Sebastian Maddox's Point of View
The penthouse smells like garlic and butter the second I walk in.
My eyes sting. Not from the onions. From the guilt.
She's in the kitchen. Hair up in a lazy twist, a stupidly soft hoodie sliding off one shoulder, humming some French indie song while pouring pasta into a ridiculous white bowl the size of her face.
She twirls around the moment she hears the door. Beams. Like I'm her favorite person in the entire world.
"Sebby!" she gasps.
God.
"Hi," I mumble, kicking off my boots. "You cooked?"
"I tried. Don't be mean," she grins. "It's lemon butter gnocchi! With that artisanal cheese I smuggled from Paris. Okay—not smuggled—declared. Legally."
I drop my helmet on the couch and walk over.
The table's set. Two wine glasses. Cloth napkins. Freaking fairy lights in a vase. She's even lit a candle. One dinner and she made it look like a romantic movie.
I wonder if she does this because she's lonely.
Because I'm all she's got.
Because she thinks I'm still that sweet boy with scraped knees who cried during Disney movies.
I let her wrap her arms around me. Let her cup my face. Let her do her usual check-in—
"Did you eat anything awful at school? How was chem? You didn't punch Leo, right? Do you want something sweet? I bought limited edition crème brûlée bites from France."
I say nothing.
Just nod. Smile.
Let her kiss my cheek and sit across from me like everything's normal.
Like I'm not two people.
---
Dinner's too nice. She's too sweet.
She tells me about a bookstore she found in Montmartre, with poetry and lavender sachets. About a café in the Latin Quarter where the barista looked like Timothée Chalamet. How she nearly cried at a Monet exhibit and bought me a hoodie that says Je m'en fiche because it reminded her of how I roll my eyes.
I let her talk.
I lie and say I missed her too.
I don't tell her what happened after school.
The way they talked about her.
The way I wanted to break someone's face.
She deserves to keep thinking I'm the boy she raised. The one who helps old ladies with their groceries and never lies.
So I do the dishes. Hug her goodnight. Watch her curl into the couch with her Paris blanket and fall asleep to a Studio Ghibli film, smiling in her dreams.
Then I grab my helmet.
And leave.
---
The city pulses like a living thing past midnight.
Bass. Smoke. Sweat. Flashing lights like open mouths swallowing us whole.
Fake ID gets me past the bouncer. They don't ask anymore.
Inside, I drown.
I let it happen.
"Seb!" Demi's already on the couch, legs crossed like sin, blonde hair spilling like silk over her shoulders. She smirks when she sees me. "Didn't think you'd come."
I don't answer.
I don't need to.
She grabs my hand. Pulls me to her. Slides into my lap like it's hers. Her perfume is suffocating and her voice sounds like temptation in a leather jacket.
"I missed you, baby," she whispers against my mouth.
She tastes like vodka and mint.
We make out like we've done it a thousand times.
Because we have.
I don't even like her.
I don't know her birthday. Don't know if she has siblings. Don't care.
I let her kiss me like I'm the only boy in the room.
I let her straddle me, moan against my neck, touch me like she owns me.
Because it's easier than thinking.
Because if I'm kissing her, I'm not thinking about how my mom looked tonight, humming in the kitchen with fairy lights in her hair, trusting me.
Because she doesn't know.
None of them do.
---
Later, when she clutches my sleeve and whispers, "Am I just another one of your toys, Seb?"
I kiss her forehead and say nothing.
She walks away with her heart cracking behind her ribs.
I light a cigarette outside.
Helmet in one hand.
Bruises on my neck.
Lipstick on my shirt.
I ride back home like I've got ten lives.
And when I crawl into bed just before sunrise, my hoodie still smells like her dinner.
And I hate myself a little more.