The night air was warm, heavy with the scent of motor oil and jasmine from the alleyway vines. Emilia stood outside Sebastian's garage apartment, unsure why her hand trembled just before she knocked.
He opened the door before she could.
No words.
Just a quiet understanding in his eyes as he stepped aside, letting her in.
The space was nothing like her polished world. It was rugged, lived-in—soft light from a desk lamp, books scattered across a side table, the scent of leather and soap lingering in the air.
She wandered in like she was afraid to break something. Or maybe she was the one breaking.
"I didn't want to go home," she said quietly, dropping her coat over the back of his chair.
"I figured," Sebastian murmured, watching her from the doorway. "You don't wear heartbreak well. It fights with your lipstick."
A dry laugh slipped from her lips. "You're not wrong."
He didn't try to fix it. Didn't offer solutions or soft lies.
He just walked over to the small fridge, pulled out a beer for himself, then paused. "Wine?"
She raised a brow. "You have wine?"
He gave her a crooked grin. "I like to be prepared for the occasional elite crash-landing."
She took the glass from him, their fingers brushing briefly. Warm. Grounding.
They sat in silence for a moment on his worn-out couch. The city buzzed beyond the window, but in here, everything felt still.
"I suspended Clara today," Emilia finally said. "She betrayed me. Used my trust like a key to steal everything I built."
Sebastian leaned back, one arm across the couch, his voice low. "You keep a fortress around you, Emilia. But the people you let in... you let in all the way. That kind of trust? It either makes you or ruins you."
She turned toward him, her gaze softer than usual. "You talk like you've been ruined before."
His jaw flexed. "Haven't we all?"
Silence settled again, but this time, it wasn't uncomfortable.
It was intimate.
She leaned her head back, eyes closed, tension slowly leaking out of her shoulders. He watched her—really watched her—not as a billionaire heiress or corporate queen.
Just her.
The quiet woman who didn't know how to grieve what she'd lost, only how to rebuild.
"You know what's scary?" she said, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not even sure who I can be if I'm not in control."
Sebastian shifted closer. Not enough to startle her—just enough that their knees brushed.
"Maybe you don't have to be anything. Not here. Not with me."
She opened her eyes.
And for the first time, she didn't feel the need to hide.
Slowly, her hand found his. No heat, no urgency. Just the steady press of skin against skin.
A promise that something softer was beginning beneath the fire.
---
The rain came just after midnight, soft against the windows like a whispered confession. Inside Sebastian's apartment, the rest of the world fell away.
Emilia had taken off her heels, her legs curled beneath her on the couch, wine glass now abandoned on the table. She was quieter now—less guarded, more herself. The woman beneath the layers of perfection was starting to show.
Sebastian didn't push.
He sat beside her, close but not invasive, his presence steady. The kind of man who knew how to give space and warmth at the same time.
"Do you ever feel like you're two people?" she asked suddenly, her eyes fixed on the city lights beyond the window. "The one the world sees… and the one you keep hidden, even from yourself?"
He nodded slowly. "All the time. The world wants simple boxes. I've never fit in one."
She turned to face him, her voice softer now. "I hate that I feel safe here."
His brow arched slightly. "You hate it?"
"Because it's not supposed to be this easy," she admitted. "Not with you."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe that's the problem with your world. Everything that feels good has to be earned. Just once, maybe it should just be."
She studied him—really studied him. The scar near his jawline. The callouses on his fingers. The steadiness in his gaze that no man in a suit had ever given her.
Without thinking, she reached up and brushed her fingertips against his cheekbone.
His eyes didn't close, but they deepened—darkened slightly.
"You're not like them," she whispered.
"No," he said simply. "I never was."
Her fingers lingered, tracing the edge of his stubble, before trailing down to rest lightly on his chest. She could feel his heart beneath her touch—steady, strong.
"You make it very hard to keep my walls up," she murmured.
"I'm not trying to break them," he said. "I'm just here when you decide you don't need them anymore."
That made something in her chest tighten—ache.
She leaned in then, not with urgency but with intent, their foreheads brushing as if testing the gravity between them. It wasn't a kiss. Not yet.
But the space between them was shrinking, thick with unspoken things.
"Sebastian..." she said his name like a question.
"I'm here," he answered, as if that was enough.
And in that moment, it was.
She let her lips graze his—barely there, a breath more than a touch.
And when he kissed her back, it wasn't fiery or rushed.
It was slow and deep.
She melted into him—not as the heiress, not as the businesswoman, not as the scandal on tomorrow's papers.
Just Emilia.
And he held her feeling her warmth