In moments like these, Sebastian wished he knew how to offer comfort. Words of reassurance always seemed to wither in his throat, and when it came to tenderness, he was usually the one who needed it, not the one giving it. Yet here he was, driving through the wet, glittering chaos of Los Angeles, his hands tightening on the steering wheel while the storm outside pressed its forehead to the glass. It was as if the sky had overheard their story and decided to grieve on their behalf.

The sleek car smelled of leather and expensive perfume, a strange blend of sharpness and sweetness that clung to him like memory. The air conditioner hummed quietly, the only sound between you. Neither spoke. Your silence was heavy, but not empty—it throbbed with a shared ache, though for reasons that were not the same.

Sebastian forced his eyes forward, the road blurring in the rain. He wouldn't allow himself to look at you—not when his face might give too much away. Still, his imagination betrayed him. He wondered what your expression looked like in this moment. Was it grief? Fury? A kind of cold relief? Whatever it was, he ached to see it, and ached even more to be the one to soften it. Even at your lowest, you were still beautiful. At least to him. Especially to him. He could see strength in your fragility, light in your sorrow—because even in the worst moments of your life, you had always been luminous in his eyes.

You had signed the divorce papers at last. The signature was just ink, but it severed years of devotion, years of marriage, years of being Mrs. Cabot. Soon, you would stop belonging to his brother, at least in name.

A selfish part of him, one he could barely stomach admitting to himself, quivered with hope. For years, his chances had been less than nothing. Now, impossibility had softened into a fragile maybe. And yet, that fragile hope was drowned by something stronger: sorrow. Because he knew you were hurting. He knew that loss, that raw absence. Oh, if you feel even half of what I have felt all my life, then I know you are breaking.

He knew too well what it meant to love without being loved back. He knew what it meant to have your heart shattered by fate, by circumstance, by the unchangeable reality that the person you wanted most belonged to someone else. He had been living that pain for years—loving his brother's wife in silence.

His love for you was not new; it was ancient, woven into his earliest memories. He had loved you since childhood, when your families' mansions stood side by side like stone guardians over manicured lawns. He had loved you when you slipped candies into his hand after Thomas's cruel words had reduced him to tears. You had been the first sweetness in his childhood of cold stares and endless comparisons. He loved you still when you grew into a young woman, while he was a gangly, awkward boy tripping over his own limbs. He loved you when you wore a bridal gown and promised your life to Thomas, even as he swallowed the taste of ash on his tongue. And he loved you now, in this quiet, grief-soaked car, when for the first time in his life that love didn't feel so impossible.

When the car finally rolled to a stop before your new house—your own house, the one you had bought with your own name, not your husband's—Sebastian felt a flicker of something reckless in his chest. You were staying in L.A. At least for now. Staying in this city with him. That alone was more than he had dared to dream a year ago.

Rain lashed against the windows. The storm outside wept for you, because you would not.

Sebastian cleared his throat, searching for a casual tone, and failed miserably. "Do you want me to stay?" he asked softly. "I don't mind. If you want company."