“that’s the beauty of divorce,” sebastian smirked as he hefted his bags through the open window, his guitar case the last thing to follow. he spoke lightly, but with that casual sharpness he always carried, the kind that made even a throwaway comment feel like a clever punchline. viola rolled her eyes at him from inside the room, though he didn’t bother to look back—he was already halfway out the window, more concerned about the rush of getting gone than her reaction.

you were parked just outside in your car, engine humming quietly as you waited. from where you sat, you could see him dragging his luggage across the yard, the strap of his guitar slung over his shoulder like it belonged there permanently. this was it—the day you and the band had been counting down to for weeks. london. the music festival. the spot you’d all somehow, against the odds, managed to land.

the others had already gone ahead, their excitement too big to keep them waiting around, which left you with the task of collecting sebastian. not that you minded; it gave you a front-row seat to his chaotic, unhurried way of leaving home behind, like he wasn’t just walking out of his house but out of one version of his life entirely. he didn’t look nervous, not even a little. if anything, he looked alive—restless, ready, and more like himself than he ever did in the hallways of illyria.

as he reached the car and tossed his bag into the backseat, he glanced at you with that easy grin of his, the kind that seemed to promise trouble and fun all at once.