’s a rush of greetings and how are yous and I’m so glad you cames. 

Sebastian participates — most of Ominis’ guests are from Shadows. Aesop Sharp, who played his and Anne’s mentor (everyone had always joked that he’d been their set father), offers a rare grin when he sees Sebastian before pulling Ominis into a hug, patting him on the back. Later, when Poppy’s gran arrives, she doesn’t hesitate to pinch Ominis on the cheek, making him laugh.

Over the heads of Poppy’s cousins (all as short as she is, if not shorter), Sebastian catches a glimpse of you — arms wrapped around yourself as you listen to the pleasantries. When your phone buzzes, you look at it, face falling at whatever the screen says. 

The sight of it makes his heart sink.

“Let’s have some food!” he calls, getting the attention of everyone. “Come on, we don’t want it to get cold.”

Everyone is silent for a moment, and then Garreth whoops, charging ahead toward the patio, lit with fairy lights. Hedges line the upper level, and there’s a view of the sea, set lower, behind the plants.

Dinner is fine — the food is fantastic, but Sebastian can’t focus on the pleasantries. 

It’s not that he isn’t happy for Poppy and Ominis — of course he is — but there’s only so much talk about his achievements and next projects and you were incredible in Mycenae that he can take. 

Against his will, his mind flashes back to you — the clever quips, that light in your eyes that he no longer gets to see. 

To your first date, when you’d finally taken the fake relationship and made it real.

He’d grinned, unable to stop himself from leaning forward at the look on your face. “Is that how you ended up writing songs about me? Because you couldn’t lie to yourself?”

“For your information, yes,” you’d said, taking a sip of water. “It’s a little hard to stay in denial when you have to keep kissing the person you’re in denial about.”

He felt his grin widen. “You like me.”

“Well, I’m dating you, so I think that’s been established,” you replied, though you glanced away — he’d flustered you.

“So it’s dating now?” he asked. “Weren’t we debating that this morning?”

“Well, you pitched this as a first official date, so I’d hope so.”

“Just making sure you haven’t changed your mind.”

Sebastian scans the table for you, but you’re gone from your spot — he doesn’t think anything of it at first, but fifteen minutes later, when you’re not back, he stands.

He finds you behind the hedges, far enough that the others can’t see you but not so far that the chatter of their conversation is silent.

“Why the disappearing act?” he asks.

You don’t look at him, but your voice is hard. “Would you leave me alone if I told you it was to avoid you?”

“Is it?”

A shake of your head. “I just — got some bad news.”

He doesn’t reply, giving you the opportunity to continue, if you want to.

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you this,” you say, half-laughing. He can tell it’s not from happiness. “My contract’s up. The label’s dropping me instead of renewing.”

Sebastian is stunned into silence, and whether it’s from how defeated you sound or the fact that he knows he’s the reason you’ve gone from playing stadiums to this, he’s not sure.

“For whatever it’s worth,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

“Not worth much,” you reply.

He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe it’s the champagne, loosening his tongue (probably not), or that you look so fucking gorgeous in your dress, even though you aren’t sparing him a glance (more likely) or that he’s a sentimental prick, even though you hate him (most likely). He’s not even sure it will change anything.

Still, the words spill past his lips, quiet compared to the chatter and the music — “root beer,” a song from your second album.

“I didn’t cheat on you.”

Your head turns towards him, and the air disappears from his lungs. Your eyes are tired. “You’re really going to bring this up again?”

“It’s been two years,” he says. “I wouldn’t be saying it now if it wasn’t true.”

You sigh, looking back out at the ocean, the water dark now that the sun has set.

Sebastian swallows hard, grateful for the chance to finally explain. “Sacharissa kissed me,” he continues. “It was a mistake on her part, and she knew it, but she was upset, because her fiancé had just called things off. She apologized as soon as she pulled back.”

Finally, you look back at him. “So you didn’t cheat,” you say flatly. “What about the statement?”

“I didn’t release it,” he says. “Imelda put it out. I found out when everyone else did.”

Betrayal flashes across your face — Imelda had worked with your publicist as well as the two of you, back when you’d first started dating.

“So why didn’t you take it back?”

“I was a fucking wreck, and Imelda kept telling me it would ruin my chances at an Oscar, so I just… shut up about it.” He looks down at the ground, the grout between the tiles. “I should've taken it back, and I didn’t. You can hate me for that all you want.”

You’re silent for a moment, but he can feel your eyes on him. 

Finally, you let out a breath. “I don’t know what to think,” you say. “But thank you. For telling me.”

He looks up, gaze snapping to yours, and you offer him a tiny smile.

Do you still hate me? he wants to ask. He wouldn’t be surprised if the answer is yes — he knows he’s hurt you — and yet, he finds hope blooming in his chest.

“You know,” he says, “if you released the cut songs from pathology, I’d listen.”

Surprise flickers across your face. “Is that your way of giving me permission?”

“No,” Sebastian replies honestly. “We both know you don’t need my permission to release a song about me.”

That gets a quiet laugh from you, and he smiles, encouraged. “I bet they’re good,” he says. “And I bet I’m not the only person who thinks so.”

You look away from him. “Thanks,” you say. “Have a good night, Sebastian.”

And then you’re standing, turning, and walking away.

He doesn’t follow. Whatever happens now, it’s up to you. 

At least you know the truth.