Sebastian's POV
It's quiet in the house.
Not the kind of eerie quiet. The good kind. The kind where the chaos has finally run out of energy and decided to nap.
I push the door open and toe off my shoes, slinging my bag on the floor. The kitchen smells like garlic and basil. There's a still-warm pan on the stove with a spoon resting in it, like someone was mid-cooking and got distracted.
Which, knowing her, is exactly what happened.
I walk into the living room, stretching my arms behind my neck, and I stop.
There she is.
My mom.
Ava .
The walking contradiction. The ridiculously hot, young-looking woman that strangers keep thinking is my girlfriend or sugar mommy. Who also cries at cooking videos and makes me drink chamomile tea because she read somewhere that "boys your age are low on magnesium."
She's curled up on the cream couch, legs tucked in, hair spilling like silk over the throw pillow, mouth parted just slightly as she breathes slow. Deep. Asleep.
I pause for a second.
And then I see him.
Ray.
He's crouched next to her, silent as a ghost. His fingers are just brushing the edge of a blanket as he pulls it up over her shoulder.
Like it's muscle memory.
Like he's done it a hundred times.
Like he knows exactly how she sleeps when she's tired from working too hard and pretending she's not.
He doesn't see me yet. And I don't move.
Because for a second, the expression on his face—
It's not cold. It's not stoic. Not unreadable.
It's… soft.
Raw.
So full of quiet love it punches something straight in my chest.
He exhales. Fingers pause on the edge of the blanket. Then he stands up, finally noticing me.
We look at each other for a second.
"She's out," I say, voice low.
He nods. "Didn't even make it past five minutes of that cooking show she put on."
"She never does." I smirk. "Said it 'soothes her soul.'"
Ray chuckles. Quiet. The way he always does.
We step out onto the back porch, the late evening breeze hitting our skin. It smells like jasmine and burnt herbs. He hands me a soda from the mini-fridge and cracks open a beer for himself.
We sit in silence for a while.
And then I ask the thing I've always wanted to ask but never had the guts to.
"Why'd you come back?"
Ray turns his head slowly.
"You could've stayed in London. Built your own thing. She didn't even tell you she was pregnant, did she?"
His jaw tightens. Just a little.
"No," he says finally. "She didn't."
"So?"
He looks at the stars like they might give him words he hasn't found yet. Then:
"She called me. At 3 AM. Voice shaking. Said he—" his eyes flick to me, "—was sick and she didn't know what to do. You were two months old. Burning with fever. She was alone. Fifteen. And terrified."
A pause.
"I left everything."
I don't say anything.
I sip my drink. Let it settle.
He doesn't look like he regrets it.
"She's always been… that person," he continues. "The kind that makes you drop your whole life and not look back."
Another beat of silence.
"You love her."
It's not a question. It never has been.
He doesn't answer right away.
But he doesn't deny it either.
"Yeah," he says eventually. "Always have."
I nod slowly.
"She's never going to see it, is she?"
He lets out a breath. Smiles, but it's bitter. "No. She's too busy asking if you drank enough water and if your vitamins are organized by color."
I laugh. "She alphabetized my snacks last week."
"She made me a spreadsheet for your college applications."
We both snort.
It's weird. This—talking to him like this. Like men. Like equals.
But it feels good.
Feels right.
I glance through the glass door again. She's still asleep. Peaceful.
"She's lucky," I say.
Ray's brows raise slightly.
"To have you."
He looks at me.
"You too," he says quietly.
And we sit like that for a while. Watching the stars. Not saying anything else.
Because some things don't need to be said out loud.
Not when they've already been lived.