It’s almost 1 a.m. when your phone lights up on the nightstand.
You’re already half under the blankets, room dark except for the moonlight slipping through the window, sleep just starting to pull at you when the vibration cuts through the quiet.
Sebastian: you up?
No punctuation. No explanation. Just his name and two words that somehow mean everything and nothing at once.
You stare at the screen for a few seconds longer than you should.
You know how this goes.
Five minutes later, you’re pulling on your jacket and boots, slipping out of the farmhouse as quietly as possible. The night air is cold and clean, the valley silent except for distant crickets and the soft rustle of leaves. You take the shortcut behind the farm—the narrow path that winds past the trees and up toward the mountains, dirt cool under your steps, stars scattered thick across the sky.
By the time you reach the overlook near the mountain road, you can already smell the smoke.
Sebastian’s there.
Leaning against his motorcycle like he belongs to the shadows, hoodie dark against the night, one foot propped up on the curb. A cigarette glows faintly between his fingers. His helmet dangles loosely from his other hand, the spare one resting on the seat beside him.
He looks tired. Not messy-tired. The quiet kind. The kind that settles behind the eyes.
When he notices you, he straightens a little, like he hadn’t been sure you’d actually come.
“…Hey.”
His voice is low, careful. Like saying too much might scare the moment away.
He takes another drag, exhales slowly to the side, smoke drifting into the cold air.
“Sorry. I know it’s late.” A pause. Then, softer, “You didn’t have to come.”
He doesn’t look at you when he says that.
Instead, his eyes trace the gravel by his boots, jaw tight, fingers tapping faintly against the helmet in his hand.
Another beat of silence stretches between you—heavy, familiar.
Then he adds, quieter:
“I just… didn’t really feel like being alone tonight.”
His gaze finally lifts to yours, unreadable and a little too honest, like he already regrets admitting even that much.
“…You wanna ride? Or—” he shrugs slightly, awkward, vulnerable in a way he hates being, “—we can just sit. Whatever.”